Page 32 of When We Touch

They all leapt in, quickly. As the coach jerked and set off, Justin looked back. They’d barely made it. The streets were indeed beginning to fill with police officers. More whistles were blowing, and men were running down the dank, misty, gas-lit streets.

He leaned back in the coach, staring across at Jamie Langdon. The man was staring back at him.

But Eddy was the first to speak. “Bless you, Langdon! How on earth did you manage to get hold of Percy’s carriage and bring it so swiftly?”

“I was about on some of my uncle’s business,” Jamie replied. “And, of course, I knew you boys were out and about tonight—Roger had told me earlier. I got quick wind of a bit of trouble due to some new mesmerist and thought to check on you fellows. But then again, séances aren’t really part of Percy’s usual scheme of things; still, I knew the house was near Luther Green’s, and took a chance you might need a quick getaway. Good thing your coachman knows me, Percy.”

“Indeed. That was a wonderously timed arrival!” Eddy applauded.

“Glad to serve, Your Grace,” Jamie said dryly.

“Where’s your conveyance?” Walter Sickert demanded, his voice strangely suspicious.

“Up ahead,” Jamie said. He grinned across at Percy. “If all failed, I didn’t intend to be caught in my own coach. So . . . was the night’s entertainment worth the excitement?”

“I have memories that will allow incredible creation,” Sickert said.

Justin felt uncomfortable. He didn’t like Sickert. He might be an acclaimed artist, and his friendship might appear popularly Bohemian, but there was an undercurrent about him that seemed to hint of something beyond simple bawdy play or pleasure. Percy had told him once that Sickert had a fine wife, but preferred the basest of mistresses. He was fond of delivering a certain amount of pain from which to derive pleasure. Sick-ert. The name fit the man.

And yet Justin felt that sense of nausea again. He was out with this group. And they all had their little oddities. Maybe not Roger, but the others . . .

He had sold his sister . . .

For this.

He wondered if that was what Jamie Langdon was thinking as he stared across the carriage at him.

He’d never know. “Here, stop here,” Jamie said suddenly, sticking his head out the window to shout to the coachman. Sitting back, he told them, “Darby is waiting for me, just ahead, on the corner.”

He exited the carriage to another round of thanks. The evening had been an adventure rather than a disaster.

Indeed, Justin thought.

They definitely owed the man their thanks.

Still, he found himself wondering if James Langdon would mention Justin’s presence at the pub cum whorehouse to his uncle, and if, in turn, Charles would mention it to Maggie.

He found himself remembering her words. She was determined on Charles because she desperately wanted him to find a wife and continue their line—and keep the title from Angus. They had loved their father, and, admittedly, neither of them cared much for their uncle.

So, he should marry. A noble or a commoner, Maggie didn’t care.

But he wasn’t sure that Maggie understood why he hadn’t done so.

He had seen what she had felt for Nathan, the commoner, the policeman. He had seen her eyes when they rested on the man, and the way she came to life, just because he was near. And that was what he wanted. Silly as it might be in the great scheme of things, he wanted what his sister had once had. He wanted to be in love, and he didn’t want to vow the rest of his life to a woman if he did not feel that he could love her, live only for her, forever and ever.

* * *

It took Jamie longer to arrive at the Aldgate station than he had planned, but the appearance of the men in the street had been just too good, especially after he had noted Percy’s carriage just a block away.

He wondered if he would find Maggie and Mireau, and indeed, his horse for that matter.

Maggie and Mireau he could find.

He just prayed that they didn’t abandon Newton anywhere. His horse was exceptional, a gift from the Prince of Wales, bred from the finest English stock and an American mare, product of a sire who had won the Kentucky Derby. The Queen, it seemed, didn’t trust her eldest son with much, and yet, from what Jamie had seen, the Prince of Wales was an excellent statesman, and a fine judge of horses. He was a gambler and a rake as well, but kept his affairs discreet—for the most part, at least. The Princess Alexandra tolerated his behavior lovingly, and yet, they all seemed dismayed with Eddy. The Queen gave her son no trust; he, in turn, despaired of his own heir.

Jamie reflected that he could hardly solve the problems of the Monarchy; he was having difficulty dealing with his own small fraction of life.

But, at last, turning a corner toward the station, he saw Newton. Both Maggie and Mireau were standing awkwardly by the horse, looking to be quite anxious that he had taken so long.