A Gentleman’s Promise: A Regency Romance (Gentlemen Book 1)

by Penny Hampson

  ‘My lady, my brother did what any decent gentleman would have done,’ replied Julia. ‘He didn’t have expectations of an inheritance, so he’s not at all disappointed. He’s asked me to convey his deepest regards to you. He’s rather occupied at the moment with the investigations into who is behind these attacks and begs your understanding for the delay in coming to see you.’ Julia’s expression became more serious. ‘Furthermore, Richard is strongly in favour of Emma and her brother remaining in his household for now… for their safety, you understand?’

  ‘Oh dear.’ The dowager’s mouth turned down. ‘I was so hoping you’d both come to live with me as soon as you arrived here, Emma.’

  ‘We will soon, Grandmamma, but I agree with Cousin Richard. I think it better that this matter is settled first.’ Emma took hold of her grandmother’s hand. ‘We don’t want to put Jamie at risk. You see, no-one else is aware that we survived.’

  The dowager appeared to consider, then, smiling grimly, she at last spoke. ‘Yes, you’re right to be cautious. I do understand. And, of course, we must continue the fiction that Richard is the viscount.’

  Emma, who’d expected more opposition from her grandmother, was relieved, not relishing another battle of wills. However, the dowager hadn’t finished.

  ‘In that case, Julia,’ she said sweetly, ‘I’ll call on your brother the day after tomorrow, and at the same time, I’ll expect to see my grandson. After all’ – she shrugged – ‘who would deny a frail elderly lady inquiring after the health of a very distant young relative?’

  Emma nearly choked on her tea.

  As this happy reunion was occurring, Richard was occupied with his solicitor. The man had offices off St James’s, and Richard had enjoyed the early-morning walk through Green Park. This was despite the presence of Phil Cullen who’d insisted on accompanying him, even though Richard thought it unlikely an assassin would attack in broad daylight in the middle of London.

  Richard settled into the leather chair facing Blake’s desk and crossed his legs. Blake covered his surprise at the presence of Richard’s well-built companion who positioned himself like a human barrier near the door.

  Richard steepled his fingers. ‘Well, Mr Blake, do you have any news?’

  ‘Not much, I’m afraid, my lord.’ Blake blinked, his eyes darting between the two large gentlemen crowding his office. He started to shuffle papers about on his desk. ‘There have been rumours and talk, of course.’

  Richard tensed.

  ‘Oh yes? What rumours?’

  ‘Well, I’ve heard that Frederick Smythe kept rather unsavoury company, and there have been hints that he visited places kept under observation by the War Office.’

  Richard’s ears pricked up. This was getting interesting.

  Blake continued. ‘I’ve also discovered that the Duke of Wheatley some time ago approached the Dowager Viscountess Easterby to see if she was interested in selling Easterby Hall. He apparently thought it was not in the entail, but it turned out he was mistaken.’ Blake picked up a pen from his desk and rolled it in his fingers. ‘One of my informants works as a footman in White’s and overheard some talk. Seems the duke was quite put out about it, though I can’t understand why he’d want the estate. It’s been somewhat neglected, as you’ve no doubt discovered.’ Blake set his pen back down.

  Richard frowned. These were yet more pieces in the puzzle linking the duke to the Smythe family. What in the blazes did the duke have against them? And what of Frederick? What was he doing visiting places under suspicion by the War Office? Was he somehow involved in spying?

  ‘Do you happen to know if Wheatley is in town at the moment, Blake?’ asked Richard.

  Blake’s head bobbed. ‘I believe he is, my lord. He was seen in White’s only the other day. A rare occurrence, I understand… caused a bit of a stir.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Richard, sucking in his cheeks. ‘I think I’ll call in at my club. Phil, what do you say?’

  Phil chuckled. ‘That sounds like a good idea.’

  Richard stood up. ‘Good man. Let’s go and reacquaint ourselves with the cream of London society and maybe have a drink or three.’

  The two distinguished-looking gentlemen sauntered up St James’s towards White’s. On the way, Richard made a detour into Hoby’s where he ordered a new pair of boots, gritting his teeth as the great man himself condescended to attend to him. Now Hoby had his measurements, he wouldn’t be required to visit the shop in person for future pairs. He’d send Carter to collect them and serve him right.

  At White’s, they were greeted by a footman in the foyer.

  ‘Are many in today?’ Richard affected a bored demeanour.

  ‘A tolerable few, my lord,’ the man replied in lowered tones. ‘Most of the gentlemen are in one of the card rooms. I understand there is some high-stakes play going on.’

  ‘Sounds interesting.’ Richard quirked an eyebrow at Phil. ‘Shall we?’

  Richard led the way to the rear card room. He needed to see if Wheatley was present and remind himself of whom he was up against. Peering through the fug of cigar smoke and suppressing his urge to cough, Richard headed for the main table, around which hovered a small group of onlookers. Drawn by the palpable air of tension, he moved closer to see who was playing. A young man – eyes bright with excitement, or was it perhaps fear? – was perched on the edge of his seat and eying the languid gentleman across the table.

  Richard recognised Wheatley at once. A handsome man with strong but cadaverous features and no colour to his complexion, he lounged in his chair, every inch the aristocrat. A smile played at the corner of his mouth. His icy blue eyes flicked over his opponent before lowering them to the cards in his hand.

  ‘I fear you may have won, my dear Gibson,’ Wheatley drawled.

  The young chap exhaled. Too soon.

  ‘Ah, no, let me see.’ Wheatley made a play of looking at his cards again. ‘No. My mistake. I think you owe me…’ His lips curled in a smile. ‘What was it again? A thousand guineas?’

  The young man gasped.

  ‘But I was sure… You can’t have.’ His mouth snapped shut as his opponent’s blue eyes narrowed.

  ‘Are you suggesting that something underhand is going on?’ The hint of menace in Wheatley’s softly uttered words sent a chill through the crowd. Had the temperature dropped several degrees, or was it just Richard’s imagination?

  A hush descended as the young chap at last opened his mouth to speak.

  ‘Not at all, Your Grace. M-m-must have lost my concentration. T-t-too much t-t-to drink, don’t you know?’ The young man’s forehead beaded with sweat. ‘Will you take my vowels for now, Your Grace? I’ll settle with you b-b-by week’s end.’

  Wheatley nodded, his face impassive. The tension in the room dissolved, and even Richard started to breathe normally again.

  The young chap rose from his seat, pushing his chair back awkwardly, and staggered across the room towards the door. The buzz of conversation recommenced.

  Wheatley’s cold gaze roamed around the room, registering the newcomers. His eyes caught Richard’s and his expression faltered for a moment, or so it seemed. Then Wheatley turned to the younger gentleman standing beside his chair, who Richard guessed was his secretary by his expensive but sober dress, and Wheatley’s austere features broke into a smile.

  ‘Got to teach these young pups not to gamble all their inheritance away. Perhaps he’ll be more careful next time.’ The younger man nodded and laughed, very much at ease with his companion.

  Wheatley leaned back and yawned, splaying his legs out beneath the table and stretching his arms above his head.

  ‘Egad, I’ve had enough for one day.’ He quirked his eyebrow at his companion. ‘Why don’t you stay awhile, and I’ll see you later?’

  ‘Are you sure, Your Grace? I should really return too.’ There was a hint of anxiety
in the younger man’s voice.

  Wheatley rolled his shoulders before answering. He’d the look of a man who’d sat too long at the gaming table.

  ‘No, I insist. You do far too much. Take advantage of my good mood and enjoy yourself.’ Wheatley’s tone softened as he patted his companion’s arm. ‘I’ll see you this evening.’

  About to drain the last of his glass, Wheatley’s hand started to shake uncontrollably as it neared his mouth. The glass slipped from his fingers, sending rivulets of red across the baize table and crimson splashes on his waistcoat.

  ‘Damn. Not now.’

  Wheatley’s words were hissed but audible. His face tightened as he stared at his hand, almost as if it didn’t belong to him. The onlookers had dispersed; the excitement for them had been over when the novice had left the room. Only Richard, Phil, and Wheatley’s companion had observed the incident.

  The younger man grabbed a footman and ordered him to get some water and a cloth, then he leaned in to Wheatley and said, ‘Henry – I mean, Your Grace – are you well?’

  ‘Don’t make a fuss,’ Wheatley growled as he flexed his hand and looked at it accusingly. Seemingly satisfied that it was now obeying his will, he used it to smooth down the front of his magnificently embroidered waistcoat. Wheatley’s eyes lifted and he again caught Richard’s gaze. Richard schooled his face to look impassive. After the slightest pause, Wheatley’s gaze moved on. For a man who’d looked shocked to the core a moment ago, he now appeared totally composed.

  Richard and Phil made their way over to a free table, all the while keeping a surreptitious eye on the duke, who was calling for his jacket. His companion was hovering nearby, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

  Wheatley’s face relaxed back into a smile.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Francis, I’m quite well.’ He clapped the young man on the back. ‘Take that expression off your face. I’m not about to expire just yet.’

  Giving Richard the briefest of glances as he strode past their table, Wheatley waved his hand in dismissal.

  ‘I’ll see you later, Francis. Now do as I suggest. Enjoy yourself.’

  The young man gazed forlornly after his departing friend, then he headed off into the dining room, his shoulders hunched.

  ‘Well, Richard, now you’ve seen him, what do you think?’ whispered Phil.

  Richard frowned. ‘I don’t know. He’s obviously unwell but doesn’t want anyone to know. Why would he bother trying to buy the Easterby estate when he must have enough responsibilities and some sort of affliction? Anyway, let’s go and get something to eat.’

  The pair sauntered into the dining room, where they found themselves a table and sent for cutlets, potatoes, and a bottle of claret. Out of the corner of his eye, Richard studied Wheatley’s erstwhile companion, who was seated alone. Looking rather disconsolate, he glanced up nervously when anyone wandered too near his table. His features had the stamp of an aristocrat, with a pale complexion and prominent cheekbones. Straight blond hair swept across his forehead, and his pale blue eyes roamed the room as if searching. He was slimly built, and Richard put his age at about the same as his own. He reminded Richard of someone, but he couldn’t recall who.

  Richard was just musing on whether he should take the bull by the horns and go over and introduce himself when he was hailed by a familiar voice.

  ‘Lacey, I mean Easterby, thought it was you. How are you? See you made it back to London pretty quick. Was the countryside too quiet for you?’

  Richard looked up to see a grinning Crawford, leaning heavily on his cane and hobbling towards him. He leapt up to pull out a chair for his friend and started to make the introductions.

  ‘Phil, let me introduce Major Nathaniel Crawford. We were at Balliol together. Crawford, this is my good friend and man of business, Philip Cullen. He’s a Cornishman like me.’ Richard pulled a face at the major. ‘I’d better warn you, Crawford, we’re both mad about engineering. And Phil’s a Cambridge man, by the way, but don’t hold that against him.’

  He waved for a waiter to bring another glass, but Crawford held his hand up in a staying gesture.

  ‘Be with you in a minute. I’ve seen someone else I know.’

  To Richard’s surprise, Crawford limped over to speak to the young man he’d been covertly observing. Richard watched as the chap’s eyes widened, then crinkled into a broad smile at his military friend.

  ‘Nate, fancy seeing you here. I heard you were out in Portugal,’ said the young man, getting to his feet.

  ‘How are you, Francis? It’s been a long time, though you’ve not changed a bit,’ answered Crawford, slapping him on the back. ‘I’ve just sold out…’ Crawford gave a rueful smile. ‘Long story. Are you living in London?’

  His friend nodded.

  ‘Yes, but only for a few weeks. I’m secretary to the Duke of Wheatley… been with him several years. I’m, er… mainly to be found at his estate in Warwickshire.’

  Crawford’s eyes sharpened. ‘Then you must have seen my father. Strange that he’s never mentioned you.’

  The man’s eyes flickered away, and he shifted on his feet.

  ‘I didn’t like to presume, you know? Once I’d finished at university, well, I didn’t wish to…’ Francis reddened. ‘You do understand, don’t you? Your father was always kind to me when I was a boy. But I wasn’t sure he’d want to continue the connection once I’d left home and Mama died.’

  Crawford clapped his friend on the back again. ‘Nonsense, you oaf! Of course he’d want to see you.’ Tapping the handle of his cane on the table as if to reinforce his words, he added, ‘Now promise me you’ll call when you’re in Warwickshire. I’m returning there shortly and I’ll take great offence if you neglect to visit.’

  Francis looked up at his friend and gave a shy grin.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure.’

  They pumped hands and Crawford turned back towards Richard’s table. ‘That’s settled then,’ he said. ‘Would you believe that I’ve just met another old friend, Francis? The chap he’s with was at Cambridge too; you might know him. Now, why don’t you join us?’ Without giving his friend a chance to refuse, Crawford sat down at Richard’s table, a broad smile on his face. ‘Well, this is grand, meeting two old friends on my first day back in London.’

  The young man hesitated, then, much to Richard’s relief, for this would be a heaven-sent opportunity to discover more about Wheatley, he came over and joined their table. Crawford introduced the diffident young man as Francis Heslop, secretary to the Duke of Wheatley. Richard caught the flicker of shock on Heslop’s face when he was presented as Viscount Easterby.

  ‘How do you and Crawford know each other?’ Richard asked, after taking a sip of his wine.

  Heslop sent Crawford a shy smile. ‘Well, we were boys together. Our families lived near each other and we both attended the same school. Sort of lost touch when Nate went to Oxford and I went to Cambridge.’ Looking serious, he turned to Phil. ‘I believe you were at Cambridge, Mr Cullen, is that right? Don’t recall seeing you there. Perhaps you were ahead of me?’

  Richard guessed there was more behind Heslop’s seemingly innocent question and wondered what it was.

  ‘Probably.’ Phil grinned. ‘I’m pretty ancient. Thirty-four years old, so quite decrepit. My Cambridge days are but a distant memory.’

  ‘That’ll be it then.’ The tension left Heslop’s face. ‘I must have started when you were in your final year.’ Heslop nudged Crawford. ‘When I heard you’d bought a commission, I made sure to check the Gazette for news of your regiment. I knew you’d been wounded at Talavera but understood you’d made a full recovery. I assumed you’d gone back.’

  Crawford’s fingers tightened round his glass. ‘That was the plan, but… well, never mind. Father insisted I return to the fold. Says he’s getting too old to manage on his own, so that’s why I’m heading
home.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Suppose I’m lucky really. Too much blood, too many good men lost.’

  Crawford’s eyes misted over, as if remembering. Richard knew his friend had probably seen sights that were better not spoken of – war was an ugly business, after all. They sat for a moment in uncomfortable silence until Crawford seemed to become aware again of his companions.

  ‘How did you become acquainted with Wheatley, Francis?’ Crawford asked. ‘Heard he didn’t mix much outside his own circle.’

  Richard silently blessed his friend. Crawford had asked the very thing he needed to know.

  Heslop seemed to consider for a moment before answering. ‘Met him by chance a few years ago. Something I’d been working on brought me into contact with him.’ Francis toyed with his glass and smiled as if remembering the occasion. ‘Anyway, my work pleased him, so he offered me the post of secretary and, well’ – he shrugged – ‘here I am.’

  ‘Heard Wheatley is a difficult man to deal with.’ Richard kept his tone bland.

  ‘I’ve never found him difficult.’

  Richard held up his hand. ‘Sorry, old man, no offence intended. Only repeating what I’ve heard. Haven’t a notion what the man’s really like.’

  Crawford cut in, trying to smooth things over.

  ‘Wheatley’s patronage is no less than you deserve, Francis. I congratulate him for recognising your worth.’

  Francis sucked in his cheeks and sent Richard and Phil a keen look.

  ‘I shall tell you something about myself, gentlemen. Nate already knows and he doesn’t hold it against me.’

  Richard wondered what Heslop was about to disclose – he’d lay a monkey that it would be nothing so useful as admitting that he knew about the murder attempts.

  Francis spoke in an undertone.

  ‘I’m telling you in case you want to cut the connection with me. I’m illegitimate. Indeed, it’s only because of Wheatley’s patronage that I’m welcomed here.’