The Bride Wore Scarlet by Liz Carlyle Page B

Farndale’s, but whether late tonight or sometime tomorrow I couldn’t say.”
    â€œThe man has the sexual inclinations of a panting mongrel,” gritted Coldwater, snatching the paper. “And after that?”
    â€œAfter that what?” said Hutchens defensively. “I told you when we started this, Lazonby don’t keep to much of a schedule. You’re lucky to get that.” He paused to thrust out a hand, palm up. “Now where’s my money?”
    Coldwater stuffed the paper into his own pocket, then extracted his purse. “For this, you get half,” he grumbled, poking through it.
    Hutchens opened his mouth to complain. In the gloom, Lazonby leaned forward and dropped a few coins into the outstretched hand.
    Hutchens shrieked and jumped, flinging the money into the fog.
    â€œBloody hell!” shouted Coldwater as coins rained down. “What the—!”
    â€œThat’s what you’re owed since Lady Day, you Judas.” Lazonby glared at the footman, now cowering behind a small marble monument. “Spend it wisely, for you’ll get not another ha’penny—nor a character—out of me.”
    â€œM-m-my lord?” croaked the footman.
    â€œIndeed,” said Lazonby coolly. “The fog can cover a multitude of sins, can it not? Now take yourself off, Hutchens. If you run all the way back to Ebury Street, you might be able to snatch up your things before the street urchins carry them off. You’ll find them in a heap out by the mews.”
    The footman hastened into the gloom, the coins forgotten. Lazonby turned to see Coldwater edging backward. He followed, one hand fisted at his side, ready to plant him a facer.
    â€œAs to you, you scheming little blackguard,” Lazonby said, backing the reporter up another foot, “two can play at your game. And unlike Hutchens, your clerks down at the Chronicle can be had for a warm pie and a pint.”
    Fleetingly, Coldwater was speechless. Eyes wide, he backed up another pace, but caught a heel on the base of a headstone that had nearly found its own eternal rest. The marker rocked precariously, sending Coldwater backward, arms wheeling.
    Lazonby lashed out, seized his upper arm, and jerked the lad physically against him. “Now listen to me, and listen well, you little shite,” he growled down at him. “If ever I hear of you so much as looking cross-eyed at one of my servants, I’ll have your job. I’ll buy your bloody newspaper, and make sure you never work again. Do you hear me?”
    Coldwater was trembling, but not cowed. “Oh, aye, you and your St. James Society think you can own the world, don’t you, Lazonby?” he spat. “Well, I’m on to the lot of you. I know something’s going on in that house.”
    â€œYou don’t know a damned thing, Coldwater, save how to stir up gossip and innuendo,” Lazonby snarled.
    â€œOh, no?” said Coldwater. “Then who was the big Frenchman at the Prospect of Whitby? The one you didn’t want me to see?”
    â€œIf there was a Frenchman, you’d do well to forget it.”
    â€œOh, I don’t forget anything,” said the reporter silkily. “I already know the man sailed into Dover on a French clipper carrying at least a dozen armed men. And he carried something else, too—forged diplomatic papers in a folio marked with that strange symbol of yours.”
    Rage and a strange mix of emotions were beginning to swim in Lazonby’s head. He drew in a steadying breath. “You . . . you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    â€œThat mysterious mark,” the reporter insisted. “The one etched in stone on your pediment. I know it means something, Lazonby. You led me a merry chase for reason.”
    â€œWhat the devil is your problem?” Lazonby yanked the lad so hard his teeth clacked. “For whatever reason, you seem determined to