Somewhat Scandalous (Brambridge Novel 1) Page 9

  “But? Spit it out, Ames.”

  “The owner of the circus—Pablo Moreno—caught her.”

  “Good god, Pablo Moreno!”

  “They had a rather serious conversation that I couldn’t hear.”

  Henry grasped at his chair, tension filling his fingers. “You let her stay alone with that man?” Taking a deep breath, he lifted his hands and gestured impatiently. “Yes, yes, carry on.”

  “She appeared again, and took a hansom cab back here.”

  Henry sighed in relief and tapped heavily on his book. Agatha Beauregard was a handful. She didn’t know how lucky she was to have escaped Pablo Moreno. Bad luck and trouble followed the shadowy man everywhere.

  Ames coughed. “I think, sir, that she is making preparations to go out.”

  Henry raised his eyebrows.

  “Without a maid again, my lord. I err…”

  “Yes?”

  “I saw Pablo Moreno holding a pelisse. One that Miss Anglethorpe normally sports my lord. He didn’t give it back to her. He pointed instead to a large sign that said something about a Grand Salvatore, sir.”

  Henry took a deep breath and looked out at the window and sunshine again. Victoria was very loyal to Agatha. And Agatha was very loyal to her. She would want to get back the bag at all costs. “Ames, rather unusually I require your assistance as a valet tonight.”

  Snapping open his pocket watch, he studied the scrap of paper inside. If only he had never brought her to London. If only Peter was answering his letters. Henry needed to find out more about Agatha. He was drawn to her like a moth to a naked flame. Once she was out of Moreno’s hands and in Fashington’s clutches he would not be able to ever get so close to her again.

  “Very good, sir.” Ames stepped blinking into the sunlight. “And where will you be going, sir?”

  “Vauxhall Gardens.”

  “Vauxhall Gardens? But what about Miss Aggie, sir?”

  “I’m not going there for that kind of thing, Ames.”

  “More’s the pity. You need a good woman, sir.”

  He did. In fact he’d wanted one. But she was not so good at being good in the usual sense of the word. And it seemed to keep landing her in hot water. Blast. She was someone else’s problem now.

  Henry sighed. “That might be difficult, Ames. No. Vauxhall Gardens is where Pablo Moreno is having his grand show tonight.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes. Apparently his main act, Bertino, otherwise known as Grand Salvatore the knife thrower, is sick and refusing to perform.”

  Ames looked at him admiringly. “How do you know all of this, sir?”

  Henry sighed. “Because Bertino, Ames, is our good old friend, Albert Smith.”

  “Albert Smith, as in Albert Smith the butcher that delivered meat here? But I thought all he was good at was knife work. I remember cook being very disappointed when he left. He… oh.”

  “Hmm. Yes. I put him in with Pablo Moreno to find out exactly what the strange man was up to. Unfortunately he has reported to me that he believes Pablo has nearly broken his cover. Albert is as we speak feigning the symptoms of a very infectious influenza in order to escape.”

  “Lucky escape for him.”

  “Yes, not so much for us.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I have a feeling that he wants to use Agatha in some way in a replacement performance.”

  “Not Miss Aggie!”

  Henry nodded. “I’m not sure how yet, but something will have piqued his interest.” He sighed and clenched his fingers. “God knows, she’s piqued mine.”

  In the dark manicured hedges of Vauxhall gardens, Henry paced amongst the shadows. He could see Agatha from where he stood, her face stark white against the gathering dusk. Her face had a pinched look to it, although now and then her brow smoothed as she obviously worked to control her nerves.

  Henry leant against the bough of a sturdy bush and folded his arms as his heart clenched. She still disliked him, he reminded himself, now more than ever. That had been a positive. He’d wanted a bride that didn’t like him. He couldn’t end up with a woman that would pine away like his mother if anything happened to him. Despite all the other things he had done, he could never have that on his conscience.

  It didn’t matter now, Charles was going to marry her. She had got herself into this mess, and who knew what else she was capable of? Besides, if Henry revealed himself, his cover as a spymaster would be blown, and Albert might not escape.

  Henry grunted. He needed to redeploy Albert somewhere. Somewhere where an Italianate looking butcher would be useful. Hmm. He needed someone to keep an eye on a mysterious Asian man that had appeared at Wapping docks. It would be a long waiting game. But Albert deserved a bit of respite. From the information Albert had given him, it seemed that Pablo and some of his employees had been engaging in slightly puzzling activity.

  He straightened as a couple passed him, putting out an arm to fade into the shape of the tree. The couple stopped not five feet from him, unaware of his presence, too engaged in arguing.

  “I saw it with my own eyes, Miles cheri. And just after we had been together too. How could you?”

  “I was bored.”

  “Bored? What haven’t I given you that you can get anywhere else?”

  “She was easy pickings.”

  “Easy pickings? Some slut of a girl that hung onto your every word? Bonne dieu Miles, she mouthed the words—”

  “—to the dance steps? Enough with your petty jealousy. I’ve dealt with her. A contact of mine has promised to sort her out for me tonight. Perhaps perm—”

  Henry couldn’t hold in his sneeze any longer. Pulling his hand from the branches, he covered his mouth, but still the small explosion caused the couple to stop speaking.

  “We are not safe here.” The woman walked away from Henry with quick steps, whilst Miles hurried past the tree under which Henry sheltered, towards the colonnade below where Agatha stood.

  Henry ducked out from under the full leaves of the bush. The woman had gone, the tall figure of the man rapidly disappearing too, too fast to be recognizable. What an odious pair, but not unusual in Vauxhall Gardens where the unsavory dregs mixed with the more louche members of society.

  A cheer rang out; glancing up, Henry could no longer see the small figure of Agatha. With a curse he lengthened his stride and ran towards where large torches had been lit. He’d been stupid to let his attention be diverted. He was meant to be there for her.

  CHAPTER 13

  The evening was mild, the March day had mellowed with some sunshine burning off the fog towards sunset. In a dark corner of Vauxhall Gardens, Agatha watched the acrobats finish their performance, her arms wrapped round her body against the sudden chill of dusk.

  It had been easy to slip out of the house unseen once more. She had pleaded a headache when Victoria had knocked on her door for their evening’s musicale. And it seemed that as soon as Victoria left the house, the staff retreated downstairs for their own suppers. It was the work of a moment to unlatch the great door, scramble down the steps and fall straight into a passing hansom cab. She had paid him well to wait for her until the end of the night’s performance. It was obviously an arrangement he had had much familiarity with.

  Agatha shivered as a small breeze ruffled the gold suit that Pablo had provided, along with a full glittering mask. Nathalia’s teeth chattered as she stood by her side, seemingly over her previous hysterics. Why on earth had Pablo made her dress as the Grand Salvatore if he thought that she couldn’t throw knives?

  Straightening, Nathalia brightened. “Oooh, he’s a looker,” she said loudly, craning her neck as a gentleman strode by on one of the lower walks. Involuntarily Agatha turned—she couldn’t stop herself. Charles stared directly back at her from below.

  “Fiddlesticks,” she exclaimed, clapping a hand to her mouth as she ducked down behind a marble pillar. This was just her luck. Hopefully from that distance and the unfamiliarity in the surroundings h
e wouldn’t have recognized her. Her eyes took in her resplendent clothes—especially not in the gold suit.

  “I don’t know why you’re so worried.” Nathalia leaned over the balustrade. “He didn’t stop.”

  Agatha had no answer for that. There was no way she was going to admit to Nathalia of all people, that the handsome man was actually a complete bounder and that she was going to be married to him under false pretenses in a few days’ time.

  “Look, you aren’t going to start shaking, are you?” Nathalia said sharply, “I’m the one going to be standing next to a board having someone that can’t throw knives aiming at her. It’s going to be dark, and there are going to be lots of people.” She pouted and rubbed her arms. “Thankfully you probably won’t even manage to even reach the board and people will think it’s a bit of comedy.”

  Agatha nodded. Nathalia was right. She had to deal with the more pressing problem of the pelisse, and focus on throwing the knives. Only then could she deal with Charles.

  Gravel crunched heavily as Pablo appeared at her elbow, breathing hard from the acrobatic display. Agatha had heard the oohs and aahs of the crowds for the last hour. It had seemed to pass by in a blur. Large torches flared in the darkness amongst the crowds.

  Silently he handed her the golden mask which she fitted across her face. She tied her hair back into a knot, imitating what she had been told was Bertino’s style. They assured her that in the dark no one would see that her brown hair wasn’t black.

  “You look just like Bertino,” Pablo sighed. “I never said I kept all of my promises. Your fate is up to you now.” Roughly he pushed the pelisse of coins into the pocket of her outfit.

  Promises? He’d kept his promise to her, although after this Agatha never wanted to meet him again. She shuddered as his breath blew across her ear.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured and pushed her out into the flickering light.

  A hushed silence fell across the crowd as she walked across the dry ground towards the pathway where the brightly painted board had been affixed. What was Pablo sorry for? Nathalia smiled fixedly at the crowd at her side. She had taken off her coat to reveal a costume that did not leave much to the imagination.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice boomed from the crowd. “I give you the Grande Salvatore!”

  The crowd turned to face Agatha. Nathalia stood expectantly by the board. She gestured to the board, smiled and gestured again. Frowning at Agatha, she repeated her routine.

  A small drop of salty water ran down the inside of Agatha’s mask, heat rising from her neck. What was she to do? She couldn’t, shouldn’t speak, for she would be undone as the Grande Salvatore.

  Shaking the droplet of water from her chin, she gazed at the gathering of well-dressed men who lounged against the hedges of Vauxhall Gardens. They were accompanied here and there by ladies dressed in gaudy clothes. Eyes glittered, riveted on the spectacle of the knife thrower and the girl.

  She nodded at Nathalia and then looked out once more at the crowd.

  One of the gaudily dressed ladies stepped back, revealing a familiar, tall, muscular figure. Agatha froze as Henry gazed back at her and frowned.

  How did he know she was there? He couldn’t possibly. There had been no one in the hall when she had left the house.

  “He does not know who I am,” Agatha said as if in a mantra under her breath. “He doesn’t know about the knives. I am the Grande Salvatore.”

  Still, his eyes bored into hers as if he knew who she was. Oh god. Henry was there watching. He said he always knew where she was, and now she’d found out the hard way.

  Licking a trembling finger, Agatha held her hand in the air. The wind was travelling from the east, across her line of aim. The torches flamed and gusted sideways. Hmm, about three miles an hour. She needed to throw fifteen yards, the knife she had been given was about forty grams heavier than her potato knife…oh god. Henry was watching.

  If only she’d had a bit more time to perfect the mechanics. She had left Hope Sands at a very inopportune time, in fact she had calculated she was only one potato peeling session away from really getting the hang of letting her knife go at the right time and hitting her target on the wall at the end of her depressing room. Of course it had played havoc with the plaster, all the gashes had become quite noticeable.

  Now then. Her hypothesis was that she needed to let the knife go when it was perpendicular in her hand to the ground. Hopefully it wouldn’t hit Henry. Agatha shook her head and resumed calculating. It would require five revolutions before it reached the board a foot to the right of Nathalia’s head. Hmm.

  Nathalia opened her mouth as Agatha pulled her hand back. Narrowing her eyes, Agatha weighed the knife up and down in her hand. Could she do it? She had never yet hit the target with her knife—a potato peeler at that.

  Nathalia screamed, “You can’t be serious—”

  Agatha drew back her arm and this time placed a little more pressure on her thumb.

  “I’m telling you A…a…a…Salvatore,” Nathalia shouted.

  With a flick of her arm, Agatha threw, the violent action causing her mask to slip before the knife had left her hand. Blindly she nodded, trying to dislodge the sticky mask, putting a hand to her face to push it back up, and froze. A large bang rang through her ears, and a blaze of pain ripped across her knuckles.

  The crowd roared. As she pushed the mask back up onto her face with shaking fingers, she realized they were looking at Nathalia, who stared at the knife which had planted itself in the narrow space between her ankles.

  Oh dear. There was no chance that Agatha could risk such a close shave again—it seemed she was not destined to find out how to throw knives. Shaking her head, Agatha looked for Henry. He was nowhere to be seen, the crowds of people turned away from her as they talked excitedly amongst themselves. She turned and ran towards the edge of the gardens, holding on to her slippery mask.

  A hansom cab waited at the west entrance, the horses stamping their feet in the cold air.

  “Quick, Toby, get going,” she yelled at the carriage driver she had hired. Scrabbling at the footplate, she fell exhausted into the carriage, collapsing against the seats.

  The shadows opposite her deepened. Opening her mouth, Agatha screamed and clutched at the leather of her seat as a large, predatory form moved forward.

  “Mr. Salvatore, I presume?” Henry reached a long arm from the dark of the carriage and plucked her mask from her face. For a while he stared at her. “Miss Beauregard. I might have known.” He stared at her again for a long moment and then opened one hand, in which a small bronze bullet nestled. “Is this another one of your experiments or does someone really want to kill you?”

  CHAPTER 14

  Henry cursed as Agatha clutched her hands together and then drew them away with an audible gasp. Sticky bloody ran darkly through her hands from her knuckles.

  He swung his body across the carriage and sat heavily into the seat next to her. Gathering her into his arms, he held her tightly as the tears began to roll down her face. Henry pressed his face into her hair—she smelt of soap and gunpowder. It was a strangely intoxicating mix. Drawing his body away, he leant back against the seat, releasing her.

  “Bloody hell Agatha.”

  Agatha sighed and felt at an object on the seat before handing it to him. “Victoria’s pelisse.”

  He stared at it for a long second, and dropped it on the seat next to him. Taking a deep breath, he forced as much flatness into his voice as possible. “I need to know how you became mixed up with Pablo Moreno. He has a rather unsavory reputation.”

  Agatha wrapped her arms around herself and leant forward. “One of his… associates stole my pelisse from me.”

  “And he gave it back to you.” He paused, weighing his words. “But who would want you dead? What was different about today?”

  She sat up straighter. Good, his words were having an effect.

  “What was different about today?” Her voice rose a
n octave. “What was different about today, apart from Charles telling me to jilt him in your back garden, being pick pocketed, having my hands stood upon, being seen by Charles again wearing this outfit back there—” Agatha jabbed a hand in the direction of the disappearing Vauxhall Gardens— “throwing knives at a semi-dressed girl on a board, and then being shot at?”

  Henry breathed out. “Charles asked you to jilt him in our garden and then recognized you in Vauxhall?

  Agatha nodded and took a deep breath.

  He frowned. “Something is off in this situation.”

  “You were the one who wants me to marry him in the first place!”

  Henry shivered as the accusation filled her voice. “I think I was wrong.”

  “Of course you were bloody wrong!” Agatha rubbed at her face, her skin raw where she had worn the mask tightly. “He forced me and you wouldn’t listen.”

  Henry stared at her. Her story had never changed, it wasn’t just for form’s sake. She really didn’t want to marry Charles, despite what Henry had thought. “I… I don’t want you to marry him.”

  “Thank you, neither do I, but thanks to you I have to go through with it.”

  Henry looked down at Agatha. “I’m a member of the same club. I know a few of Charles Fashington’s secrets. I’ll persuade him to drop the proposal. I promise, Agatha.” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes briefly. “I’ll set everything right.”

  Right for him too. This was the opportunity that he needed. A wife, Granwich had said. After this affair she would hate him even more. He swallowed. So much the better.

  Agatha gazed at Henry, her hazel eyes wide in the dark, the glint of tears shining on her cheek. With a muffled oath he pulled her towards him.

  Dropping his head he brushed his lips along the tops of her cheeks where the tears gleamed.

  “Agatha—”

  She tipped her head towards him. With a groan he covered her mouth with his, caressing her tender lips. She gasped, the intake of air rushing against his tongue.

  “I—”

  Henry pulled away as the carriage stopped; any longer and he wouldn’t have been able to help himself. Agatha stared at him, the gold suit rumpled against her soft skin. He shrugged off his coat and shook his head, pushing the warm cloth around her shoulders. As he smoothed the cloak over her frozen shoulder, she shivered visibly.