One Night in London

by Caroline Linden

  “It’s a simple business arrangement, nothing more.” Edward kept his voice cool and even, refusing to let any hint of his less-than-businesslike thoughts about Francesca Gordon color his tone.

  Charlie leaned back in his chair and nodded with false solemnity, his eyes glittering with amusement, as if he saw right through that.

  “She did me—or rather, us—a great service, and in return I am helping her with some small matter of hers.” Edward shrugged with what he hoped would pass for indifference. “There’s nothing more in it.” Yet. He took another sip of coffee to hide his unease over that last, unconscious, word his mind had added.

  “She did ‘us’ a great service.” Charlie looked positively fiendish with glee. “Edward, you exceed even your own high standards, coaxing attractive widows into our service. You’ve surely done quite enough already to defend the family name, certainly more than I’ve done. I’ve been very remiss, haven’t I? Let me help. Send her to me, and I shall be glad to repay any service she’s done ‘us.’ Gerard tells me she has the most glorious figure—”

  “Charlie,” Edward barked in spite of himself.

  His brother burst out laughing. “Good Lord, Ned, if you could see your face! Of course I won’t steal your redheaded widow. I daresay she’s a great deal more lively than Louisa Halston—I always did say that girl was cold, you know I did—and if anyone deserves a bit of fun, it’s you. You’re well rid of the Halstons, and ought to revel in your escape by embracing the wilder pleasures of life for a change.” Still grinning, he picked up his fork again and turned back to his breakfast.

  Edward had known Charlie wouldn’t let Louisa’s defection pass without comment. Unlike Gerard, Charlie delighted in causing trouble and making people squirm. Unlike Gerard, Edward refused to take the bait and have an argument. He concentrated on his breathing until the urge to say something scathing in reply passed. “If I didn’t expect you to put yourself out over losing Durham, rest assured I won’t expect you to do anything on Lady Gordon’s behalf. Gerard made the same offer, and then nearly ran from the room when he heard what she wanted of me.”

  “Why, what does she want?”

  “An introduction to an attorney,” said Edward in a repressive voice. “Speaking of the same, I came to tell you how Wittiers progresses, should you care.”

  “Of course I care,” said Charlie. But his brother seemed to have lost interest for the most part. His eyes wandered to the newspaper spread open beside his plate, which he must have been reading before Edward’s arrival. He turned a page and scowled at something printed there. “Damned decent of you to keep me informed. How is he proceeding?”

  Dutifully, Edward recited what he had discussed with the solicitor, but he doubted his brother listened to half of it. Charlie glanced at him and nodded from time to time, but otherwise busied himself with his breakfast and the newspaper—which, Edward couldn’t help noticing, was one of those appalling scandal sheets like Sloan printed. For some reason, that rubbed him raw. He had no objection to managing the legal fight to claim and keep Durham, nor to running the several estates that produced his and his brothers’ wealth, nor even to doing it all alone. But it galled him that Charlie couldn’t even pay proper attention to him because he was so interested in the sort of rubbish that would ruin them all. Finally, Edward pushed back from the table and stood up. “I won’t keep you from the latest on dits,” he said in a cutting tone. “If you want to know more about Wittiers’s progress, by all means call in Berkeley Square whenever you like.”

  “I heard every word you said,” Charlie replied without glancing up. “Don’t kick up at me, I’m a wounded man.”

  “Yes, I remember, three great brutes who shoved you down a staircase,” said Edward dryly. “Over a woman.”

  “And left me an invalid for weeks, casting me upon the scant sympathy of my relations.” Finally his brother leaned back in his chair and looked at him. “Gerard is off to the wilds of Somerset. He came to say good-bye.”

  “He told me this morning.” Their brother was still determined to find the blackmailer. Edward wished him much luck.

  “Perhaps he shall solve the entire problem with a well-placed pistol shot.”

  Edward pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment. “Yes, everything will be so much better when Gerard is in the dock for murder.” He let his hand fall and shook his head. “And even if he did kill the blackmailer, it wouldn’t solve our problem. I expect Cousin Augustus to knock on the door at any moment, sniffing around for some grounds to file a petition of his own for the title. Wittiers is turning London upside down looking for any record of Father’s clandestine marriage so he can know how to counter it, but having no luck at all. Thanks to rags like that one”—he poked one finger at Charlie’s paper in contempt—“everyone is murmuring about the shocking secret, and it wouldn’t take much to fan those murmurs into a blazing scandal that could stain our names forever, no matter which way things go. Anything we do or say outside the strictest bounds of propriety would merely heap fuel on the embers.”

  Charlie’s face had lost its mask of lazy boredom. His eyes were almost compassionate as he said, “I never imagined Louisa would do such a thing, Edward.”

  The name spit him like an arrow through the heart. He took a deep breath against the surge of bitter fury. “I was mistaken to tell her. You and Gerard were right, and I was wrong.” He didn’t say that often. Another deep breath. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Charlie nodded, and for once let it go. Edward said good-bye to his brother then and left. He had so far managed not to think about Louisa’s actions constantly. It hurt too much to think of the woman he had loved, honorably and faithfully, betraying his confidence and jilting him without a qualm. He wanted to know why. He wanted to demand she explain herself, even though he had no desire to repair the breach now. He wanted to know how he could have been so deceived in her character; he had thought her loving and loyal, trustworthy enough to hear his darkest secret and keep it so. Perhaps Gerard was right, and her father had forced her to do it because of money. Of course, a little voice in his head whispered that Halston couldn’t have known unless Louisa told him in the first place. Whatever led to the cancelled engagement could never have happened until she told her father.

  He tried to shake off his brooding thoughts when he reached home. Blackbridge took his hat with reserved dignity, quite unlike the cheerful housekeeper in Bloomsbury. Now that Gerard was gone, the house was as silent as a tomb, and somehow felt as cold and as dark as one, too, after the bright, warm rooms Lady Gordon kept. Edward strode into the study, still in a foul mood over Charlie scraping open the wound that was Louisa, and vastly annoyed at his inability to stop thinking of everything connected to Francesca Gordon. He had his own worries and duties and responsibilities, and he would not allow Louisa or Francesca or anyone else to interfere with them.

  Mr. White came from the small adjoining office when Edward rapped at the door. “Have you got the plans for the new wing at Furnlow?” he asked abruptly, sending the estate agent scrambling for the architect’s letters and drawings. Furnlow was the estate in Cornwall promised to Gerard. A year ago, perhaps sensing his time was growing short, Durham had declared it too small and damp, and engaged an architect to renovate the old manor house and build a new modern wing. Gerard was in Spain then, fighting Bonaparte, and Durham grew frail in a shockingly short time, so it fell to Edward to supervise most of the planning. To abandon it now would seem an admission of defeat. With ruthless intensity he went over every line of the drawings, sending several changes and recommendations back to the architect. Then he turned to the other estate business, dealing with queries from his bankers, the butler in Sussex, the estate manager in Lincolnshire, and a host of smaller concerns. By the time he reached the end of it, evening had fallen, the bright sunlight outside the windows slanting and then fading to deep purple shadows.

  Edward rolled his shoulders, stiff after leaning over the desk for so long
. “That will be all, Mr. White.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The agent was gathering up his notes when there was a tap at the door. White went to answer it.

  “My lord, there is a man to see you: a Mr. Jackson,” announced the butler.

  Edward glanced at White. “The man you instructed me to hire, sir,” Mr. White said. “I told him to report as soon as he discovered anything.”

  “Show him in,” Edward told Blackbridge.

  A few minutes later a short, slim fellow—looking more lad than man—slipped into the room. He had a round face and innocent blue eyes, and for a moment Edward wondered what the bloody hell White had been thinking to hire this boy as an investigator. Of course, appearances could be deceiving. “Yes?”

  Mr. Jackson bowed politely, his eyes fixed on Edward. “I’ve come to make my first report, as you wished, sir,” he said. He had the face of a boy, but the voice of a man. “I’ve written it up as well.” He held out a sealed packet of papers, which Mr. White took and laid on Edward’s desk.

  “You work quickly,” Edward remarked.

  Jackson smiled, an expression that sharpened his features into something cunning and dangerous. “I aim to please.”

  “Is this regarding the child or the woman?” Edward nodded at the packet in front of him.

  “Mostly the woman. I’ve got my ear out about the others, though. I should know more in a few days.”

  “Ah.” Edward’s eyes strayed to the packet again. “Is there anything you have to report not included in here?”

  “No, sir. I can report any way you like, as often as you’d like.”

  “Excellent,” Edward said. “Time is of the essence, especially regarding the child, so report as often as you have something. You may leave it with White if I am not in.”

  “As you like, sir.” Mr. Jackson bowed, and slid silently from the room.

  “Expeditious,” Edward said.

  White nodded. “He came very highly recommended, my lord, for his quickness and his discretion.”

  “Indeed.” He stared at the packet for a few more minutes before rousing himself. “You may go, White.”

  Alone at last, Edward got up and walked to the window. For some reason, he was unaccountably loath to read Jackson’s report even as his fingers itched to tear it open. He supposed a better man would do nothing, and simply keep the sealed report for future reference. Of course, he reflected, a better man wouldn’t have asked for it in the first place. Now that he had it, it seemed pointless not to read it. He retrieved the report from his desk and opened it, leaning against the window frame and holding the page up to the dying light.

  Francesca Gordon was the daughter of an Englishman and an Italian opera singer, a soprano of some modest fame. Her father had been a country gentleman who made a small fortune when coal was discovered on his property in Cornwall, and who died in an accident at his mines when his daughter was a young child. After his death, the singer went back to touring the Continent, and Francesca was raised by her father’s sister in Cornwall. At the age of approximately twenty-two, she married a baronet, Sir Cecil Gordon. Sir Cecil was fifteen years older than she, but it appeared to be a happy marriage. They lived a modest but comfortable life in London, moving in a wide circle of acquaintances and holding frequent salons. Sir Cecil died just two years ago in rather murky circumstances, but Lady Gordon was still known for her entertainments, although on a smaller scale. She kept a house in Bloomsbury with a married couple called Hotchkiss for staff, plus a woman who came in to cook and a charwoman. For the last several months Lady Gordon had often been seen in the company of Lord Henry Alconbury, a well-to-do baron who was widely expected to marry her before the end of the year.

  Edward’s brows descended as he read that last part, and he flipped the page impatiently. There was more about Lord Alconbury, which he skipped, and a few remarks about her salon. She didn’t keep the most elegant company, but there were evenings of literature, poetry, and music. She was not overtly scandalous, but neither was she a model of propriety. She had Whig leanings and Catholic sympathies, probably because her mother had been Catholic. She attended the theater and the Ascot races. She lived within her means.

  He tossed the report back on his desk. Jackson was worth every penny of his fee for finding out so much so quickly. Edward turned the various pieces over in his mind even though he had no idea what he would do with his new knowledge. There was nothing to alter his opinion of her, really, although that bit about Lord Alconbury interested him more than it should have. Perhaps it would help cure his unreasonable interest in her if he thought of her as an engaged woman . . . or perhaps not. Surely Jackson would have mentioned it if they were firmly betrothed, which meant she was still unattached. Still, it was something to keep in mind, should his control begin to falter as it had today.

  No, by far his best course of action would be to press Jackson to find the child, and avoid all unnecessary contact with her until then. Once Francesca Gordon had her niece, he would never have to see her again. Distance would cure his fascination, even if nothing else seemed able to.

  Chapter 14

  Edward’s discipline held firm. He sent only a short note to Lady Gordon informing her that he had hired an investigator and would notify her as soon as there was any news. She replied in a similarly brief note, which he read several times before tucking it away in his desk, even though there was no reason to keep it. Then he carried on with the demands of the estate, feeling rather reassured of his own restraint. He was able to control his interest in her. Perhaps it was only natural he should have found her so intriguing, given how they had encountered each other. But that’s all it was, a passing intrigue, and he was above such things. Aside from a few surreptitious rereadings of her note, and a jolting moment when he thought he saw her on Bond Street through his carriage window, he successfully shut Francesca Gordon out of his mind.

  For four days, anyway.

  He was on his way out, striding toward the hall with gloves in hand, when the butler caught up to him. “There is someone to see you, my lord,” said Blackbridge breathlessly. “Mr. Jackson.”

  Edward stopped in his tracks. Had the investigator brought more news about Lady Gordon? Or was it about the little girl? “Yes,” he said, tamping down the surge of interest in the first question. “Show him to the study. I’ll see him at once.”

  By the time he reached the study, Thomas Jackson was already waiting. He stood by the window, cap in hand, looking like a chimney sweep today. Edward closed the door behind him. “You have something?”

  “I do.” Jackson dug a packet of paper out of his pocket. “You asked me to report as soon as I learned anything.”

  Edward took the papers without looking at them. “Have you located the child?”

  “No, but I’ve had some success on her uncle.”

  “Ah.” Edward regarded him a moment. Locating the uncle—Percival Watts—was nearly as good as locating the girl herself. Perhaps his association with Francesca Gordon was about to end, sparing him any further contact with the lady. He had hired Jackson because of his reputation for quick, reliable, and discreet work, but now he found himself wishing the man had been lazier, or at least less efficient.

  Beneath his shaggy black hair, Jackson’s blue eyes were piercing and intelligent, waiting. “Won’t you sit down?” Edward waved one hand at the sofa. “Perhaps you should tell me yourself.” Then he would have the opportunity to question the man at once, if there were any discrepancies or oversights in the report.

  Jackson sat on the edge of the small sofa. Edward dropped the report on his desk and faced his investigator, bracing himself for the inevitable. “Mr. Watts is a painter,” said Jackson. “He aspires to be a good one, and has taken studies at the Royal Academy. He’s put forward a number of paintings for exhibit, but remains a probationer.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He’s been up for membership and wasn’t elected. It seems his paintings don’t suit the public taste, no
r the Academy’s. The man I spoke to said he’d heard Watts had taken up portraiture for an income, but also that Watts was rather dismal at it, and hadn’t been very successful.”

  “So he can be located through the Academy?” Edward frowned. “Someone must know where he lives, then.”

  “None I could find,” Jackson replied. “He stopped attending sessions at the Academy last year, and none of his mates have seen him since.”

  “What about this man who told you about the portraiture? He must know someone who’s seen Watts.”

  “It was several months ago, in the winter, that the man heard Watts was painting portraits. He knew the story because one patron complained about his finished portrait and refused to pay.” Jackson shrugged. “This fellow had heard it was a decent portrait and the same faults would be found in the sitter’s mirror, but the damage was done to Watts’s reputation. He hasn’t been to his regular haunts in some time, and no one seems to know where he’s gone.”

  “I see,” Edward murmured. “Is he likely to have left London? Does he have family in the country to whom he might return?” If Watts and his sister had a place to go stay with relatives, it was quite likely they would have done it, since it appeared they were extremely low on funds.

  “All anyone knows is that he was living with his widowed sister in London. My source believed Watts was reared in the city, but that might not be reliable. If he’s got family elsewhere, no one’s the wiser.”

  Edward nodded thoughtfully. “So he’s got no obvious place to go, no ready income, and is likely with his sister still. It stands to reason he would have to sell his art—and quite likely wants to do so. Commissions? Private exhibitions? Arrangements with discreet art dealers?”