Throughout two godforsaken years, he had done the marquis’s dirty work. He had trafficked with free traders who would have cheerfully knifed him over a case of brandy, paid off occasional bribes when needed, and bailed the randy old baronet, Sir Hugh, out of various and sundry foul predicaments. He had routinely collected crushing debts of honor from dozens of near-bankrupt gentlemen, two of whom had blown their brains to kingdom come as soon as the door clicked shut behind him.
Yes, Wilson allowed that in the service of the marquis of Rannoch, he had stared over the precipice and into the blackest pit humanity could offer up. To be sacked after all that he had suffered was too much to be borne, but best to have done with it quickly. With a steely determination, Wilson squared his shoulders, rapped upon the thick oak door, then entered the marquis’s inner sanctum.
“Ah, Wilson!” exclaimed his employer, putting down an unlit cheroot and rising with uncharacteristic politeness from his sprawled position behind the desk. “Thank you for coming so promptly—and so late in the evening.”
Thank you for coming?
The civility of the remark was disconcerting, and Wilson paused uncertainly just inside the cavernous chamber. The marquis was obviously dressed for the privacy of his home, having removed his usual coat and waistcoat. The fine cambric of his shirt looked limp, and Rannoch’s sleeves were rolled partway up his forearms, revealing dark hair sprinkled over taut muscle. A day’s growth of heavy beard shadowed his harsh face. Wilson swallowed hard, for despite his employer’s opulent surroundings, the Scotsman always looked brutal. Absent the civilizing effect of formal clothing, he looked barbaric.
“Well, come in, Wilson! Good God, man, come in and pour yourself a brandy,” offered Rannoch convivially, waving toward a set of crystal decanters. “It is, after all, well past your regular working hours,” he added, strolling from behind the desk to peer through the heavy damask draperies. “Tell me, Wilson, has the fog worsened outside?”
Good God, Rannoch was discussing the weather. And offering him a drink. His employer’s usual conversational vein ran more to an occasional grunt, a half dozen words of command, followed by a curt dismissal. Gratefully, Wilson headed for the brandy, now fully convinced that he was going to need it.
Looking unusually relaxed, the marquis turned from the window and sat back against the corner of his desk, cradling his customary glass of scotch whisky negligently against one big leg. Even perched on the desk, the tall man towered over Wilson. Anxiously, his brain scrabbled for a foothold on the conversation. If Rannoch had intended to dismiss him, he would have had done with it by now. Wilson had witnessed it often enough. Rannoch turned on a man like a cobra struck: fast, blinding, and agonizingly painful.
So the marquis wanted something else—but what? Wilson put down the decanter with a careless chink. This newest task must be something dreadful indeed to warrant such uncharacteristically pleasant behavior from the marquis. Earlier this week, Wilson had been tasked with tracking down, or attempting to track down, Rannoch’s errant mistress. What a hopeless job that had been! Then, immediately thereafter, he had been dispatched to the jeweler’s to purchase an extravagant ruby bracelet to match the necklace Wilson had chosen as her Christmas gift.
The bracelet had been a bad sign. Wilson knew exactly what it meant. Perhaps, he sarcastically considered, he was now to procure a new mistress. There was nothing unusual in that, for it had been Wilson who had secured Miss Fontaine’s services last year. On that memorably unromantic occasion, Rannoch’s orders had been coldly succinct. Discover the name of Lord Clivington’s mistress, make certain she was reasonably attractive, ascertain his financial arrangements, and offer her twice as much.
It had been widely rumored that Clivington had badly cheated Rannoch at hazard the preceding week, but with tactics that had been quick and clever. No gentleman, not even Rannoch, would be so forward as to make an accusation that could not be proven. Therefore, the treacherous marquis of Rannoch, as he so often did, simply exacted his revenge by other means.
In short order, Clivington had been forced into the laughably awkward position of pretending, with no success whatsoever, that he had lost interest in Miss Fontaine. He did not dare call Rannoch out; few of Rannoch’s victims were so foolish. Those who were soon regretted their impetuousness. In fact, given Rannoch’s usual methods of retribution, Clivington had escaped relatively unscathed.
Uneasily, Wilson turned from the side table to face his employer. “Indeed, my lord,” he replied at last. “It is unseasonably foggy tonight.”
Rannoch still looked, relatively speaking, benign. Nevertheless, Wilson feared he was little more than a languid, sated panther that had recently dined on plenty of red meat. “Sit down, Wilson. Sit down,” the marquis suggested, motioning affably toward a chair. “I fancy you look rather pale. Perhaps you’ve been working too hard?” Casually, the marquis retrieved his cigar, lit it from a desk candle, then exhaled a curling cloud of smoke into the dimly lit room.
Wilson sat. “No, my lord. I am quite well, I assure you.”
“Good, good,” replied Rannoch, absently studying the cheroot in his fingers. He paused for a long moment as if searching for something to say. At last he spoke. “Tell me, Wilson, I never think to ask, how does your family go on? You have an elderly mother, I collect?”
Wilson was stunned to know that the marquis was aware he had any family at all, let alone a mother. “Indeed, Lord Rannoch, my mother and family fare quite well.”
“Ah, yes. Good.” The marquis picked up his glass and sipped at his vile scotch whisky pensively.
Wilson took a very healthy swallow of his drink, too. “My lord?”
“Yes, Wilson?” The marquis’s slashing black brows arched inquisitively.
“Was—was there something you wanted?”
Rannoch regarded him from his perch on the desk corner, looking for all the world like a huge black bird of prey which might at any moment unfurl its broad wingspan to swoop down upon an unsuspecting rodent. “Yes!” replied the marquis, startling Wilson. “Do forgive me. I forget that you must be desirous of returning to hearth and home.”
“Yes, well …” Wilson let his words trickle weakly away.
“Ah, indeed! Hearth and home,” repeated Rannoch almost pensively, “and on such a dreary evening. I must say, Wilson, having now considered my behavior, I regret having been so thoughtless as to drag you from such a pleasant place so late at night.”
Wilson, rapidly sipping his employer’s very fine French brandy, was on the verge of explaining that given Rannoch’s extraordinarily affable mood, the marquis’s dark library was beginning to seem somewhat more agreeable than Mrs. Wilson’s chilly hearth, but he withheld his sentiment out of an abundance of reserve. “Do not regard it, my lord,” he replied instead.
“You are a good man, Wilson. More than once, I have been glad of my decision to retain your services. I shall come straight to the point.” Rannoch passed Wilson a small slip of paper bearing two names.
James Hart. Peter Weyden.
“I do not know these men, my lord,” replied Wilson uncertainly.
“Nor, Wilson, do I,” agreed the marquis amiably. “But I should very much like to know something of them. Discreetly, of course. Both reside in London, though they probably do not move in the highest circles. The first I collect is betrothed. I should like to know to whom, and the status of the betrothal.”
Wilson nodded mutely.
“And the second is a Flemish art expert who imports a great deal of work from the Continent. It would appear that he travels extensively, and I suspect he has connections at the Royal Academy. He also refers commissions to … to various artists.”
Wilson blinked his eyes slowly. “And what would you have me learn of this man, my lord?”
Rannoch took another languid draw on his cheroot, then slowly exhaled. “I merely wish to reassure myself that he is a man of unimpeachable character, which I daresay he is.”
“Ah, I see, my lord. You
are in the market, then, for a work of art?”
Rannoch nodded slowly. “Suffice it to say, Wilson, that I am rapidly becoming an admirer.”
“Am I to purchase something, my lord?” he asked uncertainly.
Rannoch turned to stare at him for a long moment, his quizzical expression slowly shifting to one of bemused satisfaction. “What a splendid idea, Wilson!”
“Indeed, my lord?” Wilson tried not to look confused.
“Yes!” responded Rannoch, then dropped his voice to an almost conspiratorial tone. “Seek out Mr. Weyden. Tell him that your employer—do not use my name—wishes to buy a van Artevalde.”
“A van Artevalde, my lord?” Wilson blinked nervously, then swallowed hard. “I must tell you, Lord Rannoch, that they are exceedingly difficult to get hold of. Rare, and rather costly as well.”
Wilson waited for the spewing verbal torrent, but none came. Rannoch merely crooked one dark brow. “You are familiar with the work of van Artevalde?” he asked respectfully.
“I—why, yes. I have some limited knowledge,” stammered Wilson. “My previous employer, you may recall, was a collector of some serious devotion. Van Artevalde is a young Flemish painter but of no small merit.”
“Is that so?” asked Rannoch, looking most intrigued.
“Oh, yes, my lord. His allegoricals are often compared to Rubens’s work. His use of color and light is exquisite; very like van Eyck’s. Indeed, his works have begun to fetch high prices, particularly abroad.”
“Excellent, Wilson,” murmured Rannoch. “Your skills never cease to amaze. Tell Weyden, or whoever runs his business, that you want a van Artevalde immediately, something glorious and epic. Soon he shall no doubt show you a piece called The Fall of Leopold at … someplace.”
“That’s Sempach,” corrected Wilson, then winced.
Rannoch merely nodded, rubbing his harshly stubbled chin. “Aye, that sounds right. Pay him in gold. The price is of no consequence.”
“Yes, my lord,” replied Wilson dutifully. “Will there be anything further?”
“Yes,” said Rannoch slowly, drumming his long fingers on the desktop. “Tell Weyden’s people that you want first option on every van Artevalde that happens onto the market,until further notice.Buy … buy them all.”
“All?” Wilson was stunned.
Rannoch’s brow furrowed deeply as he stared into the shadows of the room. “No. Not all,” he corrected thoughtfully. “We would not want to restrict Ev—er, van Artevalde’s exposure to the marketplace.” The marquis’s gaze sharpened and returned to Wilson. “Buy about every second painting—you choose which. God knows I have no taste in art.”
“But, my lord, that will drive the price up prodigiously!”
Rannoch grinned. His perfect white teeth seemed to gleam ominously in the candlelight. “Will it, indeed? So much the better, then.”
Shortly thereafter, Wilson tucked the little slip of paper into his pocket and departed, greatly reassured yet exceedingly confused. With both blood and brain slightly numbed by the brandy, of which he had ultimately imbibed two ample servings, Wilson very nearly tripped over Kemble, the marquis’s very proper gentleman’s gentleman, as he entered the library.
Exhaling a long column of smoke, Elliot stared up from his chair in veiled amusement at the willowy, middle-aged man who now stood sniffing disdainfully before him. Kemble, who made no secret of his abhorrence of cigar smoke, flailed a cambric handkerchief ineffectually back and forth in a gesture designed solely, as they both knew, to annoy the marquis.
Why, Elliot asked himself for the thousandth time, do I put up with my valet’s snubs, snorts, and pouts? Because, simply put, the man was an unparalleled genius. Ten years earlier, Kemble had willingly taken Elliot in hand, burned his kilt, and transformed a dour, hulking Scottish lad into a well-groomed, impeccably attired London gentleman. The regrettable fact that, during those first few months, Elliot’s level of worldly sophistication had lagged lamentably behind his tailoring was in no way Kemble’s fault. Moreover, throughout all the debacles that had followed, Kemble had stuck by Elliot. He could always count on Kemble to dress him to perfection, shave him flawlessly, and recollect which paramour preferred what cologne.
In addition, Kemble also excelled at less traditional tasks such as knowing who among the haut monde tended to have undesirable tendencies such as cheating at cards, reneging on vowels, or sleeping with other men’s mistresses. Kemble knew the best remedy for a hangover, how to pick locks, and who among the fashionably impure had contracted the French pox. In addition, he possessed an unfailing technique for the reduction of facial swelling in the event of a misjudged punch and was on gossiping terms with every demirep, housekeeper, under-butler, scullery maid, pastry chef, and bootblack in London. Furthermore, he knew their secrets as well as their foibles.
It was, therefore, with a resigned sigh that Elliot calmly stubbed out the cheroot and addressed the only servant he did not dare upbraid, humiliate, or threaten. “This is about the topboots, isn’t it, Kem?” He eyed the valet narrowly through the dissipating cloud of smoke.
Kemble’s tightly pursed lips trembled, and his hands fluttered up and down at his sides in apparent agitation. “My lord! How could you? Their condition is an abomination! They are ruined—ruined, I tell you! Exceedingly, irrevocably, hopelessly—”
“Spare me the theatrics, Kem. Couldn’t be helped. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” The valet rolled his eyes wildly. “I’m very sure that you are! But do tell, my lord, where in heaven’s name did the irrepressible urge to roll about in the mud like some swine come upon you?”
“Er—Essex, it was. The urge came upon me in Essex.” Elliot forced himself to suppress a bark of laughter, since Kemble’s scoldings were very nearly the only thing remotely resembling care or concern in his life. “Perhaps,” he added teasingly, “I have merely become the pig I have so often been called.”
“Umm,” replied Kemble sagaciously, still pursing his lips. The valet crossed his dangling arms over his chest in a familiar posture of recalcitrance. Elliot did not bother to look, but he knew from experience that the valet’s toe was busily tapping out an angry tattoo upon the carpet.
“Sorry, Kemble. Truly. Now listen, old fellow. I need some new—no, some different clothes.”
Kemble’s fine, angular brows arched even more dramatically. “I do not doubt it at all, my lord, for if you anticipate that this propensity for traipsing about in the filth of the countryside shall continue—”
“That I do,” interrupted Elliot bluntly, his aggravation allowing just a hint of Highland burr to creep into his tone. “And I’ll be wanting some things that do not look quite so … so expensive.”
“Indeed?” sniffed Kemble disdainfully. “Pray be specific. I know very little of such things,” he added, pronouncing the words as if they were Hindustani for chamber pot.
Elliot sighed. “I’ll want two pairs of ordinary buckskin breeches, two pairs of plain wool trousers, a half dozen ordinary linen shirts, a frieze coat, a couple of neutral waistcoats, and—oh, the old topboots.”
“What, no hobnailed brogans?” muttered Kemble snidely.
“No, I suppose not,” replied Elliot calmly. “Just polish up the old topboots as best you can. They’ll do nicely.”
Kemble nodded sagely, but Elliot could see the sarcasm flicker in his pale, expressive eyes. “In short, my lord, you wish to look like a common peasant?”
“Not quite as bad as all that, Kem!”
“And what about some coarse flannel drawers, my lord?” trilled the valet. “Nothing so stimulating as having homespun wrapped around one’s ballocks!”
“Ouch!” Elliot felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Let’s not get carried away with this ruse, old boy!”
Having dispensed with both his man of affairs and his valet, Elliot turned his attentions to his uncharacteristically choleric and still-indisposed uncle.
Sir Hugh had left orders for MacLeo
d to direct Elliot to his apartments upon his return, no matter the time. Elliot, who as a matter of principle took orders from no one, nonetheless paid this directive a moment of heed. Sir Hugh was about as prone to give a command as his obstinate nephew was to obey one; therefore, the fact that his uncle had troubled himself to leave such a message intrigued Elliot exceedingly. Though inordinately fond of each other and bound by any number of similarly bad habits, he and Hugh were not overtly close. Days, sometimes weeks, might pass without the two speaking, save for tripping over each other in a gaming hell or whorehouse.
Elliot sighed wearily. His uncle was most likely in trouble.
Sir Hugh, caustically referred to as the Blight of the Benhams by his socially rigid sister, sauntered through life with as much concern, and almost as much exertion, as one might give to an afternoon stroll around Hyde Park. As he had done with illustrious success for some eight and fifty years, Hugh Benham was resolved to enjoy a life of indolent debauchery until the precise moment at which he cocked up his toes, an event the dowager marchioness of Rannoch had often said could not possibly come too soon.
When not distempered by a gouty foot or bilious liver, Sir Hugh was a popular fellow, possessing charm and wit sufficient to offset his lack of income. As a result of Elliot’s desire to aggravate his mother, Sir Hugh lived off the Rannoch coffers. Elliot paid his uncle’s bills, settled his gaming debts, and even served as a second on those rare occasions when Sir Hugh managed to get caught in an illtimed indiscretion. In such cases, however, the combination of Elliot’s nasty reputation and Sir Hugh’s willingness to blithely—and meaninglessly—apologize was usually enough to avoid an actual sword point.
Through these worthy efforts, Elliot earned the pleasure of thumbing his nose at his cold, supercilious mother. Lady Rannoch’s father, she was ever fond of complaining, had been no more prudent than her brother. Long on the slippery slope to both moral and financial ruin, the entire Benham family had been dragged from the brink by her sacrifice on the marriage altar to a moody, pious Scot. The fact that the shame associated with her brother’s ribald antics and her son’s abhorrent reputation precluded—in her humble opinion—her appearance in polite society was but further fuel to the fires of the dowager’s self-pity.
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