by D. M. Quincy
“You’re awfully ornery today. Perhaps you should take the tobacconist’s wife up on her offer of extra hospitality.” Charlton winked. “She makes no secret of her admiration, and she’s uncommonly handsome.”
“She’s offered no such thing.” Mrs. Disher, wife of the proprietor of the establishment below his apartments, was friendly enough whenever he stopped by to pick up his special-order tobacco for the nargileh, but he perceived her to be a virtuous woman. “She is my landlord’s wife. Not some doxy to be used to slake my unrequited lust.”
“Unrequited lust?” Interest sparked in Charlton’s blue eyes. “And for whom exactly do you have unrequited lust?”
“No one in particular.” Atlas handed the hose to Charlton. “I just haven’t addressed that particular need of late.”
“As you say.” Skepticism hummed in Charlton’s throat. “Speaking of your belowstairs neighbor, did you ever learn the reason for his vanishing tobacco stores?”
“As a matter of fact, I did.” Charlton had been with Atlas several weeks prior when Mr. Disher had exited his shop and shared his concern that several pounds of prime tobacco seemed to have disappeared.
“And?” Charlton puffed on the end of the nargileh hose. “What was the outcome?”
“We set something of a trap and caught his clerk passing a few ounces of tobacco to his brother each evening when Disher left the shop to take his meal at home with his wife.”
“Ah, mystery solved then.” He replaced the hose on the hookah and rose, straightening his jacket. “I suppose I should make my way home to ready myself for Mrs. Palmer’s affair this evening.”
Thea was hosting a small supper party, mostly for her academic-minded friends, but she’d included Atlas, Charlton, and Mrs. Warwick on the guest list. Why she’d invited the earl, Atlas couldn’t fathom, since his sister seemed to be in a constant state of annoyance whenever the man came around.
On his way out, Charlton paused by the pedestal game table near the sitting room window. “What are you working on this time?” He stared down at the half-finished frame of the puzzle Atlas had begun upon their return from Bath. Most of the pieces were still scattered atop the walnut surface, waiting to be put into some semblance of order. Charlton tilted his head. “I can’t make it out.”
“That one’s a Gainsborough.” Atlas stood and came over, wincing when he put too much weight on his injured foot. “It’s called Landscape in Suffolk.”
“I know that painting. It’s all trees, landscape, and sky.” Charlton picked up a green puzzle piece. “It’ll be next to impossible to put together.”
“If it were easy, there would be no challenge.” He took the edge piece from Charlton and considered it for a moment, his attention moving to the part of the puzzle he’d already completed and then back to the piece in his hand. He leaned down to press the piece into place on the left side of the frame. “And where would be the fun in that?”
“Fun?” Charlton grimaced before continuing out to the front hall. “I’d rather have a tooth extracted.”
An impatient knock sounded at the door before they reached it. Atlas was surprised to find his eldest brother on his doorstep.
“Jason,” he said. “This is unexpected.”
“Some most distressing news has reached my ears. I’ve come to make certain for myself that it isn’t true.” He glanced at Charlton, his eyes widening. “I didn’t realize you had company.”
Atlas introduced them. “Gabriel Young, Earl of Charlton, meet my brother, Jason, Baron Catesby.”
“Well met, Catesby. I was just leaving.” Charlton turned to Atlas. “I’ll see you this evening.”
Jason watched Charlton stroll down the steps and into the street before coming inside. “What on earth was the Earl of Charlton doing here?”
“Having whiskey.” Atlas closed the door, and the two made their way back to the sitting room. “Can I offer you a glass?”
“No, thank you. I wasn’t aware that you knew Charlton.”
“We met at Cambridge.” He settled back into his stuffed chair and picked up his glass.
“Cambridge?” Jason repeated, his brows shooting upward. “That was years ago. Why have you never mentioned your association with the earl? Must you always be so secretive?”
“I’ve rarely seen him since leaving Cambridge.” They’d only recently renewed their acquaintance. Atlas’s injury, and the long period of recuperation that followed, had allowed for that. He’d bumped into the earl while hobbling along Bond Street a couple of months prior, and they’d resumed their friendship as if the previous several years of separation had never occurred.
“He’s excellent ton,” Jason said approvingly.
“Yes, that is why I have befriended him.” Sarcasm weighted Atlas’s words.
“I’m relieved to see you are over the unreasonable acrimony you hold for the peerage.”
“Rest assured, I still detest many of them, particularly those who think they are above the law.” He settled the hand holding his glass on the arm of his stuffed chair. “Fortunately, Charlton is not one of them.”
“Your irrational malevolence toward noblemen will not help Phoebe,” Jason observed. “Our sister is dead. It is too late to save her.”
“And well I know it.” Grief knotted in his chest. Phoebe had been the eldest of the six Catesby children and Atlas the youngest. Given their twelve-year age difference, Phoebe had been something of a maternal presence in his life; the Catesby parents had loved their children, but their real adoration had always been reserved for each other. “I do not need your reminder that Phoebe is no longer with us. I should never have left her alone with Vessey. He killed her.” And the Marquess of Vessey, a powerful peer, had known that his victim’s powerless young brother could do nothing about it.
“You really must put it behind you.” Jason’s tone suggested the topic bored him. “Phoebe’s death was a tragedy, but it is long over and done with.”
It would never be over. Not as long as he or Vessey still lived and breathed the same air. Suddenly weary, he asked, “What brings you here, Jason? You rarely visit without a reason.”
Jason made a face when he spotted the nargileh. “Really, Atlas, it’s bad enough you mix with savages while abroad, but must you bring their heathen habits home with you?”
“Smoking the hookah relaxes me, which I find a particular need for when I am in our fair metropolis.”
Jason stared at him. “How is that even remotely possible? You’ve always hated cheroot smoke, and you won’t even sit in a room where cigars are being smoked.”
He made a face. “Cigar smoke is particularly objectionable.”
“Nonsense. English smoking implements are the finest in the world.” Jason waved away the nargileh smoke in short, jerky movements. “I think the truth is that you enjoy being contrary.”
“Perhaps. You were about to tell me why you are here,” Atlas prompted.
“I may as well come straight to the point.” His brother flicked out his coattails before perching at the edge of the chair Charlton had recently abandoned. “The rumor about Town is that you’ve purchased a doxy who was sold off by her husband.”
Atlas remained silent.
“Is it true?”
“No.”
Jason exhaled his relief. “Thank goodness.”
“The lady in question is no doxy.”
Jason started. “Are you saying you did purchase a female?”
“I will not say anything further that could damage the lady’s reputation.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. She’s already ruined. Being sold like that by her husband. How could you involve yourself in such a scheme?”
“I could not allow her to face any further degradation than her husband had already subjected her to.”
Jason pressed his snowy kerchief against his pursed mouth. “We are newly come to the upper reaches of society, and this antic of yours will not help matters.” Their late father had never cared for titl
es, even after he’d been awarded the barony, but the same could not be said of his heir. “Did you think nothing of the family name when you behaved so rashly?”
“I cannot say that I did.”
“My stars! It’s positively scandalous. What do you plan to do with her? Is she your mistress?”
“No, she is not. As I said, she is a respectable woman.”
“What does your esteemed friend think of this?”
“My esteemed friend?”
“The earl.”
“Charlton? He found it deplorable, of course.”
“Naturally.”
“Deplorable that the lady’s husband would treat her in such a manner.”
“Really, Atlas.” Jason pursed his lips again, an affectation he seemed to have acquired since coming into the title. “Even for you, this behavior is beyond the pale.”
“I cannot agree. Coming to the assistance of a lady in distress is completely within the bounds of proper behavior.” Not that he gave two figs about such things.
“You have never seen fit to observe the proprieties.”
“I think we just disagree on what the proprieties are.” Atlas rose. Conversations with Jason were usually exasperating. “If you’ll excuse me, I have an engagement this evening that I must ready myself for.”
Knowing he’d been dismissed, Jason stood. “Have you gotten yourself a valet yet?”
Atlas led the way into the front hall. “No.”
“Every gentleman should have one.” Jason shook his head. “You really must learn to behave in accordance with your new station in life.”
Atlas opened the door. “You are the baron. My situation is little changed, and I am content for it to be so. Besides, I don’t anticipate being in London long enough to need a valet.”
Once his brother had gone, Atlas dressed quickly. The mention of Phoebe had darkened his mood, but he still made his way to Thea’s a little earlier than the appointed time. He hoped to discuss Mrs. Warwick’s future with her before the other guests came. But he arrived to find she had gone out to Slough again.
“What is she doing in Slough?” he demanded to know. “She is trying to see the children, isn’t she?”
“Oh, very well.” A cutting slash of her hand belied Thea’s annoyance. “If you must know, this is her third visit to see the boys. The housekeeper allows her to spend time with them without Warwick’s knowledge.”
He released an exasperated breath. “It’s not safe.”
“She’ll do anything to see the boys, and it’s secure enough, considering her loutish husband spends most of the week at his haberdashery.”
Sounds of the front door opening reached them, followed by hurried footsteps coming up the stairs. Atlas, who’d been standing at the hearth in Thea’s upstairs sitting room, strode out into the corridor in time to see a red-eyed, stark-faced Mrs. Warwick rushing toward her bedchamber. She was normally impeccably tidy, but today her hair and clothing were askew. Her sleeve was torn, and her dark hair had escaped its bonds, cascading in long ringlets about her shoulders and down her back.
“Mrs. Warwick?” he asked, alarmed by her disheveled appearance. “May I be of service?”
She avoided his gaze and waved him away, dashing down the corridor to her bedchamber and slamming the door behind her. He followed, coming to a halt before her closed door. He rapped softly.
“Mrs. Warwick,” he said in gentle tones. “Are you well?”
“What kind of idiotic question is that?” Thea stood in the corridor outside the sitting room. “She’s obviously overset.”
“Obviously,” he snapped. “Thanks to you encouraging her to enter that den of wolves all on her own.”
“She wasn’t alone,” Thea retorted. “My coachman and Miller went with her.”
Atlas stormed past her to the top of the stairs. “Miller!” he bellowed.
The footman rushed to the landing, his expression wary. “Yes, sir.”
“Join us, if you please. Mrs. Palmer and I would like to hear what occurred in Slough today.”
Before long, Miller was relaying the distressing tale. Mrs. Warwick had arranged to see the children on the day the butler, Warwick’s man through and through, was off. She’d been visiting with them when Warwick arrived unexpectedly with the butler, who’d somehow learned of Mrs. Warwick’s clandestine visits and immediately alerted his master. Warwick caused a great scene in front of the children, yelling at Mrs. Warwick for defying him and at the housekeeper for disobeying him and allowing his wife to see the children.
“A great commotion ensued,” Miller said in grave tones. “John Coachman and I hurried into the house and up to the nursery, as Mrs. Palmer had charged us with ensuring Mrs. Warwick’s safety and well-being.”
“It’s good that you did.” A sickening feeling swirled in Atlas’s gut at the memory of Mrs. Warwick’s torn clothing and the ravaged look on her face. “What happened after that?”
“The youngest boy was on her lap, and Mr. Warwick grabbed the lady by her arm and shook her fiercely. John Coachman and I stepped forward and told him to unhand her. Both boys were crying and clinging to their mother, but Mr. Warwick and the butler tried to pull the children away. Mrs. Warwick was trying to calm them. She kept telling them everything would be well, but her husband, well, he just kept bellowing, putting the fear in those poor mites and making them even more upset.”
Thea put a hand to her chest. “How terrible.”
Miller nodded. “Finally, Mr. Warwick and the butler succeeded in pulling the boys away.”
“Is that how Mrs. Warwick’s clothing came to be torn?” Atlas asked.
“I suppose so. They carried the boys away and must have locked them in a chamber, because we could hear the boys screaming and pounding on the door, crying out for their mother.”
Atlas swallowed down his fury. “What did Mrs. Warwick do?”
“She was begging Mr. Warwick to allow the housekeeper or the footman who looks after the children to go to the boys and comfort them.”
“And what did Mr. Warwick say?” Thea asked.
“He threw the footman and the housekeeper out of the house, along with Mrs. Warwick. He said they had lost their positions, and he would give them no reference on account of their being so disloyal,” Miller said.
Thea hugged her arms around herself. “Did you leave after that?”
“We did. We helped Mrs. Warwick into the carriage. She barely had the will to do it herself.”
“I can only imagine.” Thea slumped into the nearest chair. “The poor dear.”
Atlas headed for the door.
Thea straightened. “You’re leaving?”
“I’ll be back soon.”
“The party begins in an hour. I cannot cancel this late,” she called after him as he trotted down the stairs. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”
“I’m going to see Warwick, to settle this matter once and for all.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
After talking to Warwick’s clerk at the haberdashery, Atlas tracked his quarry down at a pub in Covent Garden called the Red Rooster. The man apparently hadn’t wasted any time returning to London after throwing Mrs. Warwick out of the house in Slough.
Several framed paintings, mostly landscapes and portraits, adorned the pub’s wooden walls, along with cheaper prints and woodcuts. The rich scent of coffee in a vat over the large fire filled the air. Some two dozen men sat around, drinking port or coffee and reading newspapers. A serving girl and a couple of young boys bustled about serving the coffee, while an older man, who appeared to be keeper of the coffeehouse, stood proprietarily behind the counter issuing orders.
One particularly well-dressed group of patrons spoke in Russian, interrupting a boisterous debate about Napoleon to raise their glasses, murmuring, “To your health, gentlemen,” before resuming a lively conversation in their native tongue. Atlas had picked up enough of the language—from a Moscow scholar he’d once traveled with—to know they were d
enigrating the prowess of English troops. He doubted the Russians would have been so vigorous in their insults had they realized the Englishman walking past them understood their barbs.
Atlas spotted Warwick sitting alone at a corner table and made his way over. A shoeshine boy knelt before him, buffing his buckled, brown leather shoes. “May I join you?”
Warwick appeared unsurprised to find Atlas standing before him. He gestured toward a chair. “As you wish.” He dropped a tip into the shine boy’s open palm, and the boy touched a forelock before moving on in search of another patron.
Atlas pulled out a wooden chair, taking care not to disturb the squat, long-bodied German badger hound curled up in the corner, dozing near the table. A boy of around eleven came over to take his coffee order and then left them alone.
Atlas placed his folded hands on the scarred table. “I think we can both agree that this unpleasantness between you and Mrs. Warwick must cease.”
“Indeed.” Warwick took a long pull of his port, his face cast in shadows. The afternoon sun had begun to set, and a couple of young serving boys lit candles to counter the diminishing daylight coming through the windows. “That’s why I’ve decided to take her back.”
Atlas’s gut tightened. He would return the woman over his dead body. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. I have a bill of sale that proves she is mine, and I say Mrs. Warwick can choose her own future.”
Malice gleamed in Warwick’s eyes. “According to my solicitor, she remains my wife by law, meaning I retain all rights over her.”
Atlas watched the serving boy pour a mug of coffee from a metal pot kept warm by the hearth. It was clear to him now that Warwick’s pretense of indifference when threatened with exposure to his customers had been just that—pretense. The man clearly meant to have his wife back, and not for sentimental reasons. That he’d gone so far as to seek advice from an expert in the law was proof of that.
“Your sudden desire for your wife’s return is heartwarming,” he said, “but she has made clear to me that she has no interest in returning to you.” The boy brought over Atlas’s coffee and set it on the table before quietly moving away.