He needed Lady Matilda Clair.
e e e
Later that evening, Jamie was on his knees, rocking back and forth and moaning. The tableau, however, was not quite as Bertie had imagined it.
“For Chrissake.” He nudged the suffering young man with the toe of his boot. “Ain’t you done casting up your accounts yet?”
Jamie staggered to his feet in the street, wiping at his mouth with a borrowed handkerchief. “Oh, God. I hope so. Told you I wasn’t much of a drinker, but I’ve never had beer affect me like this before.”
Bertie scowled. If only he hadn’t got greedy and doctored Jamie’s drinks with stronger liquor. There’d be no fun to be had off him tonight. “Come on. Let’s get you home.” Another night in the filthy, stinking, bloody cold tenement, and without even the solace of his doomed companion’s body. There’d best be a sweet reward in it for him. Doomed. He shivered at his own thought, wishing that he didn’t know what was in store for Jamie. Tonight was Wednesday. In two nights, he was to deliver his new friend to Madame Novotny’s. Best not to think about what would happen after that.
“You were where?” Aunt Matilda’s eyes gleamed with amusement. Although they were seated next to each other, she had to raise her voice to be heard. A night of cards at Lady Matilda Clair’s was not a casual affair. Tables for play filled just over half the ballroom, while the rest was arranged as if an oversized drawing room, elegant couches grouped together to form a number of conversation nooks for those who preferred gossip to gambling. Buffet tables lined one wall, laden with cold meats and dainties to nourish the players, while another table, discreetly placed in a curtained alcove, served as a bank where ladies and gentlemen could purchase additional chips or cash in their winnings.
Stephen laughed, well pleased with this evening’s work. “I said, the Society of Antiquaries. Surely you’ve heard of them?”
“Of course I have, puppy. One of my uncles was a member when they were chartered, back in the ‘50s. But I never thought to see you join.”
He smiled demurely. “I’ve taken up an interest in history. Trying to improve myself.”
“Good for you,” his aunt said, looking smug.
“Hah!” Lord Whinsbeck’s face was florid with drink. “History! That’s why he looked familiar.”
Aunt Matilda played a card. It looked like she and her partner Lady Tuttlehouse were going to win yet another rubber. “What the devil are you talking about, Whinsbeck?”
“That boy you tried to foist off as a historian at your picnic. Interest in history!” He snorted.
Stephen froze. “Looked familiar? Do you mean you’ve seen him?”
Whinsbeck peered at him in confusion. “Course I’ve seen him. Didn’t I meet him right here, at your aunt’s?”
Stephen half-rose from his chair, his voice fierce enough to halt play at several neighboring tables. “You said ‘familiar.’ Does that mean you’ve seen him since? Recently?”
“Today. But what do you care—you cast him off like the rest of ‘em, didn’t you?”
“Where? Where did you see him?” Now people started drifting over from the conversation area, curious as to the raised voices at the one table, and sudden hush from the rest.
Lord Whinsbeck was too drunk, and too foolish, to ascertain the danger he was in. “Hah! Historian my arse. Wanted him for his tight little mind, did you? And once you plumbed the depths of his intelligence, out on the streets he goes. No better than the other ones.”
Lady Tuttlehouse, the fourth player at the table, leaned forward, her generous bosom nearly overflowing the meager confines of her high-waisted bodice. “Someone told me at the picnic that she thought he might be Maria Riley’s natural child. Maria’s and—” She glanced around, suddenly remembering that the Marquess of Summerford, father to Maria’s seducer, was present somewhere in the ballroom. “—well, remember Maria Riley?”
Someone else sniggered. “Lad came by it honestly, then. No better than his mother.”
Stephen’s fists clenched. “He’s better than the lot of you, damn it! Jamie never had an unkind word for a soul, and has more common sense in one finger than anyone here in his whole body. You excepted, Aunt Matilda.” His chair fell over with a crash as he advance on Lord Whinsbeck grasping him by his cravat and hoisting him onto his feet. “Now tell me where the bloody hell you saw Jamie!”
“The dockyards!” Whinsbeck whined, fear blanching his piggy face. “My son—home from India—this morning. Saw your little—saw your friend there.”
“Boarding a ship?”
“Peddling his arse to the sailors,” a voice murmured in the crowd, and Stephen only just restrained himself from backhanding Whinsbeck in retaliation.
“No! Working—he was working as a stevedore. Loading a cart with crates for a warehouse. I—I knew I remembered him from somewhere, and I’ve only just now—”
Stephen dropped him, and Whinsbeck tumbled heavily onto the floor. Lady Whinsbeck rushed to her husband’s side. “Scoundrel!” she hissed. “To treat a gentleman like this!”
“Gentleman?” Stephen laughed. “He’s a drunken sot. James Riley— now he’s a gentleman.”
“Good heavens!” The lady’s face was shading toward purple. “What do you care what’s said about the boy, anyway?”
“Because I love him, that’s why!”
There was an appalled silence, and then Lady Whinsbeck, having helped her husband to his feet, turned her back on Stephen. With a nudge, Lord Whinsbeck followed suit. Others followed, first a few, and then a gathering wave of people presented their backs to the Earl of St. Joseph and began to trickle from the room.
Aunt Matilda patted her nephew on the arm. “Now you’ve done it, puppy. The ton will let you get away with all manner of vices with just a bit of teasing, but show an honest emotion and you’re excluded from their august company. Playing with other boys is a deliciously scandalous lark, but loving them? Now, that’s perversion. Well, you’ll not be sent to Coventry in my ballroom.” She straightened her back and changed the pitch of her voice to one of command. “You! Amelia Fairway! How dare you turn your back on my nephew, when not two of your children look like each other in the slightest?”
The glittering guests froze in the act of exiting the party.
“Oh, we all have our secrets, don’t we? Shall we ostracize Amelia for her bevy of bastards? Stop sniggering, Lady Palmsworth. The only reason your husband’s mistresses haven’t presented your family with a few dozen by-blow is that they’re too young to bear them. And I remember well your own mother’s tragic stillborn son — or more likely, smothered before it could draw its first breath. Black as coal, the child was, just like your mother’s Abyssinian pageboy.”
There were gasps from the company, but no one was going to leave now.
“Not all crimes are sexual, of course.” Matilda’s bony finger jabbed the air, and a portly gentleman flinched. “How fatherly of you to send your sons abroad for a Grand Tour, before their young friend’s death was too closely investigated. It was a relief for everyone to get them out of London, wasn’t it? Except, perhaps, for the opium dens that closed from the lack of their custom.”
Matilda shook her head with something like sorrow at the Earl of Marston. “The two of you invested heavily in that unlikely scheme I warned you about. I warned you, Richard, and both of you still sunk all the family money into it. So how come you were able to recover your funds, and your brother was not? Your own brother, Richard. I’m certain you repapered the study as soon as you inherited, but do you ever imagine that the blood spatters still show through?”
Her eyes traveled the ballroom slowly, fixing at last on Jack Carrington, Marquess of Summerford. The assembled company knew that he was probably Jamie’s grandfather. They didn’t know he’d been Stephen’s first lover. Right now, Jack Carrington stood pale but unflinching, awaiting the blow.
“We all have our secrets,” Matilda repeated, her voice falling. “I could go on all night, but I’m
too tired, and too sad.”
“Just as well you’re done casting stones.” Lady Elizabeth Blessingham, almost as coldly beautiful at fifty as she’d been at fifteen, stood alone against Matilda Clair’s fury. “Are you so without sin yourself?”
“Not at all,” she replied, chin firm. “I think if you investigated far enough, you’d find my worst sin against society rather neatly parallels that of my grand-nephew: I loved outside of the narrow confines of where I could marry. So turn your backs on my grandnephew if you must, but if you do, it’s only fair you turn your backs on me as well. Anyone who wakes up tomorrow with the same self-righteous indignation you’ve demonstrated tonight, can call on me between the hours of two and five tomorrow, and withdraw your funds from my investments. Now, good night.”
Only Stephen seemed unmoved by his great-aunt’s performance. Looking at his face, alight with an inner fire, she wondered if he’d even heard it.
“I can’t believe it,” he said. “All this time spent scouring the stews for Jamie, and I find him in your ballroom. Find out how to find him, I mean. He’s working at the docks, Aunt Matilda!” Stephen threw back his head and laughed in exultation. “All I have to do is go down there tomorrow and fetch him.”
“Best go home and get some sleep then, nephew.” She took his arm and walked him toward the door. The ballroom was clearing of people, but a few still lingered, already re-living the scandal of the evening.
He frowned. “When you said ‘outside the narrow confines,’ what did you mean?”
“So you were listening. Figure it out, puppy. The family’s been raked over the coals sufficiently for the night.”
“Was he married? A servant? Or... not a he at all?”
“I’ve kept it secret this long. I will expect at the very least a note from you tomorrow, to let me know if you’ve recovered your Jamie safely.”
“I will. I promise.” Stephen’s eyes danced as he kissed his great-aunt goodnight.
Matilda turned back from the door with a sigh, to find that there was one remaining guest left in the ballroom. “Hello, Jack.”
The Marquess of Summerford bowed with grace. “I wanted to thank you, Matilda. You…could have made things difficult for me, and chose not to.”
“I like you Jack. I always have. Still, in my day, the Carringtons were known for cleaning up their own messes.”
“You mean Maria Riley’s son. Is there really any proof he’s Johnnie’s bastard?”
“He’s the spitting image of you at that age. Maria’s dead, but if you do some investigating, I think you’ll find your son was the likely father.”
“Investigating?” Jack frowned.
“Her friends, her midwife, her priest. I don’t think she was one to bear tales, but Maria probably told someone. And if she did, it wasn’t for gain — if she ever approached you for money, I’ll eat my best bonnet.”
“No. She never did.” He paused. “As for the young man, what would you suggest? Some sort of settlement?”
“I don’t think Jamie would take money. But he could use an education, Jack. Offer to send him to a good university, and then if things don’t work out between him and Stephen, his degree would at least give him a leg up in the world.”
“I’ll do some thinking about it, Matilda.” He reached for the door, then halted. “What’s he like?” Jack’s voice sounded wistful.
“You’ll like him. He’s a well-mannered lad, and his intelligence is noteworthy. Your son’s treatment of his mother is a bit of a sore spot, though. It might not be so easy to get him to take anything from you.”
“I’ll ponder on the best way to approach him, then.”
“You might ask Stephen for help.” It was her turn to hesitate. “It would do him good right now, to be seen with someone as well-respected as you. The ton follows your lead.”
Jack smiled. “Not half as much as they follow your nose for money. I think Stephen was well and truly restored to good graces as soon as you reminded everyone how much they owe to your investments. I don’t think there’ll be much of a queue waiting outside your drawing room door tomorrow at two.”
“Good. I’ll take a nap after luncheon instead.”
“Like the sweet little old lady that you are.” The Marquess of Summerford kissed her hand, and took his leave.
“Good heavens.” Julian Jeffries leaned out the window of the Allbrights’ phaeton, astonished by the traffic in the streets. Harold Allbright had taken him to dinner with some wealthy cousins of his, who had an interest in the thespian arts. Harold would want a reward if they came through with financing, of course, but that could be negotiated later. Now they were approaching Lady Matilda’s mansion for her card party, and while it wasn’t unexpected to see a throng of carriages out front, they all seemed to be leaving, not arriving. He recognized an acquaintance in the crowd. “Timothy! What happened? Dear old Lady Matilda didn’t take ill, did she?” He shivered with excitement at the thought.
Timothy Swann adored a good gossip, and breaking this news to Julian Jeffries was going to be the highlight of his year. “My poor, dear, Julian... you’ll never guess what your Lord St. Joseph just said, and in front of everyone, too!”
Only years of training kept Julian’s face from betraying his reaction, but any vestigial qualms he might have had about the cruelty of James Riley’s upcoming demise disappeared forever. Tonight, he would force himself to go to Stephen, to coo over how wonderful it was that poor lost Jamie had been found—once, of course, he’d sent a message to Bertie making damn sure Jamie didn’t show up at the docks tomorrow. And the night after that, he was going to enjoy seeing the little bastard suffer.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The docks. Stephen bit his lip in frustration. Who knew there were so many of them? Huge wooden piers jutting out from the riverbank, lined with a profusion of enormous warehouses, so many the streets couldn’t hold them: some teetered out over the water on stilts to make up for the shortage of land. Every available anchorage was taken by a barge or ship of some sort, and the whole swarmed with people. Sailors, ships’ passengers, customs officials, foremen, and most important to his interests, stevedores. Despite the chill and clammy December air, many of these were stripped to the waist, the exertions of shifting heavy cargo keeping them warm. He had yet to see a particular slender torso among them.
“Riley?” Mr. Binks, the umpteenth foreman Stephen had approached, was obviously distracted by the problems of directing his crew. “You there! Have a bloody care, those crates contain china.”
“Yes. James Riley.” Stephen’s heart was sinking into the boots Charles had polished for him so carefully. Three hours ago, when he had left St. Joseph House with a light heart, it had seemed important to look his best, to show Jamie respect. It hadn’t taken long to realize that such efforts just made him look ridiculously out of place in this environment. “He’s twenty-two years old, and—”
“Step to it, Wilkins, for Christ’s sake, or I’ll dock your bleeding pay! You were saying, sir?”
Stephen spoke quickly, trying to cover the salient points before Mr. Binks could find something else that needed his attention. “Young, average height. Brownish hair, blue eyes. Spectacles.”
“Specs? Why didn’t you say? Aye, he’s been here this week. Didn’t show up today, though—Bloody hell, Jonesie! Move it!”
Stephen blew out a breath, feeling lost. “He’s not ill, is he?”
“If you’ll excuse me, sir, how the hell should I know? Good lad, hard worker, but I never thought he’d stay. More like a clerk than a laborer, ain’t he? Likely he found something more suited to him. Good day, sir. Jonesie! What the hell did I just say?”
“Do you know his direction?”
“His what? Jonesie!”
“Where he lives. Please, Mr. Binks, it’s important.” It was impossible, simply impossible, that he had come so close to Jamie, and missed him.
“Sorry. He never said, I never asked. Not the talkative sort, thank God.
”
“Should he come back, will you ask him to contact me?”
Mr. Binks gave the distinct impression that his patience was under attack. “Aye, aye. Good day, sir!”
Stephen proffered a coin. The size of it regained the foreman’s attention nicely.
“Sir?”
“Should Mr. Riley return, ask him to get in touch with Stephen. Will you remember that? Please?”
Mr. Binks took the coin. “Yes, sir. Of course I will. Good day, sir. There, Wilkins! That’s my lad! Jonesie—see there—that’s how to pick up the pace!”
Stephen, not entirely convinced that the foreman would remember his message even if Jamie did come back to work at the docks, took a dejected leave.
Bertie listened to the clock striking twelve with satisfaction. His master’s instructions to keep Riley away from work today had been redundant—Bertie’s ploy to get the lad drunk may not have provided the sex he’d hoped for, but it had kept Jamie out of commission this morning. The lad was just now beginning to stir beneath the dirty blanket that covered him.
Bertie clapped his hands loudly. “Come on, lad, some food will do you good.”
“Bertie!” Jamie groaned, pulling his meager covers over his head. “Leave me alone.”
“Let’s get you over to Mrs. Perkin’s bakeshop for some tea and a bit o’ toast, shall we? The air will make you feel better, and so will the victuals. Trust me, I know.”
“What time is it?” With effort, Jamie made his way to a sitting position. “I have to get to the docks.”
“Too late, lad. It’s past noon.”
“Noon! Oh, Christ.” He put his head in his hands. “So much for proving how trustworthy I am to Mr. Binks. Told him I didn’t drink, too.”
The Price of Temptation Page 20