Chapter 6

In that minute or so, while Langley waited for Miss Keating to reply to his query, the raised wall hid her from his view. Rather like a poorly arranged Romeo and Juliet, Langley thought with wry amusement. But he could hear her thinking loudly enough to know she had not moved away yet or scarpered into the house. He pondered how much she might have seen of the interlude on his terrace with Lady Herbert. Presumably enough to witness Georgianna throw herself at him… Langley much preferred to pursue his own seductions, rather than being pounced on, but Lady Herbert was proving difficult. It did not bother him that Miss Keating might have seen the kiss, after all, jealousy could be known to initiate the most passionate of affairs…

"I suppose, Langley, that is a normal occurrence for you. Women chasing after you?" Finally, Miss Keating spoke. There was some truth to her question. She moved and he was pleased to see her appear into his line of vision. Once positioned down in the garden, he could see her looking up onto his terrace, the light from the lanterns illuminating her. Highlighting her quizzical brow, pursed lips, and narrowed eyes.

It was the height of childishness, but there was something about her that made Langley want to tease and cajole her until Miss Keating went pink.

"Lady Herbert and I are simply old friends."

"I do not treat my friends in such a manner."

"Not a single one?" His question might needle some women, but Miss Keating simply shrugged.

"I was raised as the daughter of a vicar. I doubt my father would approve of such actions." She fidgeted on the spot. "Besides, I have more important things to be doing. I imagine a great many others have superior ways to pass the time. Perhaps your lady is simply bored?"

There was something rather tragic, Langley felt, to that declaration—as if anything trumped the wonderous feeling of tupping, touch, or delighting in the feel of another person close to you. In his opinion there was no greater sensation known to man. Or woman.

Feeling even more as if he were tempting an innocent into the Garden of Eden, Langley walked closer to the wall. Typically, his seductions were aimed at widows, experienced matrons, and the like. Pure, uptight virgins with strict parents were not his preferred type. Still, there was something uniquely appealing about Miss Keating.

Choosing to ignore Miss Keating's question, Langley moved closer to the edge of the terrace and made a dramatic sweep with his arm as if he were going to fling himself down onto the ground below or perhaps even throw her some flowers. He hoped she might find his antics amusing.

Miss Keating did not respond. "As my chaperone indicated, I have a limited amount of time. If you wished to come to your point, then I may return inside."

Knowing all too well she would simply march inside if he did not speak, Langley launched into the idea that had been bothering him for the last few hours. "I have been thinking about that map of yours. I decided the first place we should visit is where one of the points is torn."

"Why?" Her question was one of actual interest and she drew closer to him. Her hand reaching out for the wall and her head leaning in to catch his words.

"Well," he said, "that will be the point that the murderer also has on his map. Or at least he will have half the point, the same as we do. I daresay that it is entirely possible the culprit will try and go there."

"We should go. Now." She looked ready to run. Instinctively, Langley reached over the shorter part of the wall, presumably the part the killer and she had climbed over, and grabbed her hand, preventing her from leaving.

"Miss Keating, that area of London as it happens is notoriously dangerous. I will need to know several things before we go on a wild goose chase through the slums of Limehouse."

"I cannot tell you?—"

"I must know what we are looking for. Whatever Ashmore told you about what we seek." Langley paused as he considered what else he wanted. "And your Christian name."

There was a slight hesitation before Miss Keating nodded and then pulled her arm free. "We are looking for something valuable that Ashmore hid. It is not for you, or even for me, but for Ashmore's heir."

"I have no interest in money," Langley said. "You can ask your chaperone, or really any matron of the ton—I am as rich as Croesus, so you need not fear that I will steal anything from you. I don't have the need." Miss Keating did not look convinced, so Langley continued. "Why would you risk life and limb to secure the fortune of a man you do not know? Are you hoping you might marry the new duke—that he might be a touch nearer to your own age?"

"Must all women be reduced to such a state, keen and desperate for matrimony with no other possible motivations? Are we really such pitiful, listless creatures?"

Langley shrugged. "In my experience, that is what most of you want."

"That is not what I want." Her tone and expression were set. "I have sent my sister down to Cornwall to locate him."

"In the hopes she might seduce him?"

"Lud." For the first time, Miss Keating looked truly annoyed. "Can you only think of one thing?"

It was a fair point, Langley thought. Perhaps he was just more highly sexed than most men. Or, he sought out another explanation, that his ton-ish company sought it out, as gossip was the life's breath of the beau monde… but none were really mentionable in front of her. "If you must know, I sent my sister down to Cornwall as I did not deem it safe for her to remain in London with a killer on the loose."

To this Langley nodded. He could see all too well that Miss Keating cared for her little sister. That did not seem remotely in doubt. He was not fortunate enough to be in possession of any legitimate siblings—a few distant cousins, one of whom would eventually inherit his estate when Langley keeled over and died. He wondered, if he were to have a sister, how his life would have been different. Would she regard him in much the same manner as Miss Keating treated her sister, with the same fierce protectiveness? It was sad that Miss Keating did not have the same concern for her own well-being, however.

"You have not answered why you would then risk your own life in the pursuit of riches that can never be yours?" Langley asked.

"Because a killer does not deserve them." Miss Keating's voice shook. "Ashmore's attacker cannot be the one to win. I owe the duke at least that. A murderer cannot, will not receive the Ashmoreton Diamonds." Even in the dark her eyes widened at the admittance of what they sought. At least that truth was now out in the open. Folding her arms across her chest, Miss Keating straightened her spine. "Now you know the whole of it. We are seeking to recover valuable diamonds. Will you help me?"

Langley suspected he knew something of the matter, but he highly doubted it was the whole of it, as Miss Keating said. Being as used as he was to be ferreting out feminine secrets, from the tightness around her mouth to the nerves in her eyes, there was a far greater mystery to her than there was to some missing diamonds.

With languid ease, he said to her, "So let me understand this correctly. Your plan is that we go to Limehouse, search through whatever pubs or buildings are nearest to the red dot, the one your duke has jotted down, and what? Hope we are not set upon by a murderer?" Langley's tone took on a harder note, hoping to alert the mad woman opposite him to the absurdity of her plan. "No, we're much more likely to be stabbed by pickpockets, thieves, jades, and their madams than simply stumble upon a treasure trove of jewels. Do you like the sound of being set upon, does it sound better to you than your snug, warm bed?"

"When I see the place, I am sure I will know what Ashmore meant. There is a code on the back of the map, which I think will tell us where the diamonds might actually be buried." A note of uncertainty nudged its way into her voice, as if Miss Keating was finally starting to hear him, to see the sense he was speaking, which Langley felt most odd about—him being the sensible one—it was not his normal modus operandi.

Miss Keating sniffed and locked eyes with him. "Will you help me or not?"

Langley had a dinner party planned to begin in just two hours' time, only twenty minutes horse ride from here. His friends Lord Randolph and Sir Phineas Harrison would be in attendance, the latter of whom was always an excellent card player and a right good gossip. The food too was also bound to be a delight as the Marquess of Rotherham's French cook was a renowned stickler. All in all, it was to be a pleasant evening, certainly preferable to masquerading through the East End looking for God's knows what. A sign? A monument? A statue? For some reason, Langley did not say any of that, instead he said, "Give me your first name, and we'll do it."

"Margot." Her surrender hung between them for a moment, and then Langley found himself nodding his head in assent to her scheme.

"Meet me at the front of the house at eleven, wearing something with a hood."

Margot Keating nodded, cataloguing what she needed to do. Then she looked up and said, "Bring a weapon." With that she turned and hurried up the steps into Ashmore's house.

Langley had been assuming this would be a thrilling night of escapades if he had his way, at least whilst they journeyed through London. Perhaps she was one of those women who lived on the more dangerous side of life. But this curt reminder from her about the need for a firearm brought the danger home. Danger that Langley was completely ill-used to. It had never been his forte. He wasn't like the rumoured spy, Silverton, or his dark haired, French-sounding comrade. No, Langley would much rather go to a house party or a gaming den than venture out into the dangerous unknown. But there was a pulse beneath his skin, a heat almost akin, he realised, to excitement—the same way he felt when a seduction was nearing its completion. Racking his mind, he could not recall when an incident that was not focused on the pursuit of a woman had ever stirred such a reaction in him. It must have been a very long time ago. He was excited for the adventure, pleased to feel as if he would be of use to his Amazon.

So, there he was, pivoting on his heel and going back into his abode, to start his search for his never-used duelling pistol.

Night had come in quickly;a thick westerly wind had picked up pace and blown in a grey pelt of cloud, and a rather miserly fog.

Langley stood outside his carriage, watching the Ashmore residence, awaiting his Amazon. She would need to be careful if anyone saw them alone together. Regardless of what she was doing, her good name would be destroyed, and she may as well go and join a brothel. That idea, which had previously struck him as highly amusing, now rankled. He liked his reputation, it kept the marriage minded mamas away from him, but in this instance, it meant that, even when he was acting with the most chivalrous of impulses, at least in part, it still remained. In preparation, he had brought a spare domino mask to keep Margot's identity safe.

She emerged, a thick, heavy cloak hiding her from view, although her tall frame marked her out immediately. With quick steps Margot hurried down to join him, and Langley handed her up into the carriage, calling out the location to the driver.

Once inside the carriage, in opposite seats, Langley passed across the mask to her. Weighing it for a moment, consideration heavy in her movements, Margot then slowly raised it and tried to tie it around her head. She was not especially gifted at it. After a moment, when the carriage slowed to let another vehicle pass, Langley asked, "Shall I help you?"

There was a faint glow from outside the carriage that gave light to Margot's grimace, "Nothing untoward, my lord?"

"No indeed." He moved forward and took the seat next to her. He could not remember the last time he had fucked in a carriage; it had been at least a year. Certainly, that was not his intention tonight. Losing one's virginity in a moving vehicle would not provide either of them with enough pleasure to make the venture worthwhile. Besides, it was clearly against Margot's will, and there was one thing that Langley held on to as the single code of honour—he would never seduce an unwilling woman. "Turn that way." He pointed, and with that Margot lowered her hood and tilted her head away from him as Langley captured the loose ribbons and tied them together. "There we go," he declared, all businesslike, as he sank back into his squab.

Margot turned and looked through the mask at him. Normally when a woman donned such a shield, Langley found himself lustful—it was almost always a precursor to fornication. It often made ladies feel liberated, and Langley loved being on the receiving end of that liberation. However, on this occasion, the mask had a different effect. Between the shades of darkness, the aspect obscured Margot's face and made her even harder to read. Langley decided for the first time he did not care for her in a domino mask.

"Do you have any warnings for me?" Margot asked. She had drawn the cloak back up, and moved further into the seat so she could view him.

"Warnings?"

"On the danger of London."

"I assumed that your parents would have already done that. Or the papers."

"Of course." Margot replied. "I did not want to come unprepared, and yet I did not know where Ashmore's pistol was. I have a kitchen knife on me."

"No fire poker?" Langley asked.

With a withering look, Margot shook her head.

"I have given my driver a weapon," Langley said, "and if you need to leave in a hurry, flag down a hackney driver." He divided up some coins between the two of them. "Are you going to share with me your theory on what precisely we are looking for in Limehouse?"

To this query, Margot wriggled, her normal grace diminished by uncertainty. She was prepared to trust him with her person, with her safety, but it seemed she drew the line at trusting him with too many of her secrets. "The dot seems to be close to St Anne's Church, at least that site is drawn. It was seen as worthy of inclusion."

"Is it your suggestion we root through a graveyard, Miss Keating? How macabre and gothic of you."

"Not everything must be humorous, Langley."

"On this occasion I promise you I was not joking. Once we are in Limehouse, we will stand out. You may seem outmoded in your clothes in Mayfair, but in the East End, they will see the truth."

"I don't think anyone will ever know the truth about me, my lord." She spoke with such sincerity that Langley knew Margot was referring to something far beyond the hidden diamonds. There were treasures buried deep in her soul, the question was whether he wanted to dig enough to find them.

"Be that as it may," Langley said, attempting to not feel as curious as he did by her, "they will know you don't belong amongst them."

For a moment Margot looked as if she might continue to argue the point, but instead she drew out the torn map and laid it out on her lap. The side she placed face down hid the map but showed instead an odd jumble of words, written in a tiny, disjointed scrawl and from what Langley could see, numerous different languages. He racked his brain to translate the nearest word, trying his best to remember his Spanish.

"I did not know my godfather well enough to speculate precisely what each word or phrase means. There are repeated references to time. I feel certain if I see St Anne's and there is a clocktower, that is what he might be referring to."

"Were I given that—" Langley waved a hand at the torn sheet, a twinge of sadness for the dead duke washed through him. "—I would assume Ashmore was quite unstable. Those scribblings look as if they could have been written by a madman."

"He might have been." Margot sounded sad as she folded it back up and tucked it once more into her bodice. "But I can at least honour his final request, since there is nothing else I can do for him now."

Feeling strangely moved by this, Langley nodded solemnly. "I am pleased to be able to help you." And it was odd, he realised when she locked her forest green eyes on him, how much he meant it.