His Dark and Dangerous Ways Page 3

  She spread the damp, creased bills on her tabletop, and left them there as though afraid to touch them again.

  Her parents were gone. Her mother, to an illness that ate up their money, and then her father to drinking and gaming, trying to forget that her mother was gone, which ate up the rest. They’d never been rich, merely comfortable and respectable. Being respectable helped use up the last of the family fortune. Her older brother had joined the navy, seen the war, landed on the Continent, and never returned. He hadn’t been hurt, only married. He sent his sister a pittance every month, just enough for her to buy a skein of wool to knit something for his ever growing family.

  The family estate had gone to the mortgagers, and Jane had gone to cousins for assistance. She soon discovered that their family, like many respectable far-flung English families, already had enough orphans, widows, and spinsters to care for. She’d have to work for her livelihood, she’d known that. But any position they found for her would be menial and demeaning, because poor relatives were a glut on the market. Wedlock was out of the question for her. Marriage for a female with no living parents and no funds was never a matter of personal choice, unless it was a mad or bad one.

  So she’d come to London and despite the odds, actually found a respectable way to make her living. She could dance. Even better, she loved to do it. Her parents had given her instruction in all the feminine arts, but she had excelled in the dance. Of course, females who danced could make money only in the theater and ballet, both of which ruined reputations. But luckily for Jane, male dancing masters had also gotten a bad reputation because a few had a penchant for seducing too many of their rich or noble clients. Many of them were French, not the best thing to be in England these days.

  So Jane found she could get a few recommendations from relatives grateful not to have to house her, to teach ladies to dance. One day, she’d also taught a lady’s young sister, who had begged for the chance. Amazingly, the toddler had done well. Mothers of friends of the little girl, hearing of this, clamored for a chance to educate their darlings, and Jane had a new occupation: giving classes for children. It had become a “rage” and she began to make money. Jane dreamed of making more so that she could one day hold her head high again and stop worrying about the price of candles. She knew she’d have to make it quickly because “rages” were ephemeral. But now this!

  She sat down in the chair in her room again, staring at the rumpled, much counted banknotes. They would rent her room for the month, feed her, buy candles for every night, and allow her to set some aside for the fund she kept so one day she might open her own dance studio. And this was only a first payment! This much money, if it kept coming, could lighten her life even above daydreams. She could have her own dance studio while she was still young. She could live above it in bright, cheerful rooms. She could buy her own pianoforte and hire someone to play while she gave instruction to adults and infants. She’d have a profession, be her own employer, and make a good life for herself.

  Was it possible to make a good life from bad money? As the candle on the table guttered, Jane sighed, and not just because she’d have to light a new one. No money was ever bad; it was the means to it that could be. Were they?

  A secretive gentleman wanted her to tell him who came to Lady Lydia’s salon, and how often. That wasn’t much. Unless, of course, the gentleman had evil aims. Jane grew pale thinking of how many there could be. He could be planning a robbery. He might be thinking of abduction. Blackmail was a possibility.

  Jane looked around her rented room. She’d been extravagant this evening. She actually bought violets and put them in a glass on the table to lighten the atmosphere. Violets were valiant but it would take buckets of them to cheer this dim third-floor room, with its shabby furnishings, threadbare rug, and small sagging bed. The only window caught the sun at dawn, if it wasn’t raining. Then the light left and the room was in shadow the rest of the day. But the room was in a decent part of town, and decency was something she had to be able to afford.

  So she had to look at the situation rationally. She couldn’t see how knowing who visited a person’s house would make robbery any easier. Abduction would require knowing a deal more than that. But blackmail was possible. Jane stood and went to the dim window. She’d have to ask why the information was needed, and try to judge his answer. And if, by some miracle, it was only some silly benign reason, and the gentleman was just a fellow who had too much money, why then, why not?

  Jane saw her reflection in the darkened glass, and turned away. She must not deceive herself. She wasn’t a criminal. She wasn’t going to go into league with one. But all that money!

  Tonight, she didn’t have to set the table to have dinner; she’d had hers in the street. That meat pasty had been fresh, delicious, and filling. Now there were hours to go before bedtime. So she stood and thought. She’d been tempted before; mainly because even without wanting to, she tempted men. She wouldn’t sell herself for any money, though, to be honest, it was nice to know that she was wanted for whatever reason. Still, she was wise enough to know that wouldn’t be for long. Women faded faster than violets. That’s why so many men thought almost any young woman beautiful.

  Jane discounted her large long-lashed hazel eyes, small, even features, and clear complexion. She didn’t think her lithe dancer’s figure especially attractive, not compared to the young society beauties with their plump bosoms and dimpled arms. Not compared to opera dancers with their magnificently painted faces, either. But though dancing on stage was a lot more lucrative than teaching dance, it was only a step higher than walking the streets. She’d sell her knowledge of the dance, but not the body that performed them. If a respectable young woman lost her respectability, her brain and beauty counted for nothing. She’d be ineligible for marriage or employment. Family, funds, and position in Society might give a fortunate woman freedom, if she wanted it. Jane wasn’t in that class. She wasn’t in the same class as the elegant beauty she worked for—and had been asked to spy on.

  Jane thought long and hard, long past her bedtime. She had to be up early in order to go to Mrs. McIntyre’s house to teach her two daughters and their friends. Jane had three employers, and traveled round London visiting their homes. Lady Harwood was the most socially elevated. If her dance instructress became well known in the ton, Jane would never be out of work. She’d have to wait for Lady Harwood’s permission, of course, because she’d promised not to go to work for any of her acquaintances until given permission. The lady wanted exclusivity. That rankled. By the time she was given permission, Jane was afraid other needy well-born females would take her idea, and eventually, her success.

  So this money would be an extra benefit. The gentleman who offered it was astonishingly elegant and ridiculously handsome, in a clean, virile sort of fashion. Jane mightn’t have any designs on him but she had eyes, didn’t she? So she had to be on her guard against him and herself when she asked him his motives. Still, if she judged his motives to be innocent, she’d be doing no more than telling the truth, and probably doing less of that than any other servant in the house.

  When Jane fell asleep at last, it was to sweet dreams of freedom and ease, in a world filled with music and laughter, the way it used to be.

  Chapter 3

  The Honorable Miss Leticia Harwood threw herself into the air. She had waited impatiently while the other girls did their leaps and then, when Miss Chatham called to her to take her turn, she ran down the polished ballroom floor, her little chubby legs working like pistons on the new Puffing Billy locomotive. Then, with perfect form, one leg out and the other used as a spring, she took off into the ether. She actually floated for a fraction of a moment, and then landed, not farther on down the ballroom, as she was supposed to do, but instead, right in her instructress’s midsection.

  Miss Harwood came to earth in a froth of skirts and giggles. Miss Charlotte Stratton came tumbling down with her, with an audible “Oof!” The other students saw an excellent opportunit
y for good fun and with cries of glee, piled onto the writhing heap of toddler and dance master where they lay on the floor.

  The piano music stopped instantly. The governess rose from her bench. “Come, girls,” she cried. “This is most unseemly. Miss Chatham? Are you all right?”

  “I think so,” Miss Chatham replied. But her voice was strained, hardly audible from under the heap of children. Her body, or at least parts of it, was clearly visible, though. One shapely leg was bared to her thigh, the other was somewhere beneath her. Her skirt was hiked high, her hair had come undone. She couldn’t worry about propriety now. She was more concerned with the agonizing pain in her hidden leg. As she’d fallen, she’d twisted so that the child wouldn’t be hurt, and had taken the weight of the girl. Her leg was twisted beneath her. The pain was sharp, but nothing to the terror she felt.

  If she lost the use of her limb for any amount of time, she’d lose her livelihood, entirely. Jane waited, eyes closed in a silent prayer, as the governess slowly tried to peel the collection of children off her. Suddenly, the girls stopped laughing, and the removal came more swiftly. Jane abruptly found herself free. She opened her eyes and shook her head to get the hair out of her eyes. She saw a shapely masculine hand reaching down to her. She blinked.

  A young gentleman smiled at her. “Here,” he said, “take my hand, if you can. Otherwise, I’ll pick you up.”

  “No, no,” she cried, scrabbling to sit up and switch her skirts down at the same time, seeing where her rescuer was looking, with interest. “I can manage, thank you very much.”

  “I should think so,” her employer said archly. The lady was standing in the doorway with an assortment of staff and guests, all watching Jane scramble to make herself presentable. “Let her be, Richard. She’s turning pink. I believe you’re embarrassing her.”

  “Well, I would let her be, but I don’t know if she’s able to stand,” the young man she’d called Richard said. “And I am a gentleman.”

  “Just your hand for a moment then, sir,” Jane told him. “Help me rise and I’ll be fine, thank you.”

  “Your leg?” he asked, as she took his proffered hand and levered herself up from the floor. “It’s all right?”

  “Fine,” Jane lied, releasing his hand as though it were scalding her. “I’m just…Just give me a moment, please.”

  She shook out her skirts, put her injured leg down on the floor, and tested it. She concealed a gasp of pain. It hurt, but she could bear it, and it could bear her. Though her ankle ached, it didn’t hurt as much as a break or a sprain would. She let out a shuddery in-held breath. Then she managed a smile. “Right as rain. Miss Stratton just got carried away. I won’t be able to continue the lesson today, girls,” she told the children crowded around her. “But I’m fine.”

  “I’m thorry, Mith Chatham,” Miss Stratton managed to say around the thumb she’d put in her mouth.

  “No need,” Jane said. “You just have to straighten that leap out a bit, and you’ll be perfect. As will I. Don’t worry. But, my lady,” she added, looking at her employer and seeing the displeasure writ large on her face, “I must stop this lesson now. I should go home and rest so I can come back on my usual day later this week.”

  “That’s that then,” her employer said. “Miss Rogers,” she told the governess, “please help the girls dress in their proper clothing. Go now, children. And the rest of you,” she said to the goggling servants gathered in the doorway. “The raree-show is over, back to your duties. We’ll see you Thursday next then, Miss Chatham. Now, friends,” she said, turning to her interested guests, “shall we return to the salon?”

  The other guests began to amble back to the front salon, but the young gentleman stayed standing where he was. “Surely she can’t walk now,” he said in surprise. “I was just leaving myself, my lady. I’d be happy to take her safely home.”

  But the lady of the house obviously wasn’t happy. A rare frown showed on her beautiful face as she looked from the young man she’d called Richard to Jane. Jane wouldn’t have taken the young gentleman’s offer for any reason. But she was puzzled at her employer’s expression of displeasure. She herself might look like a trollop, with her hair down to her shoulders, and everyone had certainly got a look at her limbs. But surely the lady knew it wasn’t her fault.

  And as for her would-be helper? The young man was clearly at least a decade younger than Lady Harwood herself was. He wasn’t handsome: he was a tall, thin, ordinary-looking lad, not anyone to make a grown woman’s heart beat faster. He was, at best, pleasant-looking. Jane’s eyes opened wide. Richard! He had to be the elusive young suitor the strange gentleman had paid her to look for.

  “Thank you, sir, but it isn’t necessary,” Jane said firmly. “In fact, I was looking forward to resting up in the kitchens with a cup of tea before I set out. I’ll be perfectly able by then.”

  “Of course she will be,” the lady said. “Now come along, Richard. Have you forgotten? Our own tea awaits.”

  “All this excitement did make me forget, forgive me,” Richard said. He looked lingeringly at Jane. “Fare thee well then,” he said to her, and taking his hostess’s arm, left the ballroom with her.

  Jane let out her breath. Now she was alone and didn’t have to stifle her winces as she hobbled over to a chair to get a look at her ankle. She raised her skirt gingerly. Her ankle was swollen. But not dark purple, and she could bend it, with effort and a few unladylike grunts. She sat back for a relieved moment. It would heal. And at least she’d also caught sight of the young suitor and had a glimpse that showed her employer’s attitude toward him. Much good that would do her.

  Her information was useless now. Although she’d paused and peeked whenever she’d walked through the hall, and looked into the shadows every night, she hadn’t gotten another glimpse of the mysterious fellow who had wanted that information. It had been almost two weeks since she’d first met him for the first, and last time, she decided. She’d found out his name by idly asking the servants who had visited their lady that day. He was Simon, Lord Granger. Much good that information did her, as well.

  But now Jane was relieved. She was still leery of the harm she’d done to herself, or rather, the harm the overenthusiastic Miss Stratton had done. The little girl was round and firm as a cannonball, and had hit her like one. Next time, she’d brace herself. But she couldn’t stand in the ballroom all day, so Jane combed back her hair with her hands and braided it up again, assembled her belongings, and limped down to the kitchens, suppressing groans as she did.

  By the time evening shadows were gathering, she felt good enough to make her way home. Cook and some other servants had fussed over her at first, and then, as time went on, the novelty of her accident wore off. By the time the other servants began to come down for their dinners, Jane was forgotten until she stood up again. She refused their kind offer to join them. She knew her place, upstairs and down, in this house. They stood on ceremony here. They’d have been shocked and embarrassed had she accepted their invitation. She was allowed in and out the front door, but she wasn’t exalted enough to be a guest of her employer. Nor was she lowly enough to mingle comfortably with the servants and trades people, those who had to use the back door. Even the governess, an educated female of good birth, ate her dinner alone in solitary splendor, in her rooms.

  Jane waited, dinnerless, in the front hall.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Chatham,” the butler said when he finally joined her there. “My lady said that since you didn’t give an entire lesson, there’d be only a token payment to you for coming today. It’s a hard life, and that’s the truth,” he added in an under voice, as he handed her a very few coins.

  “Thank you,” she said, on a sigh, taking them. “I know I displeased her.”

  “And not just by turning your ankle,” he added in a lower voice. “But by turning a head. Be careful of that, my girl. Good night, be well.”

  Jane thanked him and limped out of the town house and down the short
front stair into the growing shadows. Her workday was done, but thankfully, her career wasn’t. Her leg wasn’t broken or sprained. She’d injured herself before, and knew that she should be back on her feet in two days for her next scheduled lesson. She didn’t think she could go to work for Mrs. Smythe and her daughters tomorrow, or to Mrs. McIntyre the day after that. She’d have to send a note to them.

  She’d never tell Lady Harwood about those lost opportunities. But her work here alone couldn’t support her, and though she’d promised to never work for any other lady, if Lady Harwood never knew about Jane’s middle-class employers, it wouldn’t harm anyone.

  Jane moved slowly down the street, favoring her ankle. It didn’t hurt so much anymore, if she kept pressure off it. It needed ice; she’d have to stop at the fishmonger’s stall on the way home and buy some. Any new expense pained her more than her leg did now.

  She’d had such bright dreams only a few weeks ago. But since Lord Granger, that mysterious gentleman with an ear for gossip, had never contacted her again, she had to work, as ever, where and when she could. She’d looked for the fellow, stopping at every wavering shadow when she walked home every night. He’d vanished, at least from her sight. Subtle inquiries told her that he had visited the house, but she’d never seen him there. Not that she could speak to him if he had, anyhow.

  And now at last she had some real gossip for him: not only the things she’d seen, but what she’d heard in her corner of the kitchens as the servants had forgotten her presence there this evening. They’d started to chat about Jane’s accident, and then, quite naturally about how their lady’s nose had got into a knot when her current favorite young gentleman had offered courtesy to Jane. They approved of her reticence, and were smug to discover that Lady Harwood hadn’t quite hooked him completely. They’d forgotten Jane so entirely that the gossip became interesting, and possibly useful to her secret employer.