The Dark Regency Series: Boxed Set

by Chasity Bowlin

  Abby had blushed furiously when he’d ordered peignoirs in black silk chiffon. Madame had asked him if he wished to have them lined for modesty and he had declined, stating adamantly the modesty had no place in the bedchamber. She had chuckled at him, called him a naughty boy and had winked at Abby most inappropriately.

  After being measured to within an inch of her life, they left the shop with the promise of several ready-made dresses being altered to fit and sent over that afternoon. Several more would follow during the rest of the week and beyond. Trips to the milliner, the cobbler, and the glove maker followed.

  “It’s too much,” Abby said after Michael had handed her up into the carriage for the short drive home.

  “No, it isn’t. How long has it been since you’ve had new gowns?” he asked.

  Abby sighed, “It’s been years as you well know. That doesn’t change the fact that the amount of money spent today is enough to feed the village at Blagdon for a year.”

  More likely two years, but he didn’t bother to correct her. He had expected protests from her and had prepared an argument. “Regardless, your social station has changed and your wardrobe must reflect it. If it does not, it will reflect poorly on me.”

  Abby knew that was true. “London may well be your life, my lord, but I am not sure that it can be mine.” She paused for a moment, as if seeking the courage to say things to him that she didn't wish to. “The city is not for me. I fear I will make a total cake of myself and be a social outcast. If that happens, it will benefit us both for me to return to the country.”

  “You will not be a social outcast. But whether you are or not, has no bearing on the fact that you and I will be together. In London, in the country, or anywhere else, as husband and wife we will not live apart.”

  “For a man who has inhabited the beds of countless married ladies, that is not the tack I expected from you regarding our own marriage.”

  Michael leaned forward on the carriage seat, resting his elbows on his knees as he met her gaze, “I’ve done a great many things in my life that I am not proud of. Yes, I’ve had relationships with married women. Perhaps it makes no difference in my level of innocence or guilt, but I never sought them out. Generally if a wife was straying, I was not the first with whom she had done so.”

  “And Lady Westerbrook?”

  He had known that it was coming, and there was only so much he could reveal for the secret was Caroline’s. “Caroline was a friend for many years. While she was married, it was never more than that. After Charles’ death, she asked me to become her lover and I did. My feelings for her were never more than friendship.”

  “Do you bed all of your friends?” she asked, with pointed emphasis on the last word.

  “Many female friends were also lovers. It is different for a man, Abigail, we do not need deeper feelings to engage in a physical relationship. It is that way for some women, but most require more than that.”

  The question burned in her of whether or not he intended to take other lovers now. Pride would not allow her to ask it. As the carriage rolled to a stop before the townhouse, he sighed and said, “We can talk more about this later, but for now I have to go. Rhys and I are to meet with several of the dealers today to ferret out whatever Rupert and Lavinia are up to.”

  “Of course.”

  Michael helped her down, saw her to the door and with a perfunctory kiss on her cheek, left on foot. Many of the people he wished to speak with were in less than decent neighborhoods. Taking a fine carriage was an invitation for trouble that he did not need. He had arranged to meet with Rhys at the first shop, on the edge of Seven Dials.

  The address was a case of misdirection. At the head of a street lined with rookeries, brothels, and opium dens, the tiny shop looked like little more than a place for people to pawn their cast offs. But the backroom told a different tale, the wares offered there were priceless and the proprietor was a key player in the criminal underground of London.

  He'd hailed a hackney near his home and when he arrived at the shop, Rhys and Spencer were waiting for him.

  The shop was closed, the sign hanging on the door that was still slightly ajar. Michael cast a questioning glance at it and then turned his attention to his oldest friend, “Have you been inside then?”

  Rhys shook his head grimly. “No. It looked like trouble, so I’ve stayed here in full view of the pie seller. I don’t relish the idea of being the accused again, and Spencer only just arrived.”

  Michael didn’t laugh at the gallows humor. Rhys had been under suspicion of having murdered his first wife for years. Spencer, however, was above reproach. “I don’t imagine we’ll find anything good inside, but let’s get it over with, shall we?”

  The men entered the shop, scanning the room for danger. It had obviously been searched and by someone who didn’t care if things were destroyed in the process, as many of the displays had been hopelessly smashed. Michael knew, of course that the truly priceless items would be hidden away in the back. He only feared what else they might find.

  Together they moved through the room, and towards the heavy curtain. Behind the curtain was a locked door, which Michael opened expertly. When the lock clicked free, they entered the storage room which was filled, shelf after shelf, with priceless antiquities.

  It was also filled with the coppery stench of blood and none too fresh if Michael had to guess. The store’s proprietor, Raymond Jacobs, was lying between two shelves, at least one day dead from the look of him. A pool of blood had spread around him, his skull all but crushed. It was just like Allerton, Michael thought.

  “Poor bastard,” Spencer said. “Hell of a thing to lay dead and not even be missed.”

  Michael agreed. “We should summon the watch.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Rhys said and stepped outside.

  “So what are we looking for, Ellersleigh?” Spencer asked. His voice was cold and a bit gruff, but Michael had long since grown used to Spencer’s disapproval.

  “Ledgers, bills of sale, anything that ties this man to Lord or Lady Whitby… or Lord Allerton, for that matter.”

  Spencer snorted, “Leave it you to fall in with them. For the love of God, Michael! They are all half insane!”

  Michael closed his eyes and just for a brief moment, considered planting him the facer that he deserved for being such an arrogant prig. “I didn’t fall in with them, Spencer. Unfortunately, my new wife happens to be the younger stepsister of Lady Lavinia.”

  “You didn’t just fall in with them! You married into them!”

  Michael paused in the act of searching the desk that had been the deceased proprietor’s, “Spencer, if you ever think to compare my wife to Lavinia again, I will call you out. You may insult me as much as you wish, but you will never speak of Abigail so.”

  The steely tone in Michael’s voice was not something Spencer was accustomed to hearing. He looked up and met his friend’s hard gaze and realized that there was far more to the rumors of Michael’s marriage than he’d imagined. “So that’s the way of it, then. Damn me, you're in love with her!”

  “I am not in love with anyone, Spencer, but she is my wife,” Michael said. The denial was too hot on his lips, too quick, and even more telling for it. Falling in love with Abigail was a complication he could ill afford. He never intended to fall in love with anyone again, it was too painful.

  They continued searching. When the bell over the front door tinkled a warning Michael and Spencer both tucked the papers of interest that they had accumulated in their pockets. The Watch gave a perfunctory exam of the scene, labeled it a robbery gone wrong and summoned a wagon to remove the body. He escorted them from the premises and placed a lock and chain on the door. It was of no consequence. If they needed to return, Michael could pick any lock and they would be unlikely to use the front door at any rate.

  Outside in the street, they hailed a hackney, as they were climbing in, a closed coach rumbled toward them. Sleek and black, it was obvious the conve
yance did not belong in the neighborhood. The pair of matched grays that pulled it were fast, and traveling at a speed that was ill advised on such narrow, congested streets. As it lurched forward it picked up speed, though it had already been moving faster than was wise or safe.As it neared them, the driver jerked the reins and the horses pulled to the left, the vehicle shifting ominously as it careened toward them.

  Michael looked up at the panicked whinnying of the horses, in time to see the carriage barreling straight for him. His death was certain at that moment. Staring at that coach, little more than a meter from him, he thought of Abigail

  But death did not take him. Instead, a pair of strong hands hauled him back and the coach thundered past with only inches to spare. Had Spencer not acted so quickly in dragging Michael back from the path of the coach, he would have been trampled under the horses’ hooves. As it was, they wound up in the gutter covered in all manner of filth.

  Rising to his feet, Michael held out a hand to Spencer, helping the other man up. It was an uneasy truce between them, but there was no denying that he now owed his friend his life.

  “That was not an accident,” Rhys said. He had already climbed into the hackney, but disembarked. The driver was refusing to transport them now and left little doubt as to his opinions of letting two muck covered lords defile his fine carriage.

  Spencer nodded, his dazed expression stating his agreement more fully. “Beware the black coach,” he said.

  Michael nodded, and offered the driver of their hired hack a gesture that was more suited to their current surroundings than to his Mayfair roots. The driver uttered a mild oath and the hackney lumbered forward. They would be walking home.

  To Rhys, Michael added, “It most definitely was not…Let’s not mention this to Abby.”

  “Or Emme,” Rhys agreed. “Or Larissa.”

  Spencer shook his head. “She'll know anyway. You won't need to mention it, but I doubt she'll say anything. The only one who worries more about your wife than you do is her sister.”

  As the carriage sped away, Rupert cursed. It hadn't been his intent to put a permanent end to Ellersleigh, but when the opportunity had presented itself, he couldn't allow it to pass. After discovering the merchant's body, he'd beat a hasty retreat, but not swift enough. Seeing Ellersleigh and his cronies enter the shop had been a shock to say the least.

  Running him down the carriage had been an impulse, poorly thought out and even more poorly executed. It was for the best, Rupert told himself. It would have raised questions he didn't want asked. He consoled himself with the thought that little of import could have been found in the shop. The merchant had kept very discreet records given the erotic and occult nature of many of the items he sold.

  Deciding to keep the incident to himself, he headed towards his townhouse. He would collect his things and head for Wilhaven immediately. Considering Lavinia's infatuation with the Viscount, the less she knew about the events of the day, the better.

  Rhys and Michael returned to the townhouse so that Michael could exchange his ruined clothing. Spencer had gone to his own home to do the same and planned to meet them shortly. Abby was touring the house with Mrs. Fillings, the housekeeper, learning about the day to day running of the household and reviewing household accounts.

  Michael was glad of it, as he wanted an opportunity to review the documents with Rhys and Spencer prior to discussing their findings with her. She was too much a part of things already and he feared that knowledge could make her even more of a target.

  Rhys was awaiting him in the library, and by the time Michael had rung for brandy and a bit of food to hold them over, Spencer had arrived.

  “So what, precisely, are we looking for?” Spencer asked, producing the documents he had liberated from the shop. It was very similar to what they had done during the war. They had often been tapped to complete clandestine missions. Not spies per se, they had still been entrusted with covert operations.

  Michael ran his hand through his hair, frustrated by just how little he actually knew. It was all supposition at that point, and he didn't like it. “I don’t think Allerton lost Blagdon Hall to me by accident. I think that Lord and Lady Whitby forced him to do so. They wanted me there for some reason, and I can only imagine it has a great deal to do with my father’s collection of antiques.”

  “And Abigail?” Rhys asked.

  Michael's jaw clenched as he answered, his anger telling. “Rupert has had designs on her for some time. In removing her from the sanctuary of Blagdon Hall, he was providing greater opportunity to compromise her.”

  Spencer nodded, then surmised, “So they were killing two birds with one stone. They compelled Allerton to lose Blagdon Hall to you to get you within their clutches. With your reputation, they had to assume that you would be eager to partake of whatever entertainments they were offering.”

  “Yes,” Michael agreed, “Lavinia attempted to seduce me the first evening that they invited me to Whitby House. That was also the evening Allerton was murdered in the garden, in much the same way our shopkeeper was just murdered.”

  “And the evening that you took Abby back to Blagdon Hall rather than leave her under the Whitbys' roof for another night,” Rhys added. “The real question is what are they after? What in your father’s collection are they after?”

  Michael indicated the documents spread before them, “The ledgers at Wilhaven gave only the amount of the purchase, but did not identify the items. If I can discover what they acquired, then perhaps I can narrow down what they want from me.”

  Spencer began to peruse one of the ledgers while Michael rifled through the bills of sale. There was nothing that directly identified them, but one receipt had been inscribed in a corner with the initials “L.W.”.

  “There is nothing in the ledger but prices and item numbers,” Spencer said.

  “Match the item number from this receipt to the ledger, and we might have something,” Michael said, passing the document over.

  Rhys rose, “I have to go. I need to check on Emme and the preparations for our return to the country tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Rhys.”

  He waved away the gratitude, “I haven’t done anything…Besides, I owe you for your skills as a matchmaker, don’t I?”

  Michael chuckled as Rhys exited the room. When he was gone, however, the only buffer between himself and Spencer was gone as well. He truly didn’t understand how their friendship had become so strained over the years, or even when it had begun.

  “So how did you meet your new viscountess? Something quite improper on your part and perfectly innocent on hers, I imagine,” Spencer stated.

  “It was improper but was not nefarious in the least... Allerton had not informed me that Blagdon Hall would be inhabited when I arrived. Hence, Abigail's hasty removal to the den of iniquity that is her sister's home.”

  “That's a first... you being improper by accident. She's lovely, by the way.”

  “Abigail is very lovely,” Michael agreed. “Stop noticing it. Now. And if you could stop harping on my licentious past, I would greatly appreciate it.”

  Spencer held up his hands in mock surrender. “I swear to be on my best behavior, and to reveal as little as possible of your worst behavior.”

  It wasn’t much of a promise, but it would have to do. “You should stay for dinner, then. It’s only a few hours away.”

  It was hardly a gracious invitation, but Spencer accepted it willingly. He wouldn’t admit it, but the harsh words he’d received from the Duchess of Briarleigh regarding his treatment of Michael had stayed with him. They had burrowed into his mind and he’d grudgingly accepted that he’d been a judgmental prig. It wasn’t an easy thing for him to admit it, but there it was.

  He and Michael had grown up much the same way, with fathers that would not be pleased with them regardless of what they did. Michael had taken the route of not trying to please at all, and had, in fact, gone out of his way to be provoking. He had taken the opposite road
of being everything that was proper. It hadn’t worked, he never gained his father’s approval, but over the course of the last two years, he had learned why.

  It all made much more sense to him, but it still grated that he had been doing to Michael the very thing their respective fathers had done to them. He'd been placing unrealistic expectations on him and demanding a kind of perfection that was humanly impossible to achieve.

  Amends would be made. Helping identify whatever threat the Whitbys posed to his and his bride would go towards settling that debt he owed Michael and he would do whatever was necessary. But first, he had to do the thing he had dreaded for some time.

  “I owe you an apology, you know.”

  The papers Michael had been shuffling through stilled in his hands, and he looked up at Spencer, the shock written clearly on his face. “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “I do, actually. I’ve been a bastard and well you know it. I took every bit of gossip and innuendo about you to heart, when as your friend, I should have known better…I should have trusted that you were not the blackguard they painted you.”

  “I’m not exactly virginal, Spencer.”

  “Are any of us?”

  Recalling Abby's assertion regarding Larissa's feelings for Spencer, Michael seized the opportunity. “Hardly virginal, but much closer to sainthood than I'll ever be. So, Saint Spencer, have a care with young Larissa... My lovely wife seems to think the girl harbors very tender feelings for you and that perhaps Larissa's feelings aren't the only ones engaged.”

  Spencer's jaw firmed and for just a moment, Michael saw something in the other man's eyes that made him wonder if perhaps Abigail wasn't correct in her assessment after all. But he said nothing more because the door opened.