Having escorted her to the Royal Exchange John excused himself to walk to Roker’s office nearby, leaving her Robinson and the footman. Faith had visited the Royal Exchange a few times before. She enjoyed its heady blend of business and commerce. It contained many of the finest stores in London, even though the fashionable world had moved on to the West End. Its three tiers, ranged around a central courtyard, where businessmen gathered making deals and exchanging information, held a mixture of small, select shops, coffeehouses and businesses. Unfortunately, women never darkened the doors of the coffeehouses, although some inns had begun to put rooms aside exclusively for the use of women.
They should have done that years ago, Faith thought, since there must be a lot of business available. The recent meeting must have caught her interest, because she found herself wondering about women-only public places of refreshment, examining the establishments with an eye to privacy, ease of access and commercial possibilities.
Damn, she was thinking like her husband, seeking out business opportunities. Instead, she turned her mind to her purchases and within half an hour had a selection of mourning goods. She spread the largesse over several establishments and ensured they knew she was the Countess of Graywood, and that she could bring them useful custom if she wished. Making an impression, telling people she had arrived. After a while, she found her progress easier. Word must have passed around the traders, messenger boys and runners exchanging the information so shopkeepers were waiting to usher her into their establishments, a chair set ready for her. She wasn’t sure she enjoyed it after the first few visits. Several had known her as Mrs. Dalkington-Smythe. They used that information for all they were worth, lavishing her with “My lady”’s and “Your impeccable taste” and other such blandishments which she didn’t appreciate in the least.
The expedition tired her more than shopping as an ordinary person. Sometimes she’d seen the grand ladies in the Exchange, felt herself nudged aside so the proprietor could accommodate their needs. But now she discovered that being at the receiving end exhausted her just as much. People watched her, stared at her and she had to keep smiling, as if their attention didn’t disturb her. She was still Faith, although nobody treated her that way. Except for John.
After she left the shop she sent the footman ahead to stow the packages in the carriage, and order the driver to get ready. Robinson remained with her. If John was tied up with Mr. Roker, she’d go home and send the carriage back for him.
Home! Already, the large house seemed to contain some of those attributes, even if the dauntingly grand suite assigned to them still appeared to belong to someone else. Not her. Maybe John, after what she’d learned about him today.
She wanted to take off this stylish but too-new gown, put on her old robe and sit with her feet up for an hour before she had to dress for dinner. Recalling what John had considered ‘a rest’ the previous day she smiled, and led the way down the stairs towards the main central area and the exit.
At the bottom of the stairs lay a relatively sheltered space, with no shops or other establishments leading off it. It tempted her to linger, where nobody was watching her, but she’d ordered the carriage brought around and the lure of tea drew her.
“Mrs. Dalkington-Smythe.”
A voice she knew, a voice she thought she’d left behind cut into her musings. Spinning around, she saw Robinson gripped none too gently in the arms of a big bully, his hand clamped over her mouth.
Her eyes bulged wide with panic over the beefy fingers clasped across her mouth and nose.
She stared into the face of her worst nightmare.
Chapter Nine
Faith had seen worse looking ruffians in her life, but not many. The men who stood, or rather, swaggered, before her, all had a degree of evil attraction, although they’d never attracted her. The last time she’d seen them was just under two years ago, because she’d hidden and made sure she stayed hidden. “Clever girl, to grab an earl,” the main one said. He stood in front of this colleagues grinning, the two front teeth he had left gleaming white, the gold one at the side still glinting when he spoke. Just as she remembered it, saw it in her nightmares.
“Do you know how much interest accumulates in two years?”
said the man she knew as Cockfosters. Of course, that could not be his name, but some babies didn’t have the fortune to be baptised.
He could call himself what he liked, he’d always be an evil bastard.
Robinson struggled in the restraining hold of another ruffian, his hand clamped over her mouth, his other around her waist, clamping to him with insulting ease. Fury and terror coursed through her, driving her to move, to run, but she couldn’t leave her maid behind. Besides, someone else stood in front of the small enclosed space, picking his teeth with a knife, effectively deterring curious visitors.
“You can’t dun me for the debts of a dead man,” she said.
“Yes we can,” he said gently. “You’re a countess now. We ‘eard about that.” She remembered the occasional dropped ‘h’ and the flat, London accent too, although the last time they’d met was in Belgium. They’d been scum then and they were scum now.
“Try it.”
“Let ‘em know what you did, what your ‘usband did? By the way, when did you marry this one?” He moved closer, the single step a menace she worked hard not to retreat from. If she did, she’d back herself against a wall, and never have a chance to run. “Because we saw your husband alive and well the night before Waterloo. Did you marry this one after? Because look at this.” He dug a hand in the capacious pocket of his greatcoat and dragged out a single sheet of paper. “They’re talking about you already. Look ‘ere.” He could read, and he did so now, quoting from the paper. “The sad deaths of the fifth Earl of Graywood and his brother at sea have left us with a new earl, and countess. His lordship has taken up residence in the London house in Grosvenor Square. He recently returned from abroad. Word says he had no previous memory of a wife, but he surely remembers her now. ” He put on a false upper-tier accent, sneering the words nasally. “Her la’ship has lived in London since the victory at Waterloo, believing herself a widow. She received a severe shock on her husband’s return from abroad, but maybe it was a welcome one. It is said that the current earl was on board ship with his cousins when the tragedy occurred. We wonder why the earl and his two heirs would choose to travel on the same vessel. But perhaps that can be explained in ways less suspicious than the ones currently circulating around the city. ”
“That’s libel!” she gasped but pamphlets and news-sheets appeared every day, untraceable, so the lies they perpetrated could not be denied or their creators punished.
“It’s not libel if it’s not a lie.”
“He never wanted to become an earl!” She closed her mouth with a snap, appalled she’d let that much out.
Cockfosters sneered, his full mouth curling in a way that someone else might find sensual. She found it deeply sinister. She put up her chin, her invariable habit when scared out of her mind.
What could she do now? She’d prayed they’d given up the hunt.
That was why she’d run so hard and so fast when her husband had died. Because they’d come back.
“You owe me, missy, and now you can pay. And pay and pay.”
He thrust the paper in her face. It smelled of him. He stank worse, but she stood her ground, ready to fight.
She put up her chin. “Or what?”
“I’ll make you listen. I can make the world listen. You’re not the only nob I’ve got in my pocket, you know, and I worked something out about you. You ain’t married to that man, are you? Fuck knows why ‘e’d take you in. Maybe ‘e likes your company.” He winked, lascivious and hateful. “Maybe he knows and he’s using you before he throws you out, but ‘e wouldn’t want the world to find out, would he? Or maybe you’re taking him in. I reckon it’s the last one.