19. All Plants Have Their Peccadillos
ALL PLANTS HAVE THEIR PECCADILLOS
The evening sky through the sash window had become increasingly drear with opaque cloud and the type of drizzle that London so excelled at.
Miles twisted a loose cufflink and hoped the skies cleared for Kew Gardens on the morrow. Yes, the English garden required rain for its lush greenery and abundant flowers but it could also be a misery to walk in, requiring overshoes, oiled capes and waterproof hats.
With a grimace, he braced an arm against the study windowsill and watched a few neighbours scurry to their homes within the swatches of yellow lamplights.
For most of the day, he’d mused on how Verity Seymour had continued to slip in and out of his thoughts over the years since they’d parted, and perhaps now he knew why: because she had been thinking of him also.
Creating battlescapes of him.
She’d always been a damn good watercolourist but was no less talented with oils, and he was not surprised that the Duke of Rothwell was her patron or that her paintings were in such demand.
Now that he knew her fickleness back then to be a sham, that she’d thought of him too and been concerned for him, what were his feelings for the woman that was Verity Seymour today? For certain, a vehement passion still bound them, made ever more vehement now he was a man.
But why had she lied to him? Why had she forsaken him?
And what did it all mean?
He thrust a hand through his hair, twisted and began to pace the rug, wondering why the hell queues of suitors were not knocking at Verity’s door? Indeed, why had she never–
“Where are you off to this dingy night?”
He twisted to Dair, who didn’t appear drizzled on at all. Miles continued pacing and debated whether to tell him the truth. “I intend to trail someone.”
“Rather underhand. I’d best come along. You’ll look less military.”
“Military?”
“Straight shoulders. Short hair at the back. You ever so slightly march when frustrated.”
He ceased marching. “If you wish then. This man’s as slippery as horse dung on a marble floor.”
“Why are we following him?” Dair made for the decanters and with back turned, poured himself a short whisky.
Miles wanted to see his cousin’s expression so waited for him to turn. But Dair stayed as he was. “I have begun to believe that someone wishes rid of me,” he said softly.
A minimal hitch of shoulder was the sole visible response before Dair turned with those unreadable eyes. “I know.”
“You do?”
“Hmm. The groom told me of the snapped strapping on the new carriage. And of your near miss with a stagecoach. Both seemed…odd. And then there were those barrels at the fair.” He tipped his glass and drank.
“That’s why I’ve been coming round more of late.
I felt I should…be here. In case it’s more than just coincidence.
Watch your back. You’re the only family I can bear the company of. ”
Miles would have liked to say he was touched by the regard, but they were men, Dair was staring into his glass, and it was half past the hour of eight with Webb due to leave soon. “I should also tell you, there was the night I was lured into an alley and set upon by two thugs.”
“Routed them, did you?”
“The Prince interrupted.”
Dair choked on his whisky. “That’s how you came to cross paths with him then. I wondered.”
“Hmm. I’m doubly in his debt now.”
“Well…” Dair raised his glass. “Since you’ve sold your soul to the devil, you’d best not kick the bucket prematurely.” He drained the whisky glass in a single gulp. “So could this man we’re following be connected?”
Miles made for the hall. “Maybe. And I’ll tell you why on the way.”
As they turned from Baker Street into George Street and the lodgings for gentlemen bachelors, Miles thought to see a shadow stir in a dark passageway between the houses opposite.
Lynch.
Soot, smoke and damp brick tarried in the air and as a distant clock tolled the quarter, he and Dair crossed the empty street.
There were few carriages or people about, though the drizzle had abated.
Lampposts cast tremulous circles of light but the two of them kept to the pools of darkness between and headed for the passageway.
Miles vaguely caught a salute. “Webb ain’t left yet, Captain.”
“Good. Now you get some rest.”
“Will do. This damn drizzle gets right through ter yer knackers.”
Dair frowned. “You failed to mention, Miles, that my knackers might be placed in jeopardy.”
“No need to fret, Cousin. We’ll not be standing here for long.” Miles clapped Lynch on the shoulder. “When you get home, have a dram of that Glenlivet to dry them out.”
Lynch’s gold tooth gleamed. “I’ll stay here every night if I get some o’ that.”
“And take one to Dempster. See how he’s settling in the mews.” The chap had turned up this morning, the hospital having given him the heave-ho.
“Will do, C’tain.” And with another salute, his factotum drew his cloak tight, peered left and right, then slipped from the passageway, his boots no more than a muffled whisper on the pavement as he navigated to the unlit pools of darkness.
“Useful bloke, Lynch,” murmured Dair. “Although did you have to give them the Glenlivet?”
Miles merely took up stance in the shadows while Dair took up stance aside him, twirling his cane like an unemployed ringmaster. Or a bored aristocrat.
Earlier this eve, the valet from this lodging house had sent a verbose note that Webb was to head out for his habitual but unknown evening appointment, had rebuffed a monogrammed handkerchief for crimson plain – so déclassé.
Had refused to order a hackney – so bourgeois.
And had declined all stickpins, rings and watch – so vulgar.
To Miles that meant wherever Webb was going, he wished to remain anonymous, with no distinguishing gewgaws.
“By the by,” said Dair in a stage whisper. “Have you a plan for seducing Miss Seymour at Kew on the morrow? Bit difficult with meddling relatives in tow.”
“I am not seducing Miss Seymour,” he hissed back.
“What are you doing then?”
“I am escorting her to the Gardens so we may reacquaint ourselves.”
“Seduce…” muttered Dair.
“No. I hope to talk of the past…”
“Seduce…”
“Discover what went wrong.”
“Seduce…”
“Have you never conversed politely with a gentlewoman before, Dair? One who isn’t a Covent Garden fizgig?”
Silence until…
“Once. When young like you were with Miss Seymour.”
“Did it not go well?”
“My father persuaded me to wait. He said our young love was not strong so I had to accept a pact that I’d go on the Grand Tour before considering anything further. And if I still felt the same…” His cane tapped on the cobbles. “I came back and…”
Miles braced. “She’d married?”
“Died,” he bit out. “Of fever. Father couldn’t have cared less as he’d lined up some monied debutante for me. We argued and…” His cousin shrugged. “I left for the Continent again.”
“I’m sorry, Dair.”
A nod. “So now I never wait for anything – money or pleasure.” His eyes gleamed in the dark. “And when I want something, I take it.”
Miles was about to say that not everything in life could be taken when the front door to the bachelor lodgings opened, and even by the tremulous lamplight, Miles could make out a weak chin along with a crimson handkerchief flopping from Webb’s waistcoat pocket.
“There’s our man.”
Dair swivelled. “What a damn ill-fitting jacket.”
With a quirk of lip and tip of head, Miles made to follow, endeavouring not to march but saunter as though he was an earl with nothing better to do of an eve than prowl the London streets in search of amusement.
Webb headed east and onto Queen Anne Street, an even quieter middle-class residential area, but as they crossed Regent Street, the abodes became more stunted, the streets without corner lamps.
It was pitch as Hades but one’s eyes adjusted.
“Damn it,” Dair muttered. “We’ll be in Saint Giles’ parish soon, and I’m not wearing the clobber for that.”
Which meant he did in fact own the clobber for that. But not the moment to quibble as Webb had paused outside a house with a lit candle in the window.
Miles and his cousin ducked into an alley between numbers eight and ten, almost opposite, as Webb knocked on the door.
He was admitted without discussion and Miles frowned.
Was he paying for more thugs? Was he in debt?
“Is this Windmill or Percy Street?” whispered Dair.
“Windmill.”
“Hmm. I think…” Dair’s physog scrunched. “I seem to recall…”
“I’m going over to knock. See who answers…”
“I don’t think…”
Miles crossed the street to Number Seven.
It appeared innocuous enough, like a hundred other small terraced houses that the workers of London and their families rented.
He tapped on the door.
A pretty woman in her thirtieth year or thereabouts answered, tall and slim with a dark complexion. And for some reason, from somewhere within the house, strains of a violin could be heard.
“Ooooh, wot an ’andsome face,” she gushed, twirling a ringlet. “I’m Miss B. Who gave yer our address?”
Miles took one step back as she shimmied her hips.
“Don’t be shy, lovie.” But this instruction had come from a second female who’d appeared at her shoulder in an exceedingly low-cut bodice, plump and fair, a…birch rod slapping the palm of her hand. “We’ll be ever so gentle…”
“I…”
Giggling.
“Fer a first visit, half a guinea gets yer ten slaps or a guinea for twenty-five. We can make yer plead for mercy.”
“I’m quite sure you can, but er…” Miles bowed with a flourish. “I rather think I’ve been given the wrong door number.”
“Oh, sod it,” said the fair one. “I bet yer after Miss Whittaker at Number Eleven. Her ostrich feathers can–”
“Yes, that was it,” said Miles in a rush. “Feathers. That was her. I wish you both a pleasant evening.”
The birch rod slapped. “We’ll be here if yer get bored along there. I can make yer–”
Thankfully Miles was out of earshot but he did slam straight into Dair.
“I’ve remembered!” he said, clapping Miles on the back. “That’s the address of the divine Birching Sisters.”
Miles scowled. “Well, it’s fortunate we had Webb court-martialled and not flogged because as punishment, it might not have had the intended effect.”
Dair laughed. “I’d miss you, Cousin, if you were dead. Come, I’ll help you plan for tomorrow in return for a dram of your fine Glenlivet.”
How could Miles refuse?