Lord of Sin

by Madeline Hunter

  “There is one more thing, if I may mention it, my lord.”

  All these “my lords” had Ewan wondering just what Michael was plotting. “What would that be?”

  “I thought that, with all these changes in your situation, we might discuss my wages.”

  Ewan took his hat and gloves. “You have no wages.”

  “Doesn’t seem fitting for an earl’s valet to have no wages, is what I meant. It isn’t proper. It will affect your reputation if it is known. It could be badly misunderstood.”

  “Michael, are you blackmailing me?”

  “Just explaining how I see it, is all.”

  “It also isn’t proper for an earl to have a manservant whom he allows to play cards with his friends.”

  “Well, now, I don’t see as how—”

  “No, no. You are correct. It is time I reform my household in a manner appropriate to my station. Henceforth, I will pay you the going wage for your services. You, in turn, will perform as a normal valet. That means no more sitting at my tables to gamble. Since you have done very nicely these last few years, I am sure that you have more than enough under your mattress to open that gaming hall you dream of.”

  Michael’s mouth formed a tight line.

  “Yes, no more easy pickings at cards. No more scooping up the easier favors of certain ladies who—”

  “Now, sir, no need to rush into things. I was only mentioning how it might be awkward, is all.”

  Michael turned to cleaning and straightening the dressing room. Ewan paused at the door and watched the young man tend to the mess.

  He had a fondness for Michael, and admired his initiative and boldness. It had taken real brass to show up that day and propose this arrangement. God only knew where he had learned to be a valet, too. Ewan suspected Michael had just guessed what to do, and learned on his own that first year. It had helped that Ewan was not too demanding, nor in a position to replace a servant who cost almost nothing to keep.

  It was an odd relationship, and one that might add to the tattle of the town once they moved to Belgrave Square. Ewan did not care what people said. He intended to give them plenty to gossip about, should they want to, but Michael was not an earl. There were hidden dreams and plans in that shrewd blond head, and it would not do to have them thwarted by a minor matter like this.

  “Beginning tomorrow, you will receive the wages common for your position,” he said. “A bit more, I think. I will be depending upon you to keep one eye on that steward and the others. I do not want them robbing me blind.”

  “Tell me, Lady M., when do you intend to end the mourning for your late husband?”

  The handsome woman beside Ewan at dinner leveled a dangerous gaze on him. “I dropped the mourning years ago, sir.”

  “You dropped the symbols only.”

  A tight smile of forbearance greeted that observation. Lady Charlotte Mardenford did not care for this conversation. “Why do you think I am still in mourning?”

  “Because you never accept invitations to my parties.”

  “Ah, I see. A widow is in mourning because she declines to romp naked on your divans and sofas with heaven knows who, in full view of others.”

  He tilted his head toward her. “There need not be any others around to view the romping. It could be a party of two.”

  She laughed. “I can see the new Earl of Lyndale is as naughty as the old Ewan McLean. Be reassured, sir, that my lack of romping with you does not mean that I do not romp at all.”

  His flirtation was an old joke and an old game between them. However, Ewan suspected that despite her pose to the contrary, no romping had transpired since the baron died. He also knew that, should she ever truly drop the mourning, she would never seek out one of his sofas.

  “I can see that the title has not reformed you at all,” she said. “It is a good thing that Sophia had no illusions on that count. She knew what she was getting in inviting you tonight.”

  Indeed she had. Which begged the question of just why the Duchess of Everdon had extended the invitation to this dinner. Unlike some hostesses, the duchess did not engage in the contest of snagging the most recent sensation to her gatherings. Nor had she in the past included Ewan McLean at any of them.

  He gazed down the table. It was a small dinner party, quite intimate. He was friends with most of the guests, as if the list had been devised for his comfort. Had the duchess decided to ease his way back into good society?

  There was no other reason for the gesture that Ewan could imagine. Whatever the cause, it was proving to be a pleasant night surrounded by friends.

  Dante Duclairc was here, along with his wife, Fleur. Adrian Burchard, the duchess’s husband and consort, sat on Fleur’s other side.

  Down the table, Adrian’s brother Colin could be found. Colin, like Dante, was a member of Ewan’s set. The contrast of Adrian’s dark, Mediterranean appearance with Colin’s blond, thoroughly English one pointed up the open secret that they did not share the same father. Colin was the Earl of Dincaster’s son, in truth, but Adrian was the by-blow of a liaison between the earl’s wife and a foreign dignitary.

  All in all, it was a delightful assemblage of people Ewan knew well, and most of whom had various connections. Lady Mardenford, for example, was Dante’s sister, and one of the duchess’s closest friends.

  The only exception was Viscount Althorp and his wife. Althorp was Chancellor of the Exchequer, and Ewan’s contact with him had been of the most formal sort. Nor had he surmised a friendship between Althorp and the others at the table.

  “Where are you putting the infamous swing in that new house of yours?” Lady M. asked.

  “In the second drawing room. You must visit and try it out.”

  She laughed and blushed. “You are really very bad, McLean.”

  “I look forward to the day when you are very bad, too, madame, even though I grieve it will not be with me.”

  An image entered his head of that swing, and the bad things one could do on it. The woman joining him as it swayed was not the baroness, however. The hair flowing over his face and shoulders was long and red and tight with curls. The breast in his mouth was full and firm and rosy-tipped. The naked legs straddling his hips were long, lithe, and milky white.

  He wondered about Bride Cameron several times a day, and unaccountably did so now.

  Was all going well up in that glen? They should be receiving the trust papers soon. He hoped they would manage until the income on the funds was paid. If not, they would probably starve. Bride would never eat her pride and ask for his help.

  The duchess rose. The other ladies followed suit. Rich, wide skirts swished around the table as the women retired to the drawing room.

  Footmen passed port and brandy and cigars to the men, then left the room.

  Now that was odd. Servants normally waited to attend to future needs.

  Even odder was the peculiar silence that claimed the chamber.

  The way that all the others looked in his direction was damned alarming.

  Colin smiled apologetically. “There is an important matter that requires attention, McLean. Adrian arranged this party so that Althorp could ask you for aid.”

  “And here I thought that the duchess had a sudden yearning for my witty conversation.”

  “She was delighted you accepted,” Adrian said. “As was I, just for a different reason.”

  “It is hoped that you will be of assistance out of a sense of responsibility. You are a member of Parliament now,” Dante said.

  “There are duties that go with the position,” Adrian said.

  “The obligations of privilege, so to speak,” Colin added. “Not that you are truly under obligation to act, unless you so choose.”

  Ewan glared at the traitorous Dante and Colin, who dared throw his least favorite words at him. They were here to cajole him into something he did not want to do. Adrian Burchard knew it would be harder to reject whatever was being plotted if good friends joined in the request.r />
  “Of course he is under obligation to act,” Althorp said. “All loyal citizens are, but especially the nobility. It is the discharge of our obligations that allows us to govern. If we are negligent, no one can blame the people if they demand our heads.”

  “I cannot imagine how I can aid anyone with any act of significance. I have made it a point never to acquire skills or knowledge that would be called useful.”

  “As it happens, those skills which you have acquired are needed by the government right now,” Adrian said.

  “The government has some woman whom they want seduced? Your brother Colin here can accommodate you as well as I.”

  They all laughed. Except Althorp. He reached in his coat and extracted two papers. “Not that skill, sir. A more esoteric one.”

  He passed down the papers. Colin moved a candelabra close to Ewan’s place.

  Ewan unfolded the small, square papers. They were two fifty pound notes, issued by the Bank of England in 1803. With one glance, his instincts sounded a tiny warning.

  That made him check the handwritten portions. “This signature on the right one looks bad. It copies the signature on the left one, but is too tight and tense. Too careful.”

  “Yes,” Althorp said.

  Interested now, Ewan’s gaze sharpened on the printed sections in each. He pointed to the one on the left. “If you are sure that this one is good, then even the engraved work on the right one is forged. It is a very good counterfeit. Astonishing. If the paper were not so clean, it would be missed. The only flaws that I can see are a few burin lines on the allegorical figure’s drapery that are not as thick as they should be. Of course, if I studied it in a better light and with a glass, I might find more.”

  Extra candles instantly flanked his place. A magnifying glass appeared out of nowhere.

  Ewan looked up to see four men standing, leaning forward, craning to watch him examine the notes.

  “Is the paper right?” Ewan asked.

  “Damned close,” Adrian said. “Too close. That and the engraving is expert. The signature is not, and the number does not match the bank’s records.”

  “Are there more?”

  Althorp hesitated. He glanced to Adrian, who nodded. “That is the second to come to light in the last month. The first looked well used, so it was assumed it was an old forgery that had been circulating for years. That one, however, is quite fresh.”

  Ewan held the glass and checked the engraved work closely. “Gentlemen, this is an interesting exercise and not without its fascination to me, but since you already know you have a forger at work, you did not need me to say so.”

  “It may surprise you to know that the bank’s experts were divided on the matter,” Althorp said. “Two agreed with you, but there were two who insisted that the actual note was printed off the bank’s plate, years ago, and stolen prior to its use by the bank. In 1803 a second cashier, Robert Aslett, was dismissed from the bank for embezzlement, and convicted. Who knows what else he got up to.”

  “It wasn’t stolen or embezzled. The note on the right was pulled off a different plate.” He set down the glass. “I am glad I could be of service in breaking the tie. Now, shall we talk about horses or boxing or some other thing. Politics, anyone?”

  Colin’s hand came to rest on his shoulder. There was something consoling and regretful about that firm touch. It reminded Ewan of the gesture the nicer schoolmasters would make, right before bending one over for a caning.

  “These forgers must be found,” Adrian said.

  “Of course,” Ewan agreed.

  “Quickly and silently,” Althorp said. “If confidence in the money is lost, well . . .”

  “Should any forged notes come to my attention, I will be sure to immediately—”

  “You must help, McLean. You are in a better position to do so than anyone,” Dante said.

  Ewan glared at him. Duclairc had become a lot less fun since he wed Fleur Monley, there was no denying it.

  “The Bank of England surely has men to do this. The city has police. I cannot imagine how I can help.”

  Colin tapped the notes. “They are the same thing you collect, the same materials and the same techniques, only used to different purposes.”

  “It is our thought that your position as a collector might enable you to move in the world of engravers and paper suppliers and hear things, see things, that a formal investigation would never discover,” Althorp said.

  “You do frequent the publishers and print shops,” Dante said. “You could ask discreet questions at the ones you trust.”

  “Such investigations can be very interesting,” Adrian said.

  “Great fun, I would think,” Colin said.

  “There could be panic if this is widespread and becomes known,” Althorp said. “The solvency of the realm is at stake. You must do your duty.”

  Ewan held up a hand to stop the assault. He looked Althorp in the eyes. “I must not do anything unless I choose to.”

  The chamber went silent. Four men waited his decision.

  He looked down at the forgery. “It was made by an expert engraver. One of the best. That narrows it down.”

  No one spoke.

  “You assume this is happening in London?” he asked.

  “Both bad notes were used in the city,” Althorp said.

  “Will you do it?” Colin asked.

  Ewan looked at the note again.

  Duty. Duty.

  Well, hell.

  “I will do what I can, but I promise no success. However, if the financial stability of Britain is shamelessly being thrown in my face, I suppose I have no choice but to try.”

  Bride trotted her horse up the hill, anxious to see her home. The journey to Edinburgh had transpired without incident, but riding back had tired her. An icy wind bit her skin and she felt the damp all through her clothes.

  Not only the days in the saddle made these treks wearisome. Protecting the heavy bag hanging near her leg, next to the pistol, meant she had to stay alert every minute.

  Early dusk was falling when she crested the hill and gazed down on the glen. Several miles to the east she could barely make out the tiny, shadowy roofs of the town of Doreri. To the north, dark clouds were moving.

  Her gaze sharpened. No, not clouds. Smoke.

  Sutherland’s men had been busy while she was gone. She instinctively touched the bag. Its contents would be timely. Nor would she be allowed to drop into her bed tonight, the way she ached to. She would be riding again, into the night, to distribute the coin she had brought back.

  She kicked the mare, and began down the hill. Her gaze fixed on the house that would offer some comfort for a few hours at least.

  A movement made her stop. Someone had just walked from the house to the stable. The world had become a palette of obscuring grays, but it had not looked like Anne.

  She shook her head in exasperation and moved forward. Jamie MacKay must have come visiting while she was gone. If he had gotten what he wanted, she would turn that rooster into a hen.

  A lot of light came from the house as she approached. Too much. Normally they did not light the candles until night fell. Even then they used them sparingly.

  No doubt Mary had decided to mend or decorate a dress this evening, and was wasting candles so she could sew. Mary often broke the rules of frugality when Bride went to Edinburgh. It was her way of pouting about not being taken to the city herself.

  At the base of the hill, the mare stopped on her own. The horse’s ears flicked up. Bride felt caution tense the animal beneath her.

  Just then the house’s door opened and Joan walked out. Joan paced out several yards, stopped, and looked to the hill. The mare snorted, as if answering a question. Bride doubted Joan had seen them, but it appeared her sister had sensed their approach.

  That did not surprise Bride.

  Something else did, however.

  Joan was wearing a dress.

  Bride gritted her teeth. It was not Jamie who
had visited. Lyndale must have returned. The man refused to have his grand design thwarted, it seemed. He had bought that house in Edinburgh, after all. It was mere luck she had not bumped into him on the city streets.

  She jumped off the horse, pawed through her valise, and pulled out the dress she had worn her two days in Edinburgh. She quickly peeled off her pantaloons and shirt, climbed into the dress, and threw her cloak back on. Transformed into a woman at least half respectable, she remounted the mare and trotted to the house.

  Joan had gone back inside when she arrived. Bride tied the horse by the door. She debated whether to bring in the valise and bag. If Lyndale was inside, she did not want to draw attention to either.

  She left them on the horse. She would send Joan out to take care of the animal, and Joan would know what to do with the baggage.

  All too conscious that the journey had taken its toll, knowing she appeared windblown, ruddy, and tired, she walked into the house to cross swords once again with Lord Lyndale. She tried mightily to ignore both the stupid excitement building in her, and the sad regret she would appear so poorly.

  The excitement transformed the instant she looked in the library. It changed from silly, bubbling pleasure to foreboding fear.

  Her sisters were all there, and even Jilly. So was a man. It was not Lyndale, however.

  This man was a stranger. His garments and manner spoke authority and wealth. Not a lordly wealth, but contented comfort.

  He rose politely, then looked her over less politely. He turned to Joan. “It appears you were correct about your sister’s imminent return. Forgive me for doubting you.”

  Joan gave Bride a look of pointed warning. “This is Mr. Young, Bride. He is chief factor to the—”

  “I know who Mr. Young is. His name is well-known in these parts.” Bride entered the library and sat. “I assume we can thank you for the smoke I saw to the north as I rode in.”

  Mr. Young smiled like a man who knew he was hated, but did not care. “Not me directly.”

  “Only those whom you direct.”

  “I see you are a clever woman, with good wits. That is heartening. It will make this easier that you are smart enough to understand matters.”