Peregrine tapped the cigar on the edge of the glass ashtray and watched the charred tobacco fall off. "Once the marriage is in doubt, do you think that the bank holding Weldon's loans might be interested in selling them to someone else?"
"Quite possibly. But if you buy Weldon's loans, you will take a heavy loss if he doesn't recover."
"I don't care," Peregrine said brusquely. "I want those loans. Buy them through that dummy company you set up so that my name isn't associated. Now what about the L & S Railway?"
"Taking it over is the cleverest thing Weldon has done in years," Slade said, unable to withhold an approving nod. "The financial community is very excited about the new management and the company's prospects. When new stock is issued next week, it should sell quickly. You'll make a good profit on the money you invested."
"Did you find out the true story on the legal problems Weldon told me about?"
"I was coming to that." The lawyer gave him a reproving look for his impatience. "As you know, the parliamentary bill that incorporates a railroad says that the company can take the land it needs in return for proper compensation. The original L & S management was undercapitalized to begin with, so they tried to appropriate land for less than a fair price. Not surprisingly, a number of landowners filed suit for more money, led by a yeoman farmer in Hampshire named Jethro Crawley. There was considerable bitterness between the company and the landowners."
Slade peered over his glasses. "This is where it gets interesting. Though it isn't commonly known, Crawley dropped his lawsuit after a mysterious fire on his farm. A most unfortunate incident in which someone died, I believe. After Weldon took the railroad over, a number of the other landowners settled their cases for amounts of money not much greater than they had been offered in the first place."
"You think Crawley was the victim of arson and the other landowners decided to take what money they could get rather than risk the same thing happening to them?"
"It is certainly a possibility," Slade agreed. "I thought I'd go down to Hampshire this week and talk to Jethro Crawley, see if I could learn what really happened."
"I want to do that myself." Peregrine drew in a mouthful of smoke, then blew out several perfect smoke rings. "If he hasn't formally signed over the railroad right-of-way to the L & S, perhaps he will sell it to us instead. It would have to be done through another dummy investment company, so Weldon won't know who is behind it until it's too late."
"Then what?" Slade said, looking alarmed.
Peregrine's eyes gleamed. "Weldon will find himself with a new lawsuit on his hands, possibly accompanied by criminal charges that the railway has been brutally intimidating innocent landowners. Wouldn't the newspapers love that? It would make a lovely scandal and probably bring construction of the railroad to a halt again."
Slade frowned. "You've invested a sizable fortune in the L & S. If you mean to block construction, it will be very expensive for you and a lot of other people as well."
"No matter." Peregrine cut the lawyer off from further warnings with a chopping motion of his cigar. "Have we anything else to discuss tonight?"
"The seller of Sulgrave is eager for a quick settlement, so the sale should be closed within a week."
"The sooner the better. Have you had any luck at finding a suitable Mayfair town house?"
"An excellent furnished house on Park Street is available for rent. It belongs to a nobleman who is going abroad for a year. It's expensive but very elegant. Do you want to look at it?"
Peregrine shook his head. "If you think it is suitable, just go ahead and rent it. I am weary of hotel living." He gazed absently at the bright coal on the end of the cigar, remembering another item of unfinished business. "How is Jenny Miller?"
Slade's eyes warmed. "You would hardly recognize the girl. She's amazingly quick. She understands and remembers everything she's told. Her East End accent is almost gone."
Peregrine heard a faint sound at the door of the study, as if a mouse had brushed by. Gesturing for Slade to keep talking, he set his cigar in the ashtray, then rose and crossed the room on soundless feet.
The lawyer watched in puzzlement as he continued, "I've found a woman who was lady's maid to a countess. She is willing to train Miss Miller in the skills required for such a position."
Peregrine threw the door open and was unsurprised when Jenny almost fell into the room. Her eyes widened with terror at being caught. She made a small, desperate sound and whirled away, but he caught her arm and turned her to face him.
The girl looked her true age now that she was dressed as a woman, not a child. In her demure chignon and modest blue gown, she might have been the daughter of a successful lawyer or doctor, or even a vicar. Hard to believe that such a pretty, respectable young lady had spent years imprisoned in a brothel.
Mildly Peregrine asked, "Were our voices loud enough for you, or should we repeat what was said?"
"I didn't hear anything," she protested, trembling in his grip. "I was just coming down to see if Mr. Slade might like me to make him a cup of tea, like I usually do in the evenings."
"That's true," Benjamin put in. "Don't frighten the child. There's no harm done."
Ignoring the interruption, Peregrine said, "Don't lie to me, Jenny." He escorted her into the study. "I've heard you rustling at the door almost since I arrived. Have a seat."
Nervously the girl perched on a straight-backed chair. She glanced at Slade, who smiled reassuringly, then looked up at Peregrine, who towered over her.
His gaze holding hers, he said, "I'm sure that you are excellent at spying and eavesdropping, and those skills have helped you survive. I'm equally sure that you won't stop any time soon. I don't really object, but I want your solemn promise that you will not use anything you learn against me or my friends. Also, if you ever hear something I might be interested in, you will inform me of it. Is that clear?"
Her eyes widened. "I... I promise. I'd never do anything to hurt you or Mr. Slade. I—I just like to know what's going on. All those spy holes in Mrs. Kent's house could be used in both directions. I'm small enough to get into places she'd never think to look, so I learned a lot that way."
"No doubt," he said dryly as he picked up his still-smoldering cigar. "Do you have any requests, comments, or complaints to make before I leave?"
"Oh, no." She shook her shining blond head emphatically. "Mr. Slade has been ever so good to me. These last few weeks have been the best of my life. I'm looking forward to learning how to be a lady's maid. I'll be a good one."
"I don't doubt it." Dismissing her from his mind, Peregrine took a last pull at his cigar before stubbing it out. "Do we have anything else to discuss, Benjamin?"
"No." The lawyer handed over a thick folder. "Here are complete details of everything I summarized tonight. I trust you'll find them interesting."
The prince accepted the folder, bade them both a polite good night, then left. After the door closed behind him, Jenny shook her head. "He's a strange one, he is. Seems to hear and know everything, and never does what you expect. Makes me nervous as a cat on a griddle."
"That's a rather tactless way to refer to your benefactor, though I must admit that I know how you feel," Slade said with a faint smile. "But if you don't cross him, you couldn't ask for a better employer or friend."
"I honest to God wouldn't want him for an enemy," she said with a shiver. Then she smiled at the lawyer, her delicate face lighting up with sweetness. "I'd much rather have you for a friend. You don't scare a body to death." She stood. "Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?"
"I'd like that very much." As she brushed by his chair, Slade half raised his hand, then let it drop, but his longing gaze followed her out of the room. Then he turned to his papers, his mouth tight. He had done many difficult things for his employer, but he had never realized that the hardest task would be turning a whore into a young lady.
* * *
Crawley's farm was solid and unpretentious, the stone buildings mellow
ed with years and weather. The only whimsical note was the thatched roof of the house, where a reed fox chased three reed chickens along the ridgepole. But the thatch was old and ragged, and the fox threatened to topple from the ridgepole, just one of many subtle signs of neglect, as if the farm had fallen on hard times.
No one was in sight, so Peregrine dismounted and knocked on the door. After a lengthy wait, it was opened by a middle-aged woman. Her round face had been designed for cheerfulness, but there were haggard lines around her mouth, and anxiety in her eyes when she found a gentleman on her doorstep.
"Mrs. Crawley?" Peregrine asked. When she nodded, he continued, "I want to speak with your husband. Is he available?"
"Aye," she said reluctantly. "Should be behind the stables."
"Thank you." He touched his hat and was starting to turn when a little girl peered around her mother's skirts, only to be pulled hastily back and the door closed. Something was definitely wrong at Crawley's farm.
Unhurriedly Peregrine made his way across the farmyard to the stables. The right side of the yard was bounded by the charred ruins of the barn that had burned the year before. The stone walls could be salvaged and the barn rebuilt, but that would be an expensive proposition, and there was little money in evidence around him.
Behind the stables, Jethro Crawley sat on a mushroom-shaped staddle stone, painstakingly repairing a broken harness with strips of new leather. As Peregrine approached, the burly farmer looked up, his hands becoming still and his eyes wary. Brusquely he asked, "What do you want?"
"I want to talk about the lawsuit you filed against the L & S Railway."
"I got nothin' to say to you." Crawley's gaze went back to the harness and he stabbed a heavy needle through a hole punched in the leather.
"Once you didn't mind talking about the subject. You spoke to a couple of dozen landowners, convincing them that the railroad was not offering a fair price. Then there was a fire here, and suddenly you dropped your lawsuit. Without your leadership, all the other litigants settled quickly. I've been wondering why."
Crawley stood, fury in his blue-gray eyes. And under the anger was fear. "I don't have to answer that, you bastard. You and your kind have done enough to me. Now get off my land!"
"Not until you've talked to me." Peregrine's tone was unperturbed, but he watched the farmer alertly and was prepared when the man swung the harness at him, the leather straps cracking like a whip.
Smoothly he stepped aside, then grabbed Crawley's wrist in an iron grip. As the farmer tried unsuccessfully to free himself, Peregrine said softly, "It was Weldon, wasn't it?"
The farmer's resistance collapsed. He licked his lips, then asked hoarsely, "How do you know so much?"
"I made it my business to know." Releasing Crawley's wrist, Peregrine stepped back, though he did not relax his watchfulness. "Weldon is my enemy as well as yours. If you will tell me what happened, perhaps I can help you get some of your own back."
The other man sat down on the staddle stone again, his shoulders bowed and his hands restlessly kneading the leather straps. "I had taken out a mortgage, and used the money to buy my oldest son land in Canada. Then the L & S decided to take a big chunk o' my farm. With less cropland, it would be harder to pay off the mortgage, so I filed a suit askin' for fair compensation. Without it, there was a chance I might lose everythin'."
Crawley swallowed hard. "Then that fellow Weldon and his secretary Kane came and suggested that it might be better if I accepted the money offered. I refused, o' course, I needed the money and all I wanted was a fair price. Weldon said that was a pity. I'll never forget his eyes—like a snake's. He never came back here, but after that things began to happen. My sheep were poisoned, and I lost almost the whole flock. I had a small herd o' milk cows, and one night some bastard shot half o' them. And then..." His voice choked, and he stopped talking.
"That was when the barn burned?" Peregrine prompted.
The farmer nodded. "The barn and the granary both. It was arson, no question, but there was no sign of who'd done it. Most o' the corn harvest had just been stored, which meant we didn't make any money at all last year, but that wasn't the worst."
A spasm of pain crossed his weathered face. "My second boy, Jimmy. There was something wrong with him. He was simple, and his face was sort o' squashed, not natural. But a sweeter-tempered lad you never met, and he was wonderful with the animals. It hurt him somethin' terrible when the livestock were killed. My wife and I had always known he'd never be able to take care of the farm on his own, so we figured we'd leave the property to my third son, Will, who'd look after Jimmy when we were gone. But now..." He stopped speaking, his face stark.
"Jimmy was the one who died in the fire?"
The farmer nodded. "It has been real dry, and the thatch on the barn went up like tinder. Jimmy heard the plow horses screamin', and he went to get them out. I didn't see him in time to stop him. The roof beam caved in on him." Fiercely he shook his head, trying to deny the tears that showed in his eyes. "A few days later I got an unsigned letter suggestin' that since I have a wife and two more children at home, it would be wiser to drop the lawsuit. So I did."
The callous threat confirmed that Weldon was behind it. Peregrine felt murderous rage sweep through him, but he kept his fury tightly controlled. "Have you officially accepted the railroad's money and signed the rights over to them?"
"Not yet.'' Crawley spat onto the ground. "That should happen in a couple o' weeks. Then I'll get the money, though it's no more than half what the land's worth.''
"Did you consider going to the law about what was done, perhaps the local magistrate or your member of Parliament?"
The other man gave him a look of intense disgust. "Sure as apples fall from a tree, Weldon's the one who had my stock killed and my barn fired, but I haven't a single damn' shred o' proof. How far do you think I'd get, accusin' a rich man like him?"
"Probably not very," Peregrine admitted. "What about selling the farm and going somewhere else?"
"I thought o' everythin'." Crawley spoke compulsively, as if needing to release what had been bottled up inside him. "But with the mortgage, I'd not get enough out of this place to start up again. Besides, this land's been in my family since good Queen Bess was on the throne—how could I run away? So I'll take the money and hope it's enough to keep goin'. It'll take years to rebuild the barns and the livestock, and pay off the mortgage. With a couple o' bad years in a row, we could still lose everythin', but I don't see any choice."
He took off his shapeless hat and ran one hand wearily through his grizzled hair. "I dunno, maybe there's somethin' else I can do, but I dunno know what. Seems like the heart went out o' the place when Jimmy died."
"Nothing will bring your son back," Peregrine said quietly, "but if you want it, I'll give you the chance to rebuild this farm to what it was, and to hurt Weldon at the same time."
The farmer raised his head, startled, then gave his visitor a long, hard scrutiny. His features firmed up as his native shrewdness displaced the despair that had weighed him down. At length, he said just one word: "Why?"
"Because I am going to break Charles Weldon." Peregrine's voice was soft and implacable. "And you can help me do it."
Their gazes locked and held until Crawley said, "What do you want me to do?"
"Sell the right-of-way to me, and I will reinstate the lawsuit against the railway. I will pay off your mortgage and give you two thousand pounds besides. Then I want you and your family to vanish, perhaps visit your son in Canada. When Weldon is no longer a threat, you can come back and start rebuilding, probably in time for next spring's planting."
The farmer's brows went up. "What's the catch?"
"There is a chance, slight but real, that Weldon will defeat me. In that case I'll be dead," Peregrine said dispassionately. "If that happens and you dare not bring your family back here, at least you'll be able to sell the farm more easily and profitably than you can now, and can start again somewhere else."
/> For the space of three heartbeats, Crawley was still. Then he laid the ox harness on the ground and stood, offering his hand. "Mister, you've just bought yourself a right-of-way."
As he shook the farmer's work-hardened hand, Peregrine permitted himself a smile of satisfaction. Another thread had been added to the web. Soon, very soon, it would be time to catch his prey. But first, he must remove Lady Sara St. James from Weldon's grasp.
* * *
Peregrine lifted a decanter and glanced at Lord Ross Carlisle, who sat on the other side of the gleaming mahogany table. "I know that port is what gentlemen are supposed to drink after dinner, but I avoid it whenever possible. I'm having brandy. What is your preference? My new butler seems to have provided every known form of spirits."
Ross smiled. "Brandy will do nicely. I've never been that fond of port myself."
Peregrine had moved into his rented town house the day before, and having Ross to dine was a quiet celebration of being out of the hotel. As he poured brandy into two stemmed glasses, he reflected on the irony of the fact that in the last few weeks, he had seen almost nothing of Ross and Sara, whom he liked, but had spent large quantities of time with the man he loathed.
It was time well spent, for Sir Charles Weldon was coming to look on Peregrine as a friend and trusted business associate. Under cover of "friendship," the Kafir had stalked the Englishman, learning details of Weldon's business and personal life, and what his enemy valued.
Peregrine found perverse, decadent pleasure in the fact that he could laugh at Weldon's jokes, while under the surface hatred simmered and hissed like hell's own fires. While making light, witty comments, he visualized Weldon writhing under slow, infinitely painful oriental tortures. He bought Weldon dinner at the hotel, and poured wine as he prayed that his enemy would know the ultimate bitterness of betrayal. It was all profoundly satisfying, and perhaps a little mad, but Peregrine found dark satisfaction in every moment.
Oblivious to his host's thoughts, Ross accepted his glass of brandy. "Except for not liking port, you have adjusted to English society very thoroughly." He gestured at the ornate dining room. "You seem to have been born to this."
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