Clarissa knew that mulish turn to her sister's mouth and knew better than to persevere. She handed her the despised green linen dress and brushed out Theo's hair. The blue-black waves sprang out from each brush stroke. Only Theo had their father's dramatic coloring; the others took after Elinor, with their soft brown hair and gentle blue eyes.
"Shall I put it up in a knot on your neck?" she asked tentatively. "You know how it suits you."
"Plait it," her sister said shortly.
Clarissa sighed and did as she was asked.
"Good… thank you." Theo thrust her feet into a pair of openwork sandals, more suited to an afternoon's wandering through the garden than the dinner table. She glanced up at the pretty marquetry clock on the mantelshelf. It was barely six-twenty.
"Come, let's go downstairs." She smiled at her sister, hugging her briefly. "You're an angel, Clarry. I'm sorry if I was snappish."
"You were," Clarissa responded with a resigned sigh. Her volatile sister could always dispel lingering resentments with her smile.
They went downstairs and entered the drawing room arm in arm.
It was immediately apparent to both of them that something was afoot. Foster was delicately edging the cork out of a bottle of the late earl's supply of vintage champagne.
Theo instantly froze. Who had had the gall to instruct Foster to broach such a precious bottle? Not her mother, surely? Her mother didn't know the first thing about what was in the cellars. Theo's eyes flickered to the Earl of Stoneridge, who was in his customary position by the empty fireplace, resting his elbow along the mantelshelf. Of course, she thought bitterly, the Earl of Stoneridge had the right to drink any bottle he chose, even though he'd put no effort, knowledge, or funds into its acquisition.
"Come," he said, extending his hand toward her. "We were waiting for you."
She looked round the room. Her mother was sitting on the sofa, her embroidery in her lap. Emily held a copy of the Gazette in her hand, and it was she who spoke.
"Oh, Theo, love, it's so exciting. See, here's the notice of your engagement."
"What?" The blood drained from her face and then flooded back in an angry tide. "Show me that." She almost snatched the paper from Emily.
The simple statement set the fact in stone, rendered indecision merely ashes in the wind.
Clarissa read the announcement over her shoulder. Her sister was quivering, and she laid a steadying hand on Theo's shoulder. She didn't know why Theo was having such difficulties, but since she was, she'd offer what silent support she could. Theo would do the same for her, whether she agreed with her or not.
"Pray accept my heartfelt congratulations, Lady Theo," Foster said. The cork slid out between his finger and thumb with barely a pop, and he poured the straw-colored bubbles without losing a drop.
"Stoneridge, could we -"
"After dinner," he said smoothly. "If you'd like to walk a little, I'm sure your mama would permit it."
Manipulative devil! After what had passed between them, what had her mother's permission to do with anything? Theo felt like a drowning man clinging to a weed-encrusted rock. Everytime she grasped a tendril, the slimy fronds slithered through her fingers.
Elinor took a glass from the tray Foster presented. "Theo, dear, you and Lord Stoneridge will discuss whatever you feel necessary after dinner. He will listen to you as you will listen to him."
Theo waited angrily for her mother to offer a toast to the happy couple, but Elinor didn't abandon her quite so completely. She raised her glass, took a considered sip, and said, "A happy thought, Stoneridge."
He inclined his head in acknowledgment and sipped his own wine. The girls exchanged comprehending looks and followed suit.
No point wasting vintage champagne, Theo thought, regarding her for-the-present established betrothed over the lip of her glass. He looked remarkably well for a man who'd been indisposed for two days. Had it been a trick? Had he anticipated her morning-after change of mind? Surely not? Not even a Gilbraith could be that devious… or could he?
Chapter Eight
The Black Dog in Spitalfields was an unwholesome establishment, generally frequented by cutpurses and villains of various trades. It was well-known to the Bow Street Runners, who, more often than not, were indistinguishable in appearance from their quarry on the other side of the law.
On the evening of the day the Gazette carried the news of Sylvester Gilbraith's engagement to Theodora Belmont, a man stepped out of a hackney carriage outside the tavern and stood on the mired cobbles, his aquiline nose twitching at the stench of rotten garbage and human waste flowing in the open kennels running alongside the filthy lane.
A ragged urchin seemed to stumble against him, but before he could regain his footing, Captain Neil Gerard of His Majesty's Third Dragoans had collared him. The lad, no more than seven or eight, stared in wild-eyed terror at his captor, who pried open the boy's clenched fist with fingers of steel.
"Thief." the captain declared with cold dispassion as he retrieved his watch from the grimy palm. He raised his silver-handled cane as the child screamed. No one took any notice of the scene or the child's cries as he fell to his knees beneath the relentless blows. Such violence was relatively mild by the standards of this part of London, and even the urchin knew, as he lay sniveling in the gutter, that he'd escaped lightly. If the gent had handed him over the beadles, he'd have faced the hangman's noose in Newgate Yard or the transportation hulks lying in the Thames estuary.
Captain Gerard kicked at the skinny huddled body by way of parting and strode into the inn, ducking his head beneath the low lintel.
His eyes streamed from the thick smoke rising from a dozen clay pipes and the noxious stench of the sea coal burning in the great hearth, despite the warm summer evening. Men glanced up from their tankards or their dice and then looked down again. Jud's tavern was a flash house – a place where a man could do business of a certain kind without drawing attention to himself.
A man could find a prizefighter, a murderer, an arsonist, a lock breaker, a highwayman, if he knew who and how to ask and had the right currency.
The man behind the bar counter had the brutally disfigured countenance of one who lived by violence. A scarlet cicatrix slashed his cheek where a French sword had cut to the bone, his nose had been broken in so many fights that he could no longer breathe through it, and his mouth was permanently open, revealing one black front tooth. A stained patch covered the empty socket of his left eye.
"Well, well, if it ain't the cap'n." He greeted the newcomer with what might have been a smile but was more of a sneer. "It's that day agin, is it? Amazin' 'ow the time passes." He drew a tankard of ale and drank deeply, wiping the froth off his mouth with the back of a filthy hand.
"What can I offer ye, then, sir?" His sneer broadened. He knew the captain wouldn't touch anything in this house.
Captain Gerard didn't deign to reply. This weekly ordeal of humiliation grew harder each occasion, but he had no choice. And most particularly not now. He drew a heavy leather pouch from his pocket and dropped it onto the counter with a clunk.
"Oh, what 'ave we 'ere, then?" Jud opened the pouch and shook the golden guineas onto the counter, where they gleamed dully against the stained planking.
"Only four, sir?" His voice took on a mocking whine. "An' there was I thinkin' we'd agreed on a bit extra… now just 'cause me memory's gettin' better by the day… Unusual that, innit?" He wiped the counter with his sleeve, his one eye glittering with malice. "Most people forgets things as they get on… but not me… not Jud O'Flannery."