Sloane avoided St James’s Street, where the gentlemen’s clubs still spewed members on to the street. Sloane might, like them, pass some time at White’s, even gamble a little, but he had no desire to break the spell the night had created.
St James’s and streets nearby were nearly as busy as day, though most of the night people sought pleasures best hidden in darkness. Sloane thought about entering one of the gaming hells that attracted gambling of a more dangerous sort than the respectable White’s Club, but the urge to test his skills in those deep waters had fled. Of course, there were establishments where he might slake the primal urges Morgana Hart had awoken, but Sloane, no matter what his reputation, had always avoided that sort of debauchery. If he wanted a woman, he could find a willing one without having to pay for her services.
The notion that it would be an easy matter to make Morgana willing quickened his step. He’d come very close to doing that very thing when he’d held her in his arms. No matter her birth and respectability, she had a wild nature underneath, one he could so easily exploit. It would be a simple matter indeed to ruin her, if she did not ruin herself first.
Sloane stopped in a shadow and shook his head. He must cease these rakish thoughts. Besides, far more likely than he ruining Miss Hart was that she would ruin him.
She was up to something. He needed to discover exactly what it was before she dragged him down with her when her fall came.
Sloane proceeded with new purpose. He made his way to Jermyn Street, concealing himself in the darkness, while he watched men come and go through the door of the glove shop. The front of the shop was unlit, but windows in the upper floors showed the peek of candlelight when the curtains stirred. Certain now that his suspicions of the establishment had been accurate, Sloane waited. He did not know what he hoped to discover, but the years he’d worked for the Crown had taught him to bide his time. Something useful always came his way.
His reward came when a man in a plain coat paused under the street lamp, giving Sloane a glimpse of his face. It was the man from the park. He entered the glove shop with the familiarity of a frequent visitor, but Sloane suspected his visit was for business, not pleasure.
Sloane left his place of concealment and crossed around the row of shops to the back. One light shone in a window on the ground floor of the glove shop. He crept closer.
The window was open, allowing the cool night breeze into the house. Sloane heard voices. He gripped the exterior sill of the window a couple of feet over his head and pulled himself up high enough to peek inside.
A woman’s back was visible. The establishment’s owner, he guessed. She shook her finger at a man facing her, the man from the park.
The woman’s voice could be clearly heard. ‘I do not want you to try to find my girls. I want you to succeed in finding them! And while you are at it, get me that pretty maid.’
‘Never fear,’ the man said in the rough voice Sloane remembered from the park. ‘When I clamp my hands on that one again, she will not get away.’
‘Hmmph.’ The woman tossed her head. ‘You could not hold her the first time. I wish I had held her when she turned up with that harridan.’
Morgana, Sloane thought.
The woman continued, ‘Do you know where to find her?’
‘I will discover her.’
Sloane’s arms trembled with the strain of holding on to the window. He let himself slip to the ground.
He had heard enough. There was no doubt in his mind Morgana Hart was toying with a danger she could not imagine.
He meant to put a halt to this flirtation of hers with the Paphian world.
The next morning Sloane rose early. He’d slept little. Dawn had not been far off by the time he’d returned to the house and his brain was racing too fast to turn off.
Why had Morgana Hart gone to the glove shop that day? Why did she wish to contact Harriette Wilson, of all people? What mischief was she getting herself into?
He told Elliot he was going for a walk, not precisely a falsehood. He planned to walk around the row of houses to the back.
He’d retained enough of the previous night’s mood to decide he would first watch her house, to learn what he could before confronting her.
As he stepped out of his door, a servant left Miss Hart’s house, hurrying down the street as if on an urgent errand. Sloane walked by Morgana’s house at a slow pace, glancing into her window as he passed. A female he’d not seen before appeared briefly in the drawing-room window. There was something afoot in that house, all right.
He crossed the street and walked around to the backs of the houses. Stepping through the mews, he reached her gate. Through the gap in the gate, he peered into her property.
Finding it deserted, he tried the latch. It was locked, but Sloane made short work of picking the lock.
He slipped into the garden. Luckily it had bushes enough to conceal him. He inched his way along the wall, looking for a nice vantage point to watch the back of the house, and almost tripped over a pile of bricks. Catching himself, he saw a gap in the wall and laughed. He might have spared himself a great deal of trouble had he known he could step from his garden into hers.
It proved an excellent place to stand, providing him easy escape. So he settled in and, like the Peeping Tom of the Lady Godiva legend, and the English spy he’d been during the war, he fixed his attention on the back windows of Miss Hart’s house, hoping to witness something he was not supposed to see.
He saw a great deal more activity than he would have expected. The sound of the pianoforte reached his ears, as well as a beautiful feminine voice singing to it. Either Miss Hart had exaggerated how badly she could play, or someone else had fingers on the keys. The voice did not sound like her either, too high and crystalline. A quite remarkable voice, none the less, but whose?
Sloane watched for over an hour, an inconsequential space of time compared to the long hours he’d put in for King and country. But instead of piecing the puzzle together, Sloane became more confused.
In the past hour, three women had walked out to the privy. One he recognised as Miss Hart’s maid. The other two were dressed as maids, but somehow they did not fit the part. Another puzzling thing. They all seemed to be gathered in the back room. Why would a covey of maids spend so much time in one room?
Perhaps Mr Elliot would have a notion how many people Miss Hart employed. Elliot had a way of knowing such things.
Sloane slipped through the gap in the wall and entered his house from the back, causing one of his maids to shriek in surprise when he suddenly appeared in the passageway. He told the girl to find Elliot and send him to the library, a room mirroring the location of Morgana’s busy back room.
When Elliot entered, Sloane was examining the books on the shelves.
‘I have meant to rearrange the shelves, sir,’ Elliot said. Sloane stepped back. ‘Are they out of order?’
‘Sadly out of order. Apparently no one has seen to their proper shelving in some time.’ Elliot picked up a stack of books and placed them on this shelf or that.
Sloane watched, wondering what made it worth the effort. Very little on the shelf
