Avenging the Earl’s Lady: Book Five, Sons of the Spy Lord

by Alina K. Field

  “She chose to stay at Hackwell’s. She’s savoring her independence.” He pulled up a chair and ignored the smirk Bakeley sent Charles. “I’m glad you’re both here. Tell me what you know about this Major Payne-Elsdon.”

  “If you recall, he was seen with the Duque’s people in Southwark,” Charles said.

  “I do remember.” Payne-Elsdon had been part of the group attempting to abduct Graciela, but he’d slipped away before the final confrontation.

  “Of course you do, Father.” Charles rolled his eyes and sat down near him. “He cheats at cards. Quite well, in fact. We’ve none of us been able to puzzle out how. But he wins a great deal and loses very little.”

  “He might just be good,” Bakeley said.

  “No. He’s a villain. Excellent swordsman they say. It’s well known that he’s killed men in duels on the Continent.” Charles drummed his fingers on the arms of the chair. “Gadding about France, Italy, and Spain, doing what, no one can say. He’d pick his marks, mostly wealthy young bucks, before dinner, and kill them before breakfast the next day for sheer sport, they say. He’s been leaning on Penderbrook. I can’t determine why.”

  He knew why. “I’m sorry to say, Charles, I believe it’s because Penderbrook is your friend, and you’re not fool enough to engage with him.”

  “So, it’s a way of getting to you,” Bakeley said.

  “Or a way for the Duque to get to you.” Charles swiped a hand through his hair. “Damn. We’ll have to get Penderbrook away, and soon.”

  A tap on the door brought the butler, Lloyd. “A gentleman to see Mr. Everly,” he said.

  “At this hour?” Bakeley asked. “Who is it?”

  “Mr. Penderbrook.”

  Blast it, but he’d dropped the boy at his lodgings. He’d refrained from ordering him straight to his bed only to spare the boy’s dignity. Hell, he’d have been better to let him suffer embarrassment and spare his life.

  Charles frowned. “We’re too late.”

  “Indeed,” Shaldon said. “Send him in, Lloyd.”

  Penderbrook entered moments later. In spite of the mild weather, perspiration rolled off his brow, his boyish face glowing red as he looked around, bowing to all.

  “I beg your pardon.” His voice cracked on the words. He cleared his throat. “I wonder if I might have a moment to speak with you, Charley?”

  Shaldon pointed to a chair. “Sit down. You’ll speak with all of us. Charles, get him a brandy. Bakeley, go and tell Lloyd to send for Kincaid.”

  While Bakeley went to the door, Penderbrook perched himself on the edge of the seat and accepted the glass from Charles. He stared at it a moment, took a deep breath, and tossed it back.

  “Pour him another,” Shaldon said, and watched as the amber liquid sloshed into the glass.

  The boy gripped the tumbler with both hands and took a sip. “Thank you,” he said, his voice restored to full manliness.

  Shaldon settled back in his chair. “Now, Penderbrook, tell us what has happened.”

  * * *

  Penderbrook recounted his run-in with Payne-Elsdon at White’s. The humiliation was as bad as Shaldon feared, inciting an angry gnawing in his stomach. Not only had Penderbrook been dishonored, but Jane’s name had been besmirched—especially Jane’s.

  “I came to ask you, Charley, if you would appear on the field as my second.”

  A third glass of brandy had been required for that last bit of bravado.

  “Yes, of course I’ll second you,” Charles said. “I’ve an excellent set of dueling pistols.”

  “You will not serve as second, Charles,” Shaldon said. “I forbid it.”

  Penderbrook’s face fell.

  The door rattled open and they all turned.

  “What’s afoot?” Kincaid flipped a workman’s cap onto the table and went to the sideboard, sorting through bottles until he found the whisky he favored. His worn trousers, dark jumper, and bedraggled neck cloth signaled that he had not been pulled out of his bed to appear here.

  He turned and clomped over to an empty wing chair. “Never mind. I’ve heard the news,” he said, raising his glass to Penderbrook. “Here’s to your first outing, lad.”

  Penderbrook smiled wanly. Charles refilled his glass.

  “What is the plan?” Kincaid asked.

  Penderbrook squared his shoulders. “I’m going to die the day after tomorrow.”

  Shaldon’s gaze met Kincaid’s. His old comrade had been out investigating. He had news to report, but he wouldn’t do it in front of the other men, and they first needed to deal with this puppy.

  “Why wait until the day after tomorrow?” Kincaid asked. “Why not tomorrow?”

  “You mean today?” Bakeley asked. “It is after midnight.”

  Penderbrook blanched. “That is mere hours away. I need time to find a second. To send letters and such.” He downed the drink.

  “There won’t be any negotiating and apologizing,” Kincaid said. “Payne-Elsdon won’t come to peaceful terms. Best set the time to late morning—Battersea Fields is good. I’ll have men clear a place for us. Mayhap the Major is out getting roaring drunk tonight, celebrating the success of the trap he’s laid. Might put him off his guard to move things along quickly.”

  “I still need a second. Lord Bakeley—”

  “No,” Shaldon said. He glared at each of his sons and then settled his gaze on Penderbrook. “I’ll serve as your second.”

  Chapter 16

  Shocked Nos came from the three younger men, but Kincaid nodded, eyes gleaming.

  “My lord,” Penderbrook said. “He’s demanded swords instead of pistols.”

  “He would cling to that archaic rule,” Shaldon replied. The Major picked his marks before dinner and killed them before breakfast the next day. “As Kincaid said, he’ll not yield to negotiating anything that does not favor him, even the method of fighting. Penderbrook, Charles will see you up to one of the guest chambers. Bakeley, you will wake Penderbrook early and run through your latest practice from Angelo’s.”

  “May I have paper and ink?” the young man asked.

  Shaldon waved a hand. “Of course. Write out your will and whatever last missives that you wish, but don’t be up until dawn doing it. You must get some sleep.”

  “I must also pay a call on Lady Jane. I fear I have left matters unresolved.”

  “No,” Shaldon said. “Such a visit won’t help you or her. You may speak to her after the duel.”

  “But—”

  “Nor will you Bakeley, and you, Charles, discuss this matter with your wives. There is no need to upset the ladies. They will only want to rush out and interfere in what is a matter of honor between men.”

  When the door closed on the three younger men, Shaldon went to the sideboard. “A matter of honor with a murderer?” he muttered. “This has been a devil of a day.”

  Kincaid came over and refilled his own glass. “And another coming up. What’s this particular devil up to, I wonder? The Major must know that if he kills that boy, you’ll see him hang. Unless he thinks to delay his death by scampering off to Spain, but the Duque’s business here isn’t done yet.”

  “This is blood sport to Payne-Elsdon.” Shaldon tipped back a swig that banished the chills.

  “Blood sport for him, and for the Duque, a poke at you.”

  “The Duque doesn’t care if Payne-Elsdon dies or he hangs.” He thought about the intelligence he’d received after delivering Lady Jane to her lodgings. “And he won’t—hang, that is.”

  Kincaid’s gaze wandered to the cold fireplace and he squashed a smile. Dispensing cold justice was one of his favorite endeavors. “Let’s just make sure the boy doesn’t hang either,” Kincaid said. “Or you.”

  “We won’t. I’ve met with the Duquesa tonight, and I believe she might facilitate a trip to Spain for the Major.”

  Kincaid raised an eyebrow, waiting.

  “The Major left many enemies.”

  “And revenge would make for som
e perfect justice. What’s next?”

  He took a sip of the stiff whisky. The brew made by Kincaid’s people in the north wasn’t considered a gentleman’s drink, and he didn’t give a damn. “Did you take care of those matters with Guignard?”

  “Aye.”

  “Is he safe?”

  “Still bunking at Marie’s. She’ll have his head later.”

  “She’ll have your head.”

  Kincaid turned away and went for the whisky bottle, but not soon enough. Only the oldest of friends—like himself—could have detected the whiff of pleasure given off by the man.

  Bloody hell, they were a couple of old fools.

  But not too old or too foolish to get a young fool out of a pickle. “Do we have a servant in place at Payne-Elsdon’s lodgings?” Shaldon asked.

  “Aye. More than one, in fact. Has the bastard picked his second?”

  “One will step up after Payne-Elsdon receives my letter. Will you carry it?”

  “Write it out while I go arrange for the surgeon.”

  “I’ll have one more note to carry to the Duquesa. Have someone stand by to run messages tonight. I fear we won’t get much sleep.”

  “We’ve gone sleepless before.” Kincaid plopped his empty glass on the sideboard and walked to the door.

  “Kincaid?”

  His old friend paused.

  “Stop by and roust our apothecary out of his warm bed. I’ve in mind a tonic we used once in Bavaria. Do you remember the one?”

  Kincaid grinned and left.

  * * *

  A short while later, Shaldon finished consulting with Lloyd, sent Kincaid off with his first round of formal letters, and made his way to his bedchamber.

  Should he change and visit Gerrard Street?

  Her words came back to him…she was not too old for their coupling to have consequences. One more document must be prepared.

  When he entered his bedchamber, he found Charles there, sprawled in the chair by the dead fireplace, eyes closed. His youngest son would make one last attempt to wrest this obligation from him.

  When the door clicked closed, Charles shot to his feet.

  “Have you seen to Penderbrook?” Shaldon asked.

  “I gave up and left him in the care of a patient footman. He’s still scribbling letters. Morose as hell and determined to die like a man. He’s begged me to help him sneak away in the morning to see Lady Jane. Won’t believe I don’t know where she is.”

  “Your wife hasn’t told you? She’s at Hackwell’s vacant townhouse on Gerrard Street.”

  He blinked, no doubt absorbing the notion that Graciela had held back the secret. A grin split his face. “Good God. By herself?”

  “Jenny is with her. And we’ve added other staff for her safety.”

  “Perhaps…perhaps, Father, you should go stay with her tonight.”

  Only years of practice allowed him to hide his astonishment. And pleasure.

  Charles squeezed his hands into fists. “There’s certainly the chance of danger for her, with Payne-Elsdon bringing up her name. Perhaps the Duque has discovered her connection to the painting.” He cleared his throat. “Sirena said you were…you were out all night last night, and that you’ve, er, asked Lady Jane to marry you.”

  He loosened his neck cloth and tossed it aside, suddenly fatigued. Not ready for his bed though. He’d rather catch his second wind in the night air.

  A dark jumper and coat had been set out for him. Should he don them, or not?

  Charles walked closer and braced a hand on the mantel. “Which we all agree will be capital. Gracie did find it odd that Lady Jane wept so much at our wedding.” He shook his head. “But of course—she’d just met her son. I suppose you’re right though. It would be odd for Penderbrook to call on her in the early morning. She’ll know, the way the ladies always seem to know, that something is wrong, and she’ll winkle it out of him. Then she’ll demand he not fight, they’ll argue, and he’ll go away doubting himself. Best to let her know in a letter he cared for her.”

  “He’s not going to die tomorrow.”

  Charles huffed. “Father. You don’t mean to fight in his place?”

  He turned away. He would fight and he would win.

  “But…a man of your age? And Penderbrook must appear. His honor…he’ll be called a coward…you don’t…Father? What are you planning?”

  What he was planning needed more thought. He needed Charles to leave.

  He needed Jane. He needed her in his arms, in his bed.

  And what if she winkled out the news of the duel from him? She’d already blasted through years of stoic reserve. She’d turned him into a young fool all over again.

  He sat down in the chair and began removing his shoes.

  Charles went down on one knee next to him. “Let me take on this battle tomorrow, Father.”

  “A man of my age, Charles? Really? And as I recall, Bakeley is far better with a sword than you.” The second shoe came off. “Do not worry. Unless I’m knocked down on my way there by some fool in a speeding phaeton, I don’t plan on dying tomorrow, either.”

  Charles gazed at him, his face uncharacteristically solemn. The boy had his mother’s coloring, her lighter brown hair and amber eyes. Charles was, in many ways, the child he was closest to, given the boy’s stint on the Continent digging up secrets for the Crown.

  “If Penderbrook won’t die, nor will you, does that mean Payne-Elsdon will?” Charles got to his feet. “Unless…do you need him alive?”

  “I doubt he has anything of value to offer us. But, he will leave the field alive. As it turns out, the Duquesa has a use for him.”

  Charles’s mouth dropped open, and then he laughed. “Or her father does. I am glad I ended with her on friendly terms.”

  “As am I.” Charles had pretended to be the Duquesa’s lover, passing messages through her to her father, a powerful Spanish count, and no friend to the lady’s husband.

  “Have you fought duels before, Father?” He swiped a hand through his hair. “Oh, what am I asking? Of course, you have.”

  “I’ve fought too many times to count, but not gentlemanly affairs.” He’d sparred with sharp stilettos in Italy, brawled with fists and feet in the alleys of Paris, and discharged pistols at Bonaparte’s agents at close range and far. And those were the physical confrontations.

  “It’s no gentleman we’re dealing with tomorrow, Father. How can I help?”

  * * *

  Guignard sat across from her, clothes neatly pressed, neck cloth starched, hair pomaded. The rest of him—hollow cheeks, sad eyes, gnarly hands—was rumpled with age and rascally living.

  “My lady,” he said. “It is not that I am trying to keep secrets.”

  It had been thus since his arrival in Madame’s parlor, after she’d waited impatiently for hours during his toilette.

  She eased in a breath and reached deeply into her nest egg of patience—which after so many years of withdrawals, was almost bankrupt.

  Quiet footsteps on the stairs signaled Madame’s approach. Perhaps Madame could lean on her cousin to tell Jane where the painting was hidden.

  She wasn’t leaving this room until she knew where to find it. She needed to know the painting was safe, that she could sell it or copy it, or otherwise profit from it.

  She needed to know she wasn’t being tricked or betrayed by this man also.

  “Keeping secrets is exactly what you are doing, Monsieur Guignard,” she said.

  “I assure you, it is safe.”

  “I thank you. Now, please tell me where you are safeguarding it.”

  “The knowledge might endanger you, my lady.”

  “Good heavens. I carried the painting all the way from Yorkshire. Just tell me.”

  The door creaked open with a wisp of a draft, but she kept her gaze pinned on the little Frenchman.

  “Tell her, Guignard.”

  Heart thumping wildly, Jane fought for a breath.

  Shaldon was here.

/>   Chapter 17

  His lordship had left the arms of his beautiful lover and come here.

  The nerve. The absolute nerve. He’d left one woman to track down another.

  And did he think she’d welcome him into her bed?

  He came to stand next to her, dressed all in black like a housebreaker, the coat hugging his muscled frame.

  After meeting his lover—his other lover—he’d gone home and changed his clothing. Had he dressed like that to break in to see her again?

  “My lord.” Guignard stood, licking his pale lips.

  “It’s all right, Guignard. Tell Lady Jane.”

  Guignard turned sad eyes upon her. “My lady. The masterpiece is now with Lord Shaldon.”

  Jane shot to her feet and then plopped down again, a haze forming before her eyes.

  “Of course.” Her voice shook on the words.

  She should have known.

  She’d been betrayed again. Lied to. He would split the profits from the sale, would he? He’d spoken with such assurance because he’d taken control of the painting.

  She was a fool.

  “Always one step ahead, are you not, Shaldon?” Numbness crept up her arms. She pumped her fists, trying to get sensation back into them. “Always one step ahead of me.”

  Always one step ahead of everyone.

  She mustered a breath. “So, you took his lordship’s gold sovereigns, Guignard?” Her voice shook again, and damn it, she didn’t care. Bile rose in her and she swallowed it back, forcing her fists to uncurl. She wanted to stand, she wanted to leave. Let Shaldon play his bloody games without her. Let him do as he pleased with her foolish, unappreciative son.

  “Not yet, my lady.” Guignard’s voice came faint and from far away.

  Black dots sprinkled Guignard’s face. She squeezed her eyes shut and gulped in air.

  “Jane.” Shaldon spoke into her ear.

  His hand pressed her back. “Take another deep breath,” he said.

  “Damn you,” she choked out. His hot strength enveloped her, tempted her, angered her. She squeezed her eyes tighter, resisting.