It’s Only a Scandal if You’re Caught Read online

  “Nan,” Jack said, still sounding half asleep, pushing himself to his feet. He cleared his throat and rubbed a hand over his face. “What are you doing here?”

  Nanette grinned at him and sauntered over to join him as he stepped out from behind the desk. “I’ve come with information for you, guv’nor,” she hummed in the voice she used while reeling in clients. She wore that look too.

  Jack laughed and shook his head even as she reached his side and pressed herself against him with an impish smile. It was all an act, of course. Nanette adored making people think she was on the verge of tearing his trousers off and riding him into next Sunday. Indeed, Smiley looked as though his eyes might bug out of his head and Poole was having a hard time concealing his laughter.

  “Information?” He shook his head. “Is that all?”

  “About a mutual friend of ours.” The sharpness in Nanette’s eyes was anything but joking. She’d discovered something. Something he needed to know.

  Jack glanced to Poole, nodding for the door. Poole nodded in return, crossing and thumping Smiley’s back.

  “Come along, Smiley,” he said. “We’d best leave the boss alone.”

  The two headed out of the office. “He’s not going to—he wouldn’t really—” Smiley stammered.

  “There’s no telling what he might do,” Poole said, playing along and shutting the door behind him.

  As soon as they were alone, Nanette peeled away from Jack and dropped her sultry act, becoming every bit the wily, intelligent sister he felt that she was to him.

  “What do you know?” he asked.

  “Ah-ah.” She shook her finger at him. “First, I want to know where you were last night.”

  Heat poured into Jack’s face. “How do you know I was anywhere?”

  Nanette grinned and planted one hand on her hip, shaking her head at him. “It’s that Lady Bianca, isn’t it.”

  There was no point in hiding anything from Nanette. “Yes,” he said, sitting against the side of his desk. “And it’s not some cheap affair either. If I can, I’ll marry her.”

  Nanette arched one brow. “If you can. But you know they’ll never let you.”

  Jack opened his mouth to protest, but Nanette went on with, “Well, they’ll never let you move up to marry her. She’s welcome to come down to Clerkenwell level if she wants to marry you that bad.”

  He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Nanette was right, though he hadn’t really let himself consider it. Bianca could marry him and sink into the middle class, if she dared. He wondered if she would think he was worth it and how long it would take for her to resent him.

  That was the last thing he wanted to think about, though, so he shook his head and moved on. “What have you found out?” he asked.

  Nanette stared at him with a considering look, as though she knew exactly what was going through his head. Then she took a breath and seemed to move on as well. “Dick Brickman,” she said. “Other than the fact that he doesn’t really live up to his name and finished before I had even gotten started—”

  Jack winced at the too-intimate detail.

  “He’s definitely up to something.” Nanette’s expression clouded over. “Trouble is, I’m not sure it’s the something you want it to be.”

  “What do you mean?” Jack frowned, crossing his arms.

  Nanette shrugged and walked over to the room’s small fireplace, picking up an old horseshoe on the mantel that had been evidence in a long-closed case. “I did my best to get him talking,” she said. “And he did mention some nobs he’s been working for. But he had more to say about something they were planning, not something they’d already done.”

  Jack stood, instinct sending his blood pumping. “Are they planning another attack? Is Lord O’Shea still in danger?”

  Nanette made a face, put the horseshoe down, and turned back to him. “It didn’t sound like that sort of an attack to me. At least, not on Lord O’Shea. It seemed….” She shrugged. “Something isn’t right.”

  “Did he give you enough information to puzzle out what it might be?” Jack asked.

  “Not exactly.” She crossed back to him. “But he’s coming to see me again tomorrow night. I was extra sweet to him so he’ll keep coming back until I get an answer from him.”

  Conflicting emotions welled up in Jack. He hated using Nanette to pry secrets from criminals in bed. He’d fought tooth and nail against pimps since he was a boy. The last thing he wanted to do was become one in the name of the law. But Nanette had her own mind and seemed to enjoy playing the game.

  “Stay safe,” he warned her, placing a brotherly hand on the side of her face.

  “Always,” she told him as if it were a given. “You too,” she added with a sly look. “Those nobs will do you in if you’re not careful.”

  “I know what I’m doing,” he said, walking toward the door and holding it open for her.

  She moved to leave, but stopped in the doorway with him. “You must really love her,” she sighed, sending him a rare wistful look.

  “Like I’ve never loved anyone,” he said.

  She smiled weakly and patted his cheek. “Then God help you, boy. Because you’re going to need it.”

  Chapter 7

  Jack wasn’t sure if it was God who was helping him through the next two weeks, but someone must have been on his side. In spite of the threats Lady Katya Campbell had made to check up on Bianca and to ensure she was behaving at the St. John’s Wood flat, she didn’t once pop out of the woodwork when he and Bianca were tangled up in the throes of passion, though the possibility lurked constantly at the back of his mind. Perhaps the fact that he and Bianca spent just as much time playing cards and backgammon, attempting to cook together on the tiny stove, or just lounging about in conversation as they did screwing served to hedge their bets. He was ready to believe that Lady Katya had a spy reporting back to her about Bianca, but if she did, that spy hadn’t ratted them out.

  One thing was certain. After two weeks of secretly spending time with Bianca every few nights, Jack still couldn’t stop thinking about her. Which was inconvenient when he was attempting to work.

  He wiped the foolish grin off his face as he sat in a shady corner of The Watchman pub in Fitzrovia, cleared his throat, and reached for the pint he’d been working on for the better part of half an hour. The pub was busier than usual for an autumn afternoon, but that was likely why Brickman had chosen to meet his contact there. Jack pulled the brim of his cap lower over his forehead, concealing his face enough so that he could glance around the noisy room.

  The Watchman was a favorite haunt of nobs who thought they were slumming. The pub’s owner, an old friend of Jack’s by the name of Daniel Long, knew exactly what he was doing when it came to creating an experience for the titled idiots who walked through his door. He purposely left the walls unwashed, the floor unswept, and the tables sticky. He instructed his barmaids to speak in cockney, even though a good portion of them were well-born ladies who had fallen on hard times and needed a safe way to support themselves.

  Danny was a complete fiction himself. Handsome but rough, he banged his way through his establishment like a loud, uncouth dock-hand. In fact, his great-grandfather had been a dock-hand, but had won a small property on Oxford Street in a high-stakes card game with a desperate nobleman during the Napoleonic wars. He’d opened a pub on those premises which had done well. His son expanded the pub and purchased the building that housed it. His son, Danny’s father, had used the profits from rents to buy the buildings on either side and a few more, including the one in Fitzrovia, where The Watchman was housed. And Danny had further invested the profits in a whole row of newly-built houses in Earl’s Court. Unbeknownst to the sneering, boorish snobs who shook Danny’s hand then grimaced at him once his back was turned, Daniel Long was one of the wealthiest men in London.

  “See anything to your liking?” Danny asked as he made his way over to Jack, a knowing spark in his eye. He turned and gestured to the c
rowded pub. Any outsider would think he was pointing out the attractive but harried barmaids as they rushed to serve men in tailored suits with silk ties who pinched their bums the moment their backs were turned, but Jack knew better.

  “I’ve got my eye on a juicy morsel,” Jack played along, nodding to a table across the room. It wasn’t the buxom barmaid serving a pint that he’d been watching, though. Brickman had arrived five minutes earlier and sat hunched at the table, radiating suspicion. Nanette’s information had been spot on. She’d discovered where Brickman would be and why just the night before.

  “Ah,” Danny grinned, swaying slightly, as if he’d been imbibing his own beer. The tactic caused the slumming aristocrats to discount him further, which was genius, as far as Jack was concerned. “A good choice,” Danny went on. “I’ll make sure and certain you get exactly what you’re after.”

  “Cheers.” Jack nodded to his friend and winked.

  He settled back into his nook, pulling his hat down farther, and watched Danny make his way across the room. There was a reason Jack had astounded his superiors at Scotland Yard for years by catching more criminals than half the rest of the force combined. He had the right friends. Danny was still several tables away from Brickman when he made a quick hand motion at the barmaid. She promptly jerked as though someone had pinched her—though no one was close enough to do so—and spilled half a pint across Brickman’s table. A massive fuss ensued in which Danny made loud, boisterous apologies to Brickman, practically lifted him out of his chair, and marched him across the room to the table directly next to Jack.

  “Sorry, sorry, a thousand times sorry,” Danny slurred, plunking Brickman into a chair directly behind Jack, so close that if either leaned back, their heads would touch. “Your drinks are on the house tonight, and I’ll roast a fatted calf for you as well.”

  “I don’t know, it—” Brickman started.

  “Nonsense,” Danny bellowed. “It’s our fault, so we’ll fix everything.”

  He marched off before Brickman could protest. Jack waited, holding his breath, to see if the man would get up and move or stay put. Luck was in his favor as the pub door opened and Denbigh walked in. Jack’s pulse raced and he reached for his pint, holding it to his mouth as if drinking to hide his face as the bastard sauntered closer. He sat across the table from Brickman without so much as glancing in Jack’s direction.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Denbigh growled. “I don’t want anyone to see us together.”

  “No, sir,” Brickman mumbled, then launched right into, “I’ve found a supplier. The stuff’s come in from China, so it won’t cause as much notice.”

  Jack kept perfectly still, his senses prickling. Opium? Was that Denbigh’s game? It didn’t seem to fit.

  “It’s not inferior stuff, is it?” Denbigh sniffed. He waved away one of the barmaids when she came close to take his order. “There will only be one chance to do the job right.”

  “Chinamen invented the stuff,” Brickman insisted. “I’d trust it with my life, as it were.” There was a note of irony in his voice that caused the hair to stand up on the back of Jack’s neck.

  “It’s not your life I care about,” Denbigh growled. “It’s those bloody traitors.”

  Jack frowned, racking his brain for what Denbigh meant. What did opium have to do with traitors? It was likely Denbigh considered Lord O’Shea, Rupert Marlowe, and their friends as traitors, but there was no way to tell for sure. He hated feeling one step behind.

  “I can get the stuff to a warehouse owned by a bloke who will look the other way until you need it,” Brickman went on. “But getting it to the big house will be far more of a challenge.”

  “Why?” Denbigh asked. “I thought it was in barrels. Barrels are easy enough to transport.”

  Jack writhed in suspense. Barrels of opium?

  “It’s in crates, if you must know,” Brickman said. “Though there is a bit of the raw stuff in barrels I could get for you if you’d like. But you can’t just drive a wagonload of the stuff willy-nilly through the streets of London. The whole lot is likely to go up if it’s shook too hard.”

  A knot formed in Jack’s gut so fast it felt like he’d been punched.

  “Crates?” Denbigh asked, irritated.

  Brickman leaned closer to him and lowered his voice, but Jack was still able to make out, “You can’t very well go around carting bloody great loads of gunpowder across London. That’s why it’s all fireworks.”

  “Fireworks?” Denbigh hissed. “What a load of bloody nonsense.”

  “It still goes bang when you light the fuse,” Brickman said. “And it’s a damn sight easier to explain if you get stopped by the coppers. ‘It’s nothing, sir,’” he said as if rehearsing a script. “‘Just taking this lot to a fancy party in the country.’ See?”

  “I see,” Denbigh grumbled. “But don’t get caught.”

  There was a rustling of cloth, and Jack would have bet his eye teeth that money had just changed hands.

  “Don’t you worry, my lord. My men know what to do. This whole thing will make Guy Fawkes proud.”

  Brickman straightened, and as he did, Jack’s luck ran out. He’d leaned back too far in his attempt to listen in on the conversation, and the back of Brickman’s head collided with his. Jack flinched, shooting out of his seat. He kept his back to Brickman and Denbigh and started toward the door.

  “Oy!” Brickman shouted at him, grabbing Jack’s sleeve before he could get away.

  Jack cursed himself in every way he knew and attempted to twist hard enough that Brickman would have to let go. He prayed his hat was low enough over his face that neither man would see who he was, but if he didn’t get out of the pub fast, they would catch him. He’d still managed not to face the two men, but Brickman started out of his chair, still clenching Jack’s sleeve.

  “None of that, none of that,” Danny bellowed, charging from a few tables over to stand between Jack and Brickman. It came as no surprise to Jack that his friend jumped in so fast. He’d likely kept a close eye on the entire interaction in case he was needed. “I’ve had about enough of you,” Danny went on, grabbing the back of Jack’s coat at his neck and wrenching him forward. “That’s the last time you pick a fight in my pub.”

  Brickman was forced to let go as Danny dragged Jack away from the corner and toward the door. Danny kept his large body between Jack and Brickman and Denbigh, shielding him even as he manhandled him. When they reached the door, one of the barmaids already held it open.

  “Two men,” Danny whispered quickly in Jack’s ear. “Red muffler with a hole in it and black coat.”

  Jack nodded once. So Brickman had accomplices with him after all. Thanks to Danny, he would know who was following him as soon as he left the pub.

  “And stay out,” Danny shouted, heaving Jack through the door.

  Danny was never one to do things in half measures, and it was all Jack could do to stay on his feet as he was thrown into the street. He’d thank his friend later, but for the moment, he needed to get away from The Watchman as fast as possible. He tugged his coat tight around him, turned up the collar, and walked up Cleveland Street as fast as possible. Regent’s Park wasn’t far, and on an afternoon as pleasant as it was, there were bound to be crowds he could lose any followers in.

  Sure enough, as he turned sharply at Greenwell Street and glanced over his shoulder at the way he’d come, the man wearing a red muffler and the one with a black coat were only a dozen or so yards behind. And they knew they’d been spotted in an instant.

  Jack broke into a run, sprinting down Greenwell Street and cutting through an alley to reach Great Portland Street. As he shot around the corner and dodged pedestrians on his way to Regent’s Park, he heard footfalls behind him. The men pursuing him didn’t shout or carry on, they just followed, which meant they knew what they were doing. It didn’t bode well.

  The second he hit Regent’s Park, Jack headed straight for the thickest crowd of people, who were wat
ching a band perform on the lawn. He was fast and had put more distance between him and his pursuers, which was exactly what he needed. As soon as he dashed into the crowd, he slowed, hunching to blend in, and unbuttoned his coat. By the time he wove his way to the far end of the crowd, he had his coat off and draped over his arm, his hat tucked into a pocket, and continued on at a sedate pace. He didn’t dare turn and look behind him, but he didn’t feel the pressure of immediate pursuit anymore. All the same, he needed to get out of the park and somewhere out of sight as fast as possible.

  His search for safety was instantly answered as he spotted the gate where he and Bianca had left during the political rally two weeks ago. The flat. It was relatively nearby, and it was completely discreet. Better still, he had the key in his pocket. And there he’d thought he was being a sentimental fool for keeping it with him at all times as a reminder.

  He switched directions, walking calmly but swiftly toward the gate. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted his pursuers searching through the crowd watching the band. They were looking away from him, but if they got it into their heads to turn just a little too much to one side, they’d spot him. His heart beat in his throat as he fought to keep his pace even.

  The moment he reached the gate and exited the park, he broke into a jog once more. The men didn’t seem to be pursuing him, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He wound his way through back streets and alleys, taking a circuitous route and glancing behind him as often as he could to be sure he hadn’t been spotted.

  By the time he reached the flat, he was certain the men hadn’t seen or followed him. He paused inside the doorway of the building to catch his breath and to watch through a small window to be sure, then he headed upstairs, taking the key out of his pocket.

  “Jack! What are you doing here?”

  Bianca’s surprise greeting made Jack jump twice as high as the events at the pub and the pursuit afterwards had as he slipped through the door.