Alias Lord John: A Regency Adventure Read online

  Alias Lord John

  A Regency Adventure

  Lily Milner

  Copyright © 2020 by Lily Milner

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely accidental.

  Polite note to the reader

  This book is written using British English and spelling.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  About the Author

  Also by Lily Milner

  Prologue

  London, 1818

  Tristan Rigal was aware he was being watched.

  London was just as he had expected; foggy and dismal, streets thick with mud as black as ink and the people surly. He had arrived on the crowded docks three weeks ago, and for a time he was just one of the anonymous throng blending into the smoke and clamour of the great city.

  Much had changed in the few years since he last visited London. It was now dirtier, noisier and taller. New buildings rose out of the mist, their upper stories lost to sight in the fog. Crowds gathered in the gloom and then dispersed, wraithlike, along with horses and carts and recognisable landmarks. November was the worst month for the evil humours that plagued the city. A million coal fires spewed smoke into the air, and rainwater accumulated into deep pools of filth.

  Yet for all this, London was still as comfortable as an old coat, and he looked forward to living in a better part of town, close to the more respectable clubs and gaming halls. For the moment he had enough gold to keep himself living at the level of a gentleman, for that is what he chose to be here. In Paris it had been different. There the underbelly of society was more to his taste, as were the wine and the pleasures of Montmartre.

  One day when the London miasma unexpectedly lifted he had been surprised to be greeted by at least three different people. A very well-dressed gentleman and an elegant woman both bowed slightly as they passed, but said nothing. Neither did they smile. He returned the bow, not sure why he should, but obviously they had mistaken him for someone else. Why disappoint them? Later that same day, though, he felt a tap on his shoulder when leaving his lodgings in St James's Street. Instinct made him reach for the knife under his coat, but he soon saw it wasn't necessary. This time the fellow had definitely taken him for someone else.

  'John. You here in London? Why the devil have you not called. And Julia will want to see you.'

  Rigal simply stared at him, not yet sure how to respond.

  'I say, you look a little out of sorts. Is something wrong?' The man was extremely well-dressed. If Rigal had not been wearing his multi-layered coat, the rather frayed jacket underneath would surely have shown the fellow his mistake.

  'Yes, well no.' He quickly decided to play along. 'Business brought me here. And it is tiresome. I need a diversion.'

  'Ah, well I'm sure you know where to go for that.' The man's lips curled and he raised one eyebrow. 'But you've been away for a while, so you may not know that Madam Maxine's establishment has closed. No doubt she will open somewhere else when things go quiet. Of course there's always Ma Bonnington's. Go there. They tell me they have new talent.'

  Rigal was quick to understand the type of establishment the fellow was recommending. Obviously this John he'd been taken for was no saint. Briefly, he considered exploiting the connection, but no, it would be risky. He had decided to stay out of trouble, at least until the money ran out.

  'Perhaps I should,' he answered, affecting a disinterested expression. 'But I must leave you now. I have a pressing appointment.'

  The fellow bowed. 'I'm glad I ran into you. I'll tell Julia you're here. Are you staying in Grosvenor Street?'

  'Yes. For the moment.' Grosvenor Street was a very respectable address. His apparent look-alike was obviously a wealthy man.

  'Well don't forget me if you decide to have a dinner party, m'lord.' And with that the stranger smiled and walked off into the crowded street.

  Rigal stared after him in wonder. He had been mistaken for a lord, by someone who obviously knew the man well enough to ask for a dinner invitation.

  That had been almost a week ago. When the November fog closed in again Rigal was glad of it. So far he had not chanced his luck at the high-class gaming tables. For the time being he had decided to confine his social life to the less than salubrious inns in the stews. Although he was initially bemused by the fact that he'd been taken for someone of high rank and privilege, the idea did not sit well with him. If it happened again, what should he do? He could deny all knowledge of this Lord John, who was obviously well-known in London society, or he could play along. It would be a dangerous game, but who knew what might be gained from a simple masquerade?

  He had not come to a decision when the strange events that follow overtook him.

  Chapter One

  Food at the chop houses was usually vile, but instinct told Rigal he needed to stay out of sight, so he chose to eat frugally and save money until the persistent feeling of unease, and the growing suspicion that he was being followed, resolved itself one way or another.

  'Boiled beef, roast beef, haunch of mutton, eel pie, steak pudding.' The decidedly unwholesome choice was recited in nasal tones by the waiter, standing at his side with a filthy towel slung over his arm. He decided on the steak pudding and a tankard of beer. At least the beer was good, but oh for some traditional Rognon au Vin at his favourite eatery in Montmartre. French food was like manna from heaven compared to this English pap, but he would have to get used to it. He didn't plan on going back to Paris anytime soon.

  Eating in London was very much a communal affair, with the customers seated close together at long tables, and it was hard to eat without rubbing shoulders with your neighbour. Tonight an old man with faded yellow side-whiskers slurped a bowl of soup, not caring that he occasionally splattered his neighbours with droplets of the greasy gruel. The man continually muttered to himself in repetitive tones between mouthfuls. Rigal caught the rhythm, but whether he was listening to prayers or curses he could not tell. He gave up on the steak pudding when only half-finished and rose to leave.

  The old man grabbed his sleeve. 'Not finishing it? I'll 'ave it.'

  'Take it, with my compliments,' Rigal passed him his half-full tankard as well.

  'May the Lord be with you, yer honour. Mind how yer go.'

  So he had been blessed, and cautioned. That was payment enough. Now it was time to find out who had been following him, and why.

  It was raining when he set out to walk back to his lodgings – soft rain that fell in a forgiving mist, hiding the nastier elements of the district under a fine veil. The weather briefly reminded him of country life, when as a lad he had enjoyed walking through such light mists across the wooded Swiss countryside. Now his greatcoat protected him from the da
mp. It also hid the fact that he had his hand on his dagger.

  The streets narrowed to alleys where gas light could not penetrate. At the end of one of these twisted laneways he stopped and hid himself behind the jutting facade of a ramshackle house where the roof dipped almost into the mud below. It was not in his nature to be someone's quarry, and he had no intention of staying confined to the nastier parts of the city for fear of being mistaken for a wealthy lord at the gaming tables. He would sort this problem out.

  Rigal waited in the shadows, aware that his boots were squelching in some unmentionable muck, but he held his position. The wall he huddled against was thin, and he heard a man's angry shout and a woman's cry from within. In little more than a minute a shadow slipped past. Soundlessly, he caught up with the figure and slipped his arm around the man's throat. At the same time he used his other hand to prick the skin of the soft under-throat with his dagger. No not a man, a lad, he thought. The figure was slight and did not resist his choking grip. He leaned forward and whispered in the shadower's ear.

  'Start walking. Over there to the middle of the alley, where I can see you.'

  They marched two together into the open lane. Rigal was confident no-one would come to the rescue. In this part of the city murders were many, and to try to help a victim would have been foolish indeed.

  Still keeping his knife at the soft throat, Rigal grabbed the lad's long hair and pulled his head back. What he saw startled him. This was no assassin, nor was it a lad as he had assumed when he dragged the offending creature away from the wall. His shadower was definitely a woman, and young. God's blood. Had he mistaken a doxy from the stews for a cut-throat, a poor light-skirt looking to make a quick shilling in the alley? He was losing his touch.

  'Please, sir,' she said, her voice faltering with the choking pressure on her neck. 'I was only doing what they told me to. Please let me go. I meant no harm. I just needed to earn a shilling.'

  Now he could see her face, small and pale, with a pointed chin. She had been wearing a hood but in the struggle it had slipped off, revealing a mass of yellow curls. He removed the knife, slowly, while keeping tight hold of her hair. He pulled it until he saw her wince in pain.

  'Who told you to follow me?'

  'My lord … Lord John Nazenby. His servant. They just wanted me to follow you. Tell them where you went. That's all.'

  He kept hold of her hair, but released the pressure. She was thin, and her clothes were damp from the earlier rain.

  'Lord Nazenby? He lives in Grosvenor Square?'

  'Yes. But please, sir, don't tell them I told you. They'll beat me, and they won't pay me.' She was now able to turn her head, and when she saw his face close up her eyes widened, but she then looked quickly away.

  'Take me there,' he said. 'Show me the house.'

  'But sir, they will beat me something cruel. Won't you let me go?'

  Was the girl being truthful? Somehow he suspected she had enough wits about her to fool him. She was also a puzzle. Why had she been chosen to follow him into the stews? Despite her thin frame and poor clothes she spoke with a genteel accent. Any street urchin could have done it, and without giving themselves away so easily. Well, whatever the answer he had no time to think of it now.

  'Where is this Lord Nazenby now?' he asked.

  'I'm not sure, sir.' He pulled her hair harder, twisting it tight around his hand until she reconsidered. 'Probably at Ma Bonnington's. That's where they all go.'

  That was the place the stranger had suggested Lord John should go. So that was where he would look for him. Then he had a better idea.

  'I'll tell you what,' he said. 'Show me where this lord lives, and I'll leave you alone.'

  'But what will I say to them? I need to tell them where you've been tonight.'

  He thought for a moment. Despite the girl spying on him, he had no wish to be the cause of her taking a beating. 'Tell them you lost me when I went to Ma Bonnington's.'

  It was a good mile to Grosvenor Street and the soft rain continued to fall. As they reached the more fashionable district the numbers of people on the streets increased and a few gave them curious glances when they passed. He soon understood why. This girl was dressed in cheap, faded clothes, but he was wearing his expensive greatcoat and a beaver hat. They were mismatched, unless …

  He put his arms around her and pulled her close to his body. Now they were a gentleman with a young tart from the stews, more than willing to sell herself for a shilling. She apparently understood, because she smiled up at him in the way such girls do. He had to admit her smile was winning, but he had no taste for seduction at the moment.

  When they reached Grosvenor Square she pointed out a grand house with tall columns and a wide portico. So as he suspected, Lord John was a man of real substance.

  'Do you live here?' he said.

  'Yes.' She looked down at her shoes, which were now thickly coated with mud.

  'Are you a servant?'

  She raised her chin. 'No sir, I am not a servant.'

  'Then what are you?'

  'I am … a charity girl. A distant cousin of my lord. He provides for me.'

  He had no time to take this in, because a coach and four horses turned into the wide street, the horses stamping and blowing as if they had been driven at a pace. Someone was arriving at the lord's house. 'I must go,' she said, desperately trying to disentangle herself from his hold.

  'Tell me your name first.'

  'Poppy. Poppy Woods.'

  'Very pretty,' he said, and allowed himself to smile at her for the first time since they met.

  She slipped away into the mews beside the house. That much of her story was true then; she belonged to the house, and to the lord.

  Rigal watched a footman jump down from the back of the coach and run to hold the horses' heads. Oil lamps, still particular to Grosvenor Street, cast pools of light around the scene. Rigal managed to blend into the shadows on the other side of the street. It was late, but London was always busy. A lone figure leaning lazily against a wall across the road would raise no suspicion.

  From where he stood he had a good view of who alighted; the lamplight was strongest there at the entrance to the great house and he clearly saw the cloaked figure jump nimbly down to the road. The man then turned and held out his hand as a woman bunched up her skirts before stepping daintily down from the coach.

  Rigal breathed in sharply, astonished. The man he was looking at under the yellow oil light was surely a mirror image of himself.

  Quickly he pulled the brim of his hat further down over his face. Since realising he might have a double, Rigal had decided to alter his appearance slightly. His hair now grew in waves over his collar, and he had not shaved for a couple of days. A dark stubble spread across his cheeks and chin. The other man was cleanly shaved, and his clothes impeccably tailored. A large diamond on his hand caught the light and gleamed as he lifted the woman over a dirty puddle. He lifted her as if she were a featherweight, smiling directly into her eyes.

  So this was Lord John Nazenby. The likeness was astonishing – they might have been twins separated at birth. He pushed that thought away. Impossible. Rigal had been born here in London, but to French Emigres, and he had been educated in Switzerland as a gentleman.

  The lord carried his lady across the wet path then set her down under a portico. As he did so he frowned and looked back to the road as if sensing Tristan's presence. Of course it was impossible, but Rigal felt a prickling sensation along his spine.

  Chapter Two

  Another week passed. Poppy Woods would have reported his routine to her masters by now, so he was careful to repeat it – the same grubby chop house, the same old man at table anxious now for his scraps. Perhaps the man was not as old as he had first thought. Hardship had scored deep grooves down his cheeks and his hands trembled as he reached for Rigal's bowl. His coat had once been black, but was now rusted to dirty brown. One surprising thing – he smelled of soap, unlike some others who might have bee
n doused with piss pots. Rigal chose to sit next to him for this very reason.

  Tonight Rigal decided to linger, ordering another tankard of ale and one for his neighbour.

  'Thankee, yer honour. The Lord in all his mercy be with you.'

  'Are you of the clerical fraternity, sir?' The style of his plain dark frock-coat seemed to indicate at least an association with the church. Perhaps a bell ringer, or a prebendary of a poor parish.

  'Once was, aye. No more.' He took a long draught of the ale and smacked his lips appreciatively. Then he began the rhythmic chanting again, so quietly that it was almost inaudible above the raucous din of the other diners. Rigal eventually got up, about to leave him to it, when the man spoke.

  'Watch how you go, yer honour.'

  'You said that before. Do you know something?'

  'Lud knows. Old King Lud. Aye. They's out there waiting.'

  'Who's waiting?'

  But the man had lost himself again in his mumbling. The fellow was odd, one moment sharp and intelligent, the next off on some strange voyage of half-remembered imprecations. Rigal reached out spontaneously and patted his shoulder. If the old man noticed he did not show it.

  Outside the world was again hazy with fog. He made his way back to St James's Square by the usual route, through the alleys with the tumble-down houses where link-boys scuttled past, their torches lit to show wary travellers the way home or to deliver them to waiting cut-purses. Rigal knew not to chance that outcome.