Chapter Twenty-One #2
“Would you like to hear my plan?” Lord Davenport asked.
“Yes,” Franny said with a clap. A renewed enthusiasm replaced last night’s trepidation. Thank the Lord above because she did not favor when her fizzled nerves got the better of her courage as they seemed to do ever since her unfortunate fight.
“Go on, Sir.” Edward raised a questioning brow.
“I have it on good authority that the Whitehills take tea every Tuesday at The Tea Rose.
I shall approach them and say, “How good to see you, Whitehill. Lady Whitehill. Allow me to introduce you to two of my dear friends, Miss Frances Valentine and Bow Street Runner, Edward Robinson. Robinson, you shall take it from there.”
Franny had changed into a frock the same shade of green as her eyes, and colorful embroidered flowers embellished the low neckline.
She had even tamed and braided her hair, winding the long plait into a coil she tucked beneath her favorite bonnet.
However, she knew that her favorite outfit was not fine enough for such an outing.
“Have I told you what a vision you are today, Frances?” Davenport asked as if reading her mind.
“Yes,” Edward grumbled. “Three times. But who is counting?”
Edward, for one. Franny, for another.
Instead of reminding Edward of his impertinence and lower station, the viscount smiled. “When a lady is as lovely as Frances, she should hear it at least a dozen times a day.”
“Why, thank you, my lord.” Franny cast a smug smile in Edward’s direction.
“Now that we have become such good friends, I insist you call me Jonathan.”
“Very well, Jonathan,” Franny said.
Edward folded his arms across his chest and glared out the window.
On her life, she had no idea if she was enjoying Edward’s discomfiture because it might be jealousy, or because she was irritated that he wouldn’t let her assist with the raid on The Round Table.
“I have given this a lot of thought,” Jonathan said. “We shall appeal to Lord Whitehill’s sense of importance. He loves it when people bow down to his power. Therefore, we shall beg him to use his influence to help us.”
“Beg?” Franny scoffed. Not for a million pounds.
“Trust me,” Lord Davenport said. “Flattery will get you everywhere with this man. While we are kissing his arse, he will become overconfident. When men feel invincible, they brag about their wrongdoings.”
“They do, indeed,” Edward said. “Overconfidence is many a powerful man’s downfall.”
“I do hope you are both ready,” the viscount said. “Because we have arrived.”
*
Before that day, places like The Tea Rose were figments of Franny’s girlhood imagination. Now she had evidence they existed, and that families like the Davenports visited them whenever they were struck with a desire to dress up and hobnob.
Pink and red hot-house roses filled the crystal vases in the center of each table, and dozens of small crystal chandeliers hung from the low ceiling.
All about the room, three-tiered trays held pretty iced cakes and biscuits; ladies wearing colorful dresses and gentlemen in neatly tied cravats drank from delicate porcelain cups.
“There he is.” Jonathan inclined his chin to a couple seated along the far wall. “Follow my lead.”
Franny and Edward fell into step behind him.
“How good to see you, Whitehill,” Jonathan said as he approached the table. “Laura, you are the first person I noticed when I entered. You are a ray of sunshine.”
Lady Whitehill’s cheeks flamed so scarlet, they clashed with her yellow dress. “Thank you, Jonathan. ’Tis always a pleasure to see you.”
“Allow me to introduce you to two of my dear friends,” Jonathan said. “Miss Frances Valentine and Bow Street Officer Edward Robinson.”
Franny performed what she hoped wasn’t an awkward curtsy.
Lord Whitehill scowled at Edward before turning his unhappy glare on Jonathan.
“Hmm,” Franny accidentally murmured. It seemed Whitehill did not favor the viscount as much as Jonathan claimed, unless it was the presence of two working-class patrons in a fancy tea house that disturbed him.
“Davenport,” Whitehill said. “Lady Whitehill and I were enjoying our quiet afternoon.”
Lady Whitehill pursed her lips looking none too happy with her arse of a husband.
Ignoring Lord Whitehill’s slight, Jonathan motioned for a waiter to pull three chairs to the table. “Three chocolates and one of those.” He pointed at a pedestal holding particularly delicious-looking pastries.
Franny contemplated her dilemmas. Even though she’d devoured her and Edward’s cakes while waiting in the carriage, there is no way she would pass up chocolate and these scrumptious-looking delicacies.
Secondly, she knew very little about the etiquette of the aristocracy, but she suspected that inviting yourself to join an already seated party might be frowned upon, especially since the server blanched.
However, what did she care about these people’s etiquette?
She sank into the offered chair and anxiously awaited her delights.
Looking quite at ease, Edward took the seat across from her.
“Lord Whitehill is a very influential member of Parliament,” Jonathan said, situating his tailcoat and sitting beside Franny.
Whitehill stopped scowling to puff up his chest. “I am The Earl of Thingamajig, the Viscount of Whatsthatplace, and Baron of Whogivesashitesshire…” he declared.
Those weren’t the precise titles he gave, but Franny couldn’t care less about kowtowing to this fool who sneered at her as if she were rat feces.
Edward must have been raised to have more social graces than a female pugilist because he feigned interest in Whitehill’s soliloquy of self-importance. As she watched their server move about the room, her mouth watered in anticipation of his return.
The second Whitehill halted to take a breath, Edward commandeered the conversation. “Miss Valentine and I were investigating a fire at The Silk Knuckles Saloon when we ran into Viscount Davenport, and he invited us to tea.”
“Are the two of you running around London without a chaperone?” Whitehill asked, his nasally tone needling Franny.
How unfortunate that planting a facer in a room filled with embroidered linens and velvet drapery was a faux pas that might get her removed before she enjoyed her chocolate.
She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to assuage her outrage. This was pointless rubbish. A nice long run would have been a much better use of her time. Edward should have just barged into the man’s residence and served him a warrant for being a misogynistic cretin.
“Miss Valentine’s father hired me,” Edward said.
Lord Whitehill tsked. “I suppose pugilists are akin to ladies of ill—”
How in the dickens did he know she was a pugilist? Suspicious! Unless he had simply made an assumption because Edward mentioned The Silk Knuckles.
Jonathan cut him off. “We are hoping that since you know everything that goes on in this city, you might have heard who wishes The Silk Knuckles Saloon harm?”
Lord Whitehill swished his wrist dismissively.
“Every sane man in this country, which is why women cannot own businesses. Angry men will harm them, and we must protect the fairer sex from violence. Not to mention, women do not have the keen awareness of business that men do. ’Tis been proven time and time again throughout history. ”
His rebuttal made about as much sense as a foxed man reciting poetry. “Because men wrote the history books,” was all Franny managed to refute before Edward’s eyes went wide, his gaze tracking someone behind her.
“Thank you for your time, my lord.” Edward stood and bowed to Lady Whitehill. “Thank you, my lady, for your hospitality and for sharing a table with us.”
Hospitality, Franny’s arse.
Edward motioned for Franny and Jonathan to follow him.
“But we are still waiting for our order,” Franny called to his retreating backside. “Blast!” She huffed in frustration. The fear of returning to her training diet must be making her crave excessive amounts of food. Besides being hungry, she wasn’t finished debating Whitehill’s outdated theories.
“Oh, botheration,” she mumbled. Excusing herself, she followed Edward as he pressed through the teahouse, dodging servers and fancily clad patrons.
“Edward, wait,” she called.
He ignored her, even allowing the door to almost slam into her. Preparing to lambaste him for his rudeness, she exited The Tea Rose. He stood in the middle of the street, looking first one way, then the other.
She caught up to him. “What the devil?” she asked.
“I lost him,” Edward said.
“Lost who?”
“A bruised man with a knife-shaped scar above his eye.”
“Lancelot?”
“Bloody bollocking hell.” Edward scraped his fingers through his hair. “He walked right past us. Exited the tea house and disappeared.”
“Was he following us?” Franny asked.
“I don’t know. His back was to me. I didn’t see his face until he passed our table.” Edward kicked at an invisible stone. “Shite.” He perused the area. “Where in the devil is Davenport?”
Franny turned in a circle, searching for the viscount. “Mayhap he is paying for our chocolate that we didn’t get to drink.”
Edward harrumphed and then barged back into The Tea Rose. Franny trotted behind him, almost colliding into his back when he stopped to gawk at something in front of him.
Franny peered over her shoulder to find Jonathan standing beside a potted plant, whispering in Lady Whitehill’s ear.
“He is not,” Franny mumbled. The woman was older than his mother.
Showering Jonathan with contemptuous glares, Edward stomped past the whispering pair, retracing the path to Lord Whitehill’s table. Curiosity getting the better of her, Franny followed. Jonathan and Lady Whitehill joined their parade.
Edward loomed over His Lordship of Holier Than Thou-ness. “There was a man sitting over there.” Edward pointed at an empty table. “Who was he?”