“In the hopes she might seduce him?”
“Lud.” For the first time, Miss Keating looked truly annoyed. “Can you only think of one thing?”
It was a fair point, Langley thought. Perhaps he was just more highly sexed than most men. Or, he sought out another explanation, that histon-ish company sought it out, as gossip was the life’s breath of thebeau monde… but none were really mentionable in front of her. “If you must know, I sent my sister down to Cornwall as I did not deem it safe for her to remain in London with a killer on the loose.”
To this Langley nodded. He could see all too well that Miss Keating cared for her little sister. That did not seem remotely in doubt. He was not fortunate enough to be in possession of any legitimate siblings—a few distant cousins, one of whom would eventually inherit his estate when Langley keeled over and died. He wondered, if he were to have a sister, how his life would have been different. Would she regard him in much the same manner as Miss Keating treated her sister, with the same fierce protectiveness? It was sad that Miss Keating did not have the same concern for her own well-being, however.
“You have not answered why you would then risk your own life in the pursuit of riches that can never be yours?” Langley asked.
“Because a killer does not deserve them.” Miss Keating’s voice shook. “Ashmore’s attacker cannot be the one to win. I owe the duke at least that. A murderer cannot, will not receive theAshmoreton Diamonds.” Even in the dark her eyes widened at the admittance of what they sought. At least that truth was now out in the open. Folding her arms across her chest, Miss Keating straightened her spine. “Now you know the whole of it. We are seeking to recover valuable diamonds. Will you help me?”
Langley suspected he knew something of the matter, but he highly doubted it was the whole of it, as Miss Keating said. Being as used as he was to be ferreting out feminine secrets, from the tightness around her mouth to the nerves in her eyes, there was a far greater mystery to her than there was to some missing diamonds.
With languid ease, he said to her, “So let me understand this correctly. Your plan is that we go to Limehouse, search through whatever pubs or buildings are nearest to the red dot, the one your duke has jotted down, and what? Hope we are not set upon by a murderer?” Langley’s tone took on a harder note, hoping to alert the mad woman opposite him to the absurdity of her plan. “No, we’re much more likely to be stabbed by pickpockets, thieves, jades, and their madams than simply stumble upon a treasure trove of jewels. Do you like the sound of being set upon, does it sound better to you than your snug, warm bed?”
“When I see the place, I am sure I will know what Ashmore meant. There is a code on the back of the map, which I think will tell us where the diamonds might actually be buried.” A note of uncertainty nudged its way into her voice, as if Miss Keating was finally starting to hear him, to see the sense he was speaking, which Langley felt most odd about—him being the sensible one—it was not his normal modus operandi.
Miss Keating sniffed and locked eyes with him. “Will you help me or not?”
Langley had a dinner party planned to begin in just two hours’ time, only twenty minutes horse ride from here. His friends Lord Randolph and Sir Phineas Harrison would be inattendance, the latter of whom was always an excellent card player and a right good gossip. The food too was also bound to be a delight as the Marquess of Rotherham’s French cook was a renowned stickler. All in all, it was to be a pleasant evening, certainly preferable to masquerading through the East End looking for God’s knows what. A sign? A monument? A statue? For some reason, Langley did not say any of that, instead he said, “Give me your first name, and we’ll do it.”
“Margot.” Her surrender hung between them for a moment, and then Langley found himself nodding his head in assent to her scheme.
“Meet me at the front of the house at eleven, wearing something with a hood.”
Margot Keating nodded, cataloguing what she needed to do. Then she looked up and said, “Bring a weapon.” With that she turned and hurried up the steps into Ashmore’s house.
Langley had been assuming this would be a thrilling night of escapades if he had his way, at least whilst they journeyed through London. Perhaps she was one of those women who lived on the more dangerous side of life. But this curt reminder from her about the need for a firearm brought the danger home. Danger that Langley was completely ill-used to. It had never been his forte. He wasn’t like the rumoured spy, Silverton, or his dark haired, French-sounding comrade. No, Langley would much rather go to a house party or a gaming den than venture out into the dangerous unknown. But there was a pulse beneath his skin, a heat almost akin, he realised, to excitement—the same way he felt when a seduction was nearing its completion. Racking his mind, he could not recall when an incident that was not focused on the pursuit of a woman had ever stirred such a reaction in him. It must have been a very long time ago. He was excited for the adventure, pleased to feel as if he would be of use to his Amazon.
So, there he was, pivoting on his heel and going back into his abode, to start his search for his never-used duelling pistol.
Night had come in quickly;a thick westerly wind had picked up pace and blown in a grey pelt of cloud, and a rather miserly fog.
Langley stood outside his carriage, watching the Ashmore residence, awaiting his Amazon. She would need to be careful if anyone saw them alone together. Regardless of what she was doing, her good name would be destroyed, and she may as well go and join a brothel. That idea, which had previously struck him as highly amusing, now rankled. He liked his reputation, it kept the marriage minded mamas away from him, but in this instance, it meant that, even when he was acting with the most chivalrous of impulses, at least in part, it still remained. In preparation, he had brought a spare domino mask to keep Margot’s identity safe.
She emerged, a thick, heavy cloak hiding her from view, although her tall frame marked her out immediately. With quick steps Margot hurried down to join him, and Langley handed her up into the carriage, calling out the location to the driver.
Once inside the carriage, in opposite seats, Langley passed across the mask to her. Weighing it for a moment, consideration heavy in her movements, Margot then slowly raised it and tried to tie it around her head. She was not especially gifted at it. After a moment, when the carriage slowed to let another vehicle pass, Langley asked, “Shall I help you?”
There was a faint glow from outside the carriage that gave light to Margot’s grimace, “Nothing untoward, my lord?”
“No indeed.” He moved forward and took the seat next to her. He could not remember the last time he had fucked in acarriage; it had been at least a year. Certainly, that was not his intention tonight. Losing one’s virginity in a moving vehicle would not provide either of them with enough pleasure to make the venture worthwhile. Besides, it was clearly against Margot’s will, and there was one thing that Langley held on to as the single code of honour—he would never seduce an unwilling woman. “Turn that way.” He pointed, and with that Margot lowered her hood and tilted her head away from him as Langley captured the loose ribbons and tied them together. “There we go,” he declared, all businesslike, as he sank back into his squab.
Margot turned and looked through the mask at him. Normally when a woman donned such a shield, Langley found himself lustful—it was almost always a precursor to fornication. It often made ladies feel liberated, and Langley loved being on the receiving end of that liberation. However, on this occasion, the mask had a different effect. Between the shades of darkness, the aspect obscured Margot’s face and made her even harder to read. Langley decided for the first time he did not care for her in a domino mask.
“Do you have any warnings for me?” Margot asked. She had drawn the cloak back up, and moved further into the seat so she could view him.
“Warnings?”
“On the danger of London.”
“I assumed that your parents would have already done that. Or the papers.”
“Of course.” Margot replied. “I did not want to come unprepared, and yet I did not know where Ashmore’s pistol was. I have a kitchen knife on me.”
“No fire poker?” Langley asked.
With a withering look, Margot shook her head.
