The Perils of Pleasure (7 page)

Bins holding potatoes and onions were the source of the earthy smell. Sacks of what appeared to be fl our were stacked at one end, and other smaller sacks that no doubt held coffee beans and spices leaned against the big sacks like bashful children.

Colin released Mr. Croker from his grasp, and Mad
eleine stepped back, lifting the pistol away from the man’s belly. Croker shook himself out as though he’d been crumpled like a sheet of foolscap, bending his arm up and down, testing it pragmatically.

And then the innkeeper spun his head from Made
leine to Colin back to Madeleine again, trying to decide what to say fi rst.

“Mrs. Greenway,” he began. “I . . . you’re . . . you’re alive.” He beamed a bit queasily.

“Why does this surprise you, Mr. Croker?” She was coldly, impressively, authoritative.

But Croker apparently wasn’t prepared to answer this question yet, because another one loomed larger for him.

“And . . . I beg yer pardon fer askin’, sir . . . would yer be Mr. Colin Eversea? Truly?”

Colin swept his hat all the way off and bowed. With
out verbally confirming a thing.

For a moment Mr. Croker seemed unable to speak. His hands fidgeted in his apron; his lips worried over each other; his eyes were large. He toed the ground with his big boots.

When the nefarious Mr. Croker finally spoke again, it was in a tone of hushed dignity.

“I canna
begin
to tell ye . . . well, I’m a great admirer, sir,” he said humbly. “A
great
admirer, Mr. Eversea.”

“Thank you, Mr. Croker,” Colin said solemnly. He wasn’t about to argue the moral fine points of admiring a convicted murderer. Admiration might prove useful.

“Mr. Croker, we should like some answers, if you please.” This came from Madeleine, and the words had a glinting steel edge. She had no patience for the admi
ration either, clearly.

The innkeeper returned his attention to her and his words tumbled out. “Oh, Mrs. Greenway, ’tis ’appy I am yer alive. Ye ken I’m a great admirer of your work as well—”

Her
work
? Colin turned to study her. She had an actual
body
of work?

Her attention was entirely on the innkeeper. “Mr. Croker,” Madeleine interjected. “Compliments aside—”

“Nivver seen anythin’ like it,” Croker said, shak
ing his head with awe. He apparently needed to relieve himself of a great store of suppressed admiration. “Ye could ’ave shown Guy Fawkes and ’is lot a thing or two, Mrs. Greenway. I always said ye was a genius, I did. Flash bombs? Black powder? Brilliance! No one even
’urt
, from what I gather, apart from some apoplexy and turned ankles, but ’tis soon yet to know. Like
Welling
ton
wi’ eyelashes, ye be! ’Tis proud I am that I recom
mended ye fer the work. And look! ‘Ere is Mr. Eversea, alive and well. I never dreamed ’e would be your as
signment! I thought ’twas impressive enough when ye retrieved the necklace from Lord Garrett’s mistress last year, or when ye stopped the Bridlaw Gang from—”

“Mr. Croker,” she interjected acidly, “please. My plan may have been brilliant, but its success depended upon every aspect concluding properly. And as you are aware, one aspect most decidedly did
not
. Where is my money? And who shot at me? And why did you
betray
me?”

Croker sighed. Dropped his head to his chest. Then looked up again.

“Well, as ye know, Mrs. Greenway, I’ve a price for nearly everything,” he began contritely, as though he hated to remind her of something she already knew.

“Of course, Mr. Croker,” she said with extraordi
nary patience, given the circumstances.

“It came in the form of a threat and twenty-fi ve pounds, Mrs. Greenway. Twenty-five pounds! They was mine, the twenty-five pounds, if I told where you would be with Colin Eversea at
noon
—sooner than you wanted. I canna say who went to find you. And no other money would be forthcoming, it was made quite clear, so I’ve no payment for ye. And though I’ve
some
scruples, ye see, as we’ve been professional associates fer such a
long
—well, it were twenty-five pounds, and I’d ’ave to be mad no’ to—”

Madeleine Greenway held up a hand—the one not holding the pistol—against this outpouring of criminal sincerity. “I understand, Mr. Croker. Truly. I would perhaps have done the same for twenty-fi ve pounds.”

Colin turned his head slowly toward her again.
Would
she have?

“Who came to you with these instructions?” she de
manded. “A man, a woman? Who?”

Croker paused again.

“Ye see . . . word ’as it the ’ole of the English army be out in search of ye, Mr. Eversea. Word ’as it there will be a reward for yer capture, too, but none ’as ’eard so much as what the reward will be. And Mrs. Greenway . . . well, I wouldn’t return to yer lodgings, if I was you. Not if I wanted to stay alive.”

And after that, mouth shut firmly, he folded his hands in front of him and waited.

Madeleine seemed to know precisely what he meant and what he was waiting for.

“I’ve naught to pay you with, Mr. Croker.”

This wasn’t entirely true, Colin knew. After paying for the hackney ride with their money from the button, she had three entire shillings, at least.

Croker sighed. He was apparently weighing the risks of divulging his information against his great,
great
admiration for Mrs. Greenway and Mr. Colin Eversea and his own soul-deep belief not to ever give anything away if profi t could be squeezed from it.

Colin had an inspiration. “Mr. Croker, if I may make a sugges—”

Mr. Croker snapped his fingers, his face lighting with
enthusiasm. “I’ve a proposal! But I need to leave this room first. If ye’ll let me pass out of ’ere now, I swear to it I’ll return with a solution for all of us.”

Madeleine and Colin regarded him with deep skepti
cism and said nothing.

“I
swear
I’ll return to ye,” Croker said, sounding wounded. He put a hand over his heart. “And I willna tell a soul of yer presence.”

“Not even for twenty-fi ve pounds?” Madeleine said, and to her credit, it was only faintly snide.

“Not even. I swear it.”

“On what, Mr. Croker?” Madeleine Greenway sounded tired. “On what will you swear?”

“On my wife’s dear head.”

Madeleine’s eyebrows flew up cynically.

“On the very ground the Tiger’s Nest is built upon,” he revised desperately.

Silence. She kept her pistol pointed at Croker, who hadn’t the faintest idea it was currently an impotent pistol. Colin stood, arms crossed over his chest, silent.

Croker glanced anxiously toward the door. His crowd of drinkers and diners would be thickening just about now, prepared to spend money and wreak havoc and concoct nefarious business he would hate to be excluded from; his employees would be shirking their duties, a small boy no doubt intermittently wiping his nose and touching the meat and turning the crank of a spit.

Croker sighed again. “Mrs. Greenway,” he began very reasonably. “I would like to ’elp. I’ve a solution what might suit all of us. I merely need to fetch summat and bring it in to ye. I’ll return. What ’ave ye to lose? Everyone will begin to wonder where I’ve got to and come to look fer me.”

He had an excellent point.

“Go,” Colin said simply. Madeleine’s head snapped toward him, and he could feel the heat of those dark eyes on him.

Croker looked at Madeleine, and at the gun, then back at Colin, a plea beginning to enter his eyes, his al
legiance clearly beginning to solidify in favor of Colin.

“Go,” Colin repeated, directing a hard, speaking look at Madeleine after he did.

Madeleine slowly lowered the hand gripping the useless pistol. A veritable nimbus of displeasure sur
rounded her.

Mr. Croker backed from the room. “I’ll return,” he whispered happily. “I promise.”

And the door clicked shut.

Madeleine turned on Colin. “How
dare
—”

“Tell me another solution,” Colin said simply.

“It was the
right
solution,” she fumed. “But you will not
presume
any decisions for as long as you’re availing yourself of my serv—”

They turned abruptly when the door creaked open and the innkeeper slid his girth into the room. He used his enormous bottom to nudge it shut again, for in his hands, as tenderly as he might carry a baby or an ex
plosive, was a broadsheet. An expensive one, too, one of the books, featuring fi ne woodcuts.

He settled it down on the table, smoothed it out gently. And then, from the pocket of his apron, he pro
duced a sealed well of ink, a quill with a nub requiring sharpening, and a tiny fi stful of sand, which he heaped last of all on the table.

Colin stared down at it.

colin eversea
, it said. And there he was, hand
some, horned, and Hobby-booted. He wasn’t wielding
a knife in this one. He had his arm around a beautiful woman. A voluptuous one, he noted. Croker had spent good money for this particular broadsheet.

Colin knew a moment of ironic triumph. And here Madeleine Greenway had thought he would be a
liability
. And this—the signing of a broadsheet— was precisely what he had been about to suggest to Croker.

Much
better that Croker had thought of it himself. He wasn’t his brother Marcus, but Colin knew that much about business.

It took a moment for the innkeeper to speak. “Mr. Eversea, sir. This is what I’ve in mind. I ’esitate to even ask it of ye. But . . . but if ye’d be so kind as to sign . . . ” He looked up at Colin, eyes wide with hope and entreaty.

Mementos from hangings could find their way into museums and private collections. Bit of hanging, death masks, locks of hair—all were coveted. One day— possibly one day soon—Mr. Croker could sell this arti
fact for a small fortune on an underground market.

And it would be worth even more as long as Colin Eversea remained missing.

And therein lay their protection, at least from Mr. Croker’s temptation to tell of their whereabouts. It was a very good thing the reward for his capture remained a rumor as of yet.

“We’ll need blankets, food, water, powder and shot for a fi fty-bore pistol,” Colin said briskly, counting de
mands off on his fi ngers.

Croker blinked, tilted his head, mulling the list. “Done.” He agreed easily.

“Safety for the evening . . . ” Colin continued, bend
ing down another fi nger.

Hesitation and a clucked tongue met this demand. “For this night only,” Croker agreed fi rmly. “The two of ye may spend the night in this room with the fl our and the onions. I’ll keep everyone else out. But be out before dawn.”

“Done,” Colin agreed. “Matches, a flint, a tinder
box, candles—” he was out of fi ngers.

“And Saint-John’s-wort,” Madeleine interjected abruptly.

Two heads turned toward Madeleine as though she’d rudely bounded into the middle of a tennis volley.

Croker looked up at Colin for confi rmation. Appar
ently Colin was the only one allowed to issue directives at the moment.

Colin fancied he could hear a sizzling sound ema
nating from Madeleine Greenway’s skull, though her features remained perfectly still.

He didn’t know the why of it, but he was enjoying asking for mundane things and getting them. A bit like preparing for a hunting trip. Which this was, in its way. “And salve of Saint-John’s-wort, of course, if you have it, Mr. Croker.”

“Done,” the proprietor agreed.

“And no one can know we’re here,” Colin warned.

“I wouldna tell a soul, Mr. Eversea. I need to protect me investment.” He smoothed the broadsheet lovingly. “And no one is allowed into this room wi’out me per
mission, anyhow.”

“Very well, then. I’ll happily sign your broadsheet tomorrow morning before we make ready to leave, and not a moment sooner. Tell us now, please, about the man with the twenty-five pounds, so Mrs. Greenway and I may . . . pass the evening in discussion of it.” He said this somewhat ironically.

“Servant,” Mr. Croker said briskly. “’Ad on . . . a costume, ye see. A uniform.” Croker’s hands made dis
dainful wavy motions over his body, apparently meant to indicate fussy finery. “An’ a wig.” His hands went up to cup either side of his bald head.

A footman, Colin thought. Even when they wore dazzling livery, people tended to overlook servants, the way one might overlook a tree with beautiful foliage. They were part of the scenery, which is why a servant would make a fine messenger in this circumstance.