Chapter 7

Langley had such a way of looking at her, Margot thought, which made her feel quite naked. It was not merely the physical way that his gaze penetrated her; he made her feel acutely vulnerable and exposed in a way she had never imagined possible. Which was absurd since she had only known him two days. It was the abrupt switch he made between teasing and compliments, from his occasional amorous looks to the way he smiled with such sweet sincerity, he gave the impression of being innocent, when Margot knew all too well, he most definitely wasn't.

It was an act. It had to be. She had to hold on to that knowledge, or she'd be in real danger. After all, everyone, from Hathaway to Ashmore to the knowledgeable Mrs. Bowley had warned her about Langley's reputation. It had to be based on something. Not just his astonishing good looks, because whilst handsomeness could certainly get a man far, it only went bone deep. Whereas for Langley, the charm, the appeal, the pull of him, poured out from every part of his being.

"It looks as if we are drawing close," Langley said, stretching out his tall frame and long legs. He had dressed all in sombre black, presumably in an effort to appear less noticeable, but even in the dimness Margot could see it would never work. No matter what Langley wore, or didn't wear, he would always stand out. A silly thought flashed through her head, that it was nice not to feel as if she were a beanpole beside him. He must have been at least six foot four. Margot's eyes swept his body, and she was grateful for her mask and the darkness that hid her blush as she studied him, agog.

The noise from outside the carriage had shifted now they were slowing, with Margot aware too that there was a dip in the level of light available. It seemed that Mayfair was far brighter, from the oil to the candles, than what was in available in Limehouse.

When the carriage stopped, Langley helped her down the steps, and Margot swept curious eyes over the scene, trying to centre herself. She knew from the map and the smell of salt, they were close to the Cut, the river that weaved in from the Thames. Despite it being spring, it was cold here, and the dimness extended around them, giving only enough light to illuminate the slum-like buildings that were dotted along Newell Street. To the right of their carriage was a fenced-in park, and then what she assumed was St Anne's, but both were hidden in absolute obscurity. On the left there was the seediest looking establishment Margot had ever seen. Paint was chipping off the walls, the sign indicating it was a public house was hanging loose, and half of the downstairs windows were boarded up with wood. It seemed to emit an eerie light, like an evil toad or a bad spirit from a fairy tale.

"Does not look as bad as the one we just passed," Langley's driver muttered.

It was galling to realise that Langley was entirely right. She did not belong here, and neither did the earl. Even his driver looked out of place.

"Are you sure, madam, this is the right place?" Langley's man asked her, and Margot cast her gaze up and down Newell Street. She realised it wasn't just the driver who Langley had brought with them, but a burly looking man, huge and musclebound, stood close by. He must have travelled at the rear of the carriage.

She had stupidly thought that as soon as she reached the destination, Ashmore's scribblings would make sense. They would fit together, and it would not seem ridiculous. Perhaps Langley had been correct, and Ashmore had been unbalanced. Or perhaps the missing half of the map explained Ashmore's words far better.

With a hasty step, Margot moved away from the carriage's protective shadow. She had to decide—a choice of where to explore first. If time was key, the only thing that occurred to her was the church's clock. It was obvious, but needs must. Straightening, she pointed towards St Anne's. "I will begin there."

Folding her pointing arm into the crook of his, Langley strolled with her forwards, as if they were parading down Rotten Row. "Have a look in the tavern, John. Get yourself a drink, but keep yourself alert." He flicked the burly man a coin. "One for Peter too."

She was grateful for the strength of Langley's arm beneath her touch, although Margot realised as they walked that she was not scared precisely, more shocked than anything else. Her father, Vicar Keating, often worked with the neediest and most deprived in Berwick-upon-Tweed, pouring hours into building a school and an orphanage that would make the county proud. If he were to see the state of these people here, Vicar Keating's kindly heart would break for the sheer, wanton poverty on display.

As a couple, they proceeded down the street, arms interlinked. Margot tried to ignore the soothing, reassuring presence Langley provided her. Why she would be comforted by him was beyond her—he was a stranger. The trouble was, her body did not respond to him as if he were one.

The slum housing they walked past was shabby and worn-down, parts of the roofs dented and festering away. The air itself seemed be rotting. People lived inside these buildings, and Margot felt this tug at her innards with the need to do something for them. But she had no idea what. Her parents were hundreds of miles away, had always impressed upon her the need to act when faced with difficulties, how if she could cook a meal, or bring a coin or two, this would help. If Margot emptied her limited coffers, she might make a slight dent in the problem here, but then what? Even if she managed to ensure the annuity from Ashmore's estate was set up as per his instructions, she did not know if this would be enough to make a great deal of difference.

"I had no idea." Her voice came out flat as she tried to master her emotions.

"I do not follow," Langley said.

"About the state of things, how bad it was. Or what I can do."

"Not a soul does enough for those in poverty." Langley sounded rather grim. She turned and looked at him, hoping suddenly he might have an idea. She feared she was seeing on his face distaste or something else that would allow her to feel like Langley was no better than the others amongst the ton. But he too looked sad.

"Didn't you say you were as rich as Croesus?" she challenged him.

"Aye. Would you have me give it all away? And what about the people on my estates who rely on my protection and investments to look after them and their families for generations to come? Should I simply cast away my money to help these people here, or the ones who I have been assigned to protect? I have hundreds of people in my employ who rely on me and my ability to make sensible decisions." For the first time, Margot felt a growing sense of respect for Langley. Previously she had thought him dangerously attractive and amusing, of course, but she had not seen any logic in the man. She released his arm and walked briskly away from him, ending their conversation.

"Are you crying?" Langley followed her, his question cutting into Margot's morbid thoughts.

"No." Her reply was muffled. It struck her then how overwhelming the task before her was. She was performing good work, maybe even divine work—answering the wish of a dying man. Now she realised how silly this assumption was on her part. Naive at best, a fool at worst. She had put them both in danger.

She had no desire to express her overwhelming sense of hopelessness though. Margot closed the gap and walked up the remaining steps to the graveyard. With a shake she found that the gates were locked. Sweeping her gaze through the barred barriers of the site, her eyes went to the tall steeple where in its midst was a large clock. How on earth was she supposed to get up there? Would it be buried at the base or hidden in amongst the actual mechanism? And were she to try, it would be necessary somehow scale the foreboding building in her dress and cape.

Margot did not move. She could not make herself do so. Clearly, her decision to come here tonight had been a mistake. It had seemed so sensible hours ago, and now reality was sinking in.

After a moment of waiting for her, Langley stepped closer, his hand moving out to capture her wrist.

"I would say we might be wise to go and join John, discuss the whole business in the inn, and formulate a new plan."

Easing herself back, Margot turned and looked at him. "Are you cross with me?"

In the dim light, mainly created by the stars above, Margot saw the earl's forehead crease with confusion at her question. "No, why would I be?"

"Because I have dragged you out here without knowing?—"

"I would have been tempted to try the same." He laughed. "Were something similar to happen to me. Come, it is getting cold."

"I have sent us on a wild goose chase. Halfway across Town. You were right. Searching a graveyard late at night was foolish and short-sighted and—" Margot said, growing angry with herself.

Langley held up his free hand. "If you are to spend any time in the ton, I would suggest you grow a lot less critical of stupidity. Or foolishness. After all, that is what makes up a great deal of society." He bowed lightly and offered her his arm. "Let us think through it logically somewhere warm, with a snug drink in our bellies. I normally find it far more conducive to rational thought."

Nodding, Margot slipped her arm gratefully through his. They walked back along the street, towards the inn. "Do you think of all the ton in that way?" she asked after a moment. It seemed to her like Langley rather enjoyed being a member of the beau monde, and all the benefits it brought to him. Which was why it was rather strange that he would be so quick to disparage high society.

"It is an amusing place." He sounded lighter now. "But what is prized is not always of value. What is celebrated is often of nothing more than fleeting importance."

"Then why do you stay within the beau monde? Surely there are better things one could be doing."

Langley gave her an odd look. The two of them were now in the shallow semi-light from the inn. Margot could notice a rotting smell, one of unwashed flesh, and what she suspected was the scent of someone having cast up their accounts.

"But as a member of it, what is my alternative? Besides, this—" He waved his hand over himself. "—is what everyone aspires to be. It is the goal of everyone throughout England to be prized and welcomed in amongst good ton."

Unable to resist, Margot grasped hold of his lapels and looked up into his face. It was vital he know this. "Not by everyone. Not by me."

The two of them stared at each other intensely, and she realised as she looked at him how stupid her gesture had been. How overly familiar. In confused excitement and fear she wondered if he might kiss her. She had moved close enough for it to be a real possibility. She suddenly wondered what his delicious mouth might taste like. He had laughed, discussed matters of the mind with her, listened and challenged her in a way Margot could not remember any man doing. It was exhilarating. It was exciting. It did not hurt that he resembled an angel-Adonis brought to life. All those finely made cheekbones, well-formed eyebrows, and the tempting quirk of his lips made a face that begged a second, third, and fourth look, even for those determined to resist him. Would the touch of his lips be just as elating and nerve racking as debating him was?

His hands moved, lifting to the back of her head, loosening the ties of her mask, and the domino dropped down to land on the small gap of ground between them. Margot let it fall, unable to look away from him. It was rather like having a spell cast on her—she doubted whether a flood or a storm would shift her away. On closer inspection she saw there was a hardness to his jawline she had previously missed, which she fancied implied a strength of character. That, or perhaps she simply knew him a little better than she had beforehand.

Looking up into Langley's face, she thought she could see him considering her, as if he knew all too well what she was hoping for. Like he too was stimulated and intrigued by the push-pull that burnt between them.

Before either of them could move, however, there was a loud noise that wrenched the air, the sound of a door banging open, and out strode a tall man. On instinct, Langley drew Margot away from the stranger, further into the shield of his arms, and Margot caught the grin of the unknown man, as if he knew what was transpiring between a gentleman and a woman. For a second or two she stayed there, comforted by the protection of Langley's arm. Then a tug at her memory pulled her away from the earl, out of his grip, and with renewed ferocity towards the departing stranger.

There was something dashed familiar about the way he moved.

A small cry echoed out of her mouth, and the stranger turned back to look more fully at her. Drawing out her knife, Margot levelled it at him. She was pleased to note her hand was steady, despite how terrified she was.

"Get back to your lordling." There came a gruff voice from the stranger.

"Where were you last night?" Her voice rang out.

"I don't owe no whore nothing."

"I know it was you," Margot said, she drew her knife higher, allowing the light from the inn behind her to flash onto the blade. "Give me the paper you stole from the duke."

"Unless you want a bullet in you too, girl, you'll keep out of my way."

A movement behind, one steady and quiet, told Margot that Langley had drawn his pistol. She didn't know how good a shot he was, but she hoped he had the pistol locked and loaded.

"Shooting a duke, the attempted murder of a lord is a hanging offence," Margot said.

For a moment nothing happened. The darkness hid a lot of the killer's face, his hat drawn down low to disguise his features, so Margot could only make out the cleft on his chin, his lips, and a few strands of dark hair. But she could see he was grinning.

"You'd have to catch me first."

There was a blast, the echo loud and piercing, close enough to her ear that Margot dropped the knife as a heavy weight slammed into her, causing her to crash down onto the dirty pavement.

"God." It was Langley, heavy on top of her. His eyes were not on her, but on the street itself. Wriggling, Margot tried to free herself, but Langley held her in place beneath him. "Stay still, in case he comes back."

"Did you hit him?"

He glanced down at her. His eyes assessing her face, alight with concern. "No, I saw what he was meant to do, firing through his own coat like that. I thought it was better to knock you over than go for the killing shot."

The inn door had opened in the meantime and Peter and John as well as the inhabitants of the inn were pouring out into the street. Hastily, Margot found herself hauled upright, her body sore and her head throbbing, but otherwise unhurt.

Langley had started to berate John, as Margot looked along the now deserted street. The inn was directly in the sight of the clock tower, could that be a sign? "Did you see the man, the one who attacked us?" She turned back and looked at John. "What was he doing in the building, did you see anything?"

John shook his head. "No ma'am. I'm sorry, I didn't see a thing."

"I did," a soft voice spoke up, and Margot turned to Peter, who was still holding on to his mug of ale. He moved closer and whispered in Margot's ear. When he stepped back, a grin formed on her face. It wasn't one of triumph, but at least she was one step nearer to understanding the clues that Ashmore had left her.