Regency Rogues and Rakes. Anna Campbell
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was Gladys, through and through. Never slipped out of character, even for an instant.
Longmore didn’t slip, either. Well, how could he, when he was only required to be himself, a role he could perform admirably.
She, on the other hand … but guile came to her so naturally.
She reacted to whatever he said in the same way Gladys would have done. She had the same mingled arrogance and uneasiness that made Gladys so tiresome. And the same vulnerability.
Cousin Gladys was disagreeable company, yet he always felt a little sorry for her.
There were moments when he almost forgot she wasn’t Gladys. But the scent reminded him who she was.
It was all great fun while he and she played off each other. When she went into another room with the two dressmakers, though, he grew uneasy. She hadn’t told him what he was to do if she was unmasked. She’d dismissed the possibility.
But when they undressed her how could they help but find out she wasn’t shaped like a potato?
She’d said she was wearing numerous layers. How many?
How long would it take him to get them all off?
That would depend, wouldn’t it?
His mind painted images that made him smile. He indulged himself for only a moment, though. He was expecting trouble—looking forward to it, in fact.
Best to keep his mind on what went on about him.
He leaned his stick against a chair, picked up a ladies’ magazine on the table nearby, and put it down again. He went to the shop window, folded his hands behind his back, and looked out.
With all the colorful bits of cloth and ribbons and things hanging on display, it wasn’t easy to see what was going on outside, but he found a position that allowed him to keep an eye on Fenwick.
The carriage still stood on the opposite side of the street, next to the fenced-in oval of greenery at the center of the square. Longmore had left it there because the place was shady and the vehicle would be out of the way of anybody collecting or dropping off passengers.
He heard the interior door open.
He turned quickly away from the window.
But it was only a tired-looking girl. She carried a tray bearing a glass of wine and a plate of biscuits. After a moment’s hesitation, she set it on the table nearest the chair where he’d left his walking stick. She hunted up some sporting magazines and arranged them next to the refreshment tray. She took away the ladies’ magazine and placed it on a table farther away.
She asked if she might get him anything else.
“Nothing,” he said. “How long is this going to take?”
“Not long at all, your lordship,” she said. “It’s only the one dress. But since her ladyship is a new customer, they’ll want a few minutes to measure.”
She said something else, but a shout from outside yanked his attention back to the window. He saw two big men hurrying round his curricle toward the greenery. He couldn’t see Fenwick.
Longmore slammed out of the shop.
The baths of London are numerous and commodious, and are fitted up with every attention to the convenience of visiters. The usual price for a cold bath is 1s., or a warm bath, 3s. 6d.; but if the visiter subscribe for a quarter of a year or a longer time, the expense is proportionably diminished. The sea-water baths are 3s. 6d. each time, or if warm, about 7s. 6d.
—Leigh’s New Picture of London, 1834
The street, unlike the commercial thorough-fares leading here, was nearly empty. Longmore crossed quickly—in time to see the two men come out from behind the curricle, a squirming Fenwick between them. The taller fellow was nearly as tall as Longmore, but wider. The smaller one was not much smaller, but thin and wiry. Both had scarred faces. Both needed shaving. Both were expensively but flashily dressed.
Brute One, the burlier one, had caught a fistful of the back of Fenwick’s ragged coat collar.
“I warned you not to make me chase you,” Brute One said. “Now you’ve gone and made me mad. You ain’t gettin’ off this time, you dirty, thievin’ brat.”
“I ain’t dirty!” Fenwick snapped. “You take your filthy mitts off of me!” He struggled, but Brute One must have caught hold of more than the collar alone. The boy could have wriggled out of his clothes otherwise. “I got friends, I have, and they’ll make you sorry!” He looked up and spotted Longmore. “There!” he said. “There’s one of ‘em!”
“What the devil is this?” Longmore said. “The boy was minding my horses.”
“With respect, sir, you been took advantage of. This little bastard here ain’t to be trusted no farther ‘n you can throw a house.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Longmore said. “Let him go.”
“Beggin’ pardon, sir, but I better not,” said Brute One. “There’ll be the devil to pay, then, won’t there?”
“We warned him again and again he wasn’t to hang about the premises,” said Brute Two. “Missus don’t want him. Brings down the tone of the neighborhood. How many times we warned him off?”
“Well, I couldn’t go, could I?” the boy said. “His worship’d have me hanged, he would, for deserting my post. He said so, didn’t you, yer majesty?”
“You’ll be hanged anyway, one of these days,” said Brute One.
“Let him go,” Longmore said.
“With respect, sir, don’t you be feelin’ sorry for this one,” said Brute Two. “He’s overdue for a trip to the workhouse, he is, and that’s if he’s lucky, ‘cuz this here’s penitentiary material, you ask me. Loiterin’ and malingerin’ when he’s been told—”
“I told him to stay,” Longmore said. “I’m growing tired of this conversation. Let the boy go and take yourselves off.”
Brute One looked at Brute Two. They both looked down at the boy, then across the street at the shop.
“I’ll tell you what, sir,” said Brute One. “Missus don’t like bein’ contradicted.”
“Funny,” Longmore said. “Neither do I.”
“Why don’t I escort the boy out of the square, where she can’t see the little bugger,” said Brute One. “Farley here’ll look after your horses, sir. And you can go on about your business—”
“You ain’t taking me nowhere! I won’t go!” Fenwick kicked his captor.
Brute One cuffed Fenwick’s head, knocking his grimy cap off.
Longmore launched himself at the bully.
A muffled shriek came from the showroom.
Sophy, whose ears had been straining to detect signs of trouble outside, pulled on her cloak and ran out of the dressing room.
Dowdy and Ecrivier ran after her. “But your ladyship, your bodice,” Dowdy said.
Sophy ran to the window, where the seamstress stood, her hand over her mouth.
Sophy was in time to see a burly fellow take a swing at Longmore, who dodged the blow, and hit back hard enough to make the brute stagger.
“I do apologize for Farley and Payton, your ladyship,”