Chapter Eleven
W e should leave.”
Georgina’s panicked tone instantly caused Alexander to stiffen. He should have been focused on asking the other patrons at Elysian Fields about Pendergrast’s last whereabouts. Instead, he’d been reliving the ballroom kiss, which seemed a paltry term for what had transpired between Georgina and him. He wasn’t inexperienced, but he’d never encountered such sweet fire before. It had obliterated all his other senses until he felt nothing but the wildness Georgina evoked in him. He’d nearly lost his control—even though she’d been the one leading their passionate embrace. If Charlotte and Calliope hadn’t interrupted them…
Swounds! He was daydreaming again. He needed to focus, despite the fact that he felt like a red-hot ingot in the forge.
Quickly, he glanced around Elysian Fields, looking for signs of danger. Everything appeared ordinary to him: neat rows of tables; reedy, scholarly-looking men; mugs of coffee, some steaming, some long-forgotten at the elbows of those in deep debate.
The atmosphere was different from even in the front room of the Black Sheep, which was similarly configured. The Black Sheep always seemed on the edge of happy chaos. So many conversations happened at once, each more boisterous than the next. Here, at Elysian Fields, the chatter was still constant but more restrained. Fellows leaned intently over the scarred tables, but they did not gesticulate madly.
Elysian Fields certainly did not have the comfortable upholstered furniture of the Black Sheep’s secret back room. And Alexander could only smell the acrid scent of black coffee, not the delicious brews with the surprising flavors that Sophia Wick dreamed up. Certainly, no women customers graced Elysian Fields. The place was traditional.
And boring.
In short, it did not appear to be a venue housing hidden dangers. But Alexander had learned early in life never to place his trust in appearances.
“What concerns you?” Alexander took care to keep his voice low as he continued to scan the building, making sure that his thoughts did not stray back to their embrace in the Estbrook ballroom.
“Do you see the men at the end of the first table?”
Alexander followed her instructions and spotted two finely dressed gentlemen, whom he instantly recognized. The thin, elderly peer of middling height was the Duke of Foxglen. Across from him sat his grandson, a hulking bruiser in a perfectly tailored silk suit. Despite his refined attire, the young man looked like a prizefighter or a ruffian. But the Marquess of Malbarry was neither. He was a quiet fellow who refused to gamble and barely danced at balls. He only talked about politics with aging members of the House of Lords who were contemporaries of his grandfather.
If Malbarry was reserved, Foxglen was dour. The peer rarely attended the ton’s functions, and when he did, he glowered through them as if in a constant state of disapproval. Alexander had always done his best to avoid the aging lion of Parliament, who would never countenance the types of reforms Alexander dreamed about. In fact, Alexander might not have even recognized the cantankerous man if he hadn’t been accompanied by his grandson.
“Do you mean the Duke of Foxglen and Lord Malbarry?” Alexander asked.
“Yes.”
It was a good thing Georgina was whispering, as she’d forgotten to lower the timbre of her voice. Alexander was about to warn her to adjust the pitch, but she must have remembered herself.
When she spoke again, her tone was huskier. “His Grace was my father’s chief scholarly rival. He’s forever attempting to rebut the pieces that I write under Percy’s name, too.”
Alexander leaned closer to Georgina but not near enough to draw attention. “Have you met Foxglen?”
“Yes, and his grandson. The duke has a holding in Essex, less than a half-day’s travel from the land my father owned.” Georgina’s voice began to rise again, but she caught herself and deepened it. Clearly, she was nervous.
Alexander wished he could squeeze her hand or offer some modicum of comfort. However, any such gesture would draw unwanted attention, especially with Georgina dressed in male attire. And it might be dangerous in other ways. He was like dry powder in a pistol, and one small spark could set off a powerful reaction.
“Do you think they will recognize you? People often accept what they think they should be observing rather than identifying what they are actually witnessing.” There. He sounded calm, logical. Certainly not like someone having the occasional—or constant—lustful thoughts.
“I am not sure. I have not seen either of them for over a decade,” Georgina explained. “The Duke of Foxglen hardly paid me, a girl child, any mind. The marquess is different, though. While my father and his grandfather debated, we were left together. He was a quiet sort, and we mostly sat in silence, reading separate books. But I do recall him being observant and very quick-witted. I would not be surprised if he did see beyond my disguise.”
“Then we’d best leave.” Alexander pressed down on his cane as he prepared to pivot toward the exit. However, before he could even begin to turn, a familiar taunting voice stopped him.
“Why, if it isn’t Alexander the Galling. If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were hunting me. Don’t forget, Galling, that I am the predator, and you are the mere prey.”
“Rather the fox than the dog following its owner’s orders,” Alexander quipped, keeping his voice bright as he turned in Talbot’s direction. When he caught a glimpse of his old tormentor, an involuntary chortle almost bubbled up inside Alexander.
In the fellow’s arms was a rooster—a very puffed-up, extremely annoyed, and absolute behemoth of a fowl. The bird stretched its neck, nearly bopping Talbot in the chin. A hideous screech escaped its open beak. Despite the babble of low voices, the call echoed off the bare walls.
Everyone turned in their direction, including Foxglen and Malbarry. There was no escaping undetected now.
“What an impressive chicken.” Alexander somehow managed to keep both his face straight and his voice from wobbling with suppressed laughter.
“If you are intending to mock me, I shall have you know that I have it on good authority that roosters are highly fashionable. The Duke of Blackglen started the trend himself.” Talbot stuck out his chest, looking like a veritable cock himself. He just needed to start strutting to complete the charade.
“Ah.” Alexander forced a neutral tone when he just wanted to throw his head back in triumphant hilarity. Georgina’s brother and sister-in-law must have already gossiped about the Banbury tale he’d told. He sorely hoped that Lady Craie had purchased a chicken herself.
“As scintillating as new fashion trends are, Lord Heathford and I must beg our leave.” Georgina spoke low and soft as she kept her eyes trained on the floor.
Alexander nearly winced. He realized she wanted to keep her identity hidden, but Lord Henry would interpret her stance as weakness. And the damned man liked nothing better than to toy with those that he perceived to be defenseless.
“You seem familiar, yet I do not recall seeing you here before.” Talbot spoke slowly as he moved his muscular body between Georgina and the door.
Georgina tried to shuffle back, but Talbot moved forward. He bent over, shoving his face in hers.
Alexander angled his cane between the nobleman and Georgina. Talbot tried to kick it aside, but Alexander held it firmly. The bully turned on him, just as Alexander had intended. Changing his grip on Hercules and the Nemean lion, Alexander prepared to defend himself.
“Please stop bothering my guests, Lord Henry.”
The voice was quiet and cultured but full of undeniable authority. Talbot whirled toward the new speaker, his hands clenched into fists. Alexander watched as, one by one, Talbot’s fingers went limp.
As soon as Lord Henry’s hands hung at his sides, Alexander carefully maneuvered his own body so that he could both watch the newcomer and monitor Talbot. Although Alexander was not a short man, he found his gaze looking up and then up some more. Looming over them was Lord Malbarry. His face remained placid, his shoulders relaxed, and his frame clearly not poised for a fight.
The marquess didn’t need to flex to intimidate. He could just stand up.
“Come and sit down.” Malbarry gestured for Alexander and Georgina to follow.
Alexander noticed that the massive man’s gaze lingered a beat or two on Georgina’s downturned face. Had he recognized her? If the marquess did, his expression never changed. But could that be the reason that Malbarry had come to their aid, or was he simply a kind soul who didn’t like bullies?
Trapped now, Alexander and Georgina had no choice but to trail after their unexpected champion while Talbot and his giant cock slunk away to the opposite corner of the room. As long as Georgina’s identity wasn’t exposed, this might even be a fortunate turn of events. After all, if Foxglen was a competitor, then perhaps he was behind the disappearance of Pendergrast and the helmet.
“Must you involve yourself in matters that do not concern you?” Foxglen snapped at his grandson as the three of them joined the elderly peer.
“Do unto others,” Malberry replied, his words a soft explanation rather than a defiant rebuttal.
Foxglen’s lips thinned, but he did not argue. Instead, he fixed his icy stare on Alexander first. “You are Falcondale’s heir apparent—one of those sporting sorts.”
“Yes. That would be me.” Alexander gave the dour man one of his brightest grins.
“My words were not a compliment.” Between his age and his power, Foxglen had long since abandoned politeness.
“But I shall take them as one.” Alexander made his smile even broader. He had a lifetime of dealing with censure, and even the biggest curmudgeon couldn’t intimidate him.
Foxglen grunted, the sound an annoyed dismissal. With a slowness that either came from age or pompousness, Foxglen rotated toward Georgina.
“But who are you? I do not recognize you at all.”
“He’s Mr. George Harrington,” Alexander answered, trying to draw the duke’s attention back to himself.
“A Harrington, you say? Any relation to that scoundrel Lord Percy, whose mother was a Harrington? He besmirches the good name of antiquarians. If one wishes to have the honor of writing about our illustrious forebearers, one should live an exemplary life.” Foxglen’s entire countenance seemed to seize and wrinkle in disgust.
“I have always found Lord Percy to be unassailable in whatever course he sets.” Alexander spoke with blithe cheerfulness that he knew would irk the old duke.
Lord Malbarry sent him a curious look, as if he sensed that Alexander was deliberately provoking his grandfather. If he suspected Alexander’s true intentions, though, he did nothing to intervene. Despite his huge stature, the man seemed to have an ability to fade almost instantly into the background.
Georgina, for her part, kept her eyes trained on the table.
Foxglen bristled. “Lord Percy is a mockery to anyone who diligently seeks to learn about our glorious past.” The duke thumped his hand on the table, causing his and his grandson’s mugs to rattle. Coffee sluiced everywhere. The elderly man ignored the mess, but Malbarry withdrew a handkerchief and began mopping up the spill.
Alexander leaned over the table, ready to push Foxglen over the edge of his thinly held self-control. “Yet from what I’ve heard, he discovered King Arthur’s helmet.”
“He does not deserve such a boon!” Foxglen roared. “It is wasted on a mind like his. I should have been the one to discover such a priceless treasure.”
Georgina’s head snapped up before she quickly averted her gaze once more. Alexander knew that she was having the same thought as him. Had Foxglen wanted the antiquity so badly that he’d had Pendergrast robbed and abducted… or worse? The duke seemed like the type who would be horrified by the mere idea of sharing the same air as a ruffian, let alone hiring one, but perhaps his jealousy had overridden his pompousness.
“Grandfather, you said yourself that the helmet was not Arthur’s. He’s a mere legend from Wales.” Malbarry’s voice was a calm, gentle contrast to the duke’s.
Alexander wondered, though, if Malbarry was as unflappable as he seemed. Was he merely trying to soothe his grandfather’s nerves, or was he trying to silence the man? Malbarry could have been the one to arrange an attack on Percy. Hell, with his physique, he could execute the ambush himself, especially if Percy had been deep in his cups.
“Yes. Yes.” Foxglen punctuated each of his words with a downward slash of his pale, age-spotted hand. “But it is still a piece of English history that the young pup will never fully appreciate.”
“Lord Percy’s articles indicate otherwise. Based on his scholarly work, he was exactly the right person to make the discovery.” Georgina practically coughed out each word, likely in an effort to disguise her voice.
Alexander had to stop a fond expression from drifting over his face. Despite her worries at being unmasked, Georgina clearly hadn’t been able to sit silently and hear her alter ego being maligned. But as much as Alexander enjoyed watching her defend herself, he knew she shouldn’t risk exposure.
“Balderdash!” Foxglen’s entire being seemed to transform into a thunderous glower. “That young whippersnapper—”
“Oh, you did come to Elysian Fields.” Lord Clifville’s monotone broke into the conversation, his gaze focused on Alexander. “How convenient. After writing down my thoughts, I had some additional questions about modern female boxers.”
“What are you blathering about, Clifville?” Foxglen demanded as he turned to the earl, who was hovering near the head of their table.
Clifville blinked at the duke as if spotting him for the first time despite standing near Foxglen. “I do apologize. I did not see you there, Your Grace.”
Foxglen flattened his body against his straight-backed chair in a clear attempt to look down his nose at the other peer.
Once again, Malbarry seemed eager to forestall any conflict. “You must be consumed with research, Lord Clifville.”
As the marquess spoke, he pulled out a chair for the earl. “You had mentioned something about Amazons?”
“Indeed, I did.” Clifville sank into the seat without acknowledging the gesture. He turned toward Georgina and started as if he just remembered something. “Oh, dear me. Here I am being forgetful again. Did you find your cousin? Penderblast, was it?”
“Not yet,” Georgina mumbled in her hoarse attempt at a male voice.
“He’s probably off whoring.” Foxglen gave another dismissive wave of his hand. “Reprobate.”
Before anyone could respond to the duke, a sudden crowing filled the air. Another, deeper cock-a-doodle-do challenged the first, slightly higher-pitched one. The battle of squawks succeeded in quieting the coffeehouse.
“Is it that ill-begotten poultry again?” Foxglen asked. “This is why membership to Elysian Fields should be restricted to true antiquarians.”
“I believe there are now two fowls, Your Grace,” Malbarry observed in that sedate manner of his.
Alexander pushed back his chair for a better vantage point. Sure enough, another patron had entered, holding a rather scrawny rooster. The poor creature did not seem to have an understanding of its underwhelming presence. Instead, it appeared to regard itself as the undisputed king of the barnyard. Its neck fully extended, it hollered its dominance to all and sundry.
Talbot’s cock took clear umbrage at the newcomer’s entitlement. The nobleman was clearly trying to clutch the bird to his chest, but the meaty chicken had other plans. Flapping its wings while bock ing most vigorously, it managed to kick a talon into Talbot’s face. The brute screamed, loosening his hold. Desperate to attack its feathered challenger, the fowl shot across the table. In its mad dash, it knocked over a small item. Silver glinted as the metallic article rolled over the scarred wood.
“Not my snuff!” Talbot shouted as he dove after the box. His fingers missed by inches as the decorative little piece tumbled off the table. It crashed onto the floor and popped open. Dried tobacco flew everywhere. Distracted by the pulverized leaves raining from above, Talbot’s rooster—who had jumped to the floor—halted its mad dash toward its nemesis. Instead, it began happily pecking at the floorboards.
But Alexander had little interest in the poultry. What had drawn his attention was the now-empty snuffbox. Unless Alexander was mistaken, it looked like a twin to his own sire’s. The inside of the case was hewn from the same colorfully banded gemstone.
Georgina gasped. Her intake of breath sounded distinctly feminine, but luckily everyone was distracted by the spectacle. Under the table, her foot nudged Alexander’s repeatedly. With her eyes, she glanced significantly toward the snuffbox. Alexander had no idea what had excited her, but clearly it was important.
He stood up and took several steps to retrieve it, but Talbot’s ego must have had enough embarrassment. The bully grabbed his rooster in one arm and snatched the small silver container in the other hand. He stomped from Elysian Fields without a single parting word.
“Dash it all,” Georgina said quietly as she came up beside Alexander. “I really needed to look more closely at that snuffbox.”
“My father has one just like it, if that helps,” Alexander said.
“With the same interior?” Georgina’s voice dropped an octave, which was fortunate, as her voice had risen a tad too high.
“I believe so.” Alexander’s own heart began to thump with tremendous force. He did not understand the significance of the trinket, but he trusted that Georgina did—or at least that she had a valid reason for her intense interest.
“I must see it. Immediately.”