“I have given my driver a weapon,” Langley said, “and if you need to leave in a hurry, flag down a hackney driver.” He dividedup some coins between the two of them. “Are you going to share with me your theory on what precisely we are looking for in Limehouse?”
To this query, Margot wriggled, her normal grace diminished by uncertainty. She was prepared to trust him with her person, with her safety, but it seemed she drew the line at trusting him with too many of her secrets. “The dot seems to be close to St Anne’s Church, at least that site is drawn. It was seen as worthy of inclusion.”
“Is it your suggestion we root through a graveyard, Miss Keating? How macabre and gothic of you.”
“Not everything must be humorous, Langley.”
“On this occasion I promise you I was not joking. Once we are in Limehouse, we will stand out. You may seem outmoded in your clothes in Mayfair, but in the East End, they will see the truth.”
“I don’t think anyone will ever know the truth about me, my lord.” She spoke with such sincerity that Langley knew Margot was referring to something far beyond the hidden diamonds. There were treasures buried deep in her soul, the question was whether he wanted to dig enough to find them.
“Be that as it may,” Langley said, attempting to not feel as curious as he did by her, “they will know you don’t belong amongst them.”
For a moment Margot looked as if she might continue to argue the point, but instead she drew out the torn map and laid it out on her lap. The side she placed face down hid the map but showed instead an odd jumble of words, written in a tiny, disjointed scrawl and from what Langley could see, numerous different languages. He racked his brain to translate the nearest word, trying his best to remember his Spanish.
“I did not know my godfather well enough to speculate precisely what each word or phrase means. There are repeatedreferences to time. I feel certain if I see St Anne’s and there is a clocktower, that is what he might be referring to.”
“Were I given that—” Langley waved a hand at the torn sheet, a twinge of sadness for the dead duke washed through him. “—I would assume Ashmore was quite unstable. Those scribblings look as if they could have been written by a madman.”
“He might have been.” Margot sounded sad as she folded it back up and tucked it once more into her bodice. “But I can at least honour his final request, since there is nothing else I can do for him now.”
Feeling strangely moved by this, Langley nodded solemnly. “I am pleased to be able to help you.” And it was odd, he realised when she locked her forest green eyes on him, how much he meant it.
CHAPTER 7
Langley had such a way of looking at her, Margot thought, which made her feel quite naked. It was not merely the physical way that his gaze penetrated her; he made her feel acutely vulnerable and exposed in a way she had never imagined possible. Which was absurd since she had only known him two days. It was the abrupt switch he made between teasing and compliments, from his occasional amorous looks to the way he smiled with such sweet sincerity, he gave the impression of being innocent, when Margot knew all too well, he most definitely wasn’t.
It was an act. It had to be. She had to hold on to that knowledge, or she’d be in real danger. After all, everyone, from Hathaway to Ashmore to the knowledgeable Mrs. Bowley had warned her about Langley’s reputation. It had to be based on something. Not just his astonishing good looks, because whilst handsomeness could certainly get a man far, it only went bone deep. Whereas for Langley, the charm, the appeal, the pull of him, poured out from every part of his being.
“It looks as if we are drawing close,” Langley said, stretching out his tall frame and long legs. He had dressed all in sombre black, presumably in an effort to appear less noticeable, but evenin the dimness Margot could see it would never work. No matter what Langley wore, or didn’t wear, he would always stand out. A silly thought flashed through her head, that it was nice not to feel as if she were a beanpole beside him. He must have been at least six foot four. Margot’s eyes swept his body, and she was grateful for her mask and the darkness that hid her blush as she studied him, agog.
The noise from outside the carriage had shifted now they were slowing, with Margot aware too that there was a dip in the level of light available. It seemed that Mayfair was far brighter, from the oil to the candles, than what was in available in Limehouse.
When the carriage stopped, Langley helped her down the steps, and Margot swept curious eyes over the scene, trying to centre herself. She knew from the map and the smell of salt, they were close to the Cut, the river that weaved in from the Thames. Despite it being spring, it was cold here, and the dimness extended around them, giving only enough light to illuminate the slum-like buildings that were dotted along Newell Street. To the right of their carriage was a fenced-in park, and then what she assumed was St Anne’s, but both were hidden in absolute obscurity. On the left there was the seediest looking establishment Margot had ever seen. Paint was chipping off the walls, the sign indicating it was a public house was hanging loose, and half of the downstairs windows were boarded up with wood. It seemed to emit an eerie light, like an evil toad or a bad spirit from a fairy tale.
“Does not look as bad as the one we just passed,” Langley’s driver muttered.
It was galling to realise that Langley was entirely right. She did not belong here, and neither did the earl. Even his driver looked out of place.
“Are you sure, madam, this is the right place?” Langley’s man asked her, and Margot cast her gaze up and down Newell Street. She realised it wasn’t just the driver who Langley had brought with them, but a burly looking man, huge and musclebound, stood close by. He must have travelled at the rear of the carriage.
She had stupidly thought that as soon as she reached the destination, Ashmore’s scribblings would make sense. They would fit together, and it would not seem ridiculous. Perhaps Langley had been correct, and Ashmore had been unbalanced. Or perhaps the missing half of the map explained Ashmore’s words far better.
With a hasty step, Margot moved away from the carriage’s protective shadow. She had to decide—a choice of where to explore first. If time was key, the only thing that occurred to her was the church’s clock. It was obvious, but needs must. Straightening, she pointed towards St Anne’s. “I will begin there.”
Folding her pointing arm into the crook of his, Langley strolled with her forwards, as if they were parading down Rotten Row. “Have a look in the tavern, John. Get yourself a drink, but keep yourself alert.” He flicked the burly man a coin. “One for Peter too.”
She was grateful for the strength of Langley’s arm beneath her touch, although Margot realised as they walked that she was not scared precisely, more shocked than anything else. Her father, Vicar Keating, often worked with the neediest and most deprived in Berwick-upon-Tweed, pouring hours into building a school and an orphanage that would make the county proud. If he were to see the state of these people here, Vicar Keating’s kindly heart would break for the sheer, wanton poverty on display.
As a couple, they proceeded down the street, arms interlinked. Margot tried to ignore the soothing, reassuringpresence Langley provided her. Why she would be comforted by him was beyond her—he was a stranger. The trouble was, her body did not respond to him as if he were one.
The slum housing they walked past was shabby and worn-down, parts of the roofs dented and festering away. The air itself seemed be rotting. People lived inside these buildings, and Margot felt this tug at her innards with the need to do something for them. But she had no idea what. Her parents were hundreds of miles away, had always impressed upon her the need to act when faced with difficulties, how if she could cook a meal, or bring a coin or two, this would help. If Margot emptied her limited coffers, she might make a slight dent in the problem here, but then what? Even if she managed to ensure the annuity from Ashmore’s estate was set up as per his instructions, she did not know if this would be enough to make a great deal of difference.
“I had no idea.” Her voice came out flat as she tried to master her emotions.
“I do not follow,” Langley said.
“About the state of things, how bad it was. Or what I can do.”
