The Bolingbroke Chit: A Regency Romance Read online

  But of course it was not over, for Vinnie continued to live in fear of the repercussions of her singular act of heroism, thanks to small-minded little toads such as Mr. Holyroodhouse.

  Well aware that the present was ill served by regretting the past, Emma swallowed a sigh and maneuvered the horses around a bend.

  As if suddenly alert to his surroundings, Philip looked at the road behind the curricle and then at the stretch in front of it. “I say, where are you going?”

  Emma gave him a sideways glance. “Where are you going?”

  “To Mrs. Biddle’s shop,” he said, as if stating an obvious fact. “We must demand she halt publication of the offending illustration at once. We must also insist she never run anything like it ever again.”

  Shifting the ribbons to one hand, Emma laughed and patted her cousin-in-law gently on the head. “I don’t care what Trent says, you are adorable.”

  His face turned pink again, and he slid his head away from her touch. “Puppies are adorable,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster. “I am determined. Mrs. Biddle must be stopped.”

  Emma rolled her eyes at the notion. “That heartless harpy would sooner run naked down St. James’s Street than give up a single penny of profit. No, we will not waste our time trying to convince Mrs. Biddle to act honorably. We are going right to the source.”

  “The source?” he repeated, his eyebrows drawn in confusion. “You mean the artist?”

  “Exactly,” she said with satisfaction. “But first we must find Mr. Holyroodhouse, so we are heading to the Rusty Plinth.”

  At once, Philip bolted upright in his seat. “No.”

  She spared him a glance as she maneuvered around a dip in the road. “Yes,” she said with deceptive mildness.

  Philip shook his head and said no again. He reiterated it six more times, his resolution growing more firm with each repetition.

  Emma smothered a laugh, for she did not want to seem amused by his distress—although she did think it was funny how thoroughly intimidated the young man was by his older cousin. “Yes.”

  “No. I promised Trent I would never take you to the Rusty Plinth,” he explained, a pleading note entering his voice. “It’s a matter of honor. A man is only as good as his word. Surely, you understand that.”

  “But I am taking you,” she pointed out with blithe assurance. “Honor is satisfied.”

  Although her argument was well reasoned—after all, she did clutch the reins to the curricle in her hands—Philip knew it wouldn’t hold water with the duke and could already feel the weight of his cousin’s hand on the side of his head. For God’s sake, he was twenty, too old to have his ears boxed. “I must insist that you turn this carriage around immediately,” he said with what he hoped sounded like stern authority to Emma. His own ears heard a wheedling plea.

  To his surprise, she complied, bringing the horses to a complete stop. “You may climb down here,” she announced.

  Aghast, Philip looked at the shrubbery by the side of the road and then at his cousin-in-law. “What? Here?”

  Emma was too impatient with her husband’s attempts to restrict her movements to have sympathy with the young man’s plight, which, she knew, was awkward. She didn’t doubt that he considered his oath to Trent to be a sacred thing. But as she was not consulted on the tendering of the oath, it had no bearing on her behavior.

  “Yes, here,” she said matter-of-factly. “You have two choices, Mr. Keswick: Either accompany me to the Rusty Plinth, where I will confer with Mr. Squibbs on how to locate Mr. Holyroodhouse, or return to Grosvenor Square on your own. I will leave it to you to decide which option best suits your notion of honor.”

  The duchess waited silently as he contemplated his situation, her cornflower blue eyes wide with curiosity and expectation. But his situation was such that there was nothing to contemplate. Trent would have his head if he let Emma travel to the docks alone.

  “I shall go with you,” he announced graciously, as if the idea had been his all along.

  “Good,” she said, tugging the reins to move the carriage back to the road. “Believe it or not, I’m grateful for your company, however reluctantly it is given. You did me a great service today when you strode into the room and insisted we do something to help Vinnie. Prior to that, I had been fuming uselessly in my study.”

  “I would appreciate it if you did not describe our outing to the duke in quite those terms.”

  “Very well,” Emma said with a laugh. “But you are being overly cautious. Surely by now Trent knows me well enough to apportion blame properly. If he didn’t, I never would have married him.”

  This fond sentiment, though charmingly expressed, struck Philip as far too optimistic for the situation. The last time Emma visited the Rusty Plinth in the middle of the day, she wound up trailing Windbourne all the way to Dover and almost getting herself killed. Philip, who had the fortune—or misfortune, depending on one’s point of view—of catching her on her way out of town, had accompanied Emma on the mad pursuit and had gotten a bullet in the knee for his trouble. Knowing he had helped save England from a French invasion, however, compensated for much of the pain and several months of enforced inactivity.

  Letting the matter of Trent’s reaction drop, Philip passed the rest of the journey in silence, for he had enough sense to admit Emma’s plan was better than his. The capable Mr. Squibbs was sure to locate the infamous cartoonist in a matter of hours. The gentleman was not only the finest lock pick in London, he was the linchpin of a well-honed network of scouts and spies who lurked in every corner of the city. What he or his associates could not discover in a twenty-four-hour period was not worth knowing.

  Emma had first come into contact with Mr. Squibbs while she was investigating Windbourne and had required tutelage on how to open a locked safe. Unable to uncover proof of the baronet’s perfidy through conventional means, she’d resolved to break into his apartments, and although the illicit search turned up nothing of use, it had forged an unlikely friendship between the lock pick and the hoyden.

  Several months later, when Emma needed help gathering data on the members of the British Horticultural Society to advance her sister’s cause, Mr. Squibbs and his team promptly supplied all the information she needed to compile useful dossiers on all twenty-six members, including her husband. It was that kind of ruthless thoroughness, as embarrassing as it had been for Trent to see his mistresses listed in chronological order for his wife’s perusal, that was necessary now.

  They arrived at the Rusty Plinth a little before two, and although Philip felt an unexpected rumble in his stomach, he knew better than to request a meal at the dockside tavern. The establishment was large but crowded with battle-scarred tables at which its questionable clientele drank tankards of ale and grumbled among themselves. The door that admitted Emma and Philip also let in a large amount of sunlight, and the patrons nearest to the door groaned at the intrusive brightness.

  As Emma’s gaze swept the room for the familiar figure of Mr. Squibbs, Philip warily eyed four gentlemen whose interest had not returned to their conversation at the shutting of the front door. He recognized the voracious look on their faces as they examined Emma, whose pretty blond curls and neat walking dress could not be a common sight in the rundown tavern.

  He leaned over and whispered in Emma’s ear. “If Mr. Squibbs is not here, perhaps we should come back later.”

  She waved off the suggestion with an annoyed shush, and Philip reminded himself that the Duchess of Trent was no helpless victim. He had watched her calmly point a gun at Windbourne and even shoot when the villain had failed to follow her command.

  But that situation was vastly different from this one, for on that occasion Emma had been armed with a gun, and on this one she had no weapon at all, not even a spoon because he had been too impatient to let her visit the kitchens. Additionally, her standoff with Windbourne had been evenly matched, and now they were outnumbered four to two. And not just four to two but four l
arge, brawny ruffians to one lady and one gentleman whose intention to train at Gentleman Jackson’s salon had never turned into reality.

  One of the ruffians stood up and Philip gulped.

  “Yer grace,” the man said, smiling to reveal two missing teeth. “We wasn’t expecting you today. Does Squibbs know yer about?”

  To Philip’s horror, Emma not only recognized the gentleman but held her hand out in greeting. He watched as her fingers disappeared into the large man’s grasp and somehow reemerged unscathed.

  “Mr. Horn,” she said warmly, “it’s a pleasure to see you again. I trust your mother is well?”

  Amazingly, the large man’s cheeks turned dusky pink at this consideration. “Yes, yer grace. Very well. She’ll be complimented ye asked.”

  Emma nodded and gestured to Philip. “Mr. Horn, I’m pleased to introduce you to my cousin-in-law Mr. Philip Keswick. Philip, Mr. Horn was one of the gentlemen who assisted Vinnie and me in our horticultural society endeavor. He discovered a particularly useful piece of information on the Earl of Moray.”

  Mr. Horn shrugged and blushed more deeply. “’Twas nothing.”

  Although Philip didn’t doubt that Emma could spend the rest of the afternoon making polite conversation with all the patrons of the Rusty Plinth, he thought it was better to move the process along. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” he said ingratiatingly, for there was no reason to alienate a man whose girth was twice his own. “I wonder if you could help us with Mr. Squibbs. Do you know where we could find him?”

  Mr. Horn jerked his head to the left, indicating the back of the tavern. “’E’s meeting with an associate right now but should be done soon. Ye can wait ’ere with us.”

  Philip could not imagine anything more awful than sitting at the dirty table with four roughs, unless it was drinking ale at the dirty table with four roughs. Then suddenly he heard a sound that truly made his blood turn cold.

  “Emma!” Trent called from across the room.

  The Rusty Plinth fell silent. Every single person in the taproom—patrons, barkeeps, serving wenches—immediately stopped what they were doing to watch the Duchess of Trent greet her husband.

  Only Philip turned away.

  As if not the least discomforted by the duke’s unexpected presence or his angry tone, Emma turned to Mr. Horn and thanked him for his gracious invitation. “If you’ll excuse me, I see my husband is here and would like to confer with me on a matter. Perhaps we can have a proper visit when my business with Mr. Squibbs is concluded.”

  Although Philip held the Harlow Hoyden in the highest esteem and applauded her daring, he thought this statement was a little much, even for her. “Emma,” he said warningly.

  Emma dismissed his concern as needlessly anxious. Yes, the duke was glowering at them as if he’d caught them in some inappropriate embrace, and, yes, he did seem as though he was about to carry them off like recalcitrant children. But Emma knew she had done nothing wrong. Perhaps Philip had broken his word to Trent, but all she had ever promised was not to come down to the docks again by herself—and she hadn’t. Her proof was trembling right by her side.

  Calmly, Emma weaved through the tables toward the back of the room, where her husband stood next to the gentleman she had come to see. As always, she greeted Mr. Squibbs warmly and thanked him for being available for an unscheduled meeting. Then, aware that the best way to deflect criticism was to offer one’s own, she turned to her husband and said, “Shame on you, Alex. I expected better of you.”

  The duke’s foreboding expression did not lighten. “As I expected better of you.” Then he shifted his gaze to Philip. “And you.”

  Philip’s shoulders drooped at the charge, but Emma lifted her head and said, “Don’t try to turn this around, you associate-poaching scrubber. Mr. Squibbs is my most trusted ally, not yours. If you want to have a resourceful lock pick on retainer, then I suggest you start poking around the docks now and leave Mr. Squibbs and me to our business.”

  Now the duke’s lips twitched as he said, “I thought I was your most trusted ally, imp.”

  She scoffed. “You are obviously not trustworthy at all, for you clearly went behind my back to ask Mr. Squibbs to locate Mr. Holyroodhouse. That is the purpose of your mission, is it not?”

  Her husband shook his head. “I know what you are doing, Emma, and as much as I admire the strategy and how well you employ it, I will not let you change the subject. You swore to me that you would not come here again.”

  “Alone,” she said with quiet vehemence. “I agreed to your unreasonable demand not to come here alone. And I did not. I came with Philip.”

  “Yes, and what about that?” he asked with an accusatory look at his cousin. “I had your word you would not bring her down here.”

  Annoyed at the passivity of his comment—as if Emma Harlow let anyone bring her anywhere—she said, “I kidnapped him.”

  Philip’s eyeballs popped out at that outrageous statement, for although he might have been manipulated into the adventure, he had most certainly not been abducted against his will. “Now, see here—”

  Trent leaned against the doorjamb and smiled at the ridiculous ploy. “You expect me to believe you carried off a grown man against his will.”

  Grateful for the doubt, Philip said, “Here’s the way—”

  Emma did not let him finish. “Snatched the reins from a grown man and it was easy enough. And now you are trying to distract me from the larger issue, which is your attempt to control me. You can’t tell me I can’t come down here by myself and then eliminate all my possible escorts. That’s not playing fair.”

  “What’s not fair is your charge of unfairness,” the duke said. “If you will recall what happened the last time you came down here by yourself and what would have happened had Mr. Squibbs not intervened. A note would have been sufficient to bring him to Grosvenor Square. You did not need to come down here.”

  “Exactly,” Emma said with satisfaction, as if he had just proven her point, her eyes squinting just a little as a shard of light from the open front door reached even that deeply into the building. “A note would have been sufficient for your needs as well but you didn’t send one because you were too much in a rush to get help for—”

  “Vinnie,” Mr. Squibbs said, not bothering to smother a smile as he inserted himself into the marital dispute. Although he had not had the pleasure of witnessing the duke’s every attempt to protect his wife from her own reckless nature, he’d observed enough of them to know neither participant would win.

  Emma nodded at Squibbs, grateful for the assistance of her trusted associate. “Yes, Vinnie, because we are all too worried about her to—”

  “No,” Mr. Squibbs said, pointing to the door, where another newcomer now stood. “Miss Lavinia Harlow is here.”

  Shocked, Emma and the duke turned their heads in unison to see Vinnie standing with her back to the door and an uncertain expression on her face. It was not fear at the rough company but curiosity and then delight as Mr. Horn introduced himself and promptly pointed to where her family stood at the back of the room.

  Vinnie nodded with gratitude and quickly made her way through the maze of tables, all eyes following her as the most unusual business meeting the Rusty Plinth had ever hosted grew even more interesting. With a pert step that indicated a heretofore unseen optimism about her situation, Vinnie stopped in front of her sister.

  Emma gaped at her in amazement as Trent tried to process the fact that his gentle and kind sister-in-law had blithely stepped into one of the roughest establishments in London.

  Equally horrified, they both said, “How dare you come down here alone!” at the exact same time. Then Emma looked at her husband and requested the right to chastise her first, as Vinnie was her twin.

  “A valid argument, imp,” Trent said. “Have at it.”

  Vinnie ignored their foolishness and greeted Mr. Squibbs with a polite handshake. Then she looked at the company and added, “Am I right in assuming y
ou have already been given the assignment of identifying and locating Mr. Holyroodhouse?”

  But Emma was not to be put off so easily. “Vinnie, do you have any idea how dangerous it was for you to come down here on your own? There are some lovely people here, of course, including Mr. Squibbs and his associates, but the Rusty Plinth is, by and large, a den of iniquity. You could have been killed or worse.”

  “Your understanding of the situation is heartening, Emma,” her husband said, “for you had seemed not to comprehend it at all.”

  Emma sighed heavily. “But I did not come alone.”

  Unlike her sister, Vinnie was instantly contrite. “You are right to take me to task, Emma, for I did act impulsively. I had not intended to come here, but as I left Lady Agatha’s house—and please do not take me to task for making benign morning calls, for I had to do something to take my mind off the matter—it suddenly occurred to me that someone doesn’t just know the truth about what happened to Sir Waldo, someone knows the truth,” she explained, her voice lowering to a whisper as she finished the sentence. Mr. Squibbs, the soul of discretion, walked a few paces away to give them their privacy. “Someone knows our secret. Once I realized that, I didn’t stop to think but came here as fast as I could to request the resourceful Mr. Squibbs’s help. We have to discover that name.”

  Aware of the elevated level of interest in their business, Mr. Squibbs suggested they continue their conversation in the backroom, where they could finalize the details of his assignment without being overheard or interrupted.

  “An excellent idea,” Trent agreed, “but we might as well wait.”

  “Wait?” asked Philip, who still felt aggrieved by Alex’s and Emma’s treatment and hoped to defend himself better once they were alone. “Wait for what?”