Prince of Swords Page 4

  “What’s it worth to you?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” Brennan said calmly. “It’s your responsibility as a citizen and an employee of her ladyship’s to see that justice is done. I’m certain I can rely on your sense of duty, can’t I?”

  “Not likely,” Hawkins muttered, starting to turn away.

  Brennan was not in the mood to be trifled with. He towered over the servant, and it was a simple matter to catch him by the scruff of the neck and shove him up against the heavy oak door. “I would appreciate your cooperation, Hawkins,” he said smoothly.

  Hawkins’s protruding eyes bulged out farther. “Maitland,” he gasped. “Miss Jessamine Maitland. Called herself Miss Brown, but her ladyship confided in me, seeing as how I was supposed to make sure she arrived safely. She lives in Spitalfields, near the Five Diamonds pub.”

  Brennan released him, and Hawkins sagged against the door with a muffled curse. “I appreciate your help, Hawkins,” he said smoothly. “Give my thanks to her ladyship.”

  Spitalfields. It was the first break he’d had in more than a year of frustration. Many of the more adventurous thieves employed a moll to distract the victim while his pocket was picked. What better distraction than a lovely young Gypsy telling fortunes?

  And yet, as far as he knew, no pockets were picked, and the Cat always worked alone. Perhaps he’d changed his ways.

  Still and all, Jessamine Maitland was an odd name for a Gypsy.

  “Here’s your share of the proceeds, my girl.”

  Jessamine looked at the small pile of silver coins Josiah Clegg pushed in her direction, doing her best to control her shiver of distaste both for the money itself and the man giving it to her. It was early afternoon, and the Fives Diamonds was sparsely filled. No one paid any attention to the somberly dressed young woman and the Bow Street runner in the darkened corner.

  “Did they have to hang him?” she asked, making no move to touch the coins.

  Josiah Clegg laughed with that cheerful braying sound that set Jessamine’s teeth on edge. “He ran away from his master, stole three silver tea spoons and an ell of watered silk. What else would they do with him?”

  “He was fifteen years old!”

  “Old enough to know better,” Clegg said with his usual lack of concern. He was a heartless man but far from stupid, and he must have sensed Jessamine’s distress. “Now, now, Miss Maitland, there’s no need for you to get all sentimental over the lad. He would have just done it again and again, and well you know it, and sooner or later some poor innocent would have gotten killed. You stopped that from happening. You should be proud of yourself, doing your duty to society.”

  She raised her eyes to look at Clegg. He was not unhandsome in a thick-lipped, swarthy fashion, and he fancied himself a bit of a lady’s man. He’d never attempted any liberties with her, presumably because he knew her gift was of more value to him than her rather ordinary physical attributes. Their unlikely partnership had stood him well, assisting in the rise in his fortunes, and he wasn’t about to endanger that.

  “I don’t like it,” she said quietly.

  “You came to me in the first place, miss,” he reminded her. “You were the one who wanted to help.”

  “I couldn’t ignore what I saw in the cards,” she said in a small voice. “That man... that creature murdered nine children. He had to be stopped.”

  “And so he was. With your help and mine. And you ended up with a generous share of the reward for capturing him, didn’t you? You can’t say that’s come amiss.”

  “I didn’t do it for the money.”

  “Of course not,” Clegg said smoothly. “You’re a lady fallen on hard times, but a lady nonetheless, and we all know ladies do nothing for money. Still and all, your charitable work with the Bow Street runners has made your purse just a bit heavier, hasn’t it? And doubtless that pleases your mother and pretty little sister. What was her name... Fleur? Taking little thing. Quite a delectable little handful, I would think.”

  Jessamine froze. The very thought of Clegg even knowing Fleur’s name frightened her. It shouldn’t have. Clegg made it his business to know everything, and what eluded him he chased after until he discovered the answer.

  She was afraid of the man. She had no proof of his evil, just an instinctive feeling that came to her at odd moments, through the cards, and through her dreams. “You’ll leave her alone,” she said fiercely.

  There was a glint of smug amusement in Clegg’s dark face. “Of course I will, Miss Maitland. I wouldn’t want anything to upset you, now, would I? And if something happened to your sister, it might distress you so much, you’d have trouble concentrating on the cards. As long as you’re so very helpful to me and to society, I’ll make it my duty to be sure your sister is safe and unmolested.”

  “And if I’m no longer so helpful?” She shouldn’t have asked the question. Subtle threats were safer, more easily swallowed. But she couldn’t ignore a threat to Fleur.

  Clegg smiled, and his gold tooth flashed in the afternoon light. “Why then, I’m afraid she might be fair game. You make my work easier, Miss Maitland. Without your help I’d have to work a lot harder in finding and apprehending criminals, and I couldn’t be counted on to protect your little family. You’d be on your own.”

  At least he wasn’t threatening to touch Fleur himself. She was their only hope—a safe, wealthy marriage would mean the end of their never-ceasing cycle of misfortune, but no one would take damaged goods, even someone wrapped in as exquisite a package as her sister, Fleur.

  “I understand,” she said in a dull voice.

  “I thought you might,” he said. “Take your money, Miss Maitland.”

  She reached out and put the worn silver coins in her reticule. Her chest was tight, and she felt as if she would suffocate if she didn’t get away from this man into the dubiously clean air of the London streets, but when she started to push away from the table, his hand shot out and clamped around her wrist.

  Too many men were getting in the habit of doing that, she thought absently, holding herself still for the moment. First Lady Plumworthy’s manservant with his thick hands, then the mysterious Glenshiel, who’d haunted her dreams and her waking hours as well. Clegg’s grip was the final straw. “Let go of me,” she said in a deceptively pleasant voice with just the right amount of hauteur left from her more secure days.

  His instinctive reaction was gratifying, if dangerous, as he released her wrist, then glared at her. “There’s a little problem that’s been plaguing me, and I’ve decided to do something about it. I want you to do a reading about the Cat.”

  “The Cat?” she echoed, carefully keeping her face devoid of reaction. “What is that?”

  “ Who is that, you might say,” Clegg corrected her, leaning back in his chair. “It’s a thief, that’s what it is. A creature who sneaks into people’s houses and robs them blind.”

  “A burglar?”

  “But not your common garden-variety burglar. This one preys only on the very wealthy, stealing their jewels and fancy trinkets. And he’s one of them. A bloody aristocrat, robbing his own kind, and he’s been doing it for more than a year.”

  She clutched her reticule in her lap, concentrating all her tension into her unseen hands as she gazed at Clegg. “Why haven’t you asked me before now?”

  “I didn’t give a rat’s ass, begging your pardon, miss, what the bloody ton does to one another. Besides, he’ll be a sight trickier to catch, much less bring to justice. I prefer the easy cases.”

  “The fifteen-year-old apprentices?”

  “Exactly.” Clegg showed no remorse. “But Sir John has entrusted me with the case, and it’s in my best interest to convince him I can handle it better than that country oaf.’’

  “What country oaf?”

  “Never you mind. It’s none of your concern—it’s the Cat who should entertain your interest, and no one else. Where are your cards?”

  “I didn’t bring them.”

&nbs
p; “Why not?”

  He’d made it clear that she couldn’t tell him the truth: that she’d decided not to help him anymore. The money Lady Plumworthy had grudgingly given her was five times the amount Clegg paid her, and the work didn’t stain her soul. She was promised to her ladyship that afternoon as well, and all sorts of possibilities were opening up.

  Her eyes met Clegg’s small, dark ones. “I haven’t been sleeping well. The cards don’t speak to me if I’m not well rested.”

  Clegg snorted, but there was no way he could refute her statement. “Go home, then. Take a nap. And come back to me tomorrow at the same time—and bring your cards.” He grinned at her benignly. “Unless you’d rather have me call on you? This place might be a little rude for the likes of you.”

  “This place is fine,” she said quietly, barely able to suppress her shudder of horror at the thought of her vague, aristocratic mother coming face-to-face with Josiah Clegg. Not that it was likely—Mrs. Maitland enjoyed ill health and a fondness for ratafia. She kept to her bedroom most of the time, mourning her lost position in society. She probably assumed her self-reliant older daughter was out shopping, and indeed, the basket full of slightly wilted cabbage sat under the table at Jess’s feet. She rose, and this time he let her escape.

  She could feel his eyes on her as she left the public house, squinting as she stepped out into the autumn-damp streets of Spitalfields and wrapping her heavy shawl around her. At least Clegg, who knew everything, seemed unaware of her newfound sideline, or the fact that she had already enjoyed a vicarious encounter with his latest quarry. For the time being she could balance her society readings against Clegg’s demands, and the money would pile up faster than ever, enabling the Maitlands to regain their place in society.

  At least some of the Maitlands. Fleur would be the toast of society even without a dowry, and if she were decently dressed she could attract any number of wealthy suitors. With Mrs. Maitland as a benevolent, graceful chaperon, all was assured.

  But not for Jessamine. Unlike the other members of her family, she preferred to look at the truth squarely. Her reputation could survive her collusion with Clegg—once she escaped from his clutches, it was unlikely anyone else would even hear about it. And she would survive one late-night party, reading cards and telling fortunes.

  But a repeat would doom her. Lady Plumworthy had already informed her that polite society was agog at her talents, and this afternoon’s tea and reading promised to be a crush. The guests had ignored her the other night, all but that mocking, mysterious creature who had come to her rescue so unexpectedly. They would ignore her no more, and there would be no way she could show her face in society once Fleur was launched.

  It was no matter. She had no great love for the city or for society. Fleur would simply need to find a husband wealthy enough to maintain several country estates, and his reclusive sister-in-law could retire to a graceful pattern of rural living. Solitary rural living.

  She made a moue of self-disgust. Her mother was possessed of enough self-pity to supply the entire Maitland family, and Jessamine had no intention of falling prey to such a failing. She had made her choice long before, calmly, rationally, and she would live with the consequences. Alone.

  She’d lied to Clegg, something she didn’t regret for one moment. She knew perfectly well who the Cat was—his visit to Lady Plumworthy the night before had haunted her dreams almost as much as the man who had rescued her. Taunted her.

  She reached down to pat her reticule, and she could feel the solid bulk of the cards, seemingly warm to the touch. And dancing through her mind, the Prince of Swords, with the golden eyes of a cat, staring back at her.

  Four

  It was a compact house in Clarges Street, but more than ample for a man of Alistair MacAlpin’s elegant tastes. He entertained in small numbers, usually other bachelors, merely for the sake of gaming. The public rooms were not overlarge but well appointed, the bedroom sybaritic and sufficient for his habits. He was seldom called upon to offer hospitality—his family was dead, and few of his friends were in the habit of drinking so deeply that they couldn’t find their way home at the end of an evening.

  He cherished his solitude and his little house. He’d moved from cramped, drafty rooms near St. Paul’s, and if his pied-a-terre held no resemblance to the lost splendor of MacAlpin House, he didn’t mind. MacAlpin House had never been his—his brother had inherited it, along with everything else, and had died there, poisoned by drink and despair. It now belonged to a nabob’s family, suitably renamed, and Alistair told himself he’d even forgotten its direction.

  His current abode had cost the worth of Miss Edgerstone’s jewels, plus the proceeds of a rather nice collection of yellow diamonds he’d liberated from the Earl of Pemberton’s extremely nasty wife. The money had lasted a surprising amount of time, augmented by his habitual luck at the gaming tables, and it was boredom rather than necessity that had sent the Cat on the prowl again.

  It was late afternoon of the following day, and he sat in front of a fire, staring into it thoughtfully, an unusual occurrence for him. He’d been a moody child, and it had availed him nothing, not a father’s attention nor a brother’s time. Self-pity was an annoying waste, and he’d learned to eschew it, but this late autumn day he was melancholy, when he should have been elated at the stash of ugly stones secreted upstairs where no one would ever find them. And he knew exactly who to blame.

  The mysterious Miss Brown, who’d vanished without a trace, leaving him with no alternative but to possess himself in patience, had had a most unsettling effect on his usual indolence. She would reappear again, he made no doubt. He’d sent enough lures Isolde’s way to assure himself of that. But he’d never been a particularly patient man, and he wanted to see her eyes again, to discover whether they were really as eerily translucent as he remembered. And whether she could take her strange cards and tell his fortune as well.

  “Personage to see you, my lord,” his manservant announced in that tone of voice reserved for Nicodemus Bottom. Malkin disapproved of Nicodemus, as any right-thinking servant would, but he dutifully turned a blind eye and a deaf ear to Alistair’s business dealings. Alistair had little doubt that Malkin knew exactly what business he conducted with a sinister-looking little man like Nicodemus, but he managed to hide his disapproval valiantly.

  Indeed, it was often hard for Alistair to suppress a shudder, more at the strange and disconcerting odor that often accompanied his accomplice than the peculiar appearance. Nicodemus had once been a chimney sweep, and his feet and hands still bore the scars and doubtless some of the soot he’d collected years earlier. He was a small man with a ferret face, a random selection of dark teeth, gaudy taste in clothing, and an intense dislike of bathing. He also knew how to dispense with stolen diamonds to their best advantage, and if Alistair hadn’t had the dubious fortune of catching Nicodemus Bottom’s hand in his pocket, a famous alliance might never had come about, and his first night’s proceeds might still be sitting, untouched, in his old rooms.

  “You work fast,” Alistair said lazily, careful not to breathe too deeply. “I didn’t know you were so eager.”

  “I figgered you were about due for a little exercise, yer worship,” Nicodemus said. “But I’m not in that much of a hurry for the sparklers. Haven’t made arrangements yet, so they can sit pretty for the time being.”

  “Not that I don’t delight in your company, dear friend, but if you haven’t come for the jewels, why are you here?” he asked, still giving him only half his attention.

  “I came to warn you.”

  Alistair lifted his eyes lazily. “About what, pray tell?”

  “The runners are after you.”

  “That’s hardly a surprise. I haven’t been concerned before—I see no reason to be concerned now.”

  “That’s because Sir John hadn’t put his best men on to you. Brennan’s bad enough—he looks like he’s half asleep, but that man’s as sharp as a needle. But it’s Clegg you nee
d to keep your eyes peeled for.”

  “Clegg?”

  “Josiah Clegg. He’s always been a bad ‘un, and most of us does our best to steer clear of him. He makes more money informing on runaway apprentices than bothering with the more dangerous types.”

  “Then I shouldn’t have to worry. Considering I’m one of the more dangerous types,” Alistair murmured.

  “Word has it that he’s got a little extra help. Sort of an unfair advantage, if you know what I mean.”

  “Explain yourself,” Alistair suggested.

  “He’s got some woman to help him.”

  “I doubt I’d be likely to bare all my secrets to some creature allied to a Bow Street runner.”

  “You won’t have to. She’s part witch, they say. She uses dark powers to help Clegg, in return for money. Reads these funny-looking cards and then tells Clegg where to find things. Gives me the creeps, it does, just thinking about it.”

  Alistair was startled enough to move closer to Nicodemus, an act he immediately regretted. “Who is she?” he demanded. “What does she look like?”

  “Ah, so now you’re interested in what old Nic has to say,” the man said smugly. “Don’t know as many people have seen her. She keeps low, she does. Someone thought she was French. One of them Huguenots.”

  Alistair had schooled himself to keep all expression from his face. The mesmerizing creature from the previous night had been no more French than he was. “And this French woman proposes a danger to me with her cards and magic tricks? Somehow I doubt it.”

  “Jim Stebbins didn’t think he had nothing to worry about till Clegg came calling. Knew exactly where he’d buried his wife, and brother as well, and no one knew but Jim.”

  Alistair allowed himself a faint shudder. “I hardly think I’d be as interesting as a man who slaughters his family.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, guv’nor. The moiety on you is much higher.”