"We should vote," Gillingham said.
"No." Lincoln pulled the bell pull to summon Doyle and opened the door. "Doyle will see you out."
They filed out and headed down the stairs. Lincoln remained by the door, not following. I slipped my hand into the crook of his arm.
"Lady Harcourt seemed glum today," I whispered.
He bent his head to mine and smirked. "You're building up to something. What is it?"
"Am I that easy to read? Never mind answering that. Yes, you're right, I am building up to something. I want you to ask her what the matter is."
"Why?"
"Because she looks sad, and she'll speak to you and not to me."
"That doesn't answer my question."
I gave him an arched look. "Because I'm curious. There. Does that satisfy?"
His smile was positively sly. "Seth would be a better choice than me."
"No, he would not." Because she loved Lincoln, not Seth. She respected Lincoln more, too, and had relied on him in the past for help. I suspected she'd open up to him. "Go on, ask her."
"You won't get jealous if she flirts with me?"
"Of course not. I'm not the jealous type."
"Pity." He strode off.
I smiled at his broad back as he retreated down the stairs. I wouldn't be jealous of Lady Harcourt if she flirted with him. I knew that to my bones. The only thing that would make me jealous would be if he flirted with her.
I waited in the drawing room with Gus and Seth, a sherry glass cradled in my hands. Seth handed a brandy to Lincoln when he re-entered a few minutes later. "Well?" I asked. "What did she say?"
"Not much," he said, standing by the fireplace. "I gather her unhappiness is a combination of living with Buchanan and the way her friends are now treating her since discovering she was a dancer."
"Living with Buchanan would be enough to drive anyone to despair," Seth said.
"Or drink," Gus added, saluting with his glass.
"At least she got an invitation to the ball," I said. "Not all of her friends are shunning her."
Seth shook his head. "Lady Hothfield told me she only invited Julia at the request of one of the prince's friends, a Sir Ignatius Swinburn."
"I fail to see how that is a problem."
"Swinburn is a fat, old cad with foul breath and disgusting manners. He treats women like whores, discarding them when he tires of them, and he quickly tires. Most ladies of quality steer well clear of him, but some widows are desperate enough to make themselves available, hoping it will put them in the prince's path. It never does. The prince already has his favorites and doesn't care for his friends' discarded mistresses."
"How'd you hear all that?" Gus asked.
"It's amazing what some women will tell you when they believe themselves in love with you." He glanced at me. "Don't tell Alice I said that."
Gus shook his head. "You toffs are a strange lot. Glad I weren't born into your class."
"My class is glad of it, too."
"So we can assume from what you say that Lady Harcourt is desperate enough to throw herself at Swinburn," I said. "That's why he specifically requested her presence."
"I think so."
"And perhaps he tired of her already."
Seth lifted one shoulder. "Or he didn't take any notice of her the night of the ball, despite asking for her to be present. The fellow is a turd. It's possible he wanted to see her there so he could toy with her; dangle a carrot in front of her face, so to speak, then take it away. I wouldn't put it past him."
"He sounds utterly despicable."
"He is."
"I feel sorry for Lady Harcourt."
"Don't," all three men said.
Lincoln finished his brandy and set the glass on the sideboard. "I have the general's paperwork to look over tonight. Send someone up with food and I'll eat as I work."
I almost followed him but hung back, warring with myself.
"Charlie?" Gus asked. "You still thinking 'bout Lady H?"
"No. About Leisl."
They both looked to the door through which Lincoln had just exited. "You going to talk to him about her?" Gus said.
"Yes. Someone should, but do either of you dare?"
"Blimey, no."
Seth nodded at my sherry. "Drink up. You're going to need it."
Chapter 6
Lincoln opened his door before I knocked. He leaned against the door frame, his arms folded, a small smile on his lips. He looked devilishly handsome, with his hair unbound and his jacket and tie discarded, and I suspected he knew it.
"It's disconcerting that you know when I'm about to knock," I said, touching his tie and pretending to straighten it when I really just wanted to touch him.
"And knowing what you want to ask me?" he said.
"You do?" It was a good sign then that he was still smiling. Perhaps he'd decided he needed to talk to Leisl.
"It's either because you want to ask me to press Julia to be more specific, or you want to ravish me." His smile widened ever so slightly. "I know which one I prefer, but I suspect it's the other."
"Actually, you're wrong." I pressed my hands to his chest, enjoying the hardness of his body, the flex of muscle, and the slight uptick in his heart rate. "But they are both excellent suggestions, and a good indication of how your mind works."
His gaze wandered past me, down the hall. He drew my hands away. "Doyle or Bella may come past at any moment."
"Actually, I'm not here to ravish you or discuss Lady Harcourt," I said. "I want to talk about Leisl and why you won't visit her."
Surprise momentarily brightened his eyes before they darkened again. "You're wasting your time."
"Don't dismiss the idea immediately."
"I haven't." He stepped aside and allowed me to enter, then shut the door behind me. "I thought about it then dismissed it. Charlie, there's no point seeing her. She told us everything about her vision on the night of the ball. She said she has no more information for us, and I believe her."
"I don't want you to discuss her vision. I simply want you to talk to her, as a son to his mother."
He lowered his head. "Charlie, I have nothing to say to her, and I doubt she has anything to say to me. She would have approached me if she had."
"Perhaps she didn't know how to find you." I clasped his arms above the elbows and rubbed. The act soothed me but did nothing to smooth away the crease in his brow. "Perhaps she doesn't know how to begin."
"Nor do I."
"Lincoln, do you remember when I met my mother? Her ghost, I mean. It went better than I expected. It was wonderful to meet her, and know that she'd cared for me. The experience soothed an ache within me. Perhaps talking to your mother will help you in the same way."
"I don't need help, and I don't need a mother." The strain in his voice warned me that his temper was close to snapping.
I pressed on anyway. "Perhaps she needs you."
"Then she can come here and see me."
"I'll invite her for tea."
He tilted his head and lifted his brows.
"I'll take that to mean you'll get cross if I do," I said.
"I know the idea of us sitting down to tea together appeals to you." He stroked my hair off my forehead, his gaze following the sweep of his hand. "I know you miss your own mother, both your real one and adopted one, and I know you think this is an opportunity to gain a family member. But you have to leave the idea alone. I don't want Leisl to come here and be disappointed that I can't be a proper son to her. Do you understand?"
My throat felt tight and I could feel my eyes filling. "Why can't you be a proper son?"
"I'm not capable. It's not in me."
I cupped his face in my hands. "You didn't think yourself capable of loving anyone a few months ago, and now look at you."
"There's only enough for one." He kissed the end of my nose and cut off my protest. "Now go before I say something I'll regret later."
"This discussion is not over."
"Yes, Charlie, it is." He pulled away and opened the door. He glanced up and down the corridor before stepping aside and allowing me to exit. "Be ready early in the morning. Wear your old boy's clothing." He closed the door before I could protest.
I stood by the door, waiting for him to reopen it. He must know I was still there.
But he did not. After a moment, I went to my rooms to retrieve the trousers, shirt and jacket I'd worn in the slums. It was going to be an interesting day; one I wasn't looking forward to. I thought I'd seen the last of my old haunts and the gangs I had befriended. My life felt so far removed from those days now. Revisiting the slums would bring back memories that had only recently stopped haunting my dreams. Memories I'd wanted to put behind me forever.
Lincoln and I didn't go to Whitechapel, but to the rookery of Clerkenwell. London harbored dozens of slum pockets where the middle and upper classes dared not enter. The slums scaled from bad to worse, with Clerkenwell being on the bad end and Whitechapel, where the Ripper murders occurred, at the worst. Daylight did nothing to improve the dark, damp lanes and yards. In fact, it only served to reveal the filth the darkness hid. The tenements groaned like old men in the stiff wind. Broken windows, peeling paint and grimy façades could be easily fixed, but the rotting timbers and dangerous leans signaled deeper problems that nothing less than demolition could improve.