Chapter Three
W hat do you mean there is no rice?” Alexander Lovett, the Marquess of Heathford, asked in absolute horror as he stared at his maternal cousin, Hannah Wick.
Not only did the proprietress of the Black Sheep not grasp the seriousness of the situation, but she appeared to be holding back laughter. Her eyes gleamed suspiciously in the light streaming from the narrow windows of the coffeehouse’s front room.
“It must have gotten wet, and it molded. Believe me, you do not wish to toss it at the bride and groom. The bag is emitting a most malodorous stench,” Hannah said, her voice a little too tight and controlled. Alexander definitely heard a twinge of mirth at the end.
“Then what will we throw when my sister and Matthew leave the wedding feast?” Alexander tapped his cane nervously against the wooden floorboards. If his right foot and leg weren’t already throbbing and swollen from rushing around to arrange the surprise fête, he would have attempted pacing. After everything his twin and his best friend had endured to reach the altar, Alexander wanted the two people who he loved the most in the world to have the perfect celebration. Since they’d eloped, Alexander hadn’t even been able to attend their ceremony.
“Don’t worry. We have oats.” Sophia Wick, Hannah’s paternal cousin and co-owner of the Black Sheep, patted Alexander’s arm. Her accent had soft hints of her Caribbean upbringing and heritage.
“Oats!” Alexander shouted in dismay.
“It’s what our ancestors originally used,” Hannah told him sagely. “One cereal crop is as good as another at representing fertility.”
“Must we use that particular word in the context of my sister?” Alexander asked.
“Well, what do you think hurling grains at newlyweds represents?” Hannah demanded, shoving her fists into her practical, linsey-woolsey skirt.
“Adherence to ancient tradition?” Alexander tried helplessly.
“Where do you want the cake?” Mr. Alun Powys, a theater owner, playwright, actor, and patron of the Black Sheep, asked in his lilting Welsh intonation. The black-haired man carefully stepped into the room. In his arms was the centerpiece of the feast—a three-tiered fruitcake covered in marzipan and icing made from expensive white sugar.
Alexander, who was given a pittance from his parents, had used most of this month’s funds to procure the ingredients. He did earn some coin from the satirical articles he wrote under a fake name, but that income wasn’t much, and he donated most of those funds to the causes he was trying to champion.
“Treat!” A hoarse, scratchy voice cried from the rafters.
Alexander’s heart immediately and momentarily stopped beating. His whole body froze in horrified anticipation. Just as he’d expected, a lime-green blur dove straight toward the expensive confection. As Pan, the parrot, shot past Alexander, he spied a malicious, greedy glint in the bird’s one eye.
“Nooooooooooooo!” Alexander launched himself forward despite the pain in his right leg that was hopelessly mangled from his parents’ ceaseless efforts to “fix” his clubfoot. Years of horseback riding and curricle racing had gifted Alexander with the ability to react quickly, but that didn’t mean he could make it to the precious pastry in time.
“Treat for Lovey!” Pan repeated gleefully, his gray talons outstretched toward the flawless white coating.
“Pan! Stop! Hannah and I spent hours making that!” Sophia called out desperately as Mr. Powys tried to carefully maneuver his body to protect the cake without sending it careening to the floor.
Another sharp, abrasive sound filled the air, this time an excited chitter of a capuchin monkey. Her black eyes bright against the pale fur of her face, Pan’s “Lovey” bounced up and down on the shoulder of Lady Calliope, a poet and the daughter of a duke.
“Quiet, Banshee,” Calliope ordered the primate in her genteel voice. Banshee, however, decided to live up to her name instead. Throwing back her brown-capped head, she emitted a string of very high-pitched and very loud calls.
Alexander managed to reach the cake just before Pan would have smashed into it. Thankfully, only feathers scratched his face instead of the bird’s sharp claws. The parrot swooped over Alexander, Mr. Powys, and the cake with ominous intent.
“Pan, you are being a bad, bad, bad bird. Settle this instant!” Hannah’s voice rose above the awful din, but it did little good.
“Circle the sweet!” Alexander called out, his cries bringing two more of their friends into the room. “Protect the pastry!”
“Is there a reason you’re alliterating?” Hannah asked, even as she complied with the order.
“Just save the dessert!” Alexander shouted as everyone except Calliope quickly arranged themselves to stand shoulder to shoulder around the expensive delicacy. The noblewoman stayed in the far corner of the room as the excited capuchin climbed to the top of her head.
“Defend the dessert?” Mr. Powys suggested.
“Barricade the baked good?” Sophia offered.
“Not. Really. The. Time,” Alexander said between clenched teeth as he traced Pan’s trajectory through the air with his eyes.
Pan cackled—the effect rather bloodcurdling. Alexander winced as he watched the parrot sweep low above their heads.
“He should be on the stage,” Mr. Powys observed drily. “I daresay, his evil laugh almost rivals mine.”
“The parrot’s is much better. You overdo yours.” Calliope managed to utter the words with lofty dignity despite the fact that she was frantically waving her arms to grab the monkey.
Mr. Powys twisted his body to glare at the duke’s daughter. Instantly, Pan’s gray beak whipped toward the weakness in their human bulwark.
“Hold your positions!” Alexander barked out. “This is not the time for you two to engage in your feud! The enemy is Pan!”
“Don’t you think you’re being a touch dramatic?” Mr. Powys asked.
The militant look in Pan’s single eye sharpened, and the bird gave a menacing flap of his wings. Talons extended, the parrot opened his beak so wide that his gray tongue was visible as he shrieked, “Attack!”
Ten minutes later, all the humans sat slumped around one of the coffeehouse’s long tables in the front room. Overhead, parrot and monkey cooed and chittered to each other as they shared the dried fruit that Sophia and Hannah had given them under duress. The cake miraculously sat untouched. Alexander wished he could say the same about the rest of them.
“Whyever did we let the monkey and the parrot attend?” Alexander asked to no one in particular as he rubbed the blood from the scrape on his cheek with his thumb.
“It was your idea,” Hannah pointed out as she stared forlornly down at a small clump of her red hair, still in her hand after Pan had pulled it out.
“I know,” Alexander moaned as he thunked his head down onto his crossed arms. “They were so instrumental in Lottie and Matthew’s courtship that I thought it would be a grand idea to include them.”
“You are ever the hopeless romantic.” Sophia gave his arm a friendly pat. When he glanced at her hand, he noticed she had a thin scratch across her knuckles.
“My eye is burning,” Mr. Powys announced, sounding concerned. Alexander lifted his chin to find the actor-playwright gingerly touching the inflamed skin above his right cheekbone. “It’s puffing out already, isn’t it? I am supposed to be performing as a prince tonight. I can’t have a black eye.”
“Perhaps you should play the villain, instead,” Calliope teased him.
“How did I even acquire it?” Mr. Powys asked, ignoring Calliope’s suggestion. “Everything happened so quickly. I think I even had feathers in my mouth at some juncture.”
“My apologies, but it may have been my fault,” Hannah confessed. “I was reaching for the wretched bird, and my elbow struck something. I believe I heard you grunt.”
Mr. Powys waved the fingers of the hand not assessing the damage to his face. “Oh yes. I remember now. Remind me never to defend a wedding cake against a parrot again. It is a hideous business.”
“Be glad you weren’t holding the monkey.” Calliope crossed her eyes as she stared ruefully at the golden tendrils in front of her face. Half of her fashionably tight curls had come loose, leaving some of her hair as tight as sheep’s wool and some dangling in straight, limp bunches. “I was afraid I wouldn’t have a single lock left on my head. I’ll be glad when the bride returns, and Banshee can transfer her affections back to Lottie.”
“When do you think Charlotte and Matthew will walk through the door?” asked Hannah with an uncharacteristic listlessness.
“Soon, I hope.” Mr. George Belle, the proprietor of the city’s best hackney carriage system, rubbed his cheek where Pan had rammed him. “I should have sent one of my drivers to collect the new spouses. Then Matthew and Charlotte would have arrived before the cake incident, and I would still be in ignorant bliss of what it feels like to have an angry parrot smash into my face. Or, perhaps, I should have just stayed in the back room when Alexander called for reinforcements and continued to peacefully count almonds with Mr. Stewart.”
At the reminder of the treat that the Black Londoner had been preparing with Tavish Stewart, a Scottish-born printmaker and shipping merchant, Alexander straightened and tried to regain his initial energy. He turned toward the two men of business. “The almonds were not hurt in the scuffle, were they?”
“No. They’re still safe in the back room.” Tavish, a middle-aged man who was the groom’s father figure, rubbed his shoulder where Pan had clawed him.
“And there are five—and only—five in each satchel?” Alexander double-checked.
“Yes. You were so concerned about it that we counted three times,” Mr. Belle confirmed, only a tad testily.
“Why are you fanatical about the number of nuts? You do realize that both Belle and Stewart maintain account books that involve much more complicated mathematics?” Mr. Powys asked as he continued to examine the bulge around his eye socket.
“He has been fervent about every aspect of the feast.” Hannah rolled her eyes and then rubbed Alexander’s arm to show that she meant no harm. “I suppose he is just being a good brother and friend.”
“They have no immediate family to welcome them home but me,” Alexander said softly. His parents were horrified that their daughter had chosen to marry a third son, who made an actual living as a physician rather than assume a more “proper” calling.
Matthew’s father had never liked his youngest, and that sentiment only deepened after Matthew had unmasked his older brother as a murderous highwayman.
Sophia patted Alexander’s other hand. Although she was not his cousin by blood, she had become one by choice. Initially, he’d patronized the Black Sheep to irk his mother and father, yet he’d grown fond of not just the establishment but of the proprietresses themselves. Now his beloved sister was one of the owners, and the three women had achieved brilliant success in opening the secret back room.
“We are all their kin now,” Sophia said.
“Hear! Hear!” Tavish gave one of his kind smiles, his gray eyes sparkling. “We’re a motley assortment of characters, but we somehow fit.”
Alexander grinned jovially, but to his horror, he also felt the prick of tears at the back of his eyes. He’d learned at a very young age not to allow anyone to witness his true emotions except for his twin. Even then, he held so much back from Lottie, partly out of habit and partly out of not wanting to burden her with his pain. He’d done well in life maintaining a happy facade and had eventually made a host of friends despite being an outcast at his first boarding school. Yet he’d never experienced comradeship like he had the last few months at the Black Sheep when the people gathered today had banded together to save his sister from a terrible marriage to Viscount Hawley.
“What is the significance of the five bloody almonds?” Mr. Powys asked, providing exactly the distraction Alexander needed.
“It is originally an Italian tradition,” Alexander explained, glad his voice sounded cheerful without a trace of deeper sentiment. “The nuts represent health, wealth, happiness, longevity, and…”
He trailed off as he belatedly realized what the last symbolized. Hannah smirked and exchanged a look with Sophia. The Wick cousins turned back to address the rest of the group and said simultaneously, “Fertility!”
Before Alexander could think of a response, the door of the Black Sheep scraped open. In the light spilling in from the outside stood his twin and her new husband. Matthew—who’d always been such a solemn sort—was grinning broadly, his brown eyes more alive than Alexander had ever seen them. And Lottie—Lottie was as radiant as every bride deserved to be. Alexander’s heart grew warm with affection.
“Welcome home, Dr. and Mrs. Talbot!” everyone shouted.
Matthew stumbled back a step, obviously shocked by the unexpected welcome. Charlotte, though, laughed and tugged her husband forward. “Oh, this is wonderful! You even have a cake!”
“Which we defended with our lives!” Mr. Powys cried out. “We have the battle wounds to prove it.”
“You’re injured?” Concern immediately spread over Matthew’s face as he donned what Alexander had deemed his physician countenance.
“We were mildly attacked by Pan. We have plied him and his lady love with dried fruit, and he is satisfied now.” Alexander pointed toward the rafters with his eyes where parrot and capuchin were still happily munching, oblivious—or perhaps smugly indifferent—to the chaos they had recently unleashed.
“There’s no mild about it,” Mr. Powys muttered under his breath.
“Enough about the monkey and the bird. Sit! Sit! We want to hear all about your wedding.” Alexander gestured to two empty spaces at the table.
As soon as the newlyweds sat, Charlotte regaled the group with the tale of her and Matthew’s trip north to Gretna Green and back. Matthew interjected here and there, but mostly he seemed content to press against his new wife and not-so-covertly hold her hand under the table.
After the cake was served, the conversation turned to how the number of female patrons had been dramatically increasing at the Black Sheep. As soon as everyone had relayed the latest developments, Lottie pulled from her reticule a handful of dried wildflowers that Matthew had picked in Scotland for her wedding bouquet.
“Should I toss them or just hand one to everyone?” Charlotte asked.
“Toss,” Hannah said. “It will be ever much more fun. You and Matthew can even pretend that you’re escaping to your bedchamber.”
“You can use the entrance to the back room for the ruse,” Sophia suggested.
“Carry Charlotte!” Mr. Powys suggested.
“Carry! Carry!” Pan cried out.
Matthew swept a giggling Lottie into his arms. He, himself, laughed with such effortless joy that Alexander felt his own swell of emotion. He remembered their school days when Matthew, unwanted by his father and ruthlessly bullied by his older brothers, had never smiled. Even as an adult, there’d been a grimness about Matthew. But Charlotte had eased that festering pain. And Matthew had acknowledged Lottie’s cleverness and given her the joy she’d been lacking under the stifling existence foisted upon her by her parents.
Charlotte hauled back and, with more strength than Alexander had anticipated, launched the flowers into the air. The delicate petals must have dried together, and they sailed in a clump right over everyone’s head. The floral projectile attracted Pan and Banshee’s attention. The capuchin screeched in a happy demand, extending one black paw. Pan immediately shot into the air to fetch his love’s desire.
As Alexander followed the path of both bouquet and bird, he noticed that the door to the Black Sheep had begun to inch open. Charlotte must not have secured it when she and Matthew had entered. He hoped it was one of the coffeehouse’s regular customers who would not be alarmed by the bizarre welcome party.
With a rather electrifying jolt, Alexander realized the newcomer dressed in a maid’s attire wasn’t a patron but the mud-stained scholar whom he’d met while visiting the childhood home of his friend Lord Percy Pendergrast. Despite the briefness of their meeting, memories of Miss Harrington had flickered into Alexander’s mind at the oddest times over the last few weeks. She’d looked so excited, standing in the dark pit, a lantern near her skirts casting her in an almost otherworldly glow. But she hadn’t acted like an ethereal sprite. Her tongue was too barbed for that, and even in her excitement, an innate sense of cool practicality radiated from her. She’d appeared more like a level-headed swashbuckler exploring a shiny new world than someone gently sweeping away dirt.
Alexander hadn’t seen the helmet that Pendergrast and she had discussed. Miss Harrington had moved her body to shield it from his sight, and Alexander had respected her desire for secrecy. He’d met enough academics through his mother’s salon and Matthew’s collegiate connections to understand how competitive the various fields of study could become. Pendergrast really shouldn’t have cavalierly brought Alexander to his cousin’s dig site, but then the jovial rascal had a habit of being oblivious.
Besides, Alexander did not wish to learn anything more about English history—even if it involved gilded armor. He’d suffered enough “lessons” about his noble ancestry from his father. Alexander cared nought for the past—which he couldn’t alter. Instead, his focus lay in a future that he could control or at least help improve. But even if Alexander possessed no interest in the goods of a half-forgotten time, he’d found Miss Harrington’s unabashed fascination in them exceedingly intriguing. He didn’t know exactly why, but he simply accepted that he did. Although he wasn’t as unmindful as the blithe Pendergrast, he’d learned not to spend much time on introspection. He preferred instead to mock the foibles of society, especially when those shortcomings hurt the vulnerable.
Miss Harrington’s gaze locked with his. He saw a flicker of recognition, then surprise, and finally something darker slip through her brown eyes. Before he could determine her exact emotion, Pan shrieked in triumph. His beak pierced the congealed bouquet. The lump of flowers burst apart, raining down upon the unsuspecting newcomer. Sprigs of the dainty yellow lady’s bedstraw flowers, white oxeye daisies with their golden centers, and purplish bluebells landed on Pendergrast’s cousin. Her snow-colored mob cap was festooned with so many bright colors that it looked like a satire of a jeweled crown. Several of the dried petals stuck to her cheeks, and one leaf dangled impishly from the tip of her nose.
His flower target destroyed, Pan decided to land on the visitor’s head. Menacingly, he bent his body down over the woman’s brow so that his one eye locked with her brown ones.
Pendergrast’s cousin remained entirely unperturbed by either the floral or feathered assault. She simply raised a finger and jabbed it in Alexander’s direction.
“You! There! Who have you told about the ancient gold-plated helmet? And what have you done with my cousin Percy?”
Although Alexander intellectually knew that Miss Harrington meant him, her vehement conviction was so strong that he couldn’t help but look around. When his gaze returned to the lady, he found her regarding him gravely, despite the parrot perched on her floppy hat.
“I… uh… didn’t tell anyone.” Alexander spoke the truth. He hadn’t, but her cousin certainly had, not that he was going to confess that. The woman, despite her solemnity, or perhaps because of it, looked intimidating—still intriguing in her serious intensity but also a wee bit frightening.
“Are you talking about King Arthur’s gilded armor?” Hannah asked, sounding serious, but Alexander knew his cousin well enough to detect the impish undertone. Curious interest lit her grassy green eyes as she swiveled her head from Alexander to Miss Harrington to Alexander again. All his friends were doing the same.
“You did blab!” The woman advanced on Alexander, stabbing her still-pointed finger like a sword.
“No.” Alexander helplessly waved the hand that was not gripping his cane. “I promise you; I did no such thing.”
“Alexander didn’t spill secrets.” Sophia sprang to his defense as she shot Hannah a chiding look. “In fact, I overheard him telling Lord Percy that he should be more discreet about his discovery.”
Miss Harrington paused, her brown eyes softening slightly as she studied Alexander. He was accustomed to women appreciatively scanning his face, then his broad shoulders and athletic chest, their gazes becoming much less enamored and often annoyingly pitying when they spied his cane and noticed his limp. But this lady wasn’t admiring him, nor did her gaze stray from his countenance. She was judging him, and he wondered if she was trying to determine whether he’d revealed that she’d discovered the helmet instead of Percy.
Alexander gave a slight shake of his head. Pendergrast had told him years ago when deep in his cups that he wasn’t actually a scholar, and it was his female cousin who possessed the real knowledge.
“You look vaguely familiar, but I am having trouble placing you,” Calliope said with her typical directness. “Who are you?”
“Miss Georgina Harrington,” Pendergrast’s cousin answered crisply. “I am the sister of the Earl of Craie. You, Lady Charlotte, and I all debuted the same year. I was a wallflower, though.”
Idiots , Alexander thought of the men who’d overlooked Miss Harrington. It didn’t surprise him, though. She didn’t possess the easy, warm demeanor that crowned most women as diamonds of the first water. Still, the unrelenting rogues should have detected her cleverness and solemn beauty. If he hadn’t been away at university in Scotland, he would have paid her mind.
“Oh, I remember you now!” Calliope smiled sincerely. “You made the most unexpected quips. You were otherwise so quiet, yet the most devilish observations would escape your lips. You put me in silent stitches more than once.”
“I recognized you straightaway,” Charlotte added. “Thank you again for your letter regarding the Chatti symbol. It was instrumental in bringing down Lord Hawley.”
“I do thank you for your kind words, but I am afraid I am not here to discuss the viscount or to reminisce,” Miss Harrington replied politely but officiously. Alexander had no idea why her no-nonsense approach appealed to him. Perhaps because he’d never liked the fakeness of Society, even if sometimes he thought himself to be the greatest impostor of all.
Miss Harrington turned back to the Wick cousins, her expression resolute. “Who precisely did Percy talk to about the helmet?”
Sophia and Hannah exchanged a look. It was Sophia, the more diplomatic one, who spoke first. “Well, he was not particularly circumspect with his—”
“He told all and sundry,” Hannah interrupted. When Sophia shot her an exasperated look, Hannah added, “What? It sounds like it is important for Miss Harrington to know the truth.”
“He was flashing it around when I came for my cup of coffee about a week ago. We had an argument when I told him it couldn’t be Arthur’s since the man, if he existed, was Welsh. Everyone heard us,” Mr. Powys agreed. “I don’t think there was a patron in the back room who missed it.”
Although Miss Harrington didn’t exactly stagger, she seemed to crumple into herself. When she spoke, her clear voice had gone soft. “He—he brought the helmet here?”
Alexander instantly stepped forward, surprised by his almost physical need to assist this woman. When the ferrule of his cane thunked against the rough floorboards, Miss Harrington swung in his direction. Alexander paused as he realized that the fierce lady might not wish for his help.
“The piece was well protected in a velvet-lined box,” Mr. Powys added hastily, but Miss Harrington did not appear to hear.
Her eyes were locked on to Alexander’s. “You are his friend, yes?”
He nodded. He wasn’t as close to Pendergrast as he was to Matthew, but they were rather good mates. “I am.”
“Did…” Miss Harrington paused and swallowed resolutely. “Did he talk about the helmet outside of the Black Sheep?”
Alexander really wanted to tell her that Pendergrast had been circumspect. Unfortunately, it wasn’t at all in the rapscallion’s nature. “I believe he mentioned having taken it to Elysian Fields. He wanted to stir up interest before his talk at the Antiquarians of England Society.”
“Did you see my cousin after he brought the helmet to the Black Sheep?” Miss Harrington’s face had turned a decidedly ghostly shade.
Alexander’s own heartbeat began to skitter unsteadily. When Miss Harrington had first burst into the coffeeshop, she’d inquired about the whereabouts of Pendergrast. Although the rogue often disappeared for bouts of carousing, Alexander couldn’t escape the whisper of unease that slipped through him.
“I have not,” Alexander admitted.
“He hasn’t stopped by here again, either, but that’s not unusual,” Sophia said quietly, obviously also sensing something was amiss. “He often won’t pop in for weeks or sometimes even months if he’s rusticating in the country.”
“He’s not at his ancestral estate,” Miss Harrington said.
“He loves house parties,” Alexander said, not adding especially the risqué ones . But he had a feeling Miss Harrington had a perfect understanding of her cousin’s character. She did not strike him as either a sheltered miss or an unobservant one.
Miss Harrington whirled back toward him, her desperation a palpable force. “Did he tell you that he was leaving for one? Where is it?”
Alexander hated dashing her hopes. “I do apologize. I was just speculating. He never mentioned a trip to the countryside, and I’m not aware of a particular party in our circle of acquaintances.”
Miss Harrington’s stiff shoulders slumped ever so slightly, but she quickly straightened them again. “I do not believe Percy left London… at least of his own accord.”
Everyone exchanged a look. Hannah was the one who spoke first. “Well, that sounds ominous.”
“Because it is.” Unlike most people, Miss Harrington appeared unperturbed by Hannah’s bluntness. “I know my cousin has a tendency to lose himself in drink and sport.”
And women , but Alexander wasn’t about to say that last part.
“But,” Miss Harrington continued, “Percy missed his appearance at the Antiquarians of England Society meeting. He was supposed to talk about the helmet and its discovery on my behalf. As undependable as my cousin is, I do not believe he would betray me like this, especially without even sending me a missive.”
Alexander shifted as his own trickle of concern turned into a flood. Pendergrast was an unpredictable sort, but he also possessed an unwavering streak of loyalty. Alexander had detected his friend’s fondness for Miss Harrington whenever Pendergrast had spoken about his cousin. He wouldn’t purposely hurt her. Even as dense as Pendergrast could be, he would have understood the importance of the presentation to the Antiquarians.
“I agree,” Alexander said softly, just as Hannah exclaimed, “Wait! You’re the one who actually unearthed King Arthur’s armor?”
Miss Harrington’s face twisted in exasperation. “It is not Arthur’s. It probably did belong to a king or, at least, a very important chieftain. But it definitely was not the property of someone who likely did not exist, and even if he did, Arthur would have lived in Wales, not by the Essex seaside.”
“You are a real scholar,” Mr. Powys said in his booming theater voice. He was half joking, but Alexander could see the flash of utter joy in Miss Harrington’s eyes at the acknowledgment.
“Is it true, then?” Sophia asked. “Are you the one behind all of Lord Percy’s works, or are you just the one who found the helmet?”
Alexander could see the hesitation in Miss Harrington’s face and the desperation to rightfully claim credit for her own brilliance. But he also saw her fear of rejection. He recognized it because he lived it, never knowing when people would throw him to the side because of how he’d been born. For her, it was her gender. For him, it was his clubfoot.
“Did any of you actually believe that Pendergrast is capable of possessing a scholarly streak?” Alexander asked.
“He never wanted to discuss the discoveries at Herculaneum,” Matthew said in that quiet but observant way of his.
“He also vehemently refused any invitation Mother or I made for him to speak at our salon,” Charlotte added.
At each statement, Miss Harrington stood straighter and straighter. Her mouth even started to curve into a shocked smile.
“You can trust these people. Not only will they believe you, but they will guard your secrets,” Alexander told Miss Harrington.
“You were aware of the truth all along? Even before you saw my dig?” she asked as she again studied him closely.
Alexander’s body flushed warm under Miss Harrington’s scrutiny, and prickles of awareness danced up and down his spine. He understood, though, that her assessment derived from intellectual and not sensual curiosity. Tamping down on his reaction, he nodded, hoping he looked at least a quarter as earnest as she did.
“Pendergrast confessed the truth to me years ago, but I would have realized it the moment I saw you in that pit.” Alexander almost winced when he noticed that his voice had inadvertently deepened. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lottie shooting him with a curious look. But it was Miss Harrington’s reaction that held him in thrall. Her cool brown eyes heated a fraction. His comment had clearly pleased her, and that pleased him.
“She was in a pit? Why was she in a pit?” Hannah asked.
“Obviously unearthing the helmet.” Sophia shook her head in mock weariness. “You are forever opening your mouth without thinking.”
At the Wick cousins’ untimely observations, Miss Harrington visibly banked whatever glow had started to ignite. With a half smile, she regarded her small audience. “I suppose there is no hiding the truth now, especially since I may need your assistance. Yes, my cousin has been acting in my stead all these years. He is the visage; I am the intellect.”
“You didn’t just come here to look for your cousin. You want our help in finding him, don’t you?” Alexander asked.
Miss Harrington nodded as another flicker of surprise drifted across her face. She clearly had not expected him to be so keen-witted. But then, given that he kept company with her cavalier cousin, he could forgive her for underestimating him. And he kept his identity as Willoughby Wright, columnist, carefully hidden, lest his prose mar his potential influence when he joined the House of Lords after inheriting the dukedom. He didn’t precisely possess political aspirations, but he wished to champion certain reforms, and affably building relationships was more prudent than acquiring enemies.
“Yes, I am afraid I am in need of assistance,” Miss Harrington admitted and then turned to Alexander’s twin. “Lady Charlotte, I had heard that you unmasked Viscount Hawley and that you frequent the Black Sheep. I’d hoped you might give me some guidance on how to locate Percy. I have no one else to ask.”
“I’ll assist you.” Alexander had no trouble making the promise. He too wanted to locate his friend, but even if the missing person had been an utter stranger, Alexander would have been eager to spend more time with Miss Harrington.
“Oh,” Miss Harrington said, looking at him a bit uncertainly.
Alexander felt the sting of rejection, so he did what he always had. He smiled. Widely and broadly as if she hadn’t inadvertently caused a twinge of hurt.
“We’ll all help,” Hannah vowed. “Finding a missing treasure and a nobleman sounds like a grand adventure.”
“I wouldn’t phrase it exactly in that manner,” Miss Harrington said a little stiffly. After all, it was her relation who’d disappeared.
“What my cousin meant is that we all desire to help people unravel mysteries in their lives,” Sophia broke in gently. “We will be happy to lend whatever aid that we can.”
“But Alexander is in the best position,” Lottie added as she moved to his side, quietly defending him, as she always did. Even though she did not even brush her shoulder against his, he felt his twin’s support, and some of the old pain winked away.
“He is?” Miss Harrington still sounded dubious as she eyed him. Alexander noticed, though, that she didn’t glance at his cane. Whatever reservations she held about him, they did not appear to be associated with his foot.
“He has access to all the spheres that your cousin inhabits,” Sophia pointed out.
“Whereas I could only get you into drawing rooms,” Calliope added.
“And I into the less savory venues,” Mr. Powys continued.
“I’m the only one with access to both, and I also have connections to your cousin’s inner circle, which no one else here can claim,” Alexander said quietly, not wanting to scare Miss Harrington off if he seemed too eager to assist.
“And Alexander is eminently trustworthy,” Lottie added, briefly resting her hand on his arm. “He knew your secret for years and never disclosed it, even before he met you. You can find no one more loyal.”
Miss Harrington flicked her penetrating gaze over to him once more, and he saw her fear. Her own cousin had potentially abandoned her. Even if Pendergrast wasn’t missing, he had definitely wronged her by carting the helmet all over London. She must think Alexander cut of the very same cavalier cloth.
“I won’t betray either you or your secrets,” Alexander vowed.
“Where…” Miss Harrington trailed off as if she still wasn’t sure how she wished to proceed. Then she swallowed and seemed to arrive at a decision. “Where is the last place that you know my cousin went?”
“I met with him at the Black Sheep, but he said he was on his way to watch a fight at Championess Quick’s Amphitheater,” Alexander explained. “He frequents the establishment with some regularity, so it might be a good place to start. I can escort you there, but you must dress like a man. Championess Quick’s may feature female boxers, but women can’t openly attend the matches. Some, however, go in disguise.”
Miss Harrington blinked. “There are women pugilists?”
Alexander nodded. “The prizefighters at Championess Quick’s are true athletes. Some of them are handier with their fists and daggers than most men. Mary the Masher is the best I’ve seen with a cudgel.”
Miss Harrington’s eyes narrowed, and her accusation blazed back. “Do you like to watch women bloody themselves, Mr.… well, Alexander?”
“I enjoy champion matches where the participants are skilled and enjoy what they are doing,” Alexander said evenly as he gripped his cane’s bronze handle, which was cast in the shape of Hercules wrestling the Nemean lion. “I will agree that there are matches between women that are solely to evoke the prurient interest of male onlookers. Championess Quick’s is no such establishment. The athletes do not fight bare-breasted, and she has instituted more rules than any other venue to promote sportsmanship. As someone whose strength and abilities are constantly underestimated, I like to support enterprises that allow outcasts to not just prove but celebrate their mettle. It is something I think you might understand.”
Miss Harrington swallowed at his words, but she did not apologize. She did, however, give a curt nod. “I did not realize it was that type of place. I will accompany you there as soon as I can procure men’s attire.”
“Oh, no need to look for any,” Hannah told her. “We have started to provide such clothing for our female clientele. One of the seamstresses at Powys’s theater generally tailors them to fit, but she has provided us with a few ready-made pieces for our customers who need an outfit immediately,. We should be able to find something that suits you well enough.”
“I am afraid that I have no coin to pay for them,” Miss Harrington admitted.
Alexander sorely wished he could offer to cover the costs, but he had spent most of his allowance on Charlotte’s white wedding cake.
“I can provide the money,” Calliope said, and some of the tension fled from Alexander.
“Thank you.” Miss Harrington bobbed her head in Calliope’s direction. “I shall try to repay you—”
The duke’s daughter waved away the offer. “I enjoy helping women defy Society’s social dictates. Just make good use of the garment, even after your cousin and helmet are found.”
Alexander thought he might have detected a glint of tears in Miss Harrington’s eyes, but when she turned in his direction, they were once again clear and sharp.
“If it is acceptable to you, I would prefer to leave straightaway for Championess Quick’s. I do not want to delay in finding my cousin.” Miss Harrington’s voice was back to its crisp tone.
“Understood. I want nothing more than to find Pendergrast too,” Alexander said, hoping he seemed just as serious to her as she did to him. If she wasn’t so desperate to find her cousin, he sensed that she never would have accepted his offer. Alexander wanted to prove his sincerity, but something told him it wouldn’t be an easy feat—not with a woman as innately skeptical as the clever Miss Georgina Harrington of the Essex mud pit.