Diplomatic Relations Page 2

  The pottery cart passed, and he pulled Bannon forward again, only to have him shrug out of his hold.

  “I can walk, ya know.”

  “Then come along.” Shaking his head, Blaise strode down the aisle, leaving Bannon and Louisa to follow. Why of all days did Larkinson, his valet and preferred chaperone, have to get sick? He should have snuck out and come by himself. The risk would have been worth it.

  The market was a lot bigger than he’d anticipated and definitely not for the faint of heart. It wasn’t dirty exactly, but it wasn’t pristine either. The streets were… well, they were streets. There was something that smelled suspiciously like horse manure, even though no animals were allowed. The place bustled with footmen in livery, upper servants and underbutlers mixed with even a few middle-class citizens, but there didn’t appear to be any lords or ladies of the ton.

  With a grimace, he pulled the lapels of his greatcoat higher on his neck and hoped it and his hat concealed his identity. He’d come too far to turn back now.

  He walked another minute or so before he spotted the melon stand situated right between some orange fruit and grapes. “Let me do the talking.”

  No reply.

  Blaise whirled around and came face-to-face with a woman holding a little boy by the hand. “Ack!” He jumped back.

  She gasped and clutched her purse to her chest.

  Bloody hell! “I’m so sorry, madam. I thought my brother was behind me.”

  The woman glared, raised her chin, and marched off, dragging the boy behind her as he looked over his shoulder at Blaise.

  Sighing, Blaise shook his head and turned his attention back to the booth. He was going to box Bannon’s ears when he found him.

  Behind the rows of cantaloupes, a sweet-faced girl in her late teens waited on a woman in a gray wool coat and straw-rimmed bonnet. The girl wore a simple tan-colored pelisse, but on further inspection, it had fine tan embroidery on the lapels and the wrists done in a darker, shinier tan. Probably silk. It was much more fitting to a middle-class woman of some status rather than someone who earned low wages hawking fruit. Her cheeks were red from the chill, and she kept darting glances at the crowd, never making eye contact with her customers. This had to be the lady’s maid.

  The patron didn’t seem to notice the maid’s odd behavior. She picked up a fruit, but instead of putting it in the basket looped over her arm, she brought it to her nose.

  Blaise frowned at the odd gesture. Who smelled cantaloupes?

  But no, she wasn’t sniffing it. She turned her head slightly, then scanned back the other direction as she too searched the crowd.

  The hair on Blaise’s arms stood on end under his layers of clothes, and it wasn’t from the cold air. Something wasn’t right. Making his way to the next stand over, he decided to watch a little longer. He picked up an orange—or was it a tangerine? He never could tell the two apart—and mimicked the customer, bringing the fruit to his face. He peered over the top of it toward the two women.

  They chatted, but their gazes never actually met. When a man came over and picked up a melon, the female consumer turned away.

  The man tossed the cash for his cantaloupe onto the stand and left. Only then did the woman turn her attention back to the purveyor. She put the melon in her basket without paying, and the girl never made a move to stop her.

  Blaise stepped closer, trying to get a better view of the patron past her wide-brimmed bonnet and….

  Oh, my galaxy! He pressed the tangerine to his lips to cover a gasp. Betty Jenkins!

  A tickle of delight ran through him. It was like playing a new piece of music with no mistakes on the first try. No way could he be this lucky.

  She appeared thinner than the pictures of Mrs. Jenkins tacked up around the councilman’s office, and her hair was brown, not graying blond. Truth be told, she looked more like a kitchen maid than a baron’s daughter, but there was a resemblance around the eyes. She even had the same beauty mark high up on her cheek at the corner of her right eye. He was certain this was the admiral’s wife.

  It was all he could do not to dance a little jig right then and there, but where was the admiral? Blaise searched the vicinity, but no one near remotely resembled the robust man.

  Dipping her head at the girl, Betty left.

  Blaise started after her, but the man behind the orange booth caught his sleeve. “Are ye going to be paying for dat, or am I to call the law on ye?”

  Dust! He’d forgotten about the tangerine or orange or whatever. “Sorry!” He pitched the fruit to the vendor and hurried through the aisles, staying just far enough away to not look like he was following. But it wasn’t easy.

  Betty went in and out of his view as people crossed between them.

  Her basket swung back and forth, and her wool coat swayed. If she went any faster, she’d be running. Even with his longer stride, Blaise had a hard time keeping up.

  A blast of wind liberated Betty’s bonnet from her head and slowed her pace.

  Making a grab for his own hat, Blaise hurried to close the gap between them, but a man pushing a cart full of sweets cut him off. He rocked up on his toes to avoid a collision and darted to the left.

  A herd of children following the candy man nearly trampled him.

  Blaise jogged to the right to pass the cart, and someone slammed into his shoulder, spinning him sideways. Star dust and imploding planets! Couldn’t people see he was in a hurry? Rubbing his shoulder, Blaise regained his senses, and…. Oh no. Betty had vanished, and up ahead a man in a bottle-green coat and a maroon hat ran as if trying to catch someone. That had to be the rude cod who’d smashed into him.

  A chill washed over Blaise and down through his body. Was that man after Betty too? What if the IN found the Jenkinses before he and his group did? A swirling dread churned in the pit of his stomach, and he followed the billowing green coat. He had to get to her first.

  Weaving his way through the throng of people, Blaise half skipped, half ran, trying to locate her.

  In front of the man, a swath of gray disappeared behind the baker’s stand, and Blaise picked up his pace.

  Or rather he tried to.

  A hand clamped down on his shoulder, bringing him to a standstill.

  He shrugged, but the hand held tight, sliding down his arm and squeezing his wrist.

  His heart beat so fast, the rushing blood in his ears drowned out the cacophony of the crowd. He hadn’t even considered that he might be in danger himself if he found her. Tensing up, he prepared to fight, but a whiney voice stalled him.

  “Blaise, can we go now?”

  Bannon. Blaise sighed but didn’t stop to enjoy the relief. He gripped his brother’s hand and hauled him into the chase with him. “Come on.”

  Unfortunately they didn’t get far; they turned right and ran into a waist-high rock wall. Beyond the wall, traffic concealed the other side of the street.

  Where did they go? Breathing heavy, Blaise dropped his hands to his knees and tried to get his bearings. He’d run out of market, and there were no crosswalks or traffic signals nearby. Neither Betty nor the man in green was anywhere in sight. He leaned past the blockade to get a better view, but only a small boy huddled behind the baker’s stand, eating a meat pie. “Blast and damnation.” He’d been so close.

  The boy stopped eating and held the food at his mouth. His hazel eyes seemed vibrant against his dirty face. A nervous energy filled him, as though he were about to jump up and run.

  Bannon jerked Blaise back around. “Why are you running?”

  Blaise jerked his arm back and gave one last look toward the street.

  The child had used the distraction and taken off down the row between the stalls and the barrier. So much for asking him if he’d seen Betty or the man in green.

  With a sigh, Blaise glared at his brother. “I found her.”

  “Who? The lady’s maid?” Bannon’s red brows pulled together as he lifted a peach to his mouth and bit into it.

  Where had he gotten that? Blaise frowned at the fruit, and Bannon held it out to him. Shaking his head, he rolled his eyes. “No, Betty Jenkins.”

  Bannon’s green eyes flared above the peach. “You did?” he asked with his mouth full.

  “If you’d stayed with me like you were supposed to…,” Blaise growled. What was the use? Bannon was never where he was supposed to be, but…. “You made me lose her.” He used his most superior voice and gave his sibling a piercing stare.

  Bannon, of course, was unfazed. “Since you lost her, can we leave? This is dull.”

  Blaise closed his eyes and counted to ten, trying to keep from throttling his brother. When he finished, he had to count to ten again, but finally he managed, “Where is Louisa?”

  Bannon shrugged. “I left her at the apple place while I was talking to the nice man at the peach stand.” The twinkle in his eye told a different story. He’d been flirting with the man selling peaches, which explained his valet’s absence. Louisa failed miserably as chaperone. Not that Blaise really wanted or needed a chaperone, but if anyone had seen him….

  As one of his father’s interns—not to mention his father’s possible successor—he had to mind his reputation, but seeing someone he knew here wasn’t likely. A young lord in a market, except one of the livestock markets, was… well… it was bad form and just wasn’t done.

  “Come along. We have to find Louisa.” He caught Bannon’s arm and tugged him through the mazelike market.

  They walked back the way they came, but Blaise did not catch sight of Betty again, nor did he see the man he thought had been following her. Which worried him. Blast it all, that man had spooked Betty, and now she knew the market wasn’t safe. She would be even harder to find next time, and he couldn’t keep looking. He had to be
at the House of Lords in an hour.

  The important thing was that he’d spotted her and could vouch she was alive… for now. Perhaps he could mention seeing her and get his colleagues to step up the search for her. He hoped that the other man hunting for her had not caught her.

  “Redding? Bannon?”

  Blaise turned to find Louisa hurrying toward them with a huge smile on her face. Her dark hair remained tucked up under her bonnet in its neat and elegant coiffure, but she had the skirt of her morning dress in her hands ruched up and showing her ankles as if she carried something in the folds of her skirt. The action completely dispelled the elegance of her attire and the importance she held in their household. She might as well have been wearing a plain drab dress like Betty rather than pale blue with flowers and a sapphire velvet pelisse.

  “I got four apples to your one peach,” she said in a singsongy voice and wagged her head sideways as she drew close. Holding out her skirt, she showed them the red apples.

  “Blast and damnation.” With a scowl, Bannon stomped his foot and crossed his arms, the peach still in his hand. “You swear you didn’t buy them?”

  Louisa smiled even brighter and pressed her free hand against her chest. “On my honor.” Extending the hand against her chest she wiggled her fingers. “Pay up.”

  Bannon pulled a shilling out of his pocket and gave it to her.

  Blaise could only imagine what that was about. Like he and Larkinson, Bannon and Louisa had been raised together and were dear friends. The daughters of their housekeeper, Larkinson and Louisa had been educated with them and groomed to be their valets since practically birth. But unlike he and his own valet, these two were always competing. Anything Bannon did, Louisa had to do and vice versa. It was like having two Bannons.

  As if one wasn’t enough.

  “Come on.” Blaise shooed them both forward.

  The two of them started moving, but Bannon continued to glare at Louisa. She grinned at him in return, then strolled up next to Blaise. “Would you like an apple, my lord?”

  “They probably have worms in them.” Bannon took one last bite of his peach and deposited it in a trash can next to one of the stands.

  “No, thank you, Louisa.” He decided not to mention that she should walk behind them for the sake of propriety, and scanned the area around them. “How did you get the apples and the peach?”

  “Louie cheated, I’m certain.” Bannon stuffed his gloved hands into his greatcoat pockets, appearing quite petulant.

  “Did not. We made a bet to see which of us was more charming.” Now she gloated. “I won.” Freezing in her tracks, she touched Blaise’s arm. “You could probably get a bushel of apples. Men are always noticing you.”

  Blaise fought back a blush. “I doubt that.” Besides, he’d rather have one Betty Jenkins right now than a bushel of anything.

  Bannon snorted. “I doubt it too. Blaise is so oblivious to flirting. All he cares about is work.”

  “That’s not true.” Was that…? No, it was a milkmaid, not Betty. Wait! What did Bannon say? “Men do not flirt with me.”

  “See?” Bannon raised his hand toward Blaise and looked past him at Louisa. “Oblivious.”

  Blaise ignored his brother. Men did not flirt with him. Quite frankly, he’d yet to meet a man whose attention he wanted to gain either.

  Up ahead at the entrance to the market, between two women, a bottle-green coat fluttered in the wind and disappeared into the crowd once again.

  “Bloody hell!” He didn’t wait to see if Bannon and Louisa followed, which was probably stupidity on his part.

  At the sidewalk, the throng cleared a bit and revealed the man in the green coat disappearing inside a shop up the street. Had the man followed Betty there? The tightness in Blaise’s chest eased a little. One thing was for certain—if the man was still running, he hadn’t caught her. Blaise still had time; he might be able to get to Betty first!

  “What was that about? Where are you going?” Bannon asked, short of breath as he stumbled up next to Blaise.

  “To the haberdashery.”

  GROANING, DALTON Fairfax huddled farther down into his peacoat as he ran. Damn the luck, letting Ravensburg spot him leaving the IN base on the very day he returned to Regelence. His father, the Marquess of Ravensburg, was a pain in his arse. His parents had been making a fuss for weeks now about him moving back home and selling out his commission. Not bloody likely.

  The wind whipped his cheeks so hard he’d lost sensation in them two blocks ago. He glanced back at the mass of people on the sidewalk from which he’d just escaped, but kept going. It was a little like trying to swim up the Bordo River on Lerdra. Shouldn’t these people be sleeping off last night’s excess? Most aristocrats didn’t rise till ten or so, and it was barely six thirty. Dodging a nanny pushing a pram, he almost plowed into a young lord.

  “Watch out!”

  Dalton leaped over a frozen puddle before glancing back again.

  Ravensburg had his arm in the air as if hailing Dalton, as he shoved through a mass of people on the sidewalk. If his face got any redder, he’d look like a tomato. When had Father gotten that out of shape? Or perhaps he was a victim of wind chill as well?

  A stab of pity, mixed with something that felt suspiciously like guilt, niggled at Dalton, but not enough to make him stop. Eventually he’d have to talk to his father, but not now.

  Skirting a trolley filled with oranges, he peeked over his shoulder again, and bam! He splatted up against a rather squishy body. Oomph. “Meteor dust!”

  “Whoa!” The squishy body flew backward in a flurry of puce and flapping arms. A hat sailed forward off the man’s head.

  Dalton shot out a hand to grab the man, but the man’s walking stick came flying toward him. He snagged the stick out of midair, but missed the owner’s arm.

  The man landed on his arse with his legs spread and his gray beaver hat between his knees. He brought to mind a toppled bowling pin as he floundered around.

  Several fellow pedestrians stopped to gawk.

  Dalton seriously considered resuming his escape, but how callous would that be? He wasn’t a complete scoundrel, even if it meant his father caught up with him. Sighing, he planted the walking stick on the sidewalk and offered his free hand. “Terribly sorry, ol’ chap.”

  “Oh, I say, Ashbourne. Is that you?” The bowling pin, er… man, blinked bright blue eyes up at Dalton. His lips flowed into a grin, making his jowls more prominent. Lifting his hat from between his legs, he plopped it on his head, turned his face upward, and took Dalton’s hand in a warm clammy grip.

  Oh stars. It was Viscount Tyndel. Of all times to run into a former paramour. Dalton pulled and failed to help the viscount rise. Galaxy, the man had packed on some pounds. He’d never had the toned physique Dalton preferred in his lovers, but the man had a talented mouth, so Dalton hadn’t cared overly. Now? There were practically two of Tyndel.

  Putting his back into it and using the walking stick for leverage, Dalton tried again to help Tyndel up.

  Slowly, Tyndel rose to his feet, staggering a bit. He dusted off his chocolate-colored trousers and rearranged his waistcoat, jacket, and puce greatcoat. “When did you get back in town? Last I heard, you were serving in the IN on Lerdra.”

  “Right. Um….” Dalton chanced a glance behind him. Was that Ravensburg? The man certainly seemed in a hurry and the hat appeared the right shade of brown, but Dalton couldn’t get a good look at him otherwise. An IN soldier kept pace in front of him and a much smaller blond man directly beside…. “Damnation!” The blond was his sire. Where had he come from?

  Arthur Fairfax’s body lurched back in recognition. He said something to—yes, that was definitely Ravensburg—and pointed in Dalton’s direction. Great, now both his parents were on his tail. He’d managed to avoid them while on leave last year because they’d been in the country at Windswept Abbey, but evading them while they were in town was already proving more difficult.

  Dalton sprang into a jog. Bloody hell. He’d forgotten all about Tyndel. He turned over his shoulder toward the now slack-jawed viscount and walked backward. “My apologies, Tyndel. We’ll catch up later.” His gaze strayed a few yards back. Eep. His sire was quick for such a small man. “Family emergency.” Which wasn’t a lie—it was an emergency that he get away from his family. He fled without another word.