Chaos wove around him—yells of protest, whines of men begging, and shocked exclamations of dismay. Two of Reed’s men had disappeared into side rooms, no doubt attempting to catch someone in flagrante delicto. After tonight, Madame Fleming’s would be no more.
One brave constable grabbed the skirts of Madame’s gown, gathering it around the molly’s legs, attempting to drag him from his improvised stage.
Andrew scanned the room. A young man, slim and elegant, dressed in lemon-yellow and blue caught his eye. All he had to do was pose his nonsensical question. The youth did not know where his contact was coming from, or so the general had told him.
About to force his way across the room, his attention snagged on someone else. He remained, staring, all his defenses ripped down in one appalled moment.
Standing less than five feet away from him, gazing at him as if only waiting for the moment of recognition, was Lord Darius Shaw, to give him his full formal title.
Like the rest of his aristocratic family, Lord Darius wore his glossy brown hair naturally, tied back into a queue. Their enemies called the fashion a sign of their disdain of approved behavior. Andrew was inclined to agree. Lord Darius could have come here straight from a fashionable ball. The man must be mad, arriving here in the finery of gold and blue brocade. He could be murdered for his clothes alone, and if Andrew was not mistaken, that ring glinting on his finger contained an enormous emerald.
He remembered Lord Darius for another reason. Last year Andrew had stood by his twin brother’s side as Lord Valentinian Shaw faced a charge of murder.
Any other family would strive to remain in the shadows after that kind of scandal. The trial had played out in the full light of public opprobrium, and the Shaws had gained new enemies in the process. At that time, Andrew had noticed Lord Darius. He noticed him again now.
Lord Darius raised a dark brow, the hard line winging up as the corner of his mouth on the opposite side quirked. He must know how attractive that expression made him. “Well met, sir,” he said.
Andrew felt rather than heard the words, as his lordship did not deign to raise his voice over the din.
Andrew glared at his lordship, moving closer to make himself heard. “I presume you will wish to engage my services after this disgrace.”
“I doubt you offer the kind of services that interest me, dear boy.” A pause ensued. “Or do you?”
He heard the voice clearly now, the mellifluous, cultured tones that had kept him awake for several nights in a row. This man was too arrogant, too knowledgeable, too—everything.
How dared Shaw add such innuendo to his insulting statement? How had Andrew been so foolish as to give him the opening? Lord Darius always set him on edge, more than his brothers. Andrew did not allow himself to be taken off guard very often, but he was shaking now.
He whipped his head around to give his lordship the kind of glare that had plaintiffs quailing. Needless to say, the tactic didn’t work.
Lord Darius’s eyes were a brighter, harder shade of blue than his twin’s, and his mouth thinner, giving him a more ascetic, almost delicate look. At least it would be, but for the honed, hardened body beneath the fine silk and brocade. The Shaw twins were the second and third sons of the Marquess of Strenshall. They boasted at least one more marquess and a duke as relatives. As a whole, the family were known as the Emperors of London—notorious, wealthy and influential. Few dared cross them.
Andrew did. He would see his duty done. While his heart sank at the notion of putting a Shaw into this mess, he would do it. Lord Darius had brought this on himself by coming here in the first place. “Your taste in evening entertainment has not improved since we last met,” he remarked.
“The lady is most talented.” His lordship flicked a gaze up to the impromptu stage, where the person in question was being hauled down and taken into custody.
Jeers and boos accompanied the act, together with chants of “Keep going!” to Mother Fleming. Taunts were flung Andrew’s way.
Andrew ignored them all. “I have no desire to discover his talents.”
“At one point she would have graced the greatest stages in the city,” his lordship continued smoothly. “All performers were once male, did you know? I would have enjoyed watching Romeo court Juliet on her balcony in that era.”
Andrew sucked in a harsh breath. “My lord, the implications do you no favors. Pray be circumspect.”
He felt obliged to give the advice, having acted for the family before. However, in this instance he doubted Lord Darius would wish to retain him. Since his lordship had only been watching the show, was fully dressed, and showed no signs of lasciviousness, the magistrates would be inclined to dismiss him without charge. If he were brought up before them, which Andrew doubted.
“Your father will most likely stop your allowance,” Andrew remarked, allowing a sneer of his own. Lord Darius was a useless aristocrat, living off his wealthy family.
“You think I’m my father’s pensioner?”
“Most younger sons are.” That was true enough, if they did not choose a profession. “You are not an army officer, and you show no inclination to take Holy Orders. I presume you do not owe every tailor in London for your fine suits of clothes.” Or that expensive perfume that maddeningly teased Andrew’s nostrils.
Lord Darius reminded him of the forbidden. Unlike any man Andrew had ever met, this man conjured up visions he should not, could not, afford to think.
They stood in their island of solitude while Reed’s men set about the business of arresting every other person in this crowded room. They could have been standing in a fashionable drawing room, exchanging the time of day for all the notice people took of them.
“Many younger sons have their own source of income. Some even work for a living.” That quirk of the lips teased Andrew, dared him to ask.
He refused. Would he receive an answer he did not want? One that would compromise his integrity or his mission here tonight? In short, was Lord Darius the spy?
Andrew hardly dared voice the words he needed to speak.
A flash of yellow attracted Andrew’s attention. Dragging his gaze away from the sumptuous green and gold of his lordship, he noticed the young man standing behind him. Very close behind him, in truth. A slender youth with a receding chin, wide eyes, and a narrow face garbed in yellow and blue stared back at him.
With a remarkably steady tone, Andrew said, “Green apples aren’t easy to come by.”
The youth opened his mouth. “They are exceedingly fine when the wind is in the east.”
Andrew stepped forward, hand outstretched to receive the unassuming piece of paper the young man held out to him. But before he could, a hard barrier stepped between them.
Andrew’s nostrils flared, the scent of his lordship filling them, his gaze full of the gorgeousness of Darius Shaw.
“You seem obsessed with this person,” his lordship murmured. “Try me instead.”