Page 13 of Presenting Miss Letitia (Once a Wallflower 1)

“Call me Arietta, Letitia, please. You have no need to concern yourself. Your aunt has given me a bank draft which will cover expenses.”

“But that cannot be enough,” Letty said.

A small frown creased Arietta’s smooth pale forehead. “It is quite generous!” She cocked her head again, a golden ringlet trembling against her ear. “You have a handsome dowry, my dear, did you not know?”

Letty stared. “No…I didn’t.”

“No doubt your uncle properly chose not to concern you with money. So vulgar, isn’t it! Whilst you are no heiress, you are not without the means to attract a suitable gentleman.” Arietta picked up her wineglass. She raised it. “Let us toast your Season, my dear!”

While Letty couldn’t help wondering how much her dowry was, and why her uncle hadn’t seen fit to tell her, she grinned and raised her glass. It was all so terribly thrilling. She was sure she wouldn’t sleep a wink.

Brandon entered the tavern which smelled strongly of male sweat and hops. He recognized the tall, thin man with graying hair at a table in the corner. Fraughton. Seated with him was the Frenchman, Pierse, who was shorter and younger by some years, speaking volubly, his dark head close to Fraughton’s.

After he purchased a frothy tankard of ale, Brandon sat at a table out of their line of vision but still near enough to overhear them.

With a furtive glance in his direction, they continued to talk, their voices low and urgent.

“Would he have hidden it in his apartment?” Pierse asked.

“It was searched but nothing was found,” Fraughton said.

“What about Lavalette’s chateau in the Loire?”

“That will be the next place we look, and we’ll have to search the apartment again. But it’s impossible to escape the Conciergerie. He’ll go to the guillotine, sure as hell.”

“Oui! Then that will be the end of the matter.”

Fraughton grunted. “Such careless thinking could get you hanged.” He glanced around again at Brandon who appeared interested in the two dock laborers arguing in the opposite corner. “What does it matter if Lavalette dies? The journal could still fall into the wrong hands. We must not give up until it’s found.”

Brandon’s gaze flickered over them. Fraughton scowled, and Pierse looked close to unravelling.

“What do you want me to do then?” Pierse asked with a surly look.

“You must return to France…”

Suddenly, the disagreement between the two dock laborers turned into a fight. A table was upset, spilling ale over the flagstones. The tavern owner, a burly fellow, moved to separate them by grabbing them both by their coat collars and heaving them outside.

Just then, two more laborers, laughing at a ribald joke which Brandon caught the tail end of, came in.

Fraughton muttered something to Pierse that Brandon failed to catch. The tall Englishman stood and left the tavern with the Frenchman casting an intense glance around at Brandon before following in his wake.

One of the laborers also eyed Brandon with interest. He nudged the other man, saying something in his ear. A new face around the docks could cause speculation. Jobs were few and highly sought. Brandon drank the last of his ale, slammed down the tankard, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He rose and strolled out, only to see Fraughton and Pierse climb into a carriage.

The weather had changed. A stiffening breeze thinned and cleared the clouds. Moonlight reflected in the harbor waters, and rats scuttled across the road. Brandon set out to walk to where his carriage should be. He hoped the promise of a healthy purse would ensure the jarvey’s return.

He dug his hands into the pockets of his coat, reassured by the touch of cold steel. It was dangerous to walk about alone here at night even if he looked as if he had little more than a farthing to his name.

Brandon turned at the sound of footsteps approaching behind him. The two laborers advanced purposely toward him. Swiveling, he faced them, while he cursed himself for his carelessness. He should have insisted the jarvey come down to meet him.

Sly grins stretched their mouths, their coarse faces filled with intent.

“What d’yer want?” Brandon demanded.

“We ’aven’t seen the likes of you round ’ere.” The shorter of the two, a th

ick-set fellow, shuffled closer.

Brandon preferred not to use his gun. A gunshot would bring people running to investigate, and it wasn’t wise to have himself talked about.

---