Chapter 3
3
* * *
1 February, 1827
No.'s 25-27, Mercer Street
Edge of Seven Dials
After a short ride through St. James, Con pulled up Bu and headed him back in the direction of Mercer Street. His earlier meeting with the bakery owner had brought on a cloud of anger so fierce, he'd had to shake it off with a hard ride through the somewhat fresher air once he got onto the fairly deserted paths in the Park.
When Mr. Billiage had pled his case that morning, the only thing that had kept Con from exploding was the knowledge that a young girl's life depended on him keeping a clear head and doing what needed to be done. He and his brothers had cared enough to keep their sister safe through so many brushes with men hell-bent on perversion, that he'd wondered at times if there were any normal, God-fearing men, or women, left in all of England.
If he'd had a daughter to protect, she'd have been the first thing he worried about on waking in the morning and the last before laying his head down at night. How people like Billiage could be so careless with their children was beyond him. And then there was the "fancy man" who'd preyed on poor Phillipa, not to mention the abbess, Mrs. Kelland, who bloody well knew better. They were the ones for whom he'd save the worst of his wrath.
Those disgusting procurers thought they could practice their lewd business on his bit of ground, right under his nose. He would not tolerate that filthiest level of business--the selling of children's bodies. And besides, if he allowed young girls to be snatched off the streets of Seven Dials, the magistrates would send in the Runners. The last thing he needed was those bastards poking their noses into his business.
He helped James relieve Bu of his saddle before taking the orange out of the saddlebag and tossing it onto a bench outside the mews. "Let's go inside and rub him down. I'll help."
As they led Con's cantankerous horse back into the stable, he noticed a beggar edge toward the bench, snatch the orange, and run back out toward Mercer Street. James gave Con a questioning look. "Should I run him down and get the orange back?"
Con smiled. "No. Let the poor man think he got away with something. We've plenty more stored in the kitchens."
* * *
1 February, 1827
No.'s 25-27, Mercer Street
Edge of Seven Dials
A worm of dread inched down Marianne's back. Why did the audience with the king of the street gangs in East London feel so much like going in front of her father? The brooding gentleman behind the massive desk peered down his nose, the expression on his face so resembling that of her father's negative one that she peered around the room, convinced John Oxley was there and would pounce on her at any moment.
This man had not even heard her proposal yet and already he was giving her a skeptical look. He was tall and brooding, his buckskins leaving nothing to the imagination where his powerful thighs were concerned. He must have just come back from a hard ride, because he still had on riding boots, his shirt was unfastened, and the smell of the stables about him. A sheen of moisture shone on his neck at the point where the vee of his shirt front revealed a bit of chest hair below. There was a shadowy beginning of dark blond stubble on his chin. In a word, the man was lethal to the female half of the species.
"Are you going to tell me what you want, or are you going to stay mute and keep staring at me through that ridiculous black veil?" he demanded suddenly, breaking the long silence.
"Of course. I'm sorry, but I've never..." Damn. She'd nearly uttered out loud that she'd never met with a criminal before. "What I mean is, I've never had to conduct a business meeting on my own before."
"So, this is a business meeting?"
"Oh, yes. I have serious business to discuss."
"Well, then, let's start with something simple...like your name, madam."
"Marianne...um...Smith."
He leaned forward, his hands loosely steepled together. "Go on...um...Miss Smith." The look on his face told her he did not believe for one minute that was her real name.
Whoa...she shouldn't have looked that closely into his eyes. That was a mistake. His face was entirely too close to hers. She could almost smell the peppermints he seemed to pop into his mouth every few minutes. "I wish to rent your warehouse from you," she said in a rush.
"Which warehouse? I have many."
"Um...any one will do, as long as it's in Covent Garden."
He leaned back and flashed her a wolfish smile. "How much money have you got?"
"How much money do you want?"
"Twenty-five guineas a week," he shot back instantly, and waited for her to give up and go away. His face gave nothing away. Not even a flicker from his eyes. His face remained expressionless, reminding her of the greedy koi in the pond in their heated conservatory back in Wales.
Bluffing was a game two could play. She reached into her reticule and withdrew a wad of bank notes, peeling off enough to cover a year of rent. "I will require the address immediately."
"That's a good deal of darby for a gel like you to be sporting around. Don't let anyone else in this neighborhood know you're carrying that much blunt on your person."
"I'm not afraid of your neighborhood," she said, displaying bravado she really didn't feel. She was so nervous inside, she prayed she wouldn't cast up her accounts before she got through the interview.
He gave her that wolfish smile again and said, "You should be."
Marianne ignored his warning and demanded, "Since I've paid you an entire year's rent in advance, do you think you could show me the way to this warehouse?"
The expression on Mr. Dyer's face softened slightly. "What are you going to do with a warehouse in Covent Garden?"
His emphasis on the word, you , was enough to drive her temper over the edge. "Why should my intentions be any of your business, sir?"
"Because whatever it is you're planning to do, you'll be doing it in my warehouse." His look turned cold. "I have a reputation to protect."
She was speechless, for the first time in a long time, and then she could not help herself. She began to laugh, a quiet, tinkling giggle she tried to cover with her handkerchief at first, and then a full-throated guffaw. "From what I've heard, Mr. Dyer, your reputation would be difficult to sully."
And then he did something so precipitous and odd, her heart nearly stopped beating and tried to jump out of her mouth. He came around to the front of his massive oak desk and sat on the edge, so near to her, she stopped breathing, his expression deadly serious. And then he took in a deep breath through his nose.
After a long moment, he said, "Miss Smith, you have the oddest scent of any woman I've ever met. What is it?"
"That, sir, has nothing to do with our business dealings, and I'll thank you to keep your nose to yourself. What kind of a gentlemen comments on a woman's scent?"
He didn't answer but gave her another one of the devilish smiles she'd rather come to like despite her distaste for his lordly attitude.
When he rang a bell beneath his desk, a ferocious-looking man arrived within seconds. "Wu," he said, "this lady would like to see the warehouse she's rented for the year. He handed the man a key from his desk and motioned for Marianne to follow the mysterious man to the mews.
When he noticed her momentary look of panic, he assured her, "Wu is the best person you'd want by your side moving from Seven Dials into Covent Garden with all that blunt in your little silk bag. And he can see you home safely after you inspect the warehouse."
Her eyes must have been exceedingly wide taking in the tall, well-muscled gentleman with a pigtail and strange inked markings on the exposed parts of his arms. "Oh, no. I can take a hack home. I don't need to inconvenience Mister, um, Wu."
"He doesn't bite. I promise." He and Wu exchanged knowing looks she would have given anything to interpret before she turned and followed the man toward the staircase leading down to the lower levels of the fortress-like abode. His lair resembled the meanest row of tenements on the outside, but was as luxurious as any St. James drawing room on the inside.
When they finally reached the yard outside the rear mews, a carriage was waiting. The young groom holding the horses must have left his book to bring out the conveyance. A thick tome lay upon a bench at the edge of the stables, face-down and open to the place he'd probably left off, just the way she kept her place when her reading was interrupted. What kind of business did the mysterious Mr. Dyer run? Even his grooms were literate. At least he treated his staff well. He couldn't be that much of a monster. Could he?
* * *
2 February, 1827
Travaux's Floral Shoppe
Covent Garden
Con leaned over the counter of the ridiculously expensive private florist's shop in Covent Garden he frequented when he needed to mollify his volatile Italian mistress. He sniffed the fourth bouquet of flowers the man had brought out from his extensive hothouse at the rear of the shop.
After a vigorous, negative shake of his head, he complained, "How can the simple identification of a single scent be so complicated?"
Monsieur Travaux raised a caterpillar-bushy eyebrow, expressing high dudgeon. The diminutive man sniffed deeply from the current bouquet his wealthy, but dangerous, client had just turned down. "This is the tenth floral species you've smelled, er sampled. How can you be so certain none of these is the one?"
Con gave a slow smile. He'd discombobulated the man into slipping out of his sloppy imitation of a French accent. "Because, this is the one appendage on my body which never fails me." He pointed to his considerably prominent nose.
The man's face flushed a dark red. "Monsieur...there is no need to be crude."
"How is that crude? If you want me to be crude, I can be crude...in several languages, in fact." Con spread his arms wide. "These two appendages have both failed me in everything from fights to caressing a woman who takes umbrage at my touch. What is so crude about referring to my, um, appendages?"
"Never mind." The florist covered his embarrassment in a flurry of activity behind the counter where he deposited the latest bouquet in a crystal vase of cold water. "Tell me once again what this...this magical scent is made of."
Con paced slowly in front of the counter, his head tilted back, his eyes closed. "It's sweet, just a bit flowery, and the sweetness is like nothing I've encountered, unless you count warmed honey flowing from a spoon into your mouth." He opened his eyes and turned toward the florist before continuing, this time with more enthusiasm. "It's that smell out in the country, away from the city, walking barefoot across summer green grass with a touch of morning dew. The floral smell is so subtle and elusive, it reminds you of the first beautiful girl you encountered who left you with a cockstand...that scent."
Suddenly, a light appeared in the florist's eyes. "An elusive floral scent combined with honey is something I've heard about..."
Con slammed his huge hands down onto the counter in triumph. "So you do have what I'm looking for."
"Oh, no." The diminutive man acted as if Con had asked him to produce a unicorn. "What you seek is far too expensive and rare for my clientele. Night blooming jasmine grows only in the West Indies or South America. It's used by Floris to create custom scents provided exclusively to the wealthiest women in Mayfair. They're the only ones with husbands, or patrons, who can afford such rare perfume."
So the mysterious woman swathed in black veils was more than she seemed. Who was she, why did she dare to lie to him of all people, and what in the hell was she going to do with his Covent Garden warehouse? Perhaps she was representing a powerful man who preferred not to deal with the Dyer brothers. He had no idea, but something told him he was going to enjoy the hell out of uncovering her secrets, one by one. Con's smile at that thought was so roguish, not to mention disturbing, that the little man behind the counter made a hasty sign of the cross.
As a sort of penance for deviling the poor shopkeeper, Con ordered several dozen of the man's finest roses to be delivered to his mistress.
* * *
2 February, 1827
Rented Covent Garden Warehouse
Marianne sank onto a battered wooden stool someone had left in the middle of the main warehouse storage area and sucked in the first easy breath she'd had since being ushered the day before into the presence of the leader of the men known as The Four Horsemen. The Horsemen, a cabal of brothers, were the most notorious gang gaffers in the rookeries.
Con Dyer, however, had proven to be nothing like what she'd expected: a rough rogue of a man, perhaps spitting into a brass spittoon next to his desk and speaking in the incomprehensible cant of the rookeries. Instead, Mr. Dyer had turned out to be the very image of a successful businessman, such as one you might encounter on Fleet Street. Thank God he wasn't one of the Fleet Street regulars. They all knew her father, and many of them had met her during interminable dinners at the endless house parties at their Welsh estate.
She'd had a devil of a time convincing his man Wu to leave her alone with her recent rental. She'd told a minor fib about her man of business planning to meet her there later after she'd supposedly hired a street urchin to go to his office to summon him. Marianne had actually sent the boy around to her apartments to fetch her lady's maid. Lucinda was much shrewder than any "man" of business, and also much more accommodating. She'd learned over the years that dealing with women was always much simpler because one did not have to defend one's actions ceaselessly before moving on to the business at hand.
Her lady's maid was waiting, boxes piled high with their belongings, for word to move all of their goods to their new, cleverly disguised abode. She could hide the true purpose of her recently acquired warehouse in much the same way her new landlord managed his private lair.
And speaking of her new landlord, she pondered his major flaw. The man was entirely too charming, too full of himself and his masculine attributes, which if she were honest with herself, were many. There was that face. One could not help being drawn first to the full, sensuous lips. Those lips did not belong on a face full of such forbidding scowls.
And then the nose, too long, really, but aquiline and leading to a dangerous set of dark blue eyes with shaggy blonde hair falling down sometimes to hide his feelings. However, the hardest thing to resist was not even visible to the naked eye. He exuded a powerful energy that seemed to bore through one's body, much like an intense, Mediterranean sun. The heat of his energy could burn a woman alive and then consume whatever ashes were left.
Marianne was determined to resist that raw power. There was too much at stake.