Maggie MacKeever by Quin Page B

Underhill estate — apologized but explained that, legally, there was nothing to be done. Edmund left the office in a temper, deriving scant satisfaction from the knowledge he had frittered away a fair amount of Kate’s windfall.
    The remaining funds had been meant to finance his come-about. Edmund had arrived in London intending to present himself as a young gentleman newly in possession of a fortune, who would be welcomed everywhere. But matters had turned out otherwise, as was clear from his surroundings, and where the deuce was Kate? Not in Yorkshire, where she should be, which suggested her suspicions might have been aroused.
    She had seen nothing, surely? Edmund stared into his glass. Sometimes in memory he heard his mother’s head thudding against the steps. Sometimes he wakened, drenched in perspiration, from dreams of dead eyes. It was her own fault, he informed Dorothea on those occasions. She should have been more sympathetic to his needs.
    Whatever she had seen, or hadn’t, Kate must be located. Edmund was her next of kin. It was unlikely she had already made a will.
    He turned to his companion, a friendly sort of fellow if unsettling in appearance, with pallid skin, pale eyes (one set off by a fading bruise) and colorless hair. They had met at the hazard table, where Edmund had gone down heavily, then spent the next hour matching each other drink for drink. “Thing is,” he confided, “I’m hunting a female.”
    “What sort of female?” The pale-haired man, as it turned out, had vast knowledge of the prostitutes who plied their wares in nearby Covent Garden, including the details of their age and appearance, and the specialties for which each was known. One excelled at the game of schoolmistress, with the aid of a brace of youthful pupils; another was deemed a fluent linguist due to the agility of her tongue; a third was noted for her enthusiastic application of the amatory arts, which frequently resulted in teeth marks left on her admirers’ anatomy. Discipline, by means of green birch brooms and cutting rods, was a favorite overall.
    Edmund filed away these details for later consideration. “Not that sort of female. What did you say your name was?”
    Coffey hadn’t said, but saw no harm in it. “Charles Coffey, at your service,” he replied, not without some truth; he had already helped this greenhead part with a goodly portion of his coin, encouraging him to attempt to recover his gaming losses by doubling his stakes, a stroke of ill judgment which would not go unrewarded by the house. A man of Coffey’s standing didn’t receive a fixed income for luring young men of fortune into places such as this for the purpose of plundering them of their property, but instead from time to time was permitted to borrow large sums from the hell-keepers, it being understood on both sides the loans would never be repaid.
    Coffey was, as Quin had so aptly put it, always on the hunt for pigeons ripe for plucking, with plump pockets and more hair than sense.
    His current pigeon, Coffey suspected, hadn’t many feathers left.
    Quin had himself been an excellent source of income until just recently; so inebriated in general, and so wealthy, that he hadn’t missed, or at least begrudged, the occasional pound or ten.
    Today Coffey couldn’t pass through Quin’s front door. Damned if the Black Baron wasn’t turning into a dull stick.
    Ah, well. A man couldn’t expect to win each hand. Coffey felt philosophical tonight, due to the ministrations of a medical student with an unfortunate addiction to vingt-et-un.
    And speaking of doxies, as he had been so recently: Coffey watched Liliane enter the room and gaze around her with distaste. He raised his hand and beckoned. Liliane’s disdainful expression did not change.
    She sauntered toward the table, ignoring the admiring glances cast in her direction. Damned if she wasn’t a fine saucy piece. She was also damned expensive, and proving less than helpful about