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Authors: Michelle Diener
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tea.
“He might.” Charlotte shrugged. “If it looks like they’ll pay him for the information. But he knows I’ll pay, too. And better than Geoffrey. So he may be back with something we can use.”
“Playing both sides?” Emma frowned. “Then we can’t trust him.”
Charlotte gave her a strange look. “Except for Lady Howe, you can’t trust anybody.”
12
“Y ou don’t want to be here.” Gary left the reins to Smithy, the driver, and swung into the coach beside Charlotte, closing the door behind him. “ I don’t want to be here.”
Charlotte raised her eyebrows. Fortunately, they weren’t anywhere fashionable—in fact, that was Gary’s complaint—so no one in her social circle was likely to have witnessed her coachman climbing into her coach with her and shutting out the world.
There would be only one conclusion drawn, if that were the case.
“I agree. Neither of us wants to be here.” She peered out into the night, into a street illuminated only by the weak candlelight leaking from the windows of the tight-packed tenements. “Kit says this is where his friend will meet us.”
Gary sneered. “I don’t know that Peter is a friend of Kit’s, rightly. I’d have thought more an enemy.”
She cocked her head at that. She waited for Gary to elaborate, but he was looking out the window again.
Someone howled from close by, as if to the moon, and a prickle of fear skittered down her back. She raised her gaze to Gary’s and he met it, grim.
A hand rattled the door, and Gary opened cautiously, and for the first time, Charlotte noticed a knife in his hand.
“Peter.” He said the word neutrally, and moved back, allowing the man into the coach with them.
He brought with him a strange mixture of smells. The earthy, salty smell of sex, the sweet, cloying scent of rum, and on top of that, the burnt-edged smell of tobacco.
He sat next to Gary, and in the weak light, she could see he was handsome, must once have been angelic. Blond hair, fine features, his eyes a pale blue. But there was a hardness to the set of his mouth, a seediness to the bags under his eyes.
He said nothing, had said nothing since he’d arrived, and Charlotte wondered if it had been him earlier, howling.
Trying to set them ill at ease.
The silence stretched out, and Peter fidgeted, an unconscious twitch, adjusting his too-tight trousers, and pulling at the overlarge jacket he was wearing.
“Thank you for coming.” Charlotte leaned forward. “Kit said you may have some information for me.” She spoke like a lady, when she’d thought she would talk to him like the street urchin she’d once been. It had been a while since she’d surprised herself so much.
“Depends.” Peter relaxed back against the cushions, folded his arms across his chest.
“Depends on what?” Gary asked, his voice quiet, and Peter shifted, just slightly, away from him.
“Depends on what you’ll give me for the information.” He spoke with a drawl, trying too hard.
She saw herself, suddenly, as she could have been, without Catherine. Hopefully without the same capacity for cruelty she sensed in Peter, but hard and brittle as this. Smelling just the same, of sex and drink and hopelessness. Wearing the same ill-fitting castoffs. She cleared her throat. “I will pay a fair price for useful information on Lord Frethers.”
“Kit mentioned the name, but I don’t know it.”
Gary made a sound beside him, and Peter slid him a look. “They none of ’em use their real names. They take all manner of poncy monikers.”
Charlotte gripped her hands tight together. “Frethers is portly, hair thinning on top, florid cheeks from too much brandy.” She thought back to when she’d seen him at the Hollidays’ house party, amazed to think it had only been five days ago. “Wears a gold pocket watch and carries a cane with a silver tip shaped like a ram’s head.”
Peter closed his eyes for a moment, tipped his head back against the seat, as if in
“He might.” Charlotte shrugged. “If it looks like they’ll pay him for the information. But he knows I’ll pay, too. And better than Geoffrey. So he may be back with something we can use.”
“Playing both sides?” Emma frowned. “Then we can’t trust him.”
Charlotte gave her a strange look. “Except for Lady Howe, you can’t trust anybody.”
12
“Y ou don’t want to be here.” Gary left the reins to Smithy, the driver, and swung into the coach beside Charlotte, closing the door behind him. “ I don’t want to be here.”
Charlotte raised her eyebrows. Fortunately, they weren’t anywhere fashionable—in fact, that was Gary’s complaint—so no one in her social circle was likely to have witnessed her coachman climbing into her coach with her and shutting out the world.
There would be only one conclusion drawn, if that were the case.
“I agree. Neither of us wants to be here.” She peered out into the night, into a street illuminated only by the weak candlelight leaking from the windows of the tight-packed tenements. “Kit says this is where his friend will meet us.”
Gary sneered. “I don’t know that Peter is a friend of Kit’s, rightly. I’d have thought more an enemy.”
She cocked her head at that. She waited for Gary to elaborate, but he was looking out the window again.
Someone howled from close by, as if to the moon, and a prickle of fear skittered down her back. She raised her gaze to Gary’s and he met it, grim.
A hand rattled the door, and Gary opened cautiously, and for the first time, Charlotte noticed a knife in his hand.
“Peter.” He said the word neutrally, and moved back, allowing the man into the coach with them.
He brought with him a strange mixture of smells. The earthy, salty smell of sex, the sweet, cloying scent of rum, and on top of that, the burnt-edged smell of tobacco.
He sat next to Gary, and in the weak light, she could see he was handsome, must once have been angelic. Blond hair, fine features, his eyes a pale blue. But there was a hardness to the set of his mouth, a seediness to the bags under his eyes.
He said nothing, had said nothing since he’d arrived, and Charlotte wondered if it had been him earlier, howling.
Trying to set them ill at ease.
The silence stretched out, and Peter fidgeted, an unconscious twitch, adjusting his too-tight trousers, and pulling at the overlarge jacket he was wearing.
“Thank you for coming.” Charlotte leaned forward. “Kit said you may have some information for me.” She spoke like a lady, when she’d thought she would talk to him like the street urchin she’d once been. It had been a while since she’d surprised herself so much.
“Depends.” Peter relaxed back against the cushions, folded his arms across his chest.
“Depends on what?” Gary asked, his voice quiet, and Peter shifted, just slightly, away from him.
“Depends on what you’ll give me for the information.” He spoke with a drawl, trying too hard.
She saw herself, suddenly, as she could have been, without Catherine. Hopefully without the same capacity for cruelty she sensed in Peter, but hard and brittle as this. Smelling just the same, of sex and drink and hopelessness. Wearing the same ill-fitting castoffs. She cleared her throat. “I will pay a fair price for useful information on Lord Frethers.”
“Kit mentioned the name, but I don’t know it.”
Gary made a sound beside him, and Peter slid him a look. “They none of ’em use their real names. They take all manner of poncy monikers.”
Charlotte gripped her hands tight together. “Frethers is portly, hair thinning on top, florid cheeks from too much brandy.” She thought back to when she’d seen him at the Hollidays’ house party, amazed to think it had only been five days ago. “Wears a gold pocket watch and carries a cane with a silver tip shaped like a ram’s head.”
Peter closed his eyes for a moment, tipped his head back against the seat, as if in
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