Virtually no one knew that, and those who did would never tell.
The quartet had come together in circumstances born of serendipity and necessity. The duchess had been looking for brilliant women who had little to fear from society, and she’d found them in Imogen, who came with an expertise in things both extremely useful and extremely dangerous; Adelaide, whose meek exterior made her a superior thief; and Sesily—scandalous Sesily—who had shocked society so many times that few even noticed when she disappeared from a ballroom, scoundrel in tow.
Hadn’t she done just that three nights earlier? Left the ballroom, no one the wiser, under cover of scandal—invisible in it?
Not invisible to everyone.
Caleb had seen her.
Caught her.
Protected her.
She drank, willing the thoughts away. Now wasn’t the time for the man and his ridiculous broad shoulders and his unreasonably handsome face and the way he kissed her like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it.
He clearly hadn’t, or he wouldn’t have made a habit of leaving the country every time he saw her.
She cleared her throat and returned to more important matters. “If you ask me, Lord Rotter received an absolute gift. He could have had it far worse. Frankly, I’d have preferred him to have it far worse.”
“I offered to take care of the problem,” Imogen said. “You all told me, categorically, that he had to awaken.”
The duchess gave a little snort of amusement. “He did have to awaken.”
When Imogen did not reply, Adelaide lowered her paper. “You understand that, don’t you, Imogen?” In the silence that followed, Adelaide prompted, “Don’t you, Imogen?”
“Yes of course,” Imogen said, finally, cantankerous.
“Good.”
Imogen crossed her arms in silent defiance as the barman returned with Sesily’s whiskey. She waited until he disappeared, flushed with pleasure at Sesily’s grateful smile, and then added, “I’m merely saying that if he hadn’t awakened—”
“If he hadn’t awakened,” Sesily interjected, taking half a potato from Adelaide, “we’d have had a dead body to contend with.”
“It’s not as though we don’t have ways of dealing with those,” Imogen said.
“Well, I’m most certainly not going to ask what ways you have for dealing with those,” Sesily said, “but I’m certain that even if we had dealt with it, I’d be on a boat somewhere, running from Peel’s boys just to be safe.”
Robert Peel’s Metropolitan Police made for a more formidable foe requiring more creative solutions to the problems the quartet agreed to solve. No, Scotland Yard most definitely would not take kindly to the death of an earl.
But the earl wasn’t dead. He was worse, destroyed by the truth—the truth that had only ever been acknowledged in knowing looks shared between men, and quick about-faces by young women who had had the benefit of privilege and warning.
The truth, which had been ignored, as long as he didn’t harm one of their own.
They’d all known the truth about Totting, and not one of them had done anything to stop him, so Sesily, Adelaide, Imogen, and the duchess had done what the others would not. And Sesily didn’t mind in the slightest that it was by her own hand.
Now, the whole of the aristocracy could finally turn its back on the Earl of Totting, full of cowardice, relief, and the sheer delight that came with watching the fall of power.
“The Scandal Sheet is already reporting it—consumed with what it calls A Rotten End,” Adelaide said.
“Of course they are calling it that. Ever on the nose,” Sesily said, toasting the duchess with her whiskey. “I wonder how they had that gossip so quickly?”
“As it happens, the publisher was in attendance at the ball. Can you believe it? What luck,” the duchess replied with a laugh. “Now, the work is protecting the rest of the city from the bastard. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for him to fall into the wrong hands somewhere in the East End.”
Adelaide looked up. “God knows there are plenty of wrong hands who’d be happy to catch him.”
“And I’m the dangerous one,” Imogen said.
“You enjoy setting things aflame.”
“With chemicals,” Imogen retorted. “Not my own anger.”
Adelaide smiled and gave a little, innocent shrug. “Really, Imogen. I don’t know what you’re on about.”
Sesily couldn’t help her laugh. Adelaide might be considered tepid and meek by most of Mayfair … but she had a wicked sense of justice and a willingness to do anything to mete it out.
“Well, either way, neither of your particular brands of justice shall be meted out,” the duchess said. “I have it on good authority that Totting has a number of debts coming due in the next few days from less than accommodating lenders. Bad luck, that.”
The Duchess of Trevescan had a vast network of informants that spread from royal palaces to dockside taverns. She knew every noble scoundrel in London, and a fair number of the less-than-noble ones. Totting would need more than luck to escape the dark corners of London unscathed.
“If the rotter wasn’t an absolute maggot, I’d feel sorry for him,” Sesily said.
“The state of his person aside, everyone is wondering who could have done the damage to his reputation,” Adelaide said.
“Would we call it a reputation?”
“A half dozen names bandied about in this column alone.”
“Oh?” Sesily said, casually, indicating her friend’s plate. “What is that, turbot? Are you going to finish it?”
Adelaide snapped the paper down. “Would someone summon one of her adoring masses and get her fed?”
The duchess waved a hand toward a passing barman. Once additional food was ordered, Adelaide said, “The most likely culprits appear to be a parliamentary rival—”
“Please,” Sesily said. “Not one man in Lords has the nerve.”
“—a bet-taker to whom he apparently owes a fair amount of money—”
“Illogical. A bookmaker would have done worse to his face.”
“But not to his title!” Imogen proclaimed happily.
Sesily grinned with pride. “No. Certainly not.”
Adelaide continued. “And an ex-lover who was apparently devastated by the loss of his companionship.”
Sesily scoffed. “Well, that’s absolutely a suspect named by Totting himself, because anyone with half a brain can understand that no one would ever be devastated by the loss of that man’s verminous companionship.” When she’d found the earl in the labyrinth that night, he had been less than gentlemanly. She’d been lucky that he’d been willing to take the drink she’d proffered, so she hadn’t been required to free the blade sheathed beneath her skirts.
Sesily and the others’ nocturnal activities aside, women of sense did not leave the house without a weapon. Not in London in 1838, at least. A queen on the throne had ensured that too many men had taken entire leave of their senses.
“Careful, Sesily,” the duchess said, “you’re beginning to sound put out that your name isn’t on the list.”
“You must admit there’s a distinct lack of creativity in it.”