Deb Marlowe - Cinderella in the Regency Ballroom - Her Cinderella Season / Tall, Dark and Disreputable

‘Aye,’ the old sailor-turned-groom grunted, rubbing his throat. ‘And I’ll thank ye for leaving my head attached. Bad enough that I’ll be crossin’ to the other side without my leg. I don’t think the good Lord’ll be so understanding, should I lose my head as well.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He turned to Aswan. ‘But what the hell are you doing here?’ Jack had to admit, he’d felt a surge of satisfaction at the sight of them. These two had been as deeply embroiled in Trey and Mervyn’s search for the Lost Jewel as he had. Jack knew all too well just what this enigmatic Egyptian and peg-legged former sea captain were capable of.

‘There’s news.’ Eli glanced about at the mess. ‘Though I can see we left it a bit too late.’

‘What in blazes is going on? Is Trey with you?’ Jack had jerked suddenly to attention. ‘And who the hell is looking after Chione and Mervyn and the children?’

‘Treyford watches over the family. The slave-taker is still abroad,’ Aswan said. ‘But still he holds sway over many evil men in this country.’

‘Aye, Mervyn’s offices in Bristol and Portsmouth have both been broken into, and both on the same day, it looks like.’ Eli tossed aside a pile of jumbled shirts and settled himself into a chair. ‘I been stayin’ in Wapping, but when I heard, we went up to Mayfair to find the town house looking just like this. We came straight over to warn ye to be on the lookout for trouble.’

Jack laughed bitterly, but not for long. ‘Portsmouth and Bristol both?’ he’d asked. ‘And a synchronised effort? That’s significant manpower.’

‘It’s clear enough now that Batiste is still after the Lost Jewel. Trey cannot hide the fact that he is preparing for a large expedition. He thinks word has leaked to Batiste and that’s why he’s searching the offices.’ Eli glanced about. ‘I s’pose it’s why he’d do your rooms. The bastard wants to know jest where Trey’s headin’—and he’s thinkin’ ye might know.’

Aswan spoke up. ‘This man has a demon in him. He will not stop until he has what he wants.’

The three of them stared at each other in silence. They all knew what Batiste was after did not really exist—and that he would never be convinced of that truth.

‘We’ve got to get our hands on him,’ Jack breathed. ‘He’ll always be there, otherwise. Hanging in the background, waiting for his chance.’

‘Trey’s working on it. He says as you’re to be careful. He feels bad enough about the trouble he’s caused ye.’ Eli exchanged glances with the Egyptian and they both headed for the door. ‘You concentrate on finding Beecham. We’ll uncover what we can about this mess.’ He gestured. ‘We’ll be back to fill ye in before long.’

Dismayed, Jack watched his unlikely allies disappear. He hadn’t the heart to call them back and tell them how badly he’d bungled his search for Matthew Beecham. His anger returned as he stared at the chaos of his rooms. But this time his brain remained engaged. Frantically he began to rifle through the mess, searching for older, sturdier clothing.

There was more than one way to skin a cat, his mother had always told him. Surely there must also be more than one way to catch a scoundrel like Batiste.

Thunk. The tankard hit the table hard, sloshing a wave of dark ale over the brim.

‘Ye’ll need to be drinkin’ a mite more, if ye’ll be taking up the table for the whole of the night,’ the bleary-eyed barman grunted.

‘I’ll order the whole damned place a round when the man you spoke of shows up,’ Jack shot back.

The tapster shrugged and wiped the spill with his stained and dirty apron. ‘Told ye—I’m no man’s keeper. The sod’ll show up, or he won’t. Plenty of other pubs to find ‘is grog in, ain’t there?’

God knew that was the truth, and it felt as if Jack had been in nearly every squalid dockside tavern and low riverside inn in London over the last few nights. ‘I’ll wait just the same,’ he replied and slid a coin across the scarred wood of the table.

The barman eyed the gold, then Jack for a long moment. Finally he scooped up the money, turned and pushed his way back through the low-hung smoke to the tap.

Jack settled in to nurse another pint. The Water Horse might be the seediest, most disreputable pub on the river, but it was the only one that held a promise of a lead to Batiste.

Of all the sailors, dockyard labourers, whores and wharf rats Jack had questioned over the last few days, only the tapster here had flinched at Batiste’s name. A very large purse had bought him the information that one of Batiste’s former crew sometimes drank here.

It was a long shot at best, a fast route to a watery grave at worst. Yet what was the alternative? Pestering Lily Beecham until she heard from her cousin again? Torturing them both and allowing her to goad him into forgetting himself again? He’d rather spend a thousand nights in this sinkhole.

Jack took a drink of the warm ale and grimaced. He’d need an ocean of the stuff to drown his frustration with that girl. Her image hovered in his head, beautiful and lovely and all too tempting. He fought to ignore it, to forget the mad embrace they had shared in Bradington’s gardens. Even the thought of her stirred the emotional turmoil he fought so hard to control.

And perhaps at last he’d come to the real reason he sat at the Horse again tonight. Here he had no attention or emotional energy to spare. Here he had no choice but to focus on his surroundings, on getting the information he sought and on getting himself out alive.

As the hour grew later the likelihood of the latter began to come into doubt. All manner of transactions took place around him, both above board, and by the furtive look of some of the participants, below. The crowd ebbed and flowed like the tide, but through it all someone besides Jack remained constant.

A high-backed booth flanked the door, and two men occupied it most of the night. A massive bull of a man, whose short dingy blond hair peeked from beneath a seaman’s cap, sat silent and watchful with a smaller, swarthier man. They were not drinking either, Jack noted, but the tapster didn’t stir himself to chide them. Not once did Jack see a word spoken between them, but as the taproom grew emptier, the smaller man began to flick an occasional, tell-tale glance his way.

He rose. Better to take his chances in the open than to risk events coming to a head here, where those two might have allies and Jack certainly did not.

He left the pub and strode quickly out into Flow Alley. The fog hung thick and rife with the stench of the river. It swirled and clung to him, making him feel as if he had to swim through it instead of walk.

A lamp hanging outside a pub cast an eerie pool of wavering light as he passed. From the mist floated an occasional snatch of disembodied conversation. It was not drunken revelry or ribald negotiations he strained to hear, but it was not until he reached the wide, empty intersection with Great Hermitage Street that he caught a hint of it—the faint echo of a footstep on cobblestones.

Jack ducked instantly into the doorway of a chandler’s shop. If luck was with him, then whoever it was behind him would walk right on by. If it was not, then at least his back was covered.

Much as he’d expected—Lady Luck had abandoned him. First one figure emerged from out of the gloom, then another. The men from the Water Horse.

Jack drew his knife. Nobody spoke. The shorter man hung back, the larger pulled a stout cudgel from his bulky seaman’s sweater and advanced with a menacing stride.

‘Are you here at Batiste’s bidding?’ asked Jack.

The smaller man spat on to the rough stones of the street. ‘Questions like that is what got ye into this mess.’