"And one day, unexpectedly, he insisted I address him by his first name." She dropped her head suddenly. "I apologize, milady, if I overstepped."
"You've nothing to be ashamed of, my dear. In fact, I'm grateful for your candid answers."
"And why is that?"
"You've given me the inspiration I need to put an end to Lord Framlingwood's havey-cavey habits. And I think I know just the solution to the mysterious Margot's situation."
When Adrienne gavehim a sultry look over her shoulder whilst swaying her dangerously enticing hips into her Grosvenor Street townhouse, he growled low, vowing to ignore her and return to his post as a loyal bodyguard should.
However, what he actually did was stalk into the house behind her. He suspected Young Rutherford, who still held open the door, harbored a smirk behind his youthful, snotty demeanor, but Obadiah let the slight pass.
Once they were inside, she turned and threw him a superior, enigmatic smile. "Just where does our lord and master expect you to sleep whilst you guard my person from this mysterious evil?"
Obadiah pointed to a plump couch trimmed with elaborately carved wooden sidearms in her front parlor. The design seemed to consist of a multitude of angelic cherubs doing unspeakable,lewd things to each other. "That's good enough for me. All I'll need are a few light blankets. That will do."
Adrienne squinted her eyes and made a face as if she'd swallowed something bitter. "Why on earth would you want to sleep there when there's a perfectly comfortable bed chamber on the second floor? It's the master's chamber, which is never occupied, even when the earl is here." She tossed her long curls dismissively. "He never spends the night." She kicked off her slippers and headed for the bell pull to summon a servant.
Obadiah walked over and bent to retrieve the small, expensive leather slippers out of long-standing habit. She'd never managed to keep her shoes on for more than a few minutes at a time...even when they'd been children on Martinique. He'd been grateful back then that she'd left her shoes everywhere and then couldn't find them when she'd needed them. As a boy, he'd made a full-time job of following her around and rescuing her shoes, so that he'd have a reason to show up at the house she'd shared with her mother whilst her father had been at sea for long months at a time.
After a long wait, Young Rutherford finally tapped at the parlor door. "Come," she intoned solemnly.
Obadiah strained to keep from rolling his eyes at her current situation which allowed her to play the great lady she'd always assumed she was. Although he admitted he was the only person he could blame for Adrienne falling headlong into the earl's arms, and the lush prison of his townhouse. She'd had a choice, but so had he.
When the young man poked his head inside the parlor door, looking for orders from Adrienne, she announced, "I'm famished. Bring us two of everything you have in the pantry. Ooh, and maybe a jug of Cook's lemonade with some ice from Gunther's?"
Young Rutherford sighed and tried to play the put-upon, lofty servant, but Obadiah nipped that in the bud. "Look lively there, young man. I know this is not nearly as exciting as your customary gang activities at the docks, but it's better than swinging at Old Bailey. Now bring the lady what she wants."
Lady Eleanor Whitcombe,Duchess of Chelmsford, knocked on the roof of her heavy black carriage, the one from her old smuggling days. She'd eschewed the ornate, cumbersome conveyance with her husband's family crest emblazoned on the doors, announcing to every footpad in Seven Dials that a easy mark of a "nob" was passing through the stews.
When the carriage slowed only, due to her earlier instructions, she used her boot to shove open the door facing the passing storefronts. A stocky man in his late fifties with a neat mustache and beard beneath his ever-present bowler hat hopped in, nimble in spite of the helpless, limping soul he'd portrayed just minutes before in the street.
"Now wot? Will I niver get out from under what I owe Yer Grace?"
"It's me or the gallows, Toplofty. Your choice."
"Never seen the loiks of a woman like you. Hope you don't talk like that over tea with the other high and mighty toffs."
"This is business, and I never waste time with pleasantries when I'm discussing business."
"Awright. Who do you want offed now?"
"This should be easy for you and all your flapping ears in the stews. I need information. Find out who's behind the blackmail notes Lord Framlingwood's been getting."
"Wot's it worth to you?"
"I won't have to have the servants pack a hamper of food so that we can go early to Old Bailey to get a good position where we can watch you swing."
He turned abruptly away from his fierce companion to stare out the window before knocking loudly on the coach roof. "I see Marlowe headin' for his gin palace. Mebbe he knows sommat."
When the coach slowed, he eased out onto the street side as stealthily as he'd entered the carriage earlier. El rapped loudly four times on the roof before leaning back into the squabs, crossing her long booted legs at the ankles, and pulling her tattered hat low over her eyes for a short nap. No harm in saving one's strength when no one was looking.
Before dozing off, she smiled at the memory of the deep, guttural Limehouse accent Toplofty employed when he was posing as himself. That same man, the leader of the infamous Rutherford gang, could don severe evening dress and appear at a tonnish ball to pass as one of the "toffs" he complained about. His speech at those formal events was so impeccable that no one suspected he and his men and women amongst the house servants were relieving them of their valuables. El never interfered in his business so long as he passed along any damning tidbits of wrongdoing amongst the members of the ton he happened to glean. The success of her many enterprises depended on information.
At that moment the heavy carriage creaked and leaned as the driver apparently turned in a wide arc along several blocks of tenements before heading her favorite team of grays back to their mews behind her Grosvenor Square townhouse. With any luck, maybe she'd have time to ravish Percy before a late supper.
8
7 SEPTEMBER, 1826
