Chapter 10

Foot tapping with impatience, Tessa stood outside Garraway's Coffee House and cast her gaze up and down Exchange Alley. Through the hustle and bustle of every sort of honest working man London had on offer—from ship chandlers to purveyors of navigation instruments to goldsmiths hailing from Lombardy to fashionable physicians who reserved special seats in the coffee room where they consulted with patients—Jagger with his loose, rangy stride and flash clothing would stand out.

She was early.

She gave her pocket watch another glance. Actually, she was on time. But when it came to a negotiation, on time was early. That was certainly the view Gabriel took.

Strategically, she should've been late. But she wasn't one for those sorts of power struggles. A direct approach was ever her way.

Finished standing on a street corner like a doxy, she switched course and stepped inside the coffee house. At least, if Jagger didn't show himself, she would have a proper cup of tea for her efforts. She garnered many second looks as she made her way through the crowded room. Coffee houses were generally considered the domain of men, but one of the benefits of her unique mode of dress was that it promptly communicated that she was no usual sort of woman and would be treated on the terms she dictated.

Upon finding a relatively quiet table in the corner, she sat with her back to the wall and placed an order for tea for two, half an eye fixed on the front door. It had taken two days of back-and-forth messages between her and Jagger before the day, time, and place could be agreed upon.

That he wanted to meet here was an indicator of his ambitions. Garraway's was no low coffee house, but a place where up-and-comers rubbed shoulders with those secure and settled in their business dealings. Jagger had chosen this location to be seen—and possibly to be seen with a lady…the sister of a duke, no less.

With so many angles to the coming conversation to consider, Tessa absolutely should concentrate on them and the man she was about to meet.

But it was a different man who kept stealing into her thoughts.

The Marquess of Ormonde…

Julian.

Three nights ago, he'd set her body ablaze—and the flame yet licked hot within her.

Don't you wish to receive the same treatment as my mistresses?

Thatwas how he treated his mistresses?

To deliver pleasure to them so exquisite their bodies still burned with it three days later?

These last few days, it was as if she'd stepped through a curtain and entered a new world. As if there had been an entire spectrum of color that she'd been blind to—and now the blindfold had fallen away.

Fitting metaphor, that.

Yet she experienced a strange hollowness at its core.

As if one could achieve supreme pleasure and satiety—but not satisfaction.

And therein lay the paradox.

In Julian's giving, there had been a withholding.

Without speaking the words, he'd defined the limits of whatever it was that existed between them.

It wasn't simply that they hadn't coupled—though she'd never done so, oh, how her body had begged for it.

They hadn't kissed.

And for some reason, that felt more like a deliberate withholding.

By its very nature, coupling could never be chaste—but a kiss could. A kiss could be many things—a hello…a goodbye…an expression of affection…an outlet for lust.

In the withholding of his kiss, he was withholding something deeper.

He was withholding intimacy.

It seemed the longer she knew him, the less she knew him.

Who was this Marquess of Ormonde?

Julian.

He preferred to be Julian.

A familiar rangy figure entered Garraway's. Blaze Jagger. As he'd been on Derby Day, he was dressed in tailored superfine and a flamboyant silk waistcoat—today's a startling orange and teal. As he strode through the coffee shop and threw greetings around, the diamond in his ear throwing sparkling light, Tessa saw with her own eyes how Jagger was rising in the world. Garraway's wasn't an East End coffee shop, full to the brim with characters. These patrons knew Jagger as a man on the rise—a man who likely held no few of their debts.

Hazy recognition struck through her. Something familiar hung about him—something she hadn't noticed before. She couldn't quite lay a finger on it, though. She hadn't taken note of the opaque gray hue of his eyes and long, straight nose on their first meeting beyond the fact that they combined to make him a dangerously handsome man, especially with the long dark lashes that fringed those gray eyes.

Now, they felt distinctive and called to memory just out of reach.

He didn't acknowledge Tessa until he'd pulled a chair to her side of the table, so they sat side by side, facing the room. "You're not the only one who needs to keep an eye out," he said in greeting.

For her welcome, Tessa reached for the teapot and poured. She inhaled the dark brew before taking a sip. Bitter…nutty…bracing. Here was a tea that would batten down the hatches and see one striding into a productive day. She took another sip. She needed some bracing, if she was going to deal effectively with the man seated beside her.

Jagger directed an exaggerated lift of the eyebrow toward her. "Up to your standard, milady?"

"A bracing brew," she replied, equitably. She wasn't one to be baited, and he would soon know it.

He emitted a hearty guffaw. "You've certainly picked up the knack of playing lady."

She met his boldness and asked, "How's that?"

"Bracing, not strong." He shrugged. "Not saying what's really on your mind."

"Diplomacy done right is its own form of truth."

Jagger nodded. "I'll buy that for a bob. A truth can be got from different angles, is that it?"

Though he lacked formal education, Jagger was sharp and bright—like the edge of a knife glinting in the sun.

He took a sip of tea and winced before signaling to a serving girl. "Bring me a coffee, pet." He turned to Tessa. "Never did get the knack of tea. Now," he continued, "tell me another truth, Lady Tessa."

No mistaking his mocking sneer.

"How about this truth," she began. "You cannot go around having stones thrown through my windows."

He sucked his teeth. "Had to get your attention, didn't I?"

"There are other ways."

He daintily picked up his teacup between forefinger and thumb, pinky out. "Should I have invited you for tea?"

Again, Tessa wouldn't rise to his little provocation. "What do you want?"

"You know what I want."

"Gabriel and I aren't cutting you into the Race of the Century." Even as the words emerged from her mouth, frustration at her brother flared within her. It wasn't like him not to think through potential consequences. In addition to his intelligence and brilliance with numbers, that sense of forethought was a reason for his success. But here, he'd undeniably created a mess.

Jagger shrugged. "Well, then I'd say you have a Blaze Jagger problem."

"You're referring to yourself in the third person now?"

A smile accustomed to charming every soul within a three-block radius tipped at the corner of his mouth. "When it suits." His gray eyes went serious. "The thing is I took note when your little gaming hell opened a few years back. But The Archangel services nobs, so…" Another mild shrug of the shoulder. "Bankrupt 'em all, as far as I care."

Tessa settled back into her chair, waiting for him to continue.

"But the horses," he tsked. "That's another matter. The horses are my game, ye ken?"

"You're not the only blackleg in town." It had to be said. "None of your kind are being cut into the Race of the Century."

"I may not be the only leg in town, but I am a man of the people."

"How's that?" Tessa scoffed. Jagger's capacity for self-importance had tipped into delusion, and it was beginning to irk. "By taking their money?"

She didn't harbor any illusions about the business she and Gabriel conducted in The Archangel, but Jagger's logic defied belief.

The glint in his eyes turned to steel, and he sat forward. "By giving them opportunity. By giving them hope."

"Through horse betting?" Tessa snorted. "The Archangel might take money from the rich, but you are taking it from anyone with a penny in their pocket."

His head cocked. "You think if I stop laying and taking odds, gambling on the ponies will cease and we'll suddenly be the virtuous nation we pretend to be?"

Tessa felt her eyebrows lift. "Of course not."

Eyes burning with barely contained fervor, Jagger planted his forefinger square into the table, which gave a little wobble at the force. "Here's what everyone in this room knows about Blaze Jagger, except you. I…pay…out." He enunciated the last three words with slow emphasis.

"Isn't that what you're supposed to do?"

"If I get it wrong or a horse comes up lame, when the time comes to pay, I don't leg it. I pay out, ye ken?" He settled back in his chair and straightened his cravat. "I'm here to stay, Lady Tessa." His arm swung in a wide arc, indicating all the coffeehouse. "That's what they know, and what you need to know."

"I understand you have a reputation to?—"

His scoff cut across her. "From what I understand Lady Tessa, you didn't come up too far from me."

"Likely not," she acknowledged.

"What does compromise cost you in that world? Can you cast your mind that far back?"

She could. "Everything."

"Look around and, tell me, what do you see?"

"Men drinking coffee and conducting business." She didn't need to look.

"Self-made men. No lords here, Lady Tessa. No dukes holding court or flexing their muscle. What these men are today, they created themselves."

Tessa understood what he was getting at. "You're no different."

"And let me tell you something about a self-made man." Jagger's gray eyes blazed with intensity. "Once he's scratched and clawed out a place for himself, he will fight heaven and hell itself to hold onto his patch."

Tessa had hoped to help this self-made man to zig instead of zag, but she had to consider the possibility she'd been viewing the matter from the wrong angle—that her logic was flawed. Still, she'd try one last salvo…"I've been hiding your behavior from my brother, but I shall have to tell him if you force my hand."

The fight in Jagger's eyes stood firm, undiminished.

"You want a war." The words were out of her mouth before she could consider their wisdom.

A smile tipped about his mouth. "You want the war. Some are born into their place in the world. Others have to scratch and claw to create theirs, ye ken?"

The threat of this conversation spiraling entirely out of her control had Tessa digging a few coins out of her reticule and plonking them onto the table. She shot to her feet and met Jagger's eye. "No more rocks through windows?"

He heaved a dramatically resigned sigh. "No more rocks through windows. You have my word."

The promise sounded more like a thinly veiled threat.

Frustration seared through Tessa as she hopscotched her way out of the crowded coffeehouse. There would be no more rocks through windows—but their dealings with one another weren't finished.

That was what lay between the lines of Blaze Jagger's promise.

Tessa didn't stop until she reached the post office on Lombard Street, where she waved down a passing hackney cab. "Twinings on Strand, if you will."

The coachman nodded, and Tessa heaved herself inside. Irritatingly, Jagger required much additional thought. He'd given her more information about himself, and she needed space in which to let it stew and brew. So, she would procure a recently arrived Imperial tea from Twinings and consider the matter more closely while she toyed with a few tea blends. She had a few lovely sprigs of dried lavender with the potential to pair nicely.

She'd just paid the coachman and was turning toward the shop with its distinctive white doorway when a trio of ladies just up the block caught her eye. A second glance revealed the trio to be Saskia, Viveca, and Mrs. Fairfax.

Deciding the tea could wait, Tessa waved to catch their attention and called out as she closed the short distance between them. "And what task are you engaged in this afternoon?"

"Oh, we're here to peruse the titles of Dougherty's," said Viveca with a quick hug for Tessa.

At Tessa's blank look, Saskia provided, "It's a new circulating library."

Mrs. Fairfax offered her ever-serene smile. "And you, Lady Tessa? What errands are you about this afternoon?"

In accordance with her vow to keep her dealings with Blaze Jagger separate from her family, Tessa said, "Twinings has a new tea variety in."

"Tessa is positively mad about tea," chimed Viveca as she pushed the library's front door open.

The interior of Dougherty's was as Tessa expected—all brown woods…the only sounds the murmuration of low, masculine voices and shifting of bottoms in plush leather armchairs…the mild, earthy scent of books…male. This circulating library—as were most of their kind—was the domain of men.

Her mind was already calculating how best to gain her sisters admittance—no few off-put scowls had already been directed toward Saskia and Viveca—when Mrs. Fairfax made her elegant way toward the gentleman at the front desk, a charming smile curved about her plump bow mouth. "Mr. Dougherty," she began, "how are you?"

A sudden blush stained the man's cheeks above his beard as he fumbled to a stand in the presence of a lady. "Mrs. Fairfax, how, erm, delightful to see you."

This man who had been chief scowler amongst the gentlemen as Saskia and Viveca had blithely sailed past his desk was reduced to a lad just out of leading strings—such was the charm of Mrs. Fairfax's smile.

"How long has it been?" she continued.

"Your come-out, I believe," he got out in a fluster.

He didn't seem able to believe that a lady like Mrs. Fairfax would remember a gentleman like him. Tessa suspected every man Mrs. Fairfax encountered felt thusly.

Mrs. Fairfax signaled to Tessa to draw closer. "Are you acquainted with Lady Tessa Calthorp?" Before Mr. Dougherty could answer, Mrs. Fairfax continued, "She is, of course, the sister of the Duke of Acaster, as are the Ladies Saskia and Viveca." She pointed toward Saskia and Viveca, who had separated, each pursuing their own literary interests. "Would it be a terrible inconvenience to indulge them with a bit of time in your vaunted establishment? I would consider it a great favor to me."

"Oh, well, erm, yes, yes, of course," the man stammered, eager to please Mrs. Fairfax in anything she liked.

The luminosity within her amber eyes increased tenfold. "You have my sincerest gratitude, Mr. Dougherty."

The man looked as if he were having trouble drawing breath as Mrs. Fairfax threaded her arm through Tessa's and led them into the next room.

Once they were out of earshot of the dazzled Mr. Dougherty, Tessa said, "You can get a man to do anything you like, can't you?" She couldn't help but admire the ability.

Mrs. Fairfax shrugged an unbothered shoulder. "It isn't difficult."

At Tessa's side was a different sort of woman—one who was a force, but a quiet one. She suspected she could learn a few things from this woman. "Mrs. Fairfax?—"

"You must call me Eloise."

"Eloise," said Tessa. "I must offer my gratitude for taking Saskia and Viveca in hand."

Eloise smiled up at Tessa. "My cousin asked for my help, and I can't deny Celia anything."

Tessa doubted this not one bit. On Derby Day, she'd seen firsthand the high regard and affection Eloise and the Duchess of Acaster held for one another.

Now, as they ambled idly from room to room, startling gentlemen from their reading and greeting said gentlemen in turn, Tessa saw why Eloise was the perfect woman to guide Saskia and Viveca through society. She was well liked and respected, and she knew everyone—everyone.

And everyone, of course, would've included a certain marquess who hadn't strayed too far from the top of Tessa's mind these last three days.

Which was how Tessa found herself asking, "Would you happen to be acquainted with the Marquess of Ormonde?"

Eloise shot Tessa a quick, assessing glance. "Ormonde?"

Tessa immediately regretted the question. Still, she nodded.

"He's an amiable man," said Eloise, carefully. "According to everyone, the most amiable man in the ton with his general good nature and, well, undeniable handsomeness."

In the statement, Tessa detected an unasked question. And why do you ask?

Tessa searched her mind for any innocent reason she could be inquiring about the Marquess of Ormonde. "His horse won the Derby, and now he's a contender for the Race of the Century."

The glimmer in Eloise's eye remained unconvinced. "What do you wish to know about the marquess?"

Though Tessa was accustomed to being the most direct woman in any room she entered, she saw that she'd met her match in Eloise Fairfax. Fortunately, she knew how best to counter directness.

With directness.

"Everything," she said.

"Well," began Eloise, "his mother hasn't been seen in London as long as anyone can remember. Decades, I believe. Her absence may have to do with his sister."

"His sister?"

Julian had a sister?

"A tragedy," said Eloise. "A wasting disease took her as a child."

"Were they close?"

"By all accounts."

An ache expanded inside Tessa.

"And the father…" Eloise heaved a sigh. "He spent the next two decades drinking himself into oblivion. A thoroughly dissolute and debauched man."

Dread crawled through Tessa. For Julian to be a marquess, that meant his father must've been…"How did the marquess die?"

"I don't know many details," said Eloise. "But rumor has it that he died in shabby circumstances—and the whispers have that it was done by his own hand."

"Oh," Tessa exhaled, both shocked and…not.

She'd come to understand that behind Julian's amiable fa?ade lay a dark complexity. But this…

It was surely too much for one man to bear—alone.

A stormy Viveca marched into the room, a frown turning down the corners of her typically smiling mouth. Saskia entered through a different door, the same storm cloud on her face. Rather than lugging stacks of books, their arms remained empty. "We can go now," said Saskia, her voice flat.

"Indeed," added Viveca.

Tessa was certain of an entire silent conversation happening between her sisters—and was equally certain that she would hear all about it the instant they set foot outside Dougherty's front door.

"Well," exclaimed Viveca.

"Indeed," said Saskia.

Eloise darted an amused glance toward Tessa before saying, "Indeed?"

"Perhaps a bit more information for the uninformed?" prompted Tessa.

Saskia stared at her as if she'd asked the most dunderheaded question imaginable. "Well, this circulating library is like all circulating libraries, isn't it?"

"Meaning?" Tessa tried not to smile.

"They have treatises on politics and natural philosophy aplenty," said Viveca.

"And every book written on the subject of agriculture," chimed Saskia.

"So?" asked Tessa. "Isn't a comprehensive circulating library what you like?"

Saskia and Viveca continued to glare at her as if she were London's dullest dolt.

Finally, Viveca relented. "It's the principle, Tessa."

"What principle is that?"

"Just as there are all sorts of people," said Saskia, "there are all sorts of books for them."

"And all sorts of people," continued Viveca, "should have access to all sorts of books."

Tessa felt her brow gather. What were her sisters on about?

"And by people," said Saskia, "we mean women."

"And by books," said Viveca, "we mean novels."

"And plays," added Saskia.

Viveca nodded.

Something was most definitely brewing between her sisters, Tessa decided. But before she could pursue the thought, a thoroughly charmed Eloise said, "Speaking of plays, I'm escorting your sisters to the theater tonight, Lady Tessa. You must join us."

"Oh, I…" Tessa let her voice trail off, hoping this would be enough to communicate polite refusal.

However, she met no such acceptance in the three sets of eyes watching her.

"I'll be expected at The Archangel." The excuse offered a stronger argument than vague demurral.

Saskia, Viveca, and Eloise appeared wholly unmoved.

It was simply that theater, as Eloise would know it, was a society event. It would mean mingling with nobs, which Tessa didn't do. She separated nobs from their blunt—an important distinction.

"All sorts will be there," said Eloise. "Lords and ladies…dukes and duchesses…I even know of a marquess who keeps a box beside my dear friend Mr. Lancaster's."

A marquess…

Tessa knew exactly which marquess.

Ormonde…Julian.

A new angle was needed for her argument. "But I don't?—"

"Have anything suitable to wear?" asked Saskia, correctly anticipating her.

Viveca picked up the thread. "I have about thirty new gowns. I'll have one—or five—sent over to Sloane Street." When Tessa opened her mouth to protest, Viveca added, "You and I are the same size, sister."

Eloise's hands clapped together with delight. "That's all settled now. We'll be arriving at Haymarket Theater at eight o'clock."

Tessa's mouth had no choice but to snap shut. She knew when she'd been outmaneuvered.

Eloise escorted Saskia and Viveca to her waiting carriage and turned. "Can we drop you somewhere?"

"I have, erm, an errand to run." Even as Tessa spoke the excuse, her mind remained stubbornly blank of just what the errand had been.

Too late, it came to her. "Tea," she spoke to the carriage's departing wheels.

Somehow, she was going to the theater tonight.

Dressed in a silk gown.

And she would be seated beside the Marquess of Ormonde's box—which didn't necessarily mean he would be there. It might remain empty or be lent to friends.

She had no reason to believe he would be there.

Yet a feeling had her heart pumping harder, making itself felt as it moved the blood through her veins.

Anticipation—a feeling she was becoming entirely too well acquainted with since she'd met the Marquess of Ormonde.

A man she now called Julian.