A Rakes Guide to Pleasure (Somerhart 2)

"Ye're the housekeeper?"

Emma rolled her eyes at his boldness. "What is it?"

"I got some information might be valuable to you."

"Really?" He didn't look particularly trustworthy. His layers of clothing were blackened with grime and his face had clearly not been washed in days.

"A man is asking after your mistress. Wants information 'bout who lives here and how long."

Emma tamped down her spark of alarm. This boy was likely as much a schemer as she, only he took his nonsense door to door. "Why should that concern me?"

He shrugged. "P'raps it don't."

Well, he was good. Not pushing too hard. His eyes sud­denly glinted with wile. "You don't believe me. A'right. But he asked if you'd come six weeks ago. And you did."

Emma cocked her head. "True. But you'd know that, I suppose, if you lived nearby."

"I do." His chin inched up. "That corner one street over is mine. But I don't know if you come from Cheshire. Do ye?"

The blood fled her face and left her cheeks cool. The air flowing down the stairwell was suddenly too cold to bear.

The boy's eyes brightened another notch. "That's what he said. 'Find out if they're from Cheshire way.'"

Oh, God. Matthew. She'd worried he might try to follow. He would ruin everything, given the chance. Emma forced herself to focus. "And what did you say to this man?"

"Well, I took his ha'pence. Told him I'd find out."

"Is that why you're here? To find out?"

"P'raps . . ." He smiled suddenly, revealing straight white teeth. "He didn't look entirely well-to-do. I thought I'd take my chances with your household. One ha'pence won't change my life, or the life o' me mum."

Emma nodded. He was honest about his scheming, at least. More than she could say for herself. "What is your name?"

"Stimp."

"Stimp?"

He shrugged away her question.

"All right, Stimp. A penny now and another penny after you talk to him again."

"A shilling. No charge for the return trip."

"A shilling?" She looked him up and down again. He had shoes anyway. Shoes polished to a fine shine that spoke of a wage. A boot black perhaps. He wasn't a beggar. "Fine. A shilling, but it will wait until you come back."

He grinned, revealing a plan to flee with her coin if she were dumb enough to hand it over. "Deal."

"Now tell me more about this man."

Emma smoothed a hand down her deep blue skirt. If there were ladies at this party who cared about such things, they likely thought her unfashionable, or at least too poor to afford more elaborate dresses. The truth was that she could not afford dresses at all, except to buy them secondhand, then alter and dye them until it seemed she owned a full wardrobe. It would not do to appear too desperate, after all, or her gambling would take on the taint of work instead of eccentricity.

"The lovely Lady Denmore," a man purred from close behind her.

Emma glanced over her shoulder to spy Lord Marsh leer­ing down. She fought the urge to sigh in disgust. "Lord Marsh," she answered.

"I hoped you might make it to my little gathering."

"I'm pleased to be here. I understand the play is excellent at your tables."