A Wicked Gentleman

by Jane Feather

  “One condition…” He had one foot on the curricle step.

  “I thought so.”

  “My name is Harry.” He jumped lightly into the curricle and took the reins from Eric. “Use it.”

  She didn’t stay to watch him round the square, but went back inside her mind in a turmoil that didn’t begin to match her confused emotions.

  Harry took the road to Richmond. He needed the space and privacy that Hyde Park couldn’t give him. He might meet acquaintances at Richmond, but it was much less likely than in the city, and he needed to clear his head. He had thought he was playing a light game of flirtation, one that might give him a little personal satisfaction. The woman was too composed, too assured, and he’d had the idea of mixing just a little revenge with the business at hand. He had wanted to break her composure. Oblige her to acknowledge her own sensuality. Maybe he’d succeeded, but he’d certainly ensnared himself in his own web.

  Chapter 11

  NIGEL DAGENHAM RAISED HIS HEAD from his hands and stared for the hundredth time at the sheaf of papers on the small table in front of him. The column of figures on the topmost sheet remained the same. He picked up a quill and moved the candle closer, totting up the sum once more, but this time with no stirring of hope. As he’d known it would, the sum total had not budged by a farthing.

  Ten thousand guineas. How in the devil’s name had he managed to lose such a sum? Such a monstrous sum. It was as much as his father’s annual income from the estate.

  He threw down the quill and reached for the brandy bottle, pouring a generous measure into the squat glass at his elbow, then began to shuffle through the papers, setting aside the straightforward bills from creditors. The pile of IOUs remained in front of him. With all the hapless despair of the proverbial drowning man and the straw, he tried once more to add up the creditors’ bills in such a way that they would account for at least half of the dreadful sum. But try as he might, he couldn’t budge the figure from a mere fifteen hundred guineas.

  Eight and half thousand guineas were debts of honor.

  And they must be paid. In full and without delay.

  With a groan he dropped his head into his hands again. To renege on such debts would bring unendurable disgrace, not just to himself, but to his entire family. He would be forced to resign from his clubs and slink back to Ringwood. Oxford would never take him back. His father, on his infrequent visits to London, would be ostracized, even the earl of Markby would be tarnished by his nephew’s ruin.

  An imperative rap at the door brought his head up with a jerk. “Nigel…you in there?”

  Nigel cursed under his breath and swept the IOUs into the drawer in the little table. His host’s son sounded rather the worse for wear, but he had sharp eyes and a devilishly quick wit nevertheless. “Come in, Mac,” he called, rising to his feet as the door opened. He set his back to the table and beckoned his visitor forward.

  Mackenzie, earl of Garston, the eldest son of the marquess of Coltrain, stood swaying in the doorway, a bottle of claret in his hand. “Lord, Dagenham, where’ve you been hidin’ yourself?” he demanded thickly. “Looked for you all over town…no one’s seen you in days.” He came in, kicking the door shut behind him. “Claret?” He raised the bottle in invitation.

  “No thanks, Mac.” Nigel indicated the brandy bottle, trying to sound as carefree as his visitor. “Feeling a bit under the weather, I’m afraid. Thought I’d stay indoors till I’d thrown it off.”

  Mackenzie squinted at him in the candle’s uncertain light. “Don’t look too good,” he pronounced, thumping down in a chair beside the table. His experienced eye caught and identified the small sheaf of papers. “What’s that you got there? Damn creditors, eh? Ignore ’em, I always do. Care to come to Newmarket tomorrow?…there’s a dead cert running in the four o’clock. Weather-bell, she’s called. Real dark horse, running at a hundred to one. Had it from a fellow who had it from a fellow who knows the jockey. Absolute certainty. I’m putting five hundred guineas on the nag.” He tilted the bottle to his lips and threw back his head, his throat working as the ruby liquid went down.

  Nigel’s attempt at an easy laugh sounded hollow even to his ears. “Haven’t got the ready, Mac,” he said. “I’m going to have to appeal to the gov’nor for an advance on next quarter as it is.”

  The earl peered at him. “Really don’t look too good,” he observed. “Got a look of the crypt about you, old fellow, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “Be my guest,” Nigel said, thinking of five hundred guineas at a hundred to one…Fifty thousand guineas. Fifty thousand guineas.

  “Seems a shame to waste a certain tip,” Mackenzie said, taking another swig of the bottle. “I’d stand you the wager myself, but ’fraid I’m a bit short this quarter. Got anything to pawn?” He glanced around the well-appointed bedchamber as if expecting to see a cache of gold snuffboxes and diamond signet rings somewhere in the shadows.

  Nigel shook his head. Nothing he possessed would fetch five hundred guineas in a pawnbroker’s, let alone eight and a half thousand.

  “Nothing for it then,” the earl stated, getting to his feet. “Havant and Green first thing in the morning…they’ll give you the ready, and once the nag comes in you can pay ’em off straightaway. Won’t even notice the interest that way.” He tapped the side of his nose and tried for a wink. “Word to the wise, m’friend. This one can’t go wrong.” He weaved his way to the door. “We’ll set off around noon tomorrow.”

  Nigel slumped down at the table again and stared at the closed door. He reached for the brandy glass and drained it. Five hundred guineas was a paltry sum. Havant and Green were respectable moneylenders. He knew hundreds of fellows who had had recourse to them when in extremis. And so long as the loan was really short-term, a mere couple of days, then Mac was right, the interest would be negligible. He was of age, legally entitled to borrow money. And with fifty thousand guineas in his pocket, he’d be laughing at his troubles.

  There wasn’t another way. Fleetingly he wondered if Cornelia or one of the other women would lend him five hundred guineas, then dismissed the thought out of hand. They didn’t have money to spare, and even if they did, he was positive neither Nell nor Ellie would countenance staking him to a wager on a horse. Liv possibly, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask her. And she’d tell the others anyway, and they’d put a stop to it.

  But he could borrow it legitimately as a business deal, and by this time tomorrow all his problems would be solved. Those pesky IOUs would be redeemed and he’d be free as a bird. And he’d be damned careful in future how he played, he decided with a surge of righteousness. He’d learned his lesson. Only fools made the same mistake twice.

  Thus buoyed, Nigel sallied forth in search of supper and entertainment. He found both at the Black Cock on Jermyn Street and eventually rolled home to the Coltrain mansion on Park Street just before dawn, befuddled and aware of a faint and inconvenient unease beneath his optimism. He fell into bed and was awoken soon after ten o’clock by the household manservant deputed to wait upon him.

  “His lordship said you would be driving out with him at noon, sir,” the man stated, setting a tray of coffee on the dressing table. “You’ll be wearing riding dress, I understand from his lordship.”

  Why was he driving out? Nigel pressed a hand to his temples where Thor seemed to have taken up residence with a pair of hammers. Oh, Newmarket. He remembered now, and with the memory came the miserable reminder of why he was going to the races and what he had to do before starting out.

  Why had Mac specified riding dress? Did one call upon moneylenders in such informal attire? Wouldn’t he look older and more a man about town in the emerald-and-silver-striped waistcoat with the daffodil yellow coat? An outfit that he recalled with a shudder had cost him close to two hundred guineas at Stultz. The bill lay in the pile on the table.

  He was rescued from this doleful train of thought by the precipitate entrance of Mackenzie, looking enviably fresh after hi
s own night of debauchery. “Ah, you’re up, my good fellow. Good…you’ve a call to pay this morning, remember.” He grinned.

  “Good God, Mac, how d’you do it?” Nigel grumbled. “You were as drunk as a lord last time I saw you, and about to go off to the bawdyhouse with that wench…Lord, she had an arse on her,” he added reminiscently. “Magnificent.”

  “And not just a promise,” his friend said with a lascivious chuckle. “She could move like—”

  “Oh, enough,” Nigel begged with a groan. “I haven’t had coffee yet.”

  “Well, get up and get going. You’ve a call to make in Holborn before we can head out of town. I’m going to make your fortune today, my friend.” Mackenzie poured coffee. “Yes, Brian, lay out Mr. Dagenham’s riding dress.” He nodded his approval to the footman who was brushing the collar of Nigel’s riding coat. “Just the thing for these little meetings.”

  “I thought the silver-and-emerald waistcoat,” Nigel demurred. “More town polish.”

  “Definitely not, old man.” Mackenzie shook his head vigorously. “Riding dress is much more businesslike, and besides you’ll have no time to change when you get back. Don’t forget we leave at noon, if we’re to make the race.” He breezed out, leaving Nigel to drag himself from bed.

  Nigel managed a cup of coffee but eschewed the breakfast table; his stomach wasn’t up to coddled eggs and sirloin.

  Since he didn’t have his own horse in town, he was obliged to hire a hack from a livery stable whenever he needed to ride. Mackenzie had set up an account for him at a stable in Hyde Park, cheerfully heedless of the expense this involved. Nigel’s account was now seriously in arrears, and his heart sank when the owner of the stable emerged from his office as Nigel stood waiting for the horse to be saddled.

  “Ah, Mr. Dagenham,” Mr. Shelby said, walking across the cobbles towards him. “Riding again are we, today?”

  “I can’t imagine why else I would be here, Shelby,” Nigel said with hauteur. Humility would get him nowhere, arrogance might.

  “Quite so, sir.” Shelby was a short stout man who barely reached Nigel’s shoulder, but he had the shoulders and barrel chest of a prizefighter gone to seed. And he appeared impervious to intimidation. Indeed, had Nigel known it, Shelby dealt with impoverished, blustering young bucks and their overweening sense of entitlement every day and had no difficulty sending them about their business with the requisite flea in the ear.

  “There’s a little matter of your account, Mr. Dagenham,” he said, puffing on a noxious corncob pipe as he rested deceptively mild eyes on the young man’s countenance. “When would you be thinking of settling it?”

  “For God’s sake, man, are you questioning my credit?” Nigel blustered. “I’ll take my business elsewhere, I warn you.”

  “Well, as to that, it’s up to you,” Shelby said amiably. “But I’d still like to know when I can expect payment for the last two weeks.”

  “Tomorrow,” Nigel stated. A groom was leading the hack out of the stables. “You’ll be paid tomorrow, and damn your impudence, Shelby.” He swung onto his mount. “And let me tell you, if you don’t mend your manners, my good man, you’ll lose my custom.” He swung the horse towards the gates into the park and kicked the animal into a sudden canter.

  “And when have I heard that before, my young sprig?” Shelby muttered to himself, pulling on his pipe. He shook his head and returned to his office.

  Nigel, seeking relief from embarrassment in anger, rode the horse hard through the thronged streets until he reached Holborn. The broad thoroughfare ran from St. Paul’s to Chancery Lane and was principally the territory of bankers and financiers of all varieties, both respectable and otherwise. He drew rein outside the premises of Havant and Green. Nothing about the building indicated that they were in the business of lending money to desperate individuals at ruinous rates of interest. It was tidy, with well-honed steps and well-washed windows. The nameplate beside the door said merely MESSRS HAVANT AND GREEN, BROKERS.

  A grimy urchin ran up as Nigel swung down from his mount. The lad took the bridle without waiting for an invitation. “I’ll walk ’im fer you, m’lord,” he said, pulling his forelock. “’Tis cold fer ’im to be standin’ around.”

  A row of black iron hitching posts lined the pavement in front of the buildings. Paying an urchin to hold his horse struck Nigel as an unnecessary expense in present circumstances, and particularly on his present errand. He dismissed the boy with a curt word. Ignoring the lad’s muttered imprecations, he tethered the hack himself. Then he squared his shoulders and approached the shiny black door, which was opened almost immediately by a black-suited gentleman who bowed him within.

  Nigel emerged half an hour later, feeling utterly bemused but triumphant. Messrs. Havant and Green, or their representatives, he was unsure which, had heard him out in sympathetic silence, punctuated only by understanding nods. They had given him papers to sign, rather a lot he thought for five hundred guineas, but the guineas had been counted out on the desk in front of him, and they were now securely tucked into his inside pocket. It had been so easy. Last night he’d been in despair, and this morning he was full of optimism. He had money in his pocket, the sun shone, and an entertaining day of racing in the company of his friends lay ahead.

  He mounted his horse and turned the animal’s head back towards Chancery Lane and Mayfair.

  Viscount Bonham stood in the doorway of a small shop across the street. It was ostensibly a printers and engravers, but behind the shop front was another small room, a workroom that contained those tools of Harry’s trade that he found it convenient to keep outside his own house, the torches and crucibles, the intricate implements he used for molding and inscribing gold and silver into the code-carrying weapons of war.

  He watched Nigel Dagenham untie his horse from outside Messrs. Havant and Green and ride off. So the young fool had recourse to moneylenders…he wouldn’t be the first and most definitely not the last. It was a piece of information that might prove useful at some point. How, he didn’t know as yet, but Harry dealt in the world of dirty secrets, and he knew their value.

  His gaze suddenly sharpened as he saw a figure across the street move out of the shadowed mouth of a narrow alley and slide into the crowd. He was joined almost immediately by a second man, and they moved swiftly after Nigel Dagenham, whose progress was little faster than a pedestrian’s, and wouldn’t speed up until he reached the crossing with Chancery Lane. In the subdued quarters of the Inns of Court, he would encounter much less traffic.

  Harry’s eyes followed the two men as they slipped through the throng. He knew what they were. He’d spent many hours eluding such men. Watchers, stalkers, spies—they all had an unmistakable way of moving. Indeed to Harry it seemed they gave off a particular distinctive aura. So who was having Nigel Dagenham watched, and why?

  It was a disturbing question, and he didn’t like the answer he came up with, not one little bit. He turned back to his workroom, to the charcoal burner and his drills and anvil. He tucked the issue of Nigel Dagenham into a far corner of his mind where it would stay until he was ready to examine it once more. For the moment he needed all his concentration for his work on the tiny snuffbox with its false bottom. The substitute for the lost thimble. It had to be ready for the courier by dawn.

  “So, Jean, our young friend has fallen into the hands of the moneylenders.” The desiccated man behind the desk in the tall house on Gray’s Inn Road turned his head slowly towards his visitor, candlelight throwing the shadow of his sharp nose huge and elongated onto the wall beside him.

  “Oui, milord.” Jean nodded, hands clasped at his back, his eyes, sunken deep in the hatchet face, fixed intently on his superior. “Yesterday he attempted to recoup his losses on a horse race.”

  “I see. And how did his fortunes progress, Jean?”

  The other man shrugged, spreading his hands wide. “Hélas,” he said simply.

  A meager smile flickered across milord’s ascetic lips. �
�I see,” he repeated. “A ripe peach ready to drop then?”

  “Almost, milord. A little more pressure, perhaps.”

  The hissing of the damp coals in the fireplace was the only sound in the gloomy chamber as milord gazed at the grime-encrusted panes of the mullioned window. A steady rain lashed the glass.

  “Then we had better apply it, Jean,” he pronounced finally. “Time is running short. We must disable or at the very least create havoc within the British network in France before Napoleon and the Tsar meet. No word of the treaty must be allowed to reach our enemies until it is signed.”

  “It’s understood, milord.” Jean bowed and turned to go, then hesitated. It was risky to ask his superior for information that had not been freely given, but sometimes, if milord was in a mellow mood, or what passed for such with him, he would answer a question.

  “It is certain then, milord, that the emperor will negotiate with Alexander?”

  “After Eylau it is only a matter of time.”

  Jean waited for a second and then accepted that he had been given all that was forthcoming. At the beginning of February the French and Russian armies had fought the battle of Eylau to a technical French victory but a practical draw, with massive losses on both sides. It was in the interests of both mighty empires to cease hostilities and join forces against the coalition of Austria, England, and Prussia.

  “Alexander needs one final push.” Surprisingly, milord spoke again just as Jean laid a hand on the door latch. “Rather in the manner of our ripening peach.” Another thin smile flickered over exiguous lips. “You may rest assured, Jean, that Napoleon will administer the push in the spring. One more victory over the Russians, and a treaty will be signed by early summer.”

  “Yes, milord. Thank you, milord.”

  “So get on with your own task, Jean. I want that thimble…the emperor wants that thimble.”