Chapter Sixteen
Contingencies.
Grace sipped from her tea cup, reaching casually for another sugar biscuit as conversation wafted around her.
She’d developed rather a lot of contingencies in her life.
Little safeguards against any manner of things.
Hidden pockets and pouches sewn or otherwise secured into her gowns.
A few coins tucked away in places other than her reticule in the event that a proficient cutpurse got one over on her.
Hatpins with points deliberately sharpened in the event she needed a weapon swiftly.
Henry would have no such contingency when he went to meet with Cooper. He had hung the whole of his fortunes on the faintest prayer of success, and she knew—she knew he would fail.
“More tea?”
Grace startled at the question. “Oh, no, thank you,” she said to Alicia, who sat at her right side. “I’ve got—” She glanced down into her cup. “An empty cup, it seems,” she said with a wry twist of her lips.
“Bone dry at least three minutes now,” Alicia said softly, with a kind smile. “I had wondered if you would notice you’d been sipping air eventually.”
Probably she wouldn’t have done. She’d been woolgathering. And worrying. Excessively.
Henry was going to fail, and she could not let that happen.
Tonight was his last hope, his last prayer to obtain the evidence before his wretched uncle could.
Desperate times were upon them, and desperate times made desperate men.
So much could go wrong. And Henry might be tempted to do something risky, something foolhardy—something he wasn’t in the least prepared for.
But she was. So tonight, she would be his contingency. Now she only needed one of her own.
Alicia poured Grace a fresh cup of tea. “You have such a lively home,” she said as she selected a tiny tea cake and placed it upon her plate. “I must confess, I find it unusually refreshing that the children are permitted to attend tea.”
Grace swallowed down a little laugh. “Generous of you,” she said, “when one considers Sherry’s poor behavior last time you attended.” Poor, dear Alicia had been the victim of little Sherborne’s wretched aim with his peashooter at the last tea, though she had been a terribly good sport about it.
“Oh, he meant nothing by it,” Alicia said, waving away the criticism. “And he is a dear little boy, besides.”
“When he wishes to be,” Grace said. “They’re all half angel, half devil—and the trouble is in sorting out which half has come out, and when.”
Alicia gave a light laugh, smiling fondly over the rim of her tea cup. “I think they are delightful,” she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Even when they’re ill-behaved. Children are just such a pleasure, don’t you think?”
“Most of the time,” Grace allowed, just as a dried pea struck her forehead and plinked down into her tea cup. “Most of it,” she reiterated sweetly, through gritted teeth. “Except for now.”
Alicia smothered a snicker behind the tips of her fingers.
“Flora,” Thomas chided, extending his hand across the table, his fingers flexing. “You know the rules. No weapons at the table; not after the last time.”
“Aw, Papa.” With a disconsolate sigh, Flora handed the peashooter across the table.
Tea was not amongst her favorite activities.
The family tended to linger over them, and little Flora had about as much patience for sitting at a table for a prolonged amount of time as did her mother, Mercy, who was already proving restive.
“The peashooter will be back in her hands before nightfall,” Grace said to Alicia. “There hasn’t been a hiding place invented which Flora cannot find.”
“Good,” Alicia said, sotto voce, from behind the rim of her tea cup.
“Children should be allowed a little mischief from time to time.” A soft hum of a sigh trickled from her lips.
“Do you know,” she said reflectively, “I cannot recall my nephew ever having a proclivity for such childish mischief. It seems a shame, doesn’t it? ”
“What, really?”
Alicia gave a rueful little shake of her head.
“Not a bit. And it hadn’t a thing to do with how he was raised—God knows more devoted parents never existed.
But Henry was always so stern, so serious.
A miniature adult from childhood, as if the weight of the world had been settled upon his shoulders from birth.
” Her brows pinched. “There were a few childhood brawls, as I recall,” she said.
“Though one could hardly blame him for them.”
Over his mother, Grace knew now that she meant, even if she would prefer not to dredge up that old gossip out of loyalty.
“Suffice it to say, he was never the instigator of such things, and he had every right to defend himself against those wretched children and their cruelty,” Alicia said firmly. “One could not ask for a more faithful, devoted child.”
Of course not. Henry had only done what any little boy in his situation would have, and defended himself—and his mother—against the cruelty of his peers. Not a child given to mischief, but a boy given to justice and devotion. And his aunt would not speak a word against him, nor his mother besides.
“Now, Eliza,” Alicia said, and a little laugh hummed upon her lips.
“She is the mischievous one in the family. But you always have to forgive her for it, you know, because she is just such a charming girl.” Her eyes grew a shade distant, as if reliving some precious, cherished memory of childish pranks past.
“I haven’t yet had the pleasure of meeting her,” Grace said. “But she sounds delightful.”
“She is.” Alicia set her hand over Grace’s and squeezed gently. “And Rose—Henry’s mother—is so lovely and kind. She’ll adore you.” A little sigh. “Oh, I do miss them. The whole family has had a difficult time of it this last year,” she said. “They’re overdue for a good turn, all of them.”
They were, and it wouldn’t happen on its own. But as she glanced down at Alicia’s hand over hers, Grace thought—perhaps she had just found her own contingency.
∞∞∞
The Queen’s Arms was a dismal little tavern tucked back in an alley well away from the main thoroughfare.
The light of candles within barely pierced the grime coating the glass panes of the windows, but the sound from inside was nearly deafening; a cacophony produced by what promised to be dozens of patrons deep in their cups.
Henry had arrived well in advance of his uncle’s scheduled visit, his stomach in knots.
What was he going to do if Grace’s assessment proved to be correct?
He could only hope that he might appeal to Cooper’s better nature—assuming the man had one—or else his greed.
The scant few skills he’d learned from Grace were unlikely to avail him much in this particular context.
His sleight of hand was just passable, and useful only for palming cards or subtly rearranging a deck to suit his needs. His options were limited at best.
The stench of sour ale rose to meet his nose as he crossed the threshold, and he realized abruptly, as half a dozen heads swung in his direction, that even the relatively plain garments he’d donned were a cut above what was to be expected here.
Probably more than a few patrons present were working out how they might best pick his pocket, or cut free the brass buttons upon his coat to sell for a few pence.
Lord Rafe Beaumont’s note had included a description of Cooper, but even if it hadn’t, Henry would have known him straight away.
He lounged at a table in the rear of the tavern, his back against the far wall.
Despite his unkempt hair and ill-fitting clothes, he might’ve been a king for his air of lording over the establishment he had claimed as the base of his operation.
And he was speaking with someone. Christ, no—Henry’s heart lurched in his chest as he recognized the fashionable cut of his uncle’s hair, combed cleverly in an attempt to disguise the bald spot that had begun to form high upon his pate.
He was too late. He’d arrived well in advance of the appointment meeting time—but so had Uncle Nigel, it seemed.
What was he to do? His hands flexed at his sides, uncertain.
Too late, now, even to prevail upon Cooper’s better nature.
Too late to appeal to his sense of greed.
The deal was as good as done, and the only thing to his benefit at present was that it was unlikely that either person tucked away there at the table in the back had a clear view of him.
In the crush of bodies a serving maid squeezed past, shunting him off to the side with a shove of her hip that felt almost intentional.
Not even an apology followed in her wake as she carried a serving tray laden with glasses balanced upon her hand through the crowd toward the rear of the tavern, her plain brown skirts swishing as she went.
He would have recognized that sweet, plump arse anywhere.
Henry’s heart jounced about in his chest, jolting into a panicked rhythm as a sweat of pure terror broke out upon his brow. He had known Grace had lied to him, known she’d intended to come here this evening—at least to try to come.
He’d simply hoped she’d thought better of it. That at least she would have the circumspection to linger in the cling of the shadows outside of the tavern, to cloak herself in the cover of darkness and to strike from the gloom if the opportunity arose.
Anything but this. Inside the worst sort of tavern, practically rubbing shoulders with the worst sort of people.
Dressed in a flimsy excuse for a gown, the bodice pulled down low over her ample breasts.
So low that any man she happened to pass stood a decent chance of seeing a great deal more than even now was on display.
She was serving drinks, and he—he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Not without revealing his presence. Not without revealing hers.