Regency: Rakes & Reputations: A Rake by Midnight / The Rake's Final Conquest

“Would you rather they panic when they learn there’s a dead body in your garden or sneer when they learn that you’ve been paying blackmail, and why? “

The man sank heavily into his chair.

“We have use for you, Morris. Keep your mouth shut and your head down and you may yet get out of this untainted.”

Chapter Ten

Gina stood still, rooted to the little stool while Madame Marie pinned the hem of her new gown. But it was not the hem with its little train that concerned her. It was the provocative décolletage. True to her word, Madame Marie had crafted a gown that was sure to draw attention. Styles were changing, but Gina had not yet worn a gown with a neckline that curved over her breasts and dipped to a point midway between them.

She traced the curve of the blue French silk with one finger, studying her reflection in the looking glass. “Are…are you certain I will not cause a scandal?”

“Mais non! The style is perfection for your figure, chéri. Smaller bosoms and there would be no point. Larger, and it would make you look like a demirep, eh? Ah, but this much will tease the senses and disarm your suitors. The men—they will appreciate the titillation, yes? They will tell you anything you ask.”

“You…you’re certain I will not be banished from polite society?”

Marie, a lovely woman, gave a full-throated laugh. “You must tell me when you plan to wear this gown, chéri. The ladies of the ton will be crowding at my door the next morning, demanding a gown of the same cut.”

“If you are certain,” she conceded, not at all certain herself. She was glad that Nancy, waiting in the outer room for her, could not see the gown. If the maid told Mama, that would be the end of it.

Madame Marie called entry at a soft knock on the private door and Mr. Renquist entered, then halted in his tracks, blinking several times. Madame had been correct. His eyes went directly to her décolletage. Oddly, after a moment of embarrassment, Gina felt empowered, as if she were in control of the situation.

“Have I interrupted?”

“Mais non, m’amour. What do you think of our little Gina now?”

“That it is a good thing she has the protection of the Hunter family.”

“Ah, you appreciate the nuance?” Madame asked, tongue in cheek.

“Perhaps a bit too much nuance?” he ventured.

“Oh, la! You are such a proper one, François. Little Gina will ‘ave the ton eating from ‘er ‘and.”

Gina smiled, suspecting the modiste had been quite experienced before her marriage to Mr. Renquist.

“The male half,” Mr. Renquist muttered as he sat on a small chair in one corner while Madame continued to pin her hem.

“Have you discovered anything, sir?” she asked.

“Progress is slow, Miss O’Rourke. I’ve learned that, until recently, Mr. Henley occupied rooms above a public house in Whitefriars. But for sleeping, he was rarely there. Following the raid two weeks ago, he disappeared, taking most of his belongings with him.

“Since then, he has been spotted from time to time at various establishments in Whitefriars, never staying one place very long. I gather that is the reason for his success in evading capture. Speculation has it that he has found quarters in more desirable environs but that he still frequents the pubs of Whitefriars.

“My sources were less forthcoming when I inquired as to Mr. Henley’s companions. Apart from various prosti—soiled doves, he has occasionally been seen with the worst scum Whitefriars has to offer, the Gibbons brothers among them. On rare occasions, he has been seen with gents, and rarer still, genteel ladies.

“I am devising a plan whereby I may be able to cross his path, Miss O’Rourke. Should that be the case, I shall follow him and send to you of his location immediately, but you should know that I am bound to notify the Home Office, as well.”

She nodded. She had no objection to the Home Office benefiting from Mr. Renquist’s investigations. In fact, if they could manage it on their own, she would not have become involved. But, should she find him first.

Mr. Renquist cleared his throat and went on. “Mr. Henley departed his last accommodations rather quickly, and the proprietor has a small box of items he left behind. If you are inclined, I shall purchase it from him for the unpaid portion of the rent.”

“Did you see what it contained?”

“The proprietor wished me to pay for that pleasure.”

“Then yes, please. Acquire it by any means. If it contains even the smallest clue …”

“Aye, Miss O’Rourke. Consider it done.”

Nancy tugged her sleeve, wanting to leave. “Oh, miss, should we really be here? Like as not, she isn’t receiving.”

Gina held her ground on the stoop of the Race home in Russell Square. “Then I shall leave my card. How can I not offer my condolences? Christina was very good to me when I had few friends in the ton.”

“Yes, miss, but—”

The door opened and a maid in a starched white apron answered.

“Is Miss Race at home?” Gina asked.

“She is, but she is not receiving this afternoon, miss.”

Gina took a card from her reticule and passed it to the maid. “Will you please tell her that Miss O’Rourke is here? I think she may wish to see me.”

The maid nodded and hurried away, leaving the door open but no invitation to step in.

Nancy tugged her sleeve again and whispered, “T’ain’t a good time, miss.”

“She may only have been a fiancée, but she is nonetheless bereaved.” James had not given her details of what had happened last night and Gina was desperate to assure herself of Christina’s safety. Pray she had not been present for the awful deed, or that Henley had not gone after her when his attack on Gina failed.

The maid was back and opened the door wider to admit them. Nancy looked down at the floor and went to sit on a small chair in the foyer, where servants were accustomed to waiting, while Gina followed the maid up a flight of stairs and down a corridor.

After a soft knock, the maid opened the door to admit Gina and closed it after her. The draperies had been drawn and the room was cast in gloom. She blinked to adjust to the darkness. “Christina?”

A deep and melancholy sigh answered her. “Thank you for coming, Gina. I wondered if you would.”

She followed the sound of the voice and found Cristina, still in her wrapper, curled up in a chair, at least a dozen handkerchiefs abandoned on the floor near her. She knelt beside the chair and took one of Christina’s hands.

“I am so sorry, Christina. I blame myself. Had I not asked for his help …”

“It would have happened anyway.” The girl looked down at her with infinite sadness in her hollow eyes. Her face was flushed and puffy from crying.

“But I forced him out of hiding. Had he stayed away—”

“Stanley has been hiding for weeks now, Gina. Mr. Henley was blackmailing him. It did not begin with you.”

“Blackmail? But what could Mr. Henley have held over Mr. Metcalfe’s head?”

“I cannot say. Other than his attendance at an event that went horribly wrong, Stanley was not the sort to engage in wrongdoing. I believe he felt complicit for something, though he swore he did not know the full measure of the consequences.”

The Brotherhood. Of course. Mr. Metcalfe had said as much to her in their short meeting. Had Mr. Henley been threatening to turn him over to the authorities if he did not pay hush money? But there had to be more. Mr. Metcalfe had readily admitted his involvement with the Brotherhood to her. He’d said he knew things. Things Mr. Henley would kill for.

“Did he ever talk about that night, Christina? Did he ever tell you anything that might damage Mr. Henley?”

She nodded, and her unbound dark hair fell over her face, shielding her as she began to weep again. “I cannot tell you without damaging Stanley’s reputation.”

“Did he tell you what the key opened? He hurried away before he could—”

“He only told me to give it to you, and that you would know what it opened.”

But she didn’t. Unless this, too, was something she had forgotten that night. But she could only press Christina for the one thing that might save her life. “Please reconsider, Christina. If Mr. Henley killed Mr. Metcalfe over the knowledge you hold, and then suspects you might know, too, he might want to silence you, as well.”

She gasped and pushed the hair away from her face to look at Gina. “Surely not!”

“I cannot be certain, but can we put anything past the man at this point? All I know for certain is that Mr. Henley must be stopped, by whatever means possible. Stanley would not want you dead, and your best protection is to tell the authorities, the Home Office and whoever else will listen. The more people who know the secret, the less reason Mr. Henley would have to kill for it.”

“I will not be leaving the house for several months, Gina. Can I be safe in my own home?”

Gina wished she could reassure her. Wished none of this had ever happened. Wished, too, that she’d never enlisted Christina’s help. She shrugged. “I do not know.”

Christina sniffed. “It would feel like a betrayal if I told now.” A fresh storm of weeping shook Christina’s shoulders. She buried her face in her hands and Gina could not imagine the depth of Christina’s sorrow until she thought of losing James. Oh, she was prepared to leave for Ireland and never see him again. But to know that he no longer breathed, no longer smiled? Intolerable, unbearable.

“If I could turn back time, I would rather die myself than be the cause of Mr. Metcalfe’s death or your grief. And, though I would never ask it again, I cannot ever thank you enough for your help, and everything you’ve done. I will leave you now, but should you change your mind and decide to tell me Mr. Metcalfe’s secret, send to me and I shall come at once.”

Gina closed the door after herself, catching one last glimpse of Christina, her dark head still bowed over her hands.

A heavy mist descended, obscuring the light from the single lamppost at the end of the street. A dense fog would follow, and Gina shivered.

She’d begged off the affair she was slated to attend earlier, pleading a crushing headache. James had feigned disappointment, though she had read the relief in his deep violet eyes. And when the household had retired for the evening, she’d crept downstairs to “borrow” some clothing from the laundry tub. Now dressed in a gray woolen dress, brown boots a size too large and a frayed brown shawl over her head, she was virtually unrecognizable.

“Miss Gina?”

Or so she’d thought. “Is that you, Ned?”

The boy stepped out of the mist and pulled his cap off his tousled head. “Aye, miss. I thought it was you, but I couldn’t be sure.”

“I did not know how to dress. Will this be suitable?”

He grinned. “I ‘spose so, miss. Wasn’t takin’ you anywhere fancy tonight. One o’ the lads said ‘e saw Mr. H go in the Cat’s Paw. That’s a gin house near Petticoat Lane.” He stood back and squinted at her through the gloom. “They won’t let me in there, miss. Say I gotta shave first. But y’look like you belong there, miss. Won’t no one bother you if you keeps yer head down.”

“What shall I do?”

“Listen, miss.” He put his cap on and pulled the brim low over his forehead. “You orders somethin’ to drink, and then you just disappears into the walls and listen, if y’know what I mean. Maybe you’ll see Mr. H, maybe not. Maybe you’ll ‘ear something about where ‘e is.”

Yes, she thought she could do that much. But what did one order in a gin house? She pondered that as Ned started off at a fast pace, leading her farther and farther from familiar surroundings. She wondered if she’d ever be able to find her own way home. “Will you wait for me, Ned?”

“Aye, miss. Outside.”

She took comfort from that much, at least, as her environs became poorer and more dismal. They passed taverns and public houses where raucous conversations carried into the streets and drunks lay where they’d been tossed. The women she’d seen were surely disreputable, since all women with a mind to their reputations would be safely home after dark in this area.

“Where are we, Ned?”

“Whitechapel, miss. Just around the corner.”

And, true to his word, he halted at a sign with a painted black cat raising one paw. Beneath it was a low door with a stone stoop to step over, and she wondered if that was to keep sewage out during a heavy rain. A dim light cast a yellow glow in a window just above the door. She was relieved the rising fog kept her from seeing more clearly. The stench was bad enough without having to see what caused it.

She took a sixpence from her boot. Would that be enough? Should she take off the boot and shake out a shilling? Sensing her hesitancy, Ned gave her a little push over the threshold.

Gina had never been in an establishment like this one. It was dirty, foul smelling and dark; she had to stop just inside the door to brace herself and take her bearings. A long counter against one wall served as the bar and had shelves behind it with bottles of various sizes and colors. Were they all gin? At least ten tables were scattered to each side of the door but only a few were occupied this late at night. Another door opposite the one she’d entered was closed, and she wondered if it led to the privy or apartments where the light had shone just above the tavern door.

A man sitting at a table was staring at her and she quickly went to the bar and placed the sixpence on the grimy surface. The barkeeper, an unshaven man with few teeth and dirty hands, shuffled toward her, looked down at her coin, took a tin cup from the counter behind him and went to a barrel. He pulled the tap, seemed to measure the amount with one squinted eye and brought the cup to Gina.

She kept her head down and neither of them spoke. As he walked away, she breathed with relief and took her cup to a table near the door. She had passed the first test. Now, according to Ned, all she had to do was make herself inconspicuous.

After a moment, all interest in her ceased and the low tones of conversation resumed. Once she became accustomed to the drone of voices, she could distinguish a few words. Her eyes adjusted to the meager light of the few candles and the dirty oil lamp on the bar, and she noticed four men at a back table. Though she could not make them out, or catch their conversation, there was something hauntingly familiar in the tone.

As she strained to hear, she lifted her cup to her mouth and took a sip. She nearly choked. Struggling to catch her breath and not spit the swill back into the cup, she forced the liquid down her throat.

Gin? This was gin? Dreadful! How could anyone drink it? She coughed and took another swallow to force the first down. Her eyes watered and she wiped them with the back of her sleeve.

When she looked up again, she was startled to see that attention was again focused on her. Too late, she remembered to keep her head down. The brown shawl she’d kept over her head had fallen back when she coughed and she hurried to pull it back into place.

An argument erupted at the back table and Gina froze. She knew that voice now. And she could never forget the inflection of his voice when he swore. James Hunter. But what was he doing here? Looking for Mr. Henley?

She pulled the shawl even lower over her head, took another swallow of the gin and stood. She had to get out of there before she was recognized. Three steps and she was out the door, scarcely pausing to catch her breath. The fog had thickened and disoriented her, but she turned in the direction she thought they’d come and took several steps.

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