by Jude Knight
He stalked to the easel, moving with great care to avoid spilling his drink.
Yes. The artist had talent. Who could have given him such a thing?
As he bent forward to look at it more closely, something whipped past his face. With a solid thunk, an arrow struck the painting, to stand quivering between the painted eyes.
George dropped his glass as he started backwards, flailing to keep his balance, and trying to turn at the same time to see behind him. There. In the shadows behind the door. A silent gowned figure with another arrow already nocked and ready to fly.
“Who are you? What do you want?” The drink thickened his voice. “If I shout, I’ll wake the whole household.”
“The household are all either below stairs or well above. And you will have, at most, one shout before I put this arrow between your eyes. I have demonstrated I can.” It was a woman’s voice, low and determined.
George glanced back at the arrow, and swallowed.
“You won’t shoot me. You’re a woman.”
“I will shoot you with pleasure, if I must,” the woman said. “But shooting you is not my first choice.”
He pulled himself straight, glaring. “You won’t get away with this. Don’t you know who I am?”
“Do you not know who I am? I am the woman you owe a future to. And I mean to collect. You will give me either my future or my revenge.”
He took a step towards her, leaning forward to peer into the shadows. She lifted the arrow point fractionally, saying, “No closer!”
He stopped. “I don’t even know who you are. What crime have I supposedly committed? What do you want from me?”
She gestured to the chair by the fire with the point of her arrow. “Sit,” she commanded, and once he’d complied, she moved out into the light. “Now do you know who I am?”
She looked familiar. But no, George couldn’t place her. He shook his head.
She was silent for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was stiff with outrage. “Perhaps I can help your memory. You killed my brother. You sank my reputation into the gutter. You left me with sisters to care for and a baby to raise. Remember me now, guardian?” She sounded like a heroine from a Gothic novel. Come to think of it, it was a Gothic novel, and he was the villain.
“You’re Stockie’s sister.” His voice was resigned. Really, he might have guessed that Stockie would find a corporeal way to haunt him. “But wait; you don’t understand. I didn’t mean to kill your brother. I was drunk. I misfired. You can’t blame me for that.”
She said nothing.
“He challenged me. I had to meet him. It was a matter of honour. I didn’t mean to kill him.”
She looked at him coldly. “I am not here to discuss the past. I want somewhere to live; somewhere in the country where you do not go. On the table at your elbow is a letter to your land steward in Gloucestershire. It tells him to give life tenancy of a suitable cottage to me and my sisters, with sufficient land to feed us. Read it. Sign it. Then toss it over here to me.”
George frowned, drawing his brows together. “But Selby said he’d take care of everything.”
“My cousin told you what he had planned?”
“That he would find you a place to live until the baby was born, and make sure there was no scandal.”
“That he would lock us two older girls away, sell the baby, and marry our little sister to his loathsome son.”
George had met the son. He wouldn’t put a dog he didn’t like in that boy’s care. He had given her dying brother his promise that he’d leave the girls alone, but surely Stockie would expect him to come to their rescue?
“Then let me see to it. I am your guardian. And your trustee.”
“We do not want you. And we do not want our cousin and his plans. Just leave us alone.”
He examined his feet, ashamed to meet her scornful eyes. “I didn’t mean to hurt anybody. I was drunk. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Sign the papers.”
“I thought... I told the governess to meet me. In the dark, I just assumed... “
“Sign the papers,” she repeated.
“I am sorry, you know.”
“‘Sorry’ does nothing. If you are sorry, then sign the papers.”
He reached for the papers; began to read.
“And do not think to renege on the bargain,” she went on. “A cottage and some money for us to live on to make it possible for me to look after my family, and I will go away and be quiet about what you did. But if you try to take back the cottage, or to harm any one of us, I will make sure the whole of society knows.
“Do not think I am afraid to speak,” she added, as he opened his mouth to tell her she had nothing to fear. “You have made certain our place in society is lost. Take away what little we have left, and I will take you down with me. I know society blames the innocent maid rather than the rake that ruins her, but they will care that she was your ward; they will care that you killed another ward, her own brother.”
“Look, I’ve signed.” George rolled the papers and tossed them at her feet. “You said you want money. I… I’ll give you a letter for my bank. How much?”
She gestured with her head towards the purse he’d dropped as he came in the door. “What is in that?”
“My winnings from tonight.”
“It looked heavy.”
“I had a run of luck. Three thousand guineas, more or less.”
“I will take it.”
George frowned. “Three thousand? Will that be enough?”
“With the cottage, it will be enough. I don’t want anything else from you except your absence from our lives.”
“I’m still your guardian.”
“For the sake of us all, I suggest you forget that. I will look after my sisters now.”
He couldn’t meet her eyes. He studied his hands, instead. What if he broke his promise to Stockie?
“I could marry you. That would fix things.”
Stockie’s sister—damn him if he could remember her name—shook her head, looking at him as if she found him loathsome, then said, “Take off all your clothes.”
George gave a surprised laugh, one that turned automatically to a leer. “Sweetheart…”
She drew the bowstring that she’d allowed to relax, re-aiming the arrow at his heart. “All your clothes. Now. Take them off… Gather them together… Good. Now throw them out of the window.”
Even through the drink, even at the point of an arrow, the thought of being naked in front of this woman caused a little stirring in the portion of his anatomy that had caused the problem. Her face was fiery red. Showing and then undoing his corset was embarrassing. More and more, in his casual liaisons, George was disrobing in the dark. His mistresses, of course, were paid to make no comment about his growing paunch.
He obeyed her instructions, opening the window and leaning out to drop his clothes. The bundle unfurled and spilled down the front steps into the street. Behind him, he heard the door shut, and the key turn in the lock.
Without much hope, George tried the door, and then the door to the bedroom. Both were locked. She hadn’t missed a trick. He couldn’t get out on his own. The servants were too far away to hear him. And, without his clothes, he could not try to attract attention from the street.
He wished her every success. Perhaps another letter to his land agent, instructing that she be given every care? No. That would only draw attention to her. Better let her handle it.
It was chilly in the room. It could be hours before the valet tried the door. But he had most of a decanter of brandy to keep the cold and the ghost at bay.
Perhaps, if he stayed away from Longford and kept the girls’ secrets, his betrayed friend would stop haunting him?
Chapter one
London, 1807
Stephen Edward John Redepenning, 8th Earl of Chirbury, took up yet another paper from a stack that never seemed to get any smaller and brandished it at the portrait of his predecessor.
�
��You self-centred prick, George. Couldn’t you have dealt with some of this before topping yourself?”
The portrait was an odd decorative choice.
It was fine enough, showing the golden hair and blue eyes all the Redepenning cousins had in common, and the elegant bones that helped George to cut a swathe in the bedrooms of the ton. But it was marred by a cut between the eyes, as if something sharp had been punched into the canvas with some force.
Mind you, George probably never saw it. The mess in which he left the estate suggested he’d not so much as entered the Earl’s study in years.
Rede sighed at the brimming desk. In the four months since he’d stepped off the boat from Canada to find he’d inherited the earldom, one problem after another had surfaced. Some days, every waking moment was devoted to cleaning up the mess his cousin had left, coming to grips with his duties in the House of Lords, and making sure his own business interests and his all-important hunt were not neglected.
Despite his efforts, he’d barely made inroads into the papers his predecessor had left behind him. He’d stacked them in piles on a bookshelf, with the overflow on a sideboard. They must be all well out of date now, but they needed to be filed or thrown away, and someone needed to work out which was which while he focused on the current work.
He needed a secretary. Perhaps David or Alex might know of someone trustworthy and capable.
He began leafing through the report in his hands, skimming for the salient points. Something made him glance up. Nothing so definite as a sound, perhaps just a change in airflows. David Wakefield was standing across the room from him, leaning against the wall beside the door.
“David. Good to see you.” He rounded the desk to shake his visitor’s hand.
“My Lord,” David responded, his quick grin mocking the formal salutation even as he gave it.
“Rede to you, always, as you well know,” Rede protested. “Take a seat, David, and I’ll ring for refreshments.”
“This is a nice room,” David commented. The furnishings were not new, but solid and well proportioned, the wallpaper between the ranks of shelves a green on green that complemented the darker green damask hangings pulled back from the window to let in the spring sunshine.
“George neglected it in his redecorating of the rest of the house. Thank God. From what I can gather, his man of business used it, but George never came in here.”
The butler entered, and was sent away with an order for refreshments.
“Not much for business, your cousin.”
“As you say. He had most of the house done in the Egyptian style. Both parlours are plagued with jackals and crocodiles, and even the hall bristles with sphinx heads and lions’ feet. You take your life in your hands just walking to the bedchambers.”
“I saw the front hall and the drawing room when I met you here in January. It’s very fashionable in France, they say.”
“It’s gruesome—or at least his version of it is gruesome. Though the master bedchamber is worse: I think the style might be called French bordello. I had John set me up with one of the other rooms. I’d rather sleep with mummies than mirrors. The whole place needs to be redone when I can find the time.”
The butler returned, leading a short procession of maids carrying trays. The two men were silent while he rearranged a group of small tables between them, and supervised the unloading of sliced bread, cold meats, cheese, slices of a meat pie, pickles, a bowl of fresh fruit. The maids came and went, one adding a large pot of coffee, with a sugar bowl and a jug of cream, and another bringing cups, plates and cutlery.
Their task completed, the maids dimpled at Rede’s nod of thanks, and left the room. The butler took up a position beside the fireplace.
“Thank you, Parrish. We’ll serve ourselves,” Rede told him, firmly. “Please shut the door on your way out.”
He poured David a cup of coffee. The two men had been friends for a long time—since the taller, older Rede had come to David’s rescue at Eton when Rede was fifteen and David an undersized fourteen. David had learned a few tricks since then.
He was still slender, and of less than average height, but Rede had seen him in action during their days as youths on the town. He knew how to use his wiry strength to take down men with twice his body weight. Rede was no slouch in a fight, but he’d rather have David on his side than against him.
They hadn’t kept in touch during the years Rede was in Canada. Rede was surprised to see David’s name on the list of thief takers his solicitor had found him four months earlier. But he was not surprised to find that David had a reputation for both success and honesty—many thief takers were barely more trustworthy than the thieves they hunted.
David preferred the term ‘enquiry agent’, and described his job as ‘finding things and people’. ‘Finding’ apparently required the ability to move at any level of society, and to come and go unobserved when he wished to.
Rede handed his friend the cup. As usual, David’s face gave nothing away; his mobile mouth slightly quirked in amusement as he observed Rede watching him, his brown eyes steady under his heavy brows.
“I think,” Rede said, “that you’re going to tell me that you didn’t find what you were looking for in Liverpool.”
“Say, rather, that I found for sure that what I was looking for wasn’t in Liverpool. I’ve written you a detailed report, but the summary is that I was able to clear all five of the men I went there to investigate.” David took a bite of the bread he’d loaded with cold meat and pickle.
“So it’s the three in Bristol, then.”
“Probably. It seems likely.”
Rede made what would have been a rude gesture if his hand had not been holding a large slice of pie. “Come on, man. You’ve already cleared seven names in London, and now the five in Liverpool. You’ve eliminated every other suspect. It has to be them.”
“One or more of them. Or someone we haven’t thought of. I’ll find the evidence if it’s there, Rede.”
“I’ve waited so long, David. I suppose I can wait a bit longer.”
“I’ve only been investigating for four months.”
“I’ve been hunting for more than three years. I landed here in London three years to the day since I found them dead. Killed so that some English tradesman could turn an extra pound.” And still, every night, he relived the moment he came home to the smoking ruin of his home, the broken bodies of his loved ones. Every morning, he woke to the raw need to find those responsible.
“Give me time to find some confirming evidence, Rede. You’ve waited for three years. Surely it’s worth another month or two so that you’re not revenging yourself on the wrong people?”
“Not revenge. Justice.” He waved off the uncomfortable thought that he was lying to himself. “I can agree to a month or two. When will you go to Bristol?”
“In a couple of days. I have some people to see while I’m in London. But I already have people in Bristol doing the groundwork. There’s not much I can do until they’re ready.”
Rede shook his head. “No, I’m not asking you to rush. I just thought I might head part of the way with you. The House has two more sittings, then I’ve nothing to keep me in London till after the election. I’ve two more estates to check in person—Longford Court and the one in Cheshire. George, as far as I can tell, hasn’t been to either estate for years.”
“I have fond memories of Longford Court,” David mused.
“It’s only a couple of hours from Bristol; I could be handy when you want to report on what you’re finding.”
“We spent some good holidays there with your other cousins.”
“We did,” Rede agreed. The two of them were quiet for a moment, thinking about long summer holidays with the large family of Rede’s youngest uncle.
“I’m meant to attend my aunt’s ball later this week,” Rede said, shaking off the nostalgia. “I can head down to Longford after that. Why don’t you come with us on Thursday? An extra man is always welcom
e; society is short of them, with the war.”
David looked amused. “Yes. Even we bastards occasionally find ourselves in demand. And a good-looking, wealthy earl. You’re a walking target, old friend.”
Rede shook his head, an expression of wonder rather than rebuttal. “Have they always been this bad and I just didn’t notice? And the marriage-minded are not as bad as the ones who desire… a less permanent liaison. What they do to get a man’s attention would make your hair curl!”
David laughed. “Are you seeking envy or commiseration?”
“Not envy. I wouldn’t touch that pack of harpies with a ten-foot pole. So will you come?”
“I already have an invitation from Her Grace, so I expect I’ll see you there. I will take you up on the offer of company down as far as Longford, though. What day do you plan to leave?”
“Next Monday, I thought. I’ll send a message today to tell the house to make ready. Heaven knows what state it’s in.”
“You’ve a steward to see to it?”
“A land steward, a distant connection of the family. He seems quite competent, but then so did the one in Kent who was fudging the accounts, and the one in Norfolk who spent most of his time chasing housemaids, and whose books and reports were a complete fiction. I’ve no idea what’s going on at Longford—or in Cheshire for that matter. George didn’t pay much attention.”
“From what I gather, he was only interested in spending his income.”
“Beyond his income, more like. None of the properties are returning what they could, but he still spent as if there was no tomorrow, most of it on credit. I’ve saved the earldom thousands a year just by paying off his mistresses.” And dug into his own personal fortune to give them a competence so that they could retire from the sex trade, if they so wished, but no need to mention that.
“I remember hearing about his mistresses! He kept mistresses near all his major houses and several in London, and visited them all by turn. Rumour has it that he sometimes entertained several at once.”