Burning for the Baron Page 3

  The door was flung open, and two young club members, barely out of their leading-strings, stumbled in. The ripe odor of whiskey and ale followed closely behind. Max flipped his cue stick so he held the narrower end in his hand and placed the wide end against one of the lad’s chests. He prodded the duo back out into the hallway, ignoring their drunken protests before closing and locking the door.

  Stalking back to the table, Max bent over it and took a shot. The ball bounced around the corner pocket but didn’t drop in. “We’ll need to contact Rothchild. He was running point on this investigation.” The fifth member of their group, Julius Blackwell, Earl of Rothchild, was recently married, as well. His bride, Amanda, was the Duchess of Montague’s sister. Rothchild was enjoying his newly-found nuptial bliss at his country estate in Dorset.

  It would have to be interrupted, poor sot. But Rothchild would want to know that Zed was back. He’d almost lost his wife to the bastard.

  Montague refolded the blackmail letter. “That last paragraph. It could be construed as a threat against your manager. If she doesn’t play nicely, take his money in return for information, he implies he’ll resort to less savory means of convincing her.”

  Max’s arm jerked, and a red target ball bounced over the edge of the table onto the carpet. He forced his hands to ease their grip on the cue stick. He’d picked up on the threat, too, even though Mrs. Bonner had remained oblivious. She was an unsophisticated woman, too straightforward to understand how she could become a pawn in a deadly crime ring. It would be all too easy for someone to take advantage of that. All too easy to hurt her.

  Dunkeld bent down and picked up the billiard ball. With one bushy eyebrow raised, he placed it on the table and rolled it towards Max.

  Tossing the stick on the green baize, Max turned and leaned against the wall next to a heavy silver candelabra. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared into the flames. “Mrs. Bonner is anxious to end her employment. With this threat against her, I figured now would be a good time to send her on her way.” He ran his fingers through the flames, watching them flicker and bend around his skin. If his friends agreed with him, all would be well. He’d miss the little puritan, but it would be for the best. With her premium, he would have made amends for the wrong he did her, and they could part on good terms. His friends would agree. They—

  “Of course, she can’t leave,” Montague said. “She will have to remain as manager. It would look too suspicious to Zed if another proprietress of The Black Rose left so quickly.”

  “Suspicious or not, this Zed must know that we have Madame Sable under house arrest.” Summerset examined his nails. “And should know that Max is now the owner of the club. Why come after the manager that is under his control?”

  Max held back his snort of derision. There was very little he controlled about Mrs. Bonner. Yes, he’d been able to remove her from her cramped living conditions, and the salary had improved her resources, but she’d only agreed from desperation. And with the premium he’d promised her for three months of service, she would no longer be desperate.

  “Yes.” Dunkeld threw himself down on a padded leather armchair, and the rest of them held their breaths, waiting to see if the chair would survive. Max was a large man, but the Marquess of Dunkeld had him beat in size. The Scotsman was a veritable giant.

  The chair remained in one piece. “Zed must have suspected Max would read that note,” Dunkeld continued. “So, what’s his game?”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” Max said. He held his hand over the fire until the heat grew too intense. He turned to his friends, shoulders slumping. “But if it is a game, I guess we’ll have to play along to find out.”

  Summerset pushed to his feet and clapped Max on the shoulder. “Why so glum, chum? This is our best chance to finally catch the bastard.” He rubbed his hands together, anticipation making his eyes gleam as bright as the jewels on his fingers.

  Summerset loved their work with the Crown. Relished the chase. The danger. He’d never understand.

  The muscles in Max’s shoulders drew tight. “I had a meeting with Liverpool yesterday.” One that the prime minister had been less than happy with. “I resigned from the special service that we provide to him. I’m tired of the clandestine assignments.”

  Varying degrees of shock crossed his friends’ faces.

  Summerset was the worst offender. His jaw hung wide enough to swallow a cod whole. “You can’t leave the service. It’s who we are. What we do.”

  “Not for all of us.” Montague gave Max a small smile, understanding in his eyes. “Some of us do grow tired of the intrigue. Grow tired of the games.”

  Max nodded, and the tension eased the slightest bit from his shoulders. He could only imagine how Montague and Rothchild felt now that they had wives to attend. A family to build. The thrill of near-death experiences must lose its luster knowing all that you would be leaving behind.

  “Games are what make life worth living.” Summerset fisted his hands on his hips. “I swear, the lot of you are turning into a bunch of tight-kneed biddies.”

  Max leaned against the pool table, weariness attacking his limbs. He rubbed his eyes. “Game or not, with Zed raising his head, my retirement has come to a quick end. What should we do?”

  “I’ll write to Rothchild, tell him to get his arse back to London.” Dunkeld shoved his hands in his coat pockets. “Summerset, you go talk to Liverpool. Tell him what’s happened.”

  “Why do I have to talk to him?” Summerset pursed his lips. “Tedious man. Why don’t you offer him a year’s free membership to The Black Rose?” he asked Max. “That should take the starch out of his falls.”

  “It turns out proximity to bed sport and games doesn’t necessarily lead to wanton behavior.” Although Mrs. Bonner had shown a flicker of interest when it came to discovering Max’s predilections. But mere curiosity could account for that. “Should I have Mrs. Bonner respond to the letter? Send the man some false information?”

  Montague nodded. “Even if he knows the letter is coming from you, we still need to engage. Play his game.”

  Shrugging into his lime-green coat, Summerset added, “And even if he knows the information is false, he might not know that we know he knows.” The earl tipped his head to the side. “You know?”

  Dunkeld grumbled, the sound reverberating from deep in his chest. “I can’t believe I followed that load of toss.”

  “My manager won’t be happy that she has to stay on,” Max said. “She has dreams beyond the club.”

  “But you’ll find a way to keep her.” Montague’s words weren’t a question.

  Max slumped his shoulders. Yes, he knew a way. But he was under no illusions about what lay ahead in the next couple of months. His manager would be as angry as a cat in a burlap sack. When he finally released her, there would be hell to pay.

  He put his cue stick away and trailed his friends to the door.

  Summerset placed a hand on his arm, stopping him at the threshold. “Are you serious about leaving the Crown’s service?”

  Max nodded. “I’m tired of the company we keep. The things we have to do to protect our country. The filth we must roll in. There must be a better life out there, and I want to start living it.”

  Summerset narrowed his eyes. “Do you remember what you told me when our government first asked for our help? Years ago, when we’d just returned from the East?”

  Max pursed his lips, wracking his brain. He was sure he’d said many things.

  “You told me the indolent lives the gentry lead disgusted you. How barren and useless they seemed.” Summerset crossed his arms. “You said you couldn’t wait to work with the government, that you could start fresh and finally start living. Sound familiar?”

  “What’s your point?” So being a spy hadn’t turned out the way he’d thought it would. Dealing with the dregs of society had a tendency to make a person reevaluate his life.

  “My point,” Summerset said, stepping close, “is th
at you’re never quite happy with where you are. You always think there’s some utopia lurking just out of reach. Something better. Cleaner. And you’re always disappointed.”

  “You don’t know what in the hell you’re talking about.”

  Summerset shrugged, the gesture careless but his eyes serious. “If you say so. But for a man who is always so perceptive when it comes to reading others, you can be quite the lackwit when it comes to understanding yourself.”

  Chapter Three

  “Poor Mary still hasn’t been able to shake her cough, and we were hoping to send for a leech. And the smithy said he’d take Jonny on as an apprentice, but that will cost ten bob a month.” Robby Polcock, Colleen’s cousin on her mother’s side, rubbed his rotund stomach and belched. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and continued naming his expenses to provide for his family. The list was interminable. And manipulative.

  Colleen closed her eyes. He had been kind enough to take her in when her husband and home had been taken in the fire. It was only fair for him to expect some recompense for feeding and clothing her.

  But did he have to be so sly about it? Each week she had taken her earnings to Robby, trying to repay all that he’d spent on her. There was still twenty quid of rent—and she nearly snorted at the idea of charging rent for sharing a bed with two little girls—that remained of her debt. Once she had her three-month premium, she would be able to pay it off. With plenty left to spare.

  “And did I tell you that Julia—”

  “Yes. You did tell me about your wife.” Colleen had to interrupt. She couldn’t take the litany of woe any longer. “I’m sorry to hear your situation hasn’t improved.” She pulled a small bundle of coin from her reticule and pressed it into her cousin’s hand. “I hope this will help. Soon I’ll be able to pay you everything that I owe.”

  “Well,” he said, hefting the bag and giving her a hard smile, “that’s what family is for, isn’t it? To help each other when times are tough. Just think, if I hadn’t been there to give you a roof over your head, buy you a whole new wardrobe, put food in your belly, just think where you’d be.” He narrowed his eyes. “Just think of it.”

  Colleen swallowed. She didn’t want to think of it. London was a city of extremes. The nobs lived in their mansions with their ladies’ maids and gold-encrusted carriages while the poorest of the poor rested their heads in the mud, hoping to beg or steal enough to put a little food in their bellies. She had been fortunate enough to land somewhere in the middle. The day after the fire, she’d stood looking at the burned-out shell of her old home, and tentacles of panic had wrapped around her throat. She’d known how close she was to becoming one of the unfortunates. Living, and most likely dying, on the streets, with no one to even mourn her passing.

  She would have deserved nothing less.

  “You know I can never thank you enough, Cousin.” She took a deep breath. “And as I said, I hope to repay all your kindnesses very soon.”

  He shrugged. “The money means little to me, as you know. I’m only glad you’ve landed on your feet. Where did you say this club was that you worked?”

  Colleen hadn’t said, and never would. If Robby ever snuck his head through the door, Colleen would have to pick his jaw off the floor. His shock and disgust would be unbearable. Another possibility reared its ugly head, and a legion of ants skittered down her spine. She could imagine another reaction laying below his outrage and Colleen had no desire to see her cousin in one of the rooms of The Black Rose.

  Her stomach settled. He’d never be able to afford it.

  “Speaking of the club, I must be getting back to work.” She jumped to her feet. “It was lovely seeing you again, and I’ll be back next week with the rest of your money.”

  Robby stood. “I look forward to it.”

  Colleen shouted a goodbye to the rest of the family and scuttled from the house. The cold air slapped her face, and she inhaled deeply. Although a fire had been burning in the hearth, her cousin’s house held no warmth. Her tidy room at The Black Rose, although in a house of sin, was a safe haven she relished. But it wasn’t her own. It was controlled by someone else, someone who could kick her out on a whim.

  She fingered the chain to her pocket watch and sighed. No, that was inaccurate. The Baron of Sutton wasn’t the sort of man who would leave a widow without a home. He would always find work for her, try to ensure she was provided for. Even though he could be demanding and insupportable, he was also an unusually kind man with enough blunt to be generous.

  Still, she longed for independence. Why rely on another’s generosity when she could provide for herself? She had a mind for numbers and solid business sense; at least, Lord Sutton told her that often. She had to admit it was partially his belief in her, his flattery, that had induced her to accept the position at the bawdy house.

  And in a week, she’d be leaving it. Would she ever see the baron again? She pushed that thought away and focused on her anticipated independence.

  She turned and headed for the street a couple miles away where she hoped to attain that independence. The bottom of her feet ached from walking in her thinly-soled boots, but she hurried on. She strode into a small side street, the crowded buildings blocking the afternoon sun. Wrapping her coat more tightly about her, she followed her nose to the flower shop near the corner.

  An old man looked up from the high table he sat behind, tying bunches of flowers together with string. He smiled pleasantly. “Yes. What can I do you for?”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Ridley. It’s me.”

  His watery eyes crinkled around the edges but never focused. “Mrs. Bonner! I was wondering when you’d come back to brighten an old man’s day. Ever since you moved out of the neighborhood, it’s been as dull as tea with a vicar.”

  “Stuff and nonsense.” Colleen turned to a large bouquet in the window and buried her smile in the petals. The light, innocent scent of the primrose reminded her of springtime. “I was here just two weeks ago. And from what I hear around the neighborhood, you’re not lacking for female companionship.”

  His cheeks turned ruddy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Uh huh.” Striding to the table, Colleen tugged off her gloves. “So, Mrs. Hutchins doesn’t bring you dinner every other day of the week?”

  Mr. Ridley lifted his chin. “The widow is being neighborly. Unlike some, who forget their friends and move halfway across the city.”

  Colleen rested her elbows on the table, her sleeve brushing a cut stalk of lavender. “I’m close to coming back. If you still want to sell, in a week I’ll have enough saved to make the down payment on this building and your business.”

  With his failing eyesight, Mr. Ridley had talked of selling the place for years. He lived in the upper apartment and had run the florist shop downstairs for as long as Colleen could remember. But the income from the sale of the building and the business would be enough to see him comfortably through his remaining years. His daughter had offered him a room in her cottage in Surrey, and Mr. Ridley was of a mind to take it.

  Colleen wanted the flower shop with a longing so strong it stole her breath. While married, she’d been surrounded by hundreds of timepieces. The endless tick-tocks, the sterile whistle from the rare cuckoo clock imported from Germany, all had created a cacophony loud enough to drive a person mad. Her refuge had been this shop. It was vibrant, abounding with life and vitality. The scents and colors were a feast for her senses.

  Her husband could never understand her wasting her money on a bouquet that would wither within a week. But, then, Mr. Bonner had been as mechanical as the clocks he’d repaired and sold.

  The old man patted the table, searching, and Colleen slid the knife under his hand. He cut the end of the string and knotted it around the spray of lavender. “I wish I could give the place to you. No one else seems to feel the same way about it. But I’ll miss it.”

  He slid the knife into an apron pocket and walked into the back. Colleen
followed. Four tables were piled high with mounds of loose flowers. Mr. Ridley felt along the tables, picking up stems and smelling the blooms, forming a bouquet. “My wife and I had a lot of good years here. Well, you know what it’s like working with someone you love.”

  Her heart pinched. She wasn’t quite certain she did know. She’d started out her marriage with high hopes. Each year that passed, Colleen had begun to suspect that whatever it was she felt for her husband wasn’t love. And then—

  She slammed the door on those thoughts. “I know you’ve been patient with me. You must have turned down other offers waiting for me to come up with the money. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.” She looked through the watery glass of the back window into the small yard behind the building. Rows of flowers punched out of the soil, the newer buds starting to defy the strict order in which Mr. Ridley had sown them. Weeds escaped notice because of his failing sight. Colleen knew he purchased most of his flowers wholesale each morning. But the idea of growing and harvesting her own seeds sent a lick of anticipation shooting through her.

  He snorted. “I haven’t had that many offers, though I am glad you’re almost ready. My daughter asks nearly every day when I’m going to move.” Wrapping the bouquet in yesterday’s paper, he dampened the end. “Let me know when you can close the deal. Mrs. Hutchins’s nephew is an attorney, and he said he’d draw up the paperwork. I already told him the terms we agreed to.”

  “Sounds perfect.” Colleen clasped her hands together and blew out a long breath. Her heart thudded in her chest. In just over a week, this would all be hers. Hers, and something no one could take. Not a husband, not a landlord, not a bank. She bounced on her toes. And because she couldn’t help herself, she skipped over to Mr. Ridley and kissed his bristly cheek.