Cinderella in the Regency Ballroom: Her Cinderella Season / Tall, Dark and Disreputable. Deb Marlowe
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He pondered his ridiculous dilemma as the miles passed. Why did the one time he needed to maintain his usual calm and rational focus become the one time he found it impossible to do so? The thought of how badly he’d botched nearly every moment with Lily Beecham sickened him.
He needed to think. Traffic entering London forced him to slow his pace and he cursed under his breath. He longed for the peace and serenity of his rooms. He would refocus, forget the taste of her, the incredible feel of her under his hands, and try to figure out what the hell his next move should be.
Fractious fate intervened, however. When Jack finally made his way home, he sprinted up the stairs—and froze at the sight of his door standing partially open. Wariness, confusion, and finally white-hot anger blossomed in his chest. Silent, he crept forwards. Tense, on alert for any sound or movement from within, he eased the door open. Nothing stirred. Amidst a rising, ever-more-familiar rush of rage, he stepped inside.
Whoever the intruders had been, they’d done a thorough job of it. Every drawer, book, stack of papers, even the clothes in his wardrobe had been torn apart and tossed asunder. Speechless, he stood in the midst of the devastation.
What in hell was this all about? He couldn’t explain this ransacking of his rooms, any more than he could stem his rising tide of temper.
Already weakened by his encounter with Lily Beecham, surrounded by the wreckage of his life, discipline stood not a chance. Jack reached down to pick up a book, sorely tempted to throw it against the wall himself. A whisper of a sound outside gave him pause.
He waited. It came again. The steady, slow sound resolved itself into a set of footsteps on the stairs and only served to fuel his fury. He sunk into a crouch and let it wash over him. Rational thought ceased and blind, pure instinct took hold.
His brain fought back, trying desperately to send the message that something about the approaching threat rang peculiar. But Jack was in thrall to his jangled nerves. The enemy approached, stood just beyond the still-open doorway, set a cautious step over the threshold.
And at his next rational thought, Jack discovered he held a man pressed to the wall. His uninjured forearm pressed tight and cruel into the man’s throat, even as he desperately wished for his knife.
‘Effendi.’ The soft voice in his ear cut through the angry red haze. ‘I do not think you wish to be doing this.’
Startled, Jack glanced to his right. That accent, the silent approach, it could only be … ‘Aswan?’ He looked back, then, to the man he’d pinned. He stepped abruptly away. ‘Oh, God. Eli!’
‘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