The argument with Thea yesterday was still on his mind, but he was no longer furious. And the more he considered all the aspects of what had occurred her reaction shouldn't have surprised him. His mouth thinned. He really would like to get his hands on Hawley Randall. The bastard had not only done his best to ruin her life, but his atrocious behavior had not left Thea with much trust for the male of the species. Why the hell shouldn't she have questioned his motives?
Pouring his sixth cup of bitterly black coffee, he mulled the incident over in his mind, wishing for the hundredth time that he had not gone in search of her at Mrs. De Land's. If I had waited in the parlor, like I should have, none of this would have happened, he admitted sourly. And yet he could not be sorry for having made love to Thea. No, he would never be sorry for the pleasure she had given him. His only regret was for the timing and surroundings.
A peculiar feeling twisted in his gut. The next time they made love, she would be his wife, he thought. His wife. A foolish grin spread across his face.
"Sir?" inquired his butler, walking into the room where Patrick sat. "There is a, ah, gentleman to see you."
Patrick quirked a brow.
Chetham coughed delicately. "I believe it is the, uh, individual you saw several days ago. A Mr. Hackett."
Patrick frowned, then memory returned. "Of course. Send him in."
A pained expression crossed Chetham's austere features, and Patrick grinned. His butler was far more stiff-rumped about social niceties than he was, and he was quite certain that Chetham would have preferred that he not meet with Hackett at all, let alone in the breakfast room.
The individual Chetham ushered into Patrick's presence a few seconds later was certainly unprepossessing in his nondescript and unfashionable clothing. Hackett was a small man with hangdog features and habitually looked as if he had just come from the funeral of his last friend.
Today was no different; holding his black slouch hat in his hands, his soulful brown eyes met Patrick's. "Good morning, guvnor. Got that bit of information you wanted."
Patrick nodded and, indicating that Hackett should join him and help himself to the remains of the large repast that still littered the table, waited patiently until the little man had filled his plate to overflowing. Watching as Hackett savored his first bite of tender country ham, Patrick smiled.
A beatific expression on his face, Hackett chewed and swallowed. "Prime, sir, mighty prime."
"I am pleased it meets with your approval," Patrick replied, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Now what do you have for me?"
Never pausing once from shoveling into his mouth the ham, scrambled eggs, and kidneys in gravy that covered his plate, he reached inside his shabby jacket and brought forth a small packet. Handing it to Patrick, he said around a mouthful of kidney and gravy, "Think everything is there. Your man is clean. No flies on 'im that my friends could find."
Patrick had not expected news to the contrary, but he was still relieved that his stepfather did not appear to be in any financial difficulties. Reading the report before him, he shook his head. No. Lord Caldecott was in no need of money and had no reason to blackmail his wife. He regretted the necessity for prying into Caldecott's affairs, but he'd had to be sure.
Glancing again at the amount of private information that had been compiled, he raised a brow, and said, "I wouldn't have thought that this sort of information would be readily available. Your, er, employer must have sources and eyes everywhere."
Something that almost resembled a smile crossed Hackett's long face. "Indeed, guvnor. Why you'd be surprised what he can find out if he sets his mind to it."
Patrick did not probe deeper. Hackett would tell him nothing; he was merely the messenger.
Having paid Hackett and sent him on his way, Patrick left the morning room with the information in his hand and walked into the front parlor. A small fire burned on the hearth, and, standing before the orange-and-yellow flames, he tossed the packet he had just paid a very sizable sum to get into the fire. Watching the flames consume the pages, he felt a little less of a snoop.
The day was far advanced, and Patrick considered calling on Thea, but dismissed it. He had come to terms with his anger over yesterday's exchange, but he couldn't be sure of Thea's state of mind. Better to let her alone for a while than to run the risk of deepening the rift between them. He did not want to marry a woman on Saturday who has his very early demise on her mind. But neither did he wish to allow her to brood over the incident.
Making up his mind, he put on his high-crowned hat and left the house. His destination was an expensive jeweler on King Street. Entering the small, circumspect premises, he was greeted by the proprietor and head jeweler, Mr. Greenberg.
Once he had made his needs known, it did not take long to select a stunning set of topazes surrounded by diamonds. Having made his selection and leaving instructions for its delivery, Patrick left the shop feeling he had at least offered Thea an olive branch. What happened next was up to her. She might fling his gift into the gutter or, he admitted with a grin, his face, but he hoped she would accept them as the peace offering they were.
Finding himself with time on his hands, he wandered to Brooks and eventually found a table of gentlemen playing cards and joined them. Other gentlemen he knew drifted into the place, and since the news of his engagement had the ton buzzing, he found himself to be a popular fellow.
Throughout the remainder of the afternoon and evening, he was toasted more times than he cared to admit. Not wishing to repeat last night's indulgence, he only took sips of the many glasses of liquor pressed upon him. By the time Nigel and Adam finally found him around midnight, he was still clearheaded.
"Been looking all over for you," Nigel complained as he took the empty seat next to Patrick. "Worried about you after last night. Been a long time since I've seen you that foxed. Didn't like it. You used to be able to hoist your glass with the best of us, but it ain't something I've noticed you doing very much these past few years. Worried me."
Patrick was sitting in a quiet corner of the club, having sought to remove himself from the throng of fashionable gentlemen who now crowded the various rooms. Paxton, lowering his elegant form into the deep leather chair on the other side of Patrick, grinned as he said, "He has been like this ever since he discovered you had gone out. We have searched for you in every den of iniquity that he knew." His golden brown eyes gleamed with amusement. "And believe me, he knows them all."
"I'm aware of that—I introduced him to half of them," Patrick said wryly.
"Never mind all that," Nigel said impatiently. "Discovered something for you." At Patrick's cocked brow he added, "Since you've been so damned interested in Ellsworth, thought I'd ask around. Gossip says that he and that cousin of his, Hirst, are caught in the toils of a moneylender—the worst bloodsucker of the lot, a fellow named Yates."
Patrick stiffened. "I believe I've met the gentleman," he said, "at Ellsworth's place the other night."
"Not surprised, if Ellsworth owes him money. Yates is a bad 'un. Aligned with the criminal element—not respectable at all. Even the most hardened gamblers avoid him, but there are those who have nowhere else to turn to cover their debts—like Ellsworth. Thing about Yates that makes him different is that, if one is late with a payment or cannot pay, he is not above threatening a fellow's family and friends. Been known to carve up the faces of wives and daughters or breaking the limbs and heads of the males—young or old. Don't matter to Yates. And if that fails—"
"If that fails," Paxton interrupted grimly, "he is not above using murder to get his point across. And because people in high places are indebted to him, no one can touch him. That and the fact," he added, "Yates is very careful not to leave incriminating evidence lying around. He is both ruthless and clever, and he always gets his money or there is hell to pay. Not a man to be trifled with."
"He does sound a thoroughly nasty individual," Patrick admitted, his mind racing at the implications. Had it been Yates who had ki
lled Hirst? Because he could not pay his debt? And had it been Yates and not Ellsworth he and Thea had surprised that night? He would have to think on it. Once his wedding was behind him.
To his friends he merely said, "I appreciate the information. I shall take care not to run afoul of Mr. Yates."
Nigel stared suspiciously at Patrick. "Now why don't I believe you?" He wagged a finger at Patrick. "I say you're up to something."
Patrick shrugged. "Nothing for you to worry about. Now if you will excuse me, I shall find my way home." He grinned at them. "Last night's effects have not left me entirely, and I find myself longing for my bed."
Nigel snorted. "If you ain't careful, my friend, you're going to turn into a respectable fellow."
"Better that than an old roué, laughed at behind one's back."
"Very good!" Paxton said, with a laugh. "A definite hit."
Nigel smiled ruefully. "Go seek your bed, Patrick. I shall consider the wisdom of your words."
Leaving his friends behind him, Patrick strolled to the entrance of the club. Bidding the porter good night as he stepped outside, he was surprised to discover that it was raining. When he had left the house that afternoon, the day had been sunny with a few clouds and he had dressed appropriately. Beyond the trip to King Street, having no other destination in mind, he had not thought to provide himself with transportation. Staring at the rain eerily revealed in the flickering light of the wall sconces at the club entrance, he grimaced, not relishing the notion of walking home through a downpour.
Deciding there was no help for it, he hunched his shoulders and descended the steps to street level. The sound of an approaching vehicle caught his attention and he raised an arm, hailing the black hackney that appeared out of the darkness. Shouting out his address, he leaped inside.
Chapter 13
Powerful hands closed round Patrick's throat, strangling him, and, at the same time, a violent movement smashed his head against the rear of the carriage and knocked him half-unconscious. Dazed and fighting to remain conscious, spots danced in front of his eyes. His windpipe was being crushed, and he struggled to drag in a breath—to no avail. The fingers of his attacker dug into his throat, cutting off his air, and as he fought off another wave of dizziness, he knew that if he was to survive, he must break that grip. He was not afraid of dying, but the thought of never seeing Thea again, of dying at the hands of an unknown assailant, infuriated him.
Acting on the blind instinct to live, with his cocked arms he surged upward and outward, wrenching apart the hands at his throat. The relief was instantaneous, and he gulped air into his straining lungs. His attacker lurched at him, and they grappled in the swaying coach, the dim light from the occasional lamppost giving Patrick a glimpse now and then of the big man he faced.
Outside, the rain beat against the roof of the carriage, the wheels hissing as they rolled over the wet pavement, the horses' hooves sending water spraying in all directions. Inside, inside away from the storm, a deadly battle was being fought, the odor of damp leather, old perfume, and stale tobacco mingling with the scent of danger.
Patrick could not see his assailant distinctly; his impression was of a hulking, lethal form—almost a giant of a man. It was not a mistaken impression. A fist that seemed the size of a ham came out of the shadows and slammed into Patrick's head, rocking him backward. Sparks exploded in his brain, and he desperately shook his head to clear it. His attacker struck again, only this time, Patrick managed to fend him off and struck out at the other man. It was a lucky blow, and Patrick swore at the jolt of pain that traveled up his arm as his fist smashed into his assailant's face. The man groaned and half fell onto the other seat, and Patrick followed him, landing a few good punches of his own. The ache of his throat and the throbbing of his head made thinking nearly impossible—that and the fight itself—but Patrick always thought on his feet, and he did so now. Considering the sheer size of the other man and the confined quarters of the coach, he was aware that he was not likely to win this fight. Thea's face flashed in front of him. By God! he swore. It was not going to end this way. He was going to marry Thea, and no one, not even this huge ox across from him, was going to stop him. He didn't like running from a fight, not even one he might lose, but while bravado had its place, it occurred to him that a hasty retreat might be called for about now.
A blocky shape hurtled toward him and Patrick kicked out with both booted feet, hitting the other man fully in the chest, slamming him backward. Without another thought, he flung open the carriage door and hurled himself out into the storm. He landed hard on the cobbled street, rolling and tumbling wildly before coming to a halt.
Suppressing a groan as tortured muscles made themselves felt, he staggered to his feet, prepared to continue the battle if necessary. To his relief he was alone, the lamp of the hackney rapidly disappearing into the night.
A quick glance around gave him his bearings, and mindful that his attacker might return, he wasted no time in reaching the safety of Hamilton Place. Whatever Chetham thought of his master's bedraggled appearance when Patrick stumbled into the house, he kept to himself.
Taking in Patrick's wet and mud-splattered attire, he murmured only, "A rather nasty night, sir." Taking a second, longer look at his employer's battered state, he asked, "Shall I have a bath prepared?"
The hour was late, the majority of his servants abed, and though he longed for the comfort of a hot bath, Patrick shook his head. "No. I shall manage for tonight. The morning will be soon enough. See to it, will you?"
Patrick turned and began to ascend the stairs. Chetham delicately cleared his throat, and sighing, Patrick glanced back at his butler.
"Yes?" he asked wearily. "Is there something else you wish to tell me?"
"Cook has a fresh beefsteak hanging in the larder to age," Chetham replied. "If you like, I can bring it up to you."
"A beefsteak?" Patrick repeated.
"For your eye, sir. Unless I am mistaken, come morning, you shall have quite a, er, black eye."
Inspecting the orb in question in his shaving mirror, Patrick had to agree. He would indeed have a magnificent black eye come morning. He didn't remember the blow that connected with his eye, but examining his other wounds, he guessed that some of them occurred when he leaped from the hackney. There was a long, wide scrape along the side of his face that was going to rival his eye for color if the livid bruise covering his cheek and temple was anything to go by. He grimaced. And he was going to be married in less than forty-eight hours. What a delightful sight he was going to present on Saturday to the many guests his mother would have coerced, ah, assembled to witness his vows to Thea. He grinned. No doubt half of them would be convinced that he'd been beaten into submission to marry his betrothed.
Chetham arrived with the beefsteak, and, after dismissing him, Patrick sank back onto the bed, the cool beefsteak resting on his battered eye. He ached in every bone in his body, and it occurred to him that he really was getting too old to be participating in such antics as he had tonight.
He frowned. Except that tonight he had been minding his own business, intent upon nothing more exciting than hailing a hackney to escape the rain. It wasn't, he reminded himself, as if he had been in a dangerous part of London, where such attacks could be expected. Brooks was, in the main, a respectable club. In a respectable part of town, too—unlike some of the rackety hells he and his friends had supported a decade or more ago.
Thinking about the attack, Patrick rose from his bed and, setting the beefsteak aside for a moment, dragged off his ripped and sodden apparel. Leaving them in a ruined heap on the floor, he walked to his dressing room. From the ewer on the gray marble washstand, he poured some water into the china bowl and gingerly began to wash himself, wincing whenever he touched a tender spot. Eyeing the purpling spots around his throat where his assailant had tried to choke him, he shook his head. Oh, but he was a lovely sight with his battered face and rapidly purpling body—every bride's dream. Shrugging into a wine-colored
silk robe, he walked back into his bedroom and, lying down on the bed, picked up the beefsteak once again and placed it against his eye.
The hour was late, and he was tired, but sleep proved elusive, the events of the night running through his mind. Robbery and mayhem were not rare in London, but there was something queer about what had happened tonight. Using the hackney and the inclement weather to scoop up a target was clever, he'd grant them that, but it seemed rather catch-as-catch-can. Patrick could think of dozens of reasons why the scheme wouldn't work with any consistent degree of success. The culprits would have had to wait for a lone gentleman before putting their plan into action, and since most of the gentlemen left the club in pairs or crowds, they couldn't have been assured of definite prey. They also couldn't have known whether their target carried a great deal of money or not, nor could they have known whether the victim would be wearing any jewels worth stealing. And, of course, they couldn't have known if their prey would be sober or a rollicking drunk when he left the club at that hour of the night.
He could have been a random target, Patrick conceded, but he suspected not.
A scowl marred his features. But it had been chance that he had left the club alone. Chance, too, that he had not been well on his way to being foxed. But if it had not been chance that had brought them together, how had they known he would be at Brooks? Even he hadn't known his destination when he had left the house that afternoon... or rather the previous afternoon, since it was now the early-morning hours of Friday. It seemed unlikely that the hackney, its driver, and occupant had been waiting solely for him, and yet he could not dismiss the notion. Was he simply being unduly suspicious?
It was possible, but thinking back over the events of the past week or so, he was not convinced. There was a blackmailer at work. And he had interfered. Nor could he forget that it hadn't been too many nights ago he stood over Hirst's body, and not long after that he and Thea tangled with the mysterious intruder in the same house that had seen Hirst's murder done. And what about this Yates fellow Nigel and Adam mentioned this evening? The attack certainly had a criminal element about it, and since it was known that Yates had dealings with Hirst and Ellsworth, was it possible that, for some reason, Yates had entered the fray? It was something he would have to consider.
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