The Devilish Lord Will

by Jennifer Ashley

  Sir Harmon fixed him with a sharp gaze. “You travel much, you and your wife. I imagine you hear things, see things.”

  Will contrived to look nonplussed. “We do. We like to take in the sights, visit people. I am astonished at the hospitality we find wherever we go.”

  “Exactly. And you have no trouble falling into conversation. If you listen well, you might learn something that could benefit yourself—hints about shipments or what politicians are up to, or where battles are about to be fought on the Continent—that might help you know where to invest.”

  Will frowned, and then sat up straight as though enlightened. “Ah. You mean what ships are coming in or how many guns our troops seek. Or French troops seek for that matter. Everyone needs to purchase something.”

  “You are an intelligent young man,” Sir Harmon said in an encouraging tone. “There is also benefit in knowing who is moving where on the Continent and what they plan. That way we know what they need and what ships might be taking them things, who provides their supplies … that sort of thing.”

  Dear God, he’s trying to spy on the British Army, Will thought in exasperation. And not very ably.

  “I see,” he said, as though working it through. “You mean, we can invest with these people supplying and shipping for the army and make our money back, and then some.”

  “You have grasped the thing, my boy. But it does not do well for you to bring others into your confidence about this, not even your wife. Ladies don’t understand about money matters, do they?”

  Will happened to know a woman from Edinburgh, who, when bequeathed a small amount of cash, had turned it into a vast fortune through skilled investment. She was a constant visitor to the Exchange in London and advised the boards of many companies.

  Will nodded. “Yes, the ladies are lovely creatures, but not adept with finances.”

  “I am pleased we understand each other.”

  “Again …” Will hesitated artfully. “I am willing to help you decide where to invest, but I have few coins with which to do it.”

  “I am coming to that. I have a friend who might be able to lend you a bit. To be paid back at the earliest possible instant, of course.”

  This all might mean nothing—Sir Harmon might be a petty trickster happy to pull another into his net, but then again, he might be selling secrets about British troop movements and sitting on a horde of French gold.

  Will had to find out. For the sake of the ladies waiting in the castle, his family in exile, his friends in prison or in hiding, himself, and most of all for Josette, he had to follow this lead.

  “Of course,” Will said. “I place myself into your hands.” He bowed from his chair and raised his glass to Sir Harmon.

  Josette spent a dull afternoon, chafing in her confinement. As she’d feared, Lady Bentley wanted nothing more than to sit in the drawing room, embroidering on silk and gossiping. The other ladies followed suit, wishing to please their hostess, and proceeded to cut to ribbons every lady and gentlemen not present.

  The husbands wandered about when they weren’t playing cards or dice, one idly picking tunes on the clavichord. They didn’t look particularly happy about being penned up in the house, but any suggestion they go out walking, even in the vast garden, was met with horror.

  Josette stifled her impatience and listened carefully to the chatter. Women often knew quite a bit more about what went on in households, businesses, banks, and in the political arena, than gentlemen understood or gave them credit for.

  Lady Bentley, however, seemed obsessed with the male anatomy, especially the size of one part of it. A man who was tall, or had large hands or a large nose—or even large elbows—was meant to have other attributes of corresponding size.

  Lady Bentley gave Josette blatant looks when she made these jokes. Will was indeed tall, his hands were large, and his nose was proportional to the rest of him, as were, of course, his elbows.

  But if Lady Bentley believed Josette would relate the exact dimensions of Will’s cockstand, the lady was much mistaken. Josette hadn’t had occasion to measure it exactly, in any case, though she could probably approximate it with her hands.

  Much merriment was had from Sir William’s name, and Josette was asked if she blushed whenever she called him Willie.

  “Merry William, happy Will,” Lady Bentley chanted. “But stiff Willie makes his wife happiest of all.”

  The ladies burst into laughter. The men in the next room glanced at them in perplexity, which sent the ladies into even more merriment.

  Josette laughed with them, and wished she’d stayed at the castle. Not that the ladies there did not carry on with bawdy talk, as had her lodgers in London. But they didn’t joke about Will, didn’t have hunger in their eyes for a man Josette … loved?

  The startling word broke through the inane chatter and made Josette suck in a sharp breath.

  Will had squelched her good intentions of being cool to him this morning when he’d so easily brought her to joy. She might as well never have declared she’d keep him at arm’s length. Josette wished she had said nothing—it would be less mortifying now that he’d seduced her with only his touch.

  Abrupt noise announced the return of Sir Harmon, Will, and the servants, and Josette breathed out in relief.

  Lady Bentley gave Josette a sly smile when Will appeared in the drawing room, cleaned up from the expedition.

  “I say, old thing, a turn in the garden?” he asked Josette. “The weather has grown almost warm. Well, as warm as this benighted part of the world ever is.”

  “The corner by the summerhouse is quite lovely,” Lady Bentley said with an arch glance at Josette. “And secluded.”

  Will looked bewildered at the giggling ladies but held out his arm to Josette.

  The sight of his elbow sticking out increased the laughter. “Bundle up warm, Lady Jacobs,” one of the women said. “And make sure you wear your gloves, Sir William.”

  Will lifted one hand, covered with a fine leather glove, and stared at it in bafflement. The ladies collapsed in mirth, and Lady Bentley’s eyes shone with delight.

  “Thank heavens none of them dare to set foot outside,” Josette said as she more or less dragged Will down the path between the fountains. “I thought I would scream.”

  “Dull, was it?”

  “Frightening, rather. Do not wander alone in the halls of this house, I beg you. Who knows when you might be dragged into a room and your cock-staff subjected to measurement.”

  “What’s that, lass?” Will gave her a startled look, then he chuckled. “Terrifying.”

  “I’m not joking.” Josette pulled him closer. “The ladies are cooped up and the gentlemen pay little attention to them. All are desperate for diversion.”

  “We may not have to stay much longer,” Will said. “Sir Harmon indicated he’d send me to a friend who will lend me money. It might have nothing to do with the gold, but I must take the chance.”

  Josette perked up. “Even a chance is excellent news. What did Sir Harmon say about this friend?”

  “Little, but I did not come out here to tell you about that.”

  “Oh, then what did—”

  She broke off as Will halted near the fountain of the three bare-buttocked lads.

  A footman waited there in the sturdy clothes he’d worn to carry the fishing gear. He was young, in his later teen years, Josette estimated, with the lankiness of youth that would soon turn to bulk and muscle. At the moment, his face held fear, distrust, and hope—as far from a servant’s blank countenance as could be.

  Will gestured for the lad to follow and led the way to a small building that looked as though it had been plucked from a Greek isle and deposited here. The summerhouse Lady Bentley mentioned, Josette assumed.

  “This is Henri,” Will said when they reached it. He pronounce the name the French way, Ahn-ri. “My wife can be trusted, lad.”

  Henri did not look reassured.

  “I can be,” Josette said. “What
is this about?”

  “Henri is going to tell me why he felt it necessary to contemplate Sir Harmon’s death,” Will said, to her astonishment. “I want to know why.”

  “Because he’s a killer,” Henri said without hesitation. “He killed my family in Antigua, then he murdered the Scots family who took me in. He’s murdered my family twice, and he should die for it.”

  Chapter 13

  Josette flinched at Henri’s savage words and the violence they described, so incongruous with the beauty of this corner of the gardens.

  “What happened?” she asked softly.

  Unashamed tears filled Henri’s eyes. “My family were slaves in Antigua. Sir Harmon took over the plantation where we worked. He does not know I lived there—he never noticed us. He worked my parents and sister until they were sick, and when they could do no more labor, they were turned out. I did what I could, but my parents and my sister were too ill, too starved. They died.”

  Josette listened in horror. “Oh, lad. I’m so sorry.”

  “I ran away. A Scottish family helped me. They brought me here and made certain I was freed. Papers to prove it. I worked for them—here. It was not like this.”

  Henri waved his hand at the summerhouse, the gardens, the vast mansion in the distance.

  “And then he came,” Henri went on. “Sir Harmon hated the Dunbars—the Scottish family—had been their enemy in the Indies. They were missionaries, and he believed they’d cause a slave revolt, and he’d lose all his land and money. When Sir Harmon returned to England, he lied to the government and said Mr. Dunbar was a Jacobite who sent money to the King over the Water. But they were not. They were innocent. They were arrested and taken away, and I’m sure they are dead. Sir Harmon seized their property and built all this. I stayed here to work. He does not know. Now I will kill him and throw myself into the sea, and they will be avenged. Why did you stop me?” He glared at Will.

  “Because I need Sir Harmon to stay alive just a bit longer,” Will said. “He’s a rotten bastard, I agree. But killing him won’t solve matters, and drowning is an unpleasant death. The man’s not worth dying for.”

  Henri gazed at him in disbelief. “What reason do I have to live? Anyone I ever cared for is gone. Taken away from me.”

  “I know.” Will put a kind hand on the youth’s shoulder. Henri winced, but he didn’t pull away. “I can help you, lad. How would you like to bring down Sir Harmon? Possibly get him arrested and hanged, free the Dunbars, if they are still alive, and live the rest of your days on his ill-gotten gains?”

  Henri remained unconvinced. “Killing him will be quicker.”

  “Not necessarily. The cavalry officer who is staying in the house, Captain Ellis, would feel obligated to arrest you, no matter how much he agreed with you. He is an honorable man and follows the rules. I, on the other hand, do not.”

  Henri jerked from Will’s touch. “Why should I believe you? You are one of them.”

  “I’ll thank you not to insult me.” Will’s voice held a touch of humor. “I am not one of those trumped-up English brats. I’m not ready to tell you exactly who I am, but trust me, lad, I want Sir Harmon. I came here to finish him.”

  “How?” Henri’s tone was suspicious, but he at least waited for Will’s answer.

  “I will make him betray himself, and then the honorable Captain Ellis will have no choice but to take him into custody.”

  “And his friends will get him free again,” Henri sneered.

  “Not if he’s the traitor I believe he is. I sense in Sir Harmon a man who’d sell his own mother if he could make a penny. Probably has already.”

  Henri listened impatiently. “How can this help me find the Dunbars?”

  “I know people. Those people know people who know many things. Or at least can find them out.” Will didn’t boast or even speak with great confidence. He simply stated facts that Josette knew to be true.

  Henri’s scowl returned. “Who are you really? Not Prince Charlie himself, are you?”

  “Good Lord, no. My dad would skin me if I waltzed about like that overly arrogant coxcomb. I’m merely concerned with justice—and Sir Harmon might have knowledge that would help me greatly. Tell me, lad—as a servant you’ll have learned the ins and outs of this place. Is there somewhere Sir Harmon hides things he wants no one to find? From his guests, his servants, his wife?”

  “Here.” Henri jerked his thumb at the pseudo Greek summerhouse. “There’s also a secret room in the wine cellar at the main house. He thinks it’s secret anyway.”

  “Ah.” Will headed for the summerhouse, mounting the stone steps to its door. “An easy place to start.”

  “It’s locked,” Henri said as he and Josette trailed after him. “Only Sir Harmon and the majordomo have the keys.”

  “No matter.”

  Will drew a pair of thin wires from his pocket, knelt before the lock, and proceeded to pick it. Josette watched with interest, Henri in skepticism. In less than a minute, the lock clicked and the door creaked open.

  “Not very formidable,” Will said. “A baby could pick that. Anyone at home?” he sang out in his fop’s voice.

  Silence met them. Josette doubted any of the house party were here—they’d have had to venture outdoors.

  The interior of the summerhouse had been simply furnished, without the grandeur of the main house. A table and chairs, a bookcase with a smattering of tomes, a chair and a desk, empty of papers. It was cool here, no fire in the small fireplace.

  A search turned up nothing. Will was thorough, and he’d taught Josette to be. Henri watched them before joining in.

  The floor was solid, no trapdoors leading to tunnels. “Too new,” Will said in derision. “No escape route, priest’s hole, or smuggler’s tunnel. No self-respecting Scot of the old days would build a place like this.”

  “Sir Harmon had it put up,” Henri confirmed. “Was finished six months ago.”

  “He would. Well.” Will wiped his brow with the back of his hand and continued his search.

  They turned up no caskets full of French gold, either in coins or bars, and no papers or maps that would lead them to such a find. The room seemed to be Sir Harmon’s hideaway, with books on horses and fishing and not much else.

  Will rubbed his palms, looking more animated.

  “All right, then,” he said. “On to the wine cellar.”

  Neither Sir Harmon nor Lady Bentley nor the majordomo questioned them or tried to stop Henri from leading them to the cellar of the main house, which Will took to be a sign they’d find nothing.

  A man skilled at concealment would not show concern about a person approaching his hiding place—betraying nervousness only gave a hiding place away. Sir Harmon did not seem skilled, however; therefore, his lack of worry told Will he had hidden nothing in his cellar. But Will would never forgive himself if he didn’t search anyway.

  Sir Harmon did have many casks of wine and brandy. Again Will thought of the whisky Malcolm had labored on every day of the year, how he’d hover over the mash like a mother hen, and wander among the kegs of aging brew, touching them, talking to them. Will imagined the British army’s joy when they chanced upon the distillery and all the barrels in the aging room, and his deep anger simmered.

  He tried to press Kilmorgan out of his thoughts, shut out the intense pain of the memories. Ironic that Will had been avid to leave home as a lad, weary of living with a horde of irascible men. Now he’d give anything to bring those days back.

  A small door behind a stack of barrels intrigued him, as well as the fact that the racks of barrels were on tracks and could easily be moved. Henri helped Will slide the racks aside, and another picked lock later, the three of them peered into a small chamber—empty.

  “Well, that is disappointing,” Will said with a sigh. “But worth remembering.”

  He closed the door, locked it with his picks, and he and Henri shoved the barrels in front of it again.

  “Are you playing a game?” came
the voice of Lady Bentley.

  Will quickly motioned for Henri to duck into the shadows as Lady Bentley swept toward them, the feathers in her bag-like cap swaying. “You hide, and I find you?”

  Josette, bless her, let out a high-pitched laugh. “How delightful. No, my husband was curious about your husband’s brandy. So much of it.” She spread her hands and looked about at the racks of kegs.

  She played the insipid Anna so well, Will thought with an inward grin. He wanted to kiss her. Again.

  “Sir Harmon likes his drink.” Lady Bentley’s tone turned irritated. “He has friends bring it to him—never more delighted than when another shipment arrives. He won’t be able to drink it all in his lifetime.”

  “He is kind to share it with guests,” Will said. “I look forward to more at supper.”

  “There won’t be supper,” Lady Bentley announced. “That is, it will be served, but we won’t sit down to it. I’ve ordered a feast to be spread in the dining room while we dance in the ballroom. But you look surprised, Lady Jacobs—I forgot, you ran out to walk with your husband before we decided.” She clasped her hands like an excited girl. “We’re having a masked ball. Hurry upstairs now, or you’ll have no time to get your costumes sorted.”

  “Of all the daft ideas …” Josette trailed off as Will laced her into the blue and pink gown covered with silk roses she had chosen from Lady Bentley’s wide-ranging wardrobe.

  Will, having spent a few years coming and going in European courts, had grown used to impromptu parties dreamed up by a bored queen or official mistress. Spontaneity counted as entertainment in their cushioned worlds.

  “More time to learn things, my dear,” Will said into Josette’s ear.

  He pressed a kiss to her neck. The smile she flashed him made Will want to consign the Bentleys to hell and take Josette to bed for the rest of the night.

  Will finished lacing Josette’s gown and helped tie on her mask, a lace affair with a spray of silk flowers on one side.

  Will had fashioned his costume from a banner he’d found hanging in the gallery, taken with permission from Stelton, the majordomo. It had been easy for him to sew seams at the shoulders and tack the banner—a gold cross—to the front to make a surcoat.