Tonight, however, luck deserted him and watching the pile of coins in front of him disappear at an alarming rate, Canfield’s mood was surly. Townsend, who last night could not win a hand, had done nothing but win this evening and Canfield wondered if he’d been set up.
His eyes narrowed, Canfield glanced across the table at Townsend. “Your luck has changed,” Canfield growled.
Townsend looked up from his cards. “Indeed, I will not deny it,” he murmured. “Tonight Lady Luck is sitting on my knee—just as she was sitting on yours last night.” He smiled. “She’s a fickle wench.”
Canfield didn’t disagree, and after a few more losing hands, he threw down his cards and said, “That’s it for me.”
Townsend shrugged, making no attempt to keep him at the table. Canfield departed, shutting the door behind him with more force than necessary. Townsend grinned. Arrogant bastard.
A few minutes later, the door opened and Nolles slid into the room, the scar given to him by Lamb a scarlet brand across his cheek. His pale eyes on the money in front of Townsend, he said, “It appears that Lord Canfield’s run of luck ended.”
“Yes, it did,” admitted Townsend. He shifted his arm slightly and a card peeked out from the end of his sleeve. “But not,” he added, “without some help.”
“Do you think he suspects?”
Townsend shook his head. “No, not if I’m careful. But I won’t be able to pull this trick very often. He’s a smart player and if he loses too often ...”
Nolles grunted. Taking a turn around the room, he said, “And everything is well at The Birches?”
Townsend made a face. “If you mean are the goods safely stored, yes.” Townsend hesitated. “How soon before you move more of the contraband to London? I mislike having so much on hand.”
“Why? Are you expecting someone to come snooping around your cellars?”
“No.” Townsend hunched a shoulder. “I know that soon you’ll be landing another load and there isn’t much more room to store it.”
“Let me worry about that. You just keep your mouth shut and discourage visitors.”
Townsend nodded unhappily. Clearing his throat, he asked, “What are you going to do about Canfield? You know why he’s here, don’t you?”
Nolles smiled thinly. “Yes, I know why he’s here and at the moment I’m enjoying his antics. He’s a fool if he thinks that his attempts to hide his identity from Dudley worked—or that Dudley wouldn’t have warned me to expect him. Even if Padgett hadn’t already spoken to Dudley about Canfield before allowing them to meet, Dudley would have learned his name within the hour from one of his street urchins.”
Nolles sauntered over to the oak sideboard behind Townsend and from a tray of refreshments in the center of the top poured himself a glass of hock. Glass in hand, he took a seat across from Townsend. “How much did he lose tonight?”
Townsend smiled. “Over four thousand pounds.”
“At least you’ve recovered most of what you lost to that blasted Lucifer last month,” Nolles commented, wiping the smile from Townsend’s lips.
“I did, indeed,” Jeffery said tightly. “And Canfield, though he believes otherwise, is no Lucifer. He hasn’t the skill or the cool head of that devil.”
Nolles stared at his tankard, unconsciously fingering the scar on his cheek. “Which is as well for us,” Nolles muttered. Tom should have killed Barnaby Joslyn when he’d had the chance, Nolles thought bitterly—and that bastard Lamb.
“So what are you going to do about Canfield?”
“When he’s no longer useful, he’ll ... have a fatal accident.” Nolles flashed Townsend a sly look. “A fall over the cliffs like your friend Ainsworth suffered would do nicely, don’t you agree?”
Recalling the night months ago when Lord Joslyn had killed Ainsworth and saved Emily from rape, Jeffery’s eyes dropped to the table. He shuddered as the memory of riding through the dark with Ainsworth’s body strapped to his horse rolled over him. He’d been terrified of discovery during that dreadful ride and had breathed a sigh of relief when he’d thrown the body over the cliffs near the Seven Sisters. No one, he reminded himself, had seen him. Nolles had to be guessing.
Townsend looked directly at Nolles and said, “Yes, a fall from the cliffs would do very well for Lord George Canfield.” Brazenly, he added, “I’d recommend someplace near the Seven Sisters.”
Nolles’s eyes narrowed, not pleased with Townsend’s reply. Perhaps the man wasn’t the spineless ninny he’d thought... . Nolles swallowed some hock before saying, “At least Canfield is providing some profit in the meantime.”
Jeffery Townsend had come a long way since the night he had disposed of Ainsworth’s body, but he was still squeamish about murder. “Do you think that killing him is the best way? What does he really know?”
Nolles stared at him as if he’d lost his wits. “He knows that Padgett knows Dudley,” he said coldly. “And he knows that Dudley is connected to me. Any one of those things would be reason enough to kill him; he knows too much.”
“But why not continue to let him invest? His money has been useful—and as long as he gets a return, he’s not likely to kill the goose that laid the golden egg.”
“If he’d remained content only to provide money and take his profits, I’d agree with you, but he didn’t.” Nolles scowled. “His lordship is a spoiled, spiteful child, and if it suited him, he’d turn us over to the authorities in a heartbeat.” His fingers tightened on his glass. “I was against letting him meet with Dudley, but Padgett thought otherwise.” He took an angry breath. “If Canfield had stayed in London, I’d have been happy enough to take his money and pay him something on his ‘investment, ’ but the fool had to come here.”
Townsend didn’t care overmuch what happened to Canfield, but no matter how far he had fallen, he had an aversion to outright murder and he mumbled, “But as long as he invests—”
Nolles’s hand slapped the table. “You forget I met with Padgett in London last week and he confirmed that Canfield doesn’t have the funds to invest anymore. Canfield is desperate for money—which makes him dangerous—and useless.”
“So where did he get the money to lose tonight? And pay lodgings here? If his finances were so desperate, I wouldn’t have thought he’d have left High Towers. He was a guest there and it wasn’t costing him a penny.”
Nolles tossed down the last of his hock. Putting the glass down on the table, he muttered, “Most likely his father has softened toward him and sent him some money.”
Townsend leaned forward. “Well then,” he said, “isn’t that promising? Perhaps before long, he’ll be restored to his father’s bosom and once again be plump in the pocket—with money to invest.”
Nolles flashed him an icy green glance that sent a chill down Townsend’s spine. Showing his teeth, Nolles snarled, “I’ll not have my fate in the hands of that strutting coxcomb!”
“And, uh, Padgett agrees? The death of a member of the aristocracy will not go unnoticed. I would think that Padgett would advise against it.”
Nolles shook his head, an ugly smile crinkling the scar on his cheek. “The moment he approached Padgett, Canfield signed his death warrant.” His voice full of contempt, he asked, “Who do you think told Dudley to feed Canfield my name and location? Killing him was always part of the plan. Of course, Padgett agrees, you hen-hearted looby!”
Townsend flushed to the tips of his ears, and his eyes dropped to hide the rage searing through him. What he wouldn’t give to have his hands around Nolles’s throat, throttling the life out of the little bastard.
Nolles watched him, and misliking the line of Townsend’s mouth, his fingers closed around the small pistol he carried in his vest pocket. He didn’t believe that Townsend would attack him, but he admitted that it had been stupid of him to show his scorn so openly. Dealing with Canfield was trouble enough; he didn’t need to give Townsend a reason to betray him.
Knowing he had to retrieve the situation, Nolles
muttered, “That was uncalled for. I apologize.” He forced a smile. “Take an extra hundred pounds from tonight’s winnings and put my outburst down to frustration with having to swallow Canfield’s arrogance.”
His features sullen, Jeffery demanded, “If Padgett wanted him dead, why didn’t he have Dudley take care of it in London? Why send him here?”
Wearily, Nolles said, “There are too many eyes in London, too many people we don’t own. Dudley could have arranged for Canfield to suffer a fatal knife wound in one of his brothels or in a dark alley, but Padgett thought it, er, prudent to take care of the problem here where we have control of the situation. As he pointed out, there are more places to hide a body where it will never be found. Canfield will simply ... disappear.” He smiled. “No body. No murder. No crime.” When Townsend continued to look unhappy, Nolles sighed and muttered, “If you don’t like it, you can discuss it with Padgett yourself—he’ll be here before long.”
Startled, Townsend jerked in his seat. “Why?”
Nolles’s lips tightened. “Because he wants to see for himself precisely how well your place fits our needs.”
Townsend looked alarmed. “You don’t think he’s unhappy with our arrangement, do you?”
“No. No, nothing like that,” Nolles said quickly, trying to calm the other man. “Padgett is not as familiar as Joslyn was with the way things are run, and he decided that it might be wise to see the entire operation before he invests more money.”
The conversation continued for a few minutes longer, but Nolles was aware that when Townsend finally rose and left, the other man was not completely mollified. His face hard, Nolles stared at the door through which Townsend had disappeared.
The squire, he decided grimly, could become a problem ... much like Canfield, but he’d worry about that later. A second disappearance or murder too soon after the first was bound to ignite the neighborhood and bring attention where he least wanted it, and he had Lord Joslyn to thank for it.
The events of that night back in March had been as devastating as unexpected, and thinking over the days and weeks that had followed Thomas Joslyn’s death and the confiscation of the contraband hidden in the tunnels beneath Windmere, his face twisted into a mask of hate. Lord Joslyn and his brother and that wretched Lamb had cost him a great deal, and he swore that soon, they’d suffer retribution—even if Padgett advised against it.
Nolles stared moodily at his glass, thinking of Lord Padgett. Padgett and another friend of Tom Joslyn’s, Stanton, had been involved in the smuggling scheme right from the beginning, and while Stanton remained in the background, Padgett quickly bridged the chasm created by Tom’s death. Even with Padgett taking over, it had taken them months to recover from the loss of all goods confiscated from Windmere’s tunnels, but once Nolles had brought Townsend into the fold and with the access to the cellars of The Birches, they’d progressed.
Padgett was no Tom Joslyn, but he and Padgett rubbed along together well enough, Nolles conceded. Still, they had disagreements—putting Canfield in touch with Dudley and from Dudley to him was only one of them. He sighed. At least Padgett realized that Canfield had to be eliminated, but despite what he’d told Townsend, he’d have preferred it be done in London. With the deaths of Tom Joslyn and the Windmere butler, Peckham, back in March and the discovery of the contraband, there’d been enough upheaval in the area. Lying low seemed wise, but no matter how Padgett felt about it, Canfield had to die. He was trouble. As were the Joslyns ... His fingers strayed to the still-tender scar on his cheek. I should have kicked Luc Joslyn to death when I had the chance, he thought sourly, and damn the consequences.
When he’d learned by accident from Canfield and the younger Ordway that Luc would be dining at High Tower, it had seemed a perfect opportunity to strike at the Joslyn family. There was only one route Luc would take home afterward and that made it child’s play to lie in wait for him. Remembering the orgasmic rush that flooded through him when his boot had smashed into Luc’s head, he decided that he didn’t regret his actions and given the chance he’d do it all over again. My mistake, he admitted, was in being overconfident and thinking that it would be Luc Joslyn who would come looking for my blood.
He’d known that attacking the viscount’s half brother would have repercussions, but he hadn’t expected such a swift reaction or for the trouble to arrive in the form of John Lamb. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. He touched the scar. And he was going to take great pleasure, very great pleasure in killing Lamb.
Nolles stood up. But before he could turn his attention to the vexing John Lamb, there was the disposal of Canfield... . Hmm, now how, he wondered as he strolled out to join the patrons of his tavern, shall I do it? A slit throat? Or should I just shoot him? Hide the body or leave it to be discovered? He sighed. So many decisions ...
Chapter 11
It wasn’t until Tuesday morning, after Barnaby had left the morning room, that Emily and Cornelia turned their full attention to Mrs. Dashwood and the role she might or might not play in Luc’s affections. They had touched on the visit by Gillian Dashwood and her family on the drive home from Ramstone the previous day, but busy setting the events in motion that would insure Luc’s new home was staffed and his larders filled, they hadn’t been able to consider all the implications.
After breakfasting with Emily and Cornelia, Barnaby departed for Eastbourne to inspect a new yacht, intending to be gone for the day. The door had hardly closed behind him before Emily set down her cup and asked, “What are we going to do about that woman? I fear that Luc may be falling under her spell.” She shuddered. “Good heavens—she murdered her husband. Has he lost his head? Doesn’t he see the danger?”
Cornelia looked thoughtful. “He may be fascinated by the woman, but I don’t believe that he has lost his head ... yet.” She sipped her coffee. “But that the Ordway family were his very first guests, and the only comment he can remember about his new home is hers, is telling.”
“What are we going to do?”
“I doubt we can do anything—not if Luc’s heart is set on her.”
Appalled, Emily breathed, “Oh Cornelia, you don’t think he would be foolish enough to marry her, do you?”
“When it comes to affairs of the heart, anything is possible, my dear.” She smiled at Emily. “Considering the circumstances, who’d have thought that you’d end up married to Barnaby?”
A blush climbed up Emily’s cheeks. “That was different! I wasn’t accused of murdering anyone.”
“Ah, and there you have it—no one has proven that she did murder her husband.” She bent a look on Emily. “How do we know that she did murder him? Obviously, there wasn’t enough evidence for the authorities to arrest her. All we know about the woman is what we’ve heard from gossip. And you know as well as anyone that most gossip holds only a grain of truth. What if she’s innocent? Do we condemn her based on gossip?”
It was Emily’s turn to look thoughtful. Picking up her cup, she swallowed some coffee. Over the rim she regarded Cornelia and asked, “Do you think she’s innocent?”
“I don’t know,” Cornelia admitted. “I’ve never even met the woman. Now Penny Smythe has met her and likes her. She mentioned when she was here last week that she’s invited Mrs. Dashwood and her cousin, Mrs. Easley, to serve on several committees. Penny appears to find both women delightful. Which leads me to believe that Mrs. Dashwood must possess great charm.”
Emily thought about that for a few minutes. Penelope Smythe was a very good judge of character, and if the vicar’s wife liked Gillian Dashwood ... “Does Mrs. Smythe know about the murder?” Emily asked abruptly.
“I don’t know ... and no, I didn’t bring it up.”
“Why not, you know that Mrs. Smythe loves gossip.”
“Again I don’t know and usually I would have shared the gossip with Penny without another thought, but ...” She frowned. “I think it is the fact that Luc is so fond of Silas Ordway and that Penny herself had only good things to
say about Mrs. Dashwood that kept my lips sealed.” Cornelia fiddled with her spoon. Unhappily, she said, “Remember, we don’t know that Mrs. Dashwood murdered her husband ... perhaps the gossip is all wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time that an innocent was vilified by half truths or even vicious lies.”
Emily nodded slowly. “And we don’t know that Luc has anything more than a passing interest in her—we may be running down the road to meet trouble and all for naught.”
“Perhaps. But I think we would be wise to meet the lady for ourselves.”
Emily perked up. Smiling, she asked, “Shall I have Mrs. Spalding prepare a basket with some of her strawberry preserves and some jars of honey from our hives?”
Cornelia’s hazel eyes danced. “Yes, I think it is only fitting that we call upon the newcomers and welcome them to the neighborhood, don’t you?” She shook a finger at Emily. “But not too soon. Luc is no fool. He would know what we were up to in a flash. Next week will be soon enough.”
Walker tapped on the door and sticking his head into the room, grinning, he said, “Mr. Simon Joslyn is here. Shall I show him in?”
“Without question,” Emily answered, smiling. She’d known Simon Joslyn since she’d been a child and Barnaby’s youngest cousin had always been a favorite of hers.
Simon strolled into the room a moment later, looking handsome enough to steal the heart of half the women in the British Isles. He had the stamp of the Joslyns about him, from his azure eyes and black hair to the tall, athletic build. There were those who thought his older brother, Mathew, handsomer, but gossip pegged Simon as the Most Handsome Man in England.
His dark blue coat of superfine fit his broad shoulders admirably and his buff breeches displayed a pair of nicely formed masculine legs. With a smile that could cause the most hardened feminine heart to beat faster on his lips, he dropped a familiar kiss on first Cornelia’s cheek, then Emily’s. Azure eyes striking between black lashes, he followed Cornelia’s order to help himself to coffee or what else from the sideboard caught his fancy.
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