by Gaelen Foley
Life was still a promise before him.
He took a deep breath that burned a little, like the first gasp of a newborn babe. But the sun glittered on the ornamental pond before him and a battle-weary smile crept over his lips as he envisioned the memory of his father there, teaching him to fish. A gentle man. A noble man. The man who had taught him that it did not matter what the world might do to you; it mattered only how you then reacted. And suddenly Dev had the answer.
His eyes flared, reflecting the blue-green color of the pond with sudden light.
Immediately, he was on his feet, striding toward Ben, who had been keeping a worried vigil nearby. He shook his trusty valet fondly by the shoulder.
“Wake up, Ben. We’ve got to go to Hertfordshire.”
Ben came to his senses with a start. “What, what? Huh?”
“Do you remember that night at the pavilion when I asked you to take that little peasant girl home? Suzy, she was called. Do you remember how to get to her village? Stevenage.”
“Of course. Why?”
“I’ve had blinders on, Ben,” he murmured. “I may never be able to prove to the world what they did to my family, but the girl—God, it’s been right in front of me all along! We have to find that girl.”
“Sir?”
“Kidnapping, Ben.” Dev sent him a wily smile. “That’s a hanging crime. She’s our star witness.”
As Dev set out for Hertfordshire, meanwhile in London, Lizzie lifted her chin and marched into the hectic city business offices of Daisy Manning’s father.
In the anteroom, harried clerks rushed to and fro at the sound of bellowed orders emanated from the coal-mining magnate’s adjoining study.
“I have an appointment,” she said to the anemic-looking secretary at the counter.
“Name?”
When she told him her name, he bade her wait in one of the nearby chairs. She took a seat, looking on curiously while the great wheels of commerce whirred before her eyes.
“You tell ’im I want that shipment on time, or else!” A fat man with mutton-chop side-whiskers and ruddy jowls shoved upward by a too-tight cravat poked his blustery head out the door of the office and bellowed: “Next!”
Lizzie blanched as the secretary gestured to her.
“Dear me,” she said under her breath, but rose and walked into the boss’s private office.
“Who are you? Let me check me book,” Mr. Manning grumbled, the stump of a reeking cigar between his chubby fingers. “Yes, yes, Carlisle. I see that now. Well, what do ye want, then? You are from the ladies’ charity, I take it? Shut that door!” he shouted at a passing clerk. “I already gave to the Foundling Hospital—”
“No, no, sir, I am here about your daughter.”
His impatient blustering paused. “Wot?”
“I’m here about Daisy. Your daughter?”
“Oh, yes, Daisy, of course. What about the chit?”
“I am—well, was—Daisy’s teacher at Mrs. Hall’s Academy until recently and I must say, Mr. Manning, your daughter is distraught over her betrothal.”
His bushy eyebrows drew into a line and he leaned to flick the ashes off the end of his cigar. “Don’t see ’ow that’s any of your business.”
“Right.” She dropped her gaze and realized politeness was going to get her nowhere. A blunter approach was in order. “Mr. Manning, the man to whom you are considered allying your child is a lecherous brute with a horrendous reputation.”
“He’s a lord,” he grunted. “Everyone knows the nobs ain’t got morals. Besides, Randall’s suit has saved me havin’ to pay a plum to put the chit through a Season. You know what they say, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.” He took a puff on his cigar.
Lizzie stared at him in bewilderment. “Sir, with all due respect, this is your daughter we are discussing.”
“Aye, she’s mine to dispense where I please. Look ’ere, I didn’t get to where I am in life bein’ a fool, Miss Carlisle. Beggars can’t be choosers. Encroaching toadstools—that’s what the nobs call the likes o’ me. But now I got deep pockets and a pretty daughter—just a foothold’s all I need. Do you know how I got started in life?” he asked, cocking his meaty hand on his round waist, in a pose reminiscent of Henry VIII.
“No, sir.”
“Chimney sweep. Ha!” With a look of extreme self-satisfaction, he plunked down into his chair. It groaned. “Daisy’ll wed as her father tells ’er, like a proper lady. No use coddlin’ the chit. Life ain’t kind to them wot’s coddled. Good day. Next!”
“Mr. Manning—”
“Miss Carlisle, I’m a busy man.”
“But you are selling yourself short,” she advised in a conspiratorial tone, leaning closer before he took it into his head to throw her out. “I am well connected in the ton, and I assure you, a lack of cash is positively epidemic amongst the titled. With such a beautiful, charming daughter and an empire such as you have built, why should you settle for a mere baron when you could just as easily snare an earl, a marquess, a duke?”
His eyes narrowed with a speculative gleam. “Duke?”
“Perhaps.”
He shook his beefy head decidedly after a moment. “Lord Randall showed me a map of his holdings. His lands straddle one of the richest coalfields in the North Country and the fool doesn’t even know it. I could make a fortune there.”
She looked straight into his beady eyes. “Sir, he will hurt your daughter.”
She dared not reveal any shadow of Devlin’s suspicions that Quint Randall might be guilty of murder. It was too dangerous. But she then gave Mr. Manning an earful he would not soon forget about the wicked ways of the Horse and Chariot Club.
When she was through, he sat studying his cigar in thought. He was not thoroughly convinced, but announced that he would hire a private investigator to check into Lord Randall’s background and daily life, and once he had the facts, he promised to give the matter more thought.
Lizzie curtsied to him and withdrew.
A couple days later, Dev and Ben rolled into Town with a wide-eyed Suzy peering out the carriage window, bravely willing to lay an information against Quint and Carstairs at Bow Street, as long as Dev backed up her story. She might have been as naive as the day was long, but even Suzy knew that a peasant girl’s word was meaningless against peers of the realm.
Fortunately, she had a peer of the realm on her side.
She turned her great cow eyes to Dev, seeking reassurance. “I hope they believe me, gov.”
He gave her a steadying nod. “They will.”
Because he was bored and because it amused him, Carstairs accompanied Quint to the business offices of his encroaching toadstool of a father-in-law-to-be.
“I’m glad you agreed to look over the settlement papers for me, Car,” Quint said. “I got no head for numbers, and that feeder hog is sure to try to cheat me if we’re not sharp.”
“Indubitably,” Carstairs murmured as his coach traveled into the mercantile quarter of the city. Normally he would not sully his hands with such grubby dealings, but he was rather curious to see how the other half lived and, more to the point, it would be a blessing to have Quint off his back asking for “loans” all the time. The great lummox could not even afford a proper solicitor, and it amused Carstairs to assure Quint he didn’t need one.
They made a great show of their arrival, the flashy horses prancing to a halt before the dark-green painted storefront of the counting house. Johnny jumped down from the driver’s box, his tight livery breeches hugging his muscled bottom as he bent down to unfold the metal carriage step.
Carstairs cast him a well-pleasured glance as he alighted, his silver-handled walking cane gleaming in his hand. Quint jumped out behind him; then they ambled across the pavement to the door.
Carstairs allowed one of his footmen to deal with Mr. Manning’s sallow-faced secretary, pursing his mouth in faint distaste at the smell of trade and idly adjusting the fingers of his perfectly fitted gloves. Quint shifted from foot to foo
t like an impatient schoolboy. Then Carstairs raised his eyebrow as a sort of walrus bellow shook the room.
“Next!”
The secretary shot up out of his chair and fled into the adjoining chamber.
“Charming,” Carstairs said, snickering under his breath when Quint’s “feeder hog” poked his pugnacious snout out of his office. The rest of the portly fellow appeared, dressed in an appalling brown suit.
“Er, Lord Randall.” Mr. Manning bobbed a sort of Cockney bow to Quint and then to him. “Sir.”
“Carstairs, this is Mr. Joseph Manning. Mr. Manning,” Quint said, summoning his best manners, “allow me to present my great friend, the Earl Carstairs.”
“How do you do, sir,” the upstart coal-factor said.
Carstairs nodded, impressed at how the stalwart fellow resisted the usual urge amongst such folk to grovel. Tough-minded. He liked that.
“Shall we?” Mr. Manning beckoned toward his office.
When Carstairs sauntered after them, Mr. Manning turned and eyed him warily. “I beg your pardon, sir. I should like to speak to Lord Randall alone for a moment.”
Carstairs gave an idle wave of his hand. “He’s all yours.”
Manning nodded and went into his office. Carstairs sent Quint a pointed look reminding him not to sign anything until he had had a chance to read it, too.
Carstairs paced at his leisure through the countinghouse, glancing over the scribblings of frantic clerks, studying this buzzing hive, this world of work of which he knew nothing. He decided within ten minutes that he did not care to know more.
He let out a sigh of vague impatience, awaiting his friend, when suddenly, a curious thud came from the fat man’s office.
Work paused.
Then Quint’s roar shook the walls: “What do you mean, the wedding’s off?”
“Oh, dear,” Carstairs sighed, pinching the bridge of his perfect nose.
A ripple of nervousness moved through the countinghouse. Buzz, buzz, the little underfed clerks hurried back to work. Carstairs wondered if he should intervene, hold Quint back as only he could do, but something told him Walrus Manning could look after himself.
There was no need to eavesdrop at the door to hear their shouted conversation clearly.
“Who’s been talking to you? These are lies!”
“They ain’t lies! I got witnesses.”
“Who? Who is my accuser? I have a right to know!”
“Never you mind. I’ve done some checkin’ up on you, and here’s what I say to your suit!” Carstairs heard the sound of ripping paper as Mr. Manning tore up the proposed marriage settlement in Quint’s face. “You, sir, are a blackguard and a cad, and will not be marrying my daughter!”
The second thud which followed, Carstairs realized with a sigh, was Quint’s fist slamming into Mr. Manning’s beefy face. The anemic secretary and half a dozen clerks rushed to their employer’s aid in vain, for Quint was already turning him into meat pie.
“I will not be slandered!”
Slam.
Quint shook off clerks like a bull tossing away a pack of wiry and not particularly brave dogs.
“Give me the name of my accuser, damn you!” Carstairs, as usual, took the more intelligent solution. Rounding the secretary’s desk, he ran his fingertips down the list of names in Mr. Manning’s appointment book, scanning several days’ back, until a name jumped out at him.
Miss Elizabeth Carlisle.
His eyes narrowed, his mind turned. Quint. Daisy. The school where Quint had first seen Manning’s daughter. She was a teacher there….
Miss Carlisle.
Dev’s little cream-pot love.
But why should Dev’s pretty toy come here telling Manning secrets about Quint?
She should not know such things in the first place to be able to relate them to Mr. Manning, nor to anyone else. What exactly had old Dev told the girl about Quint? About all of them? Good God.
Could Torquil have been right all along?
Had their great friend Dev been playing them false from the start? For if Strathmore was telling his mistress forbidden secrets of the Horse and Chariot Club, what else might he be doing—planning—behind their backs?
Damn it!
God only knew what Dev’s real motives were, but with so much to hide, Carstairs did not intend to wait around to find out. He had been foolishly blinded by lust long enough.
“Quentin, enough!” he clipped out, glancing over as a prickle of fear-tinged excitement shot down his spine.
His terse order stopped Quint’s rampage. The baron left Manning in a fleshy heap and came stalking out of the office.
“Let’s go,” Carstairs said coldly. “Are you trying to get arrested, you idiot?” he snarled as they walked back out to the coach.
“What the hell am I going to do for money now? He’s rejected my suit for Daisy!”
“We’ve got bigger problems than that,” he said, eyeing Quint in contempt as the baron took a deep swig from his flask. The coach rolled into motion.
“What kind of problems?” Quint grumbled.
“Dev knows.”
Lizzie managed to while away the entire afternoon playing with the babies at Knight House, but when the army of nurses came and took her little playmates off to naptime, thoughts of Dev were swift to return. Every day, every hour, she missed him more. She was sure that she would hear from him at any moment. Jacinda was at a meeting for one of her charities, and when Bel decided to lie down, needing plenty of rest in her delicate condition, Lizzie found herself alone.
The day was fine, so she went out. The street was moderately busy, carriages whirring by as she took a stroll down to the bookshop on the corner. Even if she didn’t buy anything, the simple fact of being in a bookstore made her feel better.
I wonder if Devlin misses me, too. She could only hope that he was all right.
She stopped before the milliner’s shop window and stood admiring the frilly summer hats and bonnets, paying little mind when she heard a carriage halt behind her. There were many shops on this street, after all, with customers coming and going all day.
But then in the window’s reflection, she saw two men get out of the coach.
Men did not go to ladies’ hat shops.
Her heart skipped a beat and she narrowed her eyes, then horrified recognition made her gasp. She did not waste a second turning around to confirm that they were the two men from the carriage at the school that day—members of the Horse and Chariot Club. She just ran.
“They’ll come after you….”
“You’re being paranoid, Devlin.”
Lizzie fled, but they split up to herd her wherever they wished her to go. When she dodged left, the big brown-haired man blocked her way; when she turned right, the cruelly elegant blond waited to catch her.
“Help!” she shrieked, but the few people nearby merely looked on in startled curiosity.
She whirled around and dashed down her only escape route, the dark, narrow passage between the barbershop and the vintner’s, but it quickly dead-ended in a closed courtyard. Lizzie fought and kicked, shouting bloody murder until the brown-haired bruiser clapped his huge paw across her mouth and hauled her against him, half dragging her into their coach.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
Dev had spent the afternoon giving his deposition to the officers at Bow Street on the events connected to the abduction of young Suzy. They had many questions about numerous members of the Horse and Chariot Club, all of which Dev had answered as fully as he could. When the grueling interview was finally over, Dev was impatient to go and see Lizzie at last.
Now that he had fulfilled her wishes, he could not wait to tell her what he had done, but first he made the officers swear to warn him before they moved against his enemies so that he could take Lizzie away from Town. That way he could be sure of her safety even if one or more of the villains temporarily eluded arrest.
As his coach rolled through the streets of London tow
ard Lady Jacinda’s villa on Regent’s Park, Dev mulled over his mixed feelings about having relinquished his obsession with revenge in favor of lawful justice. A small part of him still wanted blood, but the greater portion of his being and chiefly his heart would have paid any price to be with the woman he loved.
When he called at Lady Jacinda’s, the butler told him Lizzie had gone to Knight House to play with the children. Undaunted, he got back in the coach and ordered his driver to take him there. It took them half an hour.
At Knight House, the gray-haired butler informed him Miss Carlisle had left two hours ago. To the best of his knowledge, Mr. Walsh said, she had gone down to the bookshop on the corner. Dev thought it a fair chance she might still be there. Two hours in a bookshop was nothing for his fair bluestocking, he thought in affection.
With his hands in his pockets and a musing smile of anticipation playing at his lips, he gestured to his coachman to wait there, then retraced her steps. Upon searching the aisles of the bookshop, however, there was no sign of her.
Blast. Coming back out to stand briefly atop the store’s front steps, Dev glanced up and down the street, frowning under the brim of his black top hat. Perhaps she had wandered on to browse in one of the other shops. Or had she hailed a hackney coach back to Jacinda’s villa? He heaved a disgruntled sigh at the thought of continually missing her and decided he did not intend to spend the remainder of the day crisscrossing the sprawling metropolis in search of the woman.
Being a man of sense, he walked back up Saint James’s Street to wait at White’s with a good glass of port. One of them must stay put, after all. He would try again in an hour. His heart was light as he imagined her reaction when he told her that he had found a way to comply with her wishes while still seeing justice served. In truth, he was rather proud of himself.
He sat down by himself at a small round table in a far corner of the club, asked for a newspaper, and prayed he did not see Alec Knight. He was in no mood to face his defeated rival. When the port was brought to him, he toasted Lizzie silently in his thoughts, then let out a satisfied sigh and leaned back in the maroon leather club chair with the London Times. Perusing the advertisements, he wondered belatedly if he ought to stop on his way back to Jacinda’s to buy a gift. It always helped not to arrive empty-handed when a man had to grovel.