by Jane Feather
They were greeted by the liveried and bewigged footman at a discreet house on Charles Street. “Gentlemen, welcome.” He took their cloaks and hats, and waited while they divested themselves of their swords. Weapons were not permitted at the tables, with good reason. He ushered them into the first of the gaming salons.
Luke strolled around the tables, looking at the play, listening to the groom porters calling the odds, trying to get a feeling for which one would bring him luck. He took a bumper of rum punch from a waiter’s tray and finally settled in to play.
The rest of the evening passed in a haze of rum punch and a gradually seeping knowledge of disaster. He laid down one IOU after another. The banker accepted them all without demur, and Luke watched the little pile of paper grow. He became aware of one of his friends standing at his shoulder.
“Odd’s blood, man. Call it a night. It’s enough,” Lucien remonstrated. “We’re all rolled up for tonight, it’s time to drown our losses between a pair of sweet thighs. Come, Luke. Give it up now.”
Luke waved him away. “One more. I can smell a win in the next hand. You go on, and I’ll see you later.”
The Honorable Lucien shrugged and left.
Luke won the next hand and, emboldened, played three more. He lost them all and finally rose from the table unable to comprehend the extent of his losses, but vaguely aware in his befuddled brain that he faced disaster.
He staggered out into the cold night air and immediately felt dizzy. He leaned against the wall until the world stopped spinning. As soon as the brat was dead, everything would come right. As soon as it was known he was heir to the Astley fortune, his creditors would step back. They would be only too happy to offer him as much credit as he wanted.
True, gambling debts were debts of honor. He couldn’t expect them to be extended. But once he had firm expectations the moneylenders would be more than happy to accommodate him. He walked through the Piazza, seeing little of what was going on around him. If Francis hadn’t yet succumbed, then he was going to have to do something more to encourage it . . . and that quickly.
He hailed a hackney. His house was in darkness when he stepped out of the carriage. He paid the driver and let himself into the hall. A guttering candle was all the light available and he cursed at the negligence of his servant. He took up the candle stub and stumbled up the stairs to his bedchamber, where he lit a candle by the bed from the stub in his hand and sat down heavily to remove his shoes. He didn’t get much further before falling back on the bed in a stertorous sleep.
No one disturbed him until he awoke at midday to his customary pounding head and dry mouth. He sat up, looked down in disgust at his crumpled clothes. Staggering to his feet he shrugged out of his coat and yanked the bellpull.
“You rang, sir.” His manservant appeared in the doorway, shrugging into his own coat. It was clear he had been recently roused from his own slumber.
“Help me out of these clothes.”
The man did so. “Late night, was it, sir?”
“If you’d done your job and waited up for me you’d know the answer to that,” Luke said savagely.
The man responded with a derisive sniff. No one else would work for the paltry wages he received, if, indeed, he received them at all. And who could blame a man who worked for next to nothing taking as much time away from the job as he pleased? “Ed was here last even.” He took his master’s waistcoat, shaking out the creases.
“What did he want?” Luke turned from the basin where he was soaking a cloth in cold water.
“He didn’t come to speak to me, sir, so I wouldn’t know. He just said it was urgent.”
Luke placed the cold cloth on his forehead. “Urgent?” Could that mean he was bringing the one piece of news that would make everything all right? “Send a message to the stables . . . tell him to come at once.”
“I’ll see if he’s free, sir.”
“And bring me some hot water, and the brandy bottle.” Luke stripped off the rest of his clothes and put on a chamber robe. His headache was improving by the minute, and he could feel optimism creeping into his blood. It was time for this to be over.
The servant returned with the brandy bottle and a jug of hot water. “I sent the boy up to the stables, sir. Should I shave you?”
Luke tilted the bottle to his lips, feeling the steadying warmth returning sense and stability to his mind and limbs. “Get on with it then.”
Half an hour later Ed arrived and was shown up to Luke’s bedchamber. “The boy’s not there no more.”
Light sprang into Luke’s dull eyes. “Good. He’s gone then.”
“Aye. Why’d you send someone to fetch ’im and then tell me to find out ’ow’s he doin’?” Ed’s aggrieved tone puzzled Luke as much as the strange words.
“What do you mean? Speak clearly, man.”
Ed looked at him pityingly. “I means, sir, exactly what I says. Bertha said you’d sent fer the boy an’ she give ’im up.”
“What? I never sent for him . . . who would I send?”
“Some hoity-toity lady, she said. Took the boy, said you’d sent her to fetch ’im.”
Luke’s world began to fall apart, piece by piece, like a tumbling jigsaw. “What did she look like, this lady?”
Ed shrugged. “Don’t rightly know, sir. Like a lady, that’s all Bertha said.”
Clarissa? Could it have been Clarissa? But how on earth could she have found Francis? It was not possible. No one knew where he was except his uncle and Ed.
Luke turned on the groom. “What have you done? Who have you told? You betrayed me, you cur. I’ll have you locked up . . . I’ll have you transported . . . dear God, I’ll see you hang for this.”
“Whoa.” Ed held up his hands, half curled into fists. “Hold yer ’osses, sir. You ain’t got no call to threaten me like that. I done nuthin’ but what you paid me to do, an’ that was small enough. Took the lad to our Bertha’s an’ left ’im there.” His eyes narrowed. “If you asks me, y’are the one the law’d be interested in . . . wantin’ to do away wi’ a poor scrap like that . . . yer own nephew an’ all.”
Luke spun away from him. He couldn’t afford to anger the man; he knew too much. “Well that’s as may be,” he said with difficulty. “I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything, Ed. I know you’ve done me good service. Did your sister give you any real description of this woman? Her hair color, her stature, anything at all? Did the boy go with her willingly?”
Ed shook his head. “No . . . didn’t ask and she didn’t tell. You want me to go back?”
“Yes, today . . . at once. No . . . wait. I’ll go myself.” He could find out much better for himself, he decided. He needed to know how the woman arrived there, if she left any clue as to where she was going . . . how the boy greeted her . . . what she was wearing . . . and most particularly, her hair color. He couldn’t rely on Ed to ask all the right questions, and neither could he bear to sit chewing his nails waiting for the man to return.
“Tell me how to get there.” He picked up his sword belt, fastening it at his hip.
“You owe me a sovereign,” Ed reminded him without answering the question.
“Later.” Luke picked up his cloak. “Give me the direction.”
“Not wi’out the sovereign.” Ed folded his arms and regarded Luke placidly. “If I don’t get it now, I doubt I’ll see the color of yer money this side o’ next Christmas.”
Luke burned with fury and mortification. Even this stable-hand questioned his honor.
Ed continued to regard him in silence and Luke swallowed, turned his back, and dug into the recesses of his armoire, where he kept a small purse of emergency coins. He took out a sovereign and slowly held it out to the man.
Ed took it, tossed it in the air, and caught it deftly. He bit it, then nodded, shoving it into his pocket. “Ye’ll be wanting the stairs at Wapping. Ye’ll find our Bertha on Dundee Street, third ’ouse from the top. Ask anyone, they’ll tell you right enough . . . I’ll be off now
.” He headed for the door.
Luke ran down the stairs after him, shouting for his servant. “Send to the mews for my horse.”
It took him an hour with several wrong turns to reach the mean streets of east London, but at last he found Wapping Stairs, and after two queries drew rein outside the house on Dundee Street. He stared up at the house. For some reason he hadn’t expected anything quite so foul and forbidding as these ranks of crooked houses, the stinking kennels running to the river, the tumbledown roofs and glassless windows.
He didn’t dismount—he was too afraid to leave his horse—and instead banged on the door with his riding whip. The small girl who opened it a crack peered up at him. “What d’you want?”
“Bertha. Ask her to come out here.” He spoke impatiently, looking up and down the street, expecting a group of ruffians to descend upon him at any moment. “At once, girl.”
She ducked back, closing the door again, and he leaned over and banged with his whip again, keeping it up until the door opened and a brawny woman stood there with folded arms glaring at him. “You wantin’ to wake the dead then?”
“Are you Bertha?”
“Depends who’s askin’.”
“I left a boy with you and paid you three months in advance for his keep. Ed tells me you gave him to a woman. I want to know about her.”
“It’ll cost you.”
“It damn well will not,” he exclaimed. “I paid you in advance, and now you don’t have him anymore. Tell me what the woman looked like, before I call the watch on you.”
Bertha seemed to consider this, then she gave a scornful laugh. “Much good that’ll do you.” But she relented enough to give him as near a detailed description of her visitor as she could manage, and Luke listened in growing rage and despair.
He rode away from the woman’s door knowing without a shadow of doubt that Clarissa had taken her brother. He couldn’t begin to imagine how she’d found him, but find him she had. So where the hell was she now? His wards were somewhere in this city, unless she’d gone back to Kent, back to the protection and support of her father’s friends. Danforth and the physician. That would be her most logical step. She would rely on them to support her. But however black the picture she painted Luke still had the law on his side. He was still their legal guardian. Not even Danforth could overset the will, and he had absolute control and authority over his wards until Clarissa came of age. He could post into Kent and assert his authority there and no one could gainsay him.
But what if Clarissa never came of age? The freshness of the idea was so startling he drew rein involuntarily and his horse reared up with a loud protesting whinny. If something happened to Clarissa before she reached her twenty-first birthday, then his guardianship of Francis would continue until the boy reached his own majority.
He would have eleven years in which to milk his ward’s inheritance. Charges for care and feeding . . . for schooling . . . oh, there were many ways in which he could live quite well off young Francis without doing away with him in the short term. And it was so much less risky, so much less obvious. He could play the devoted uncle and guardian for the world to see, and removing one young woman from the earth’s surface should not be that difficult. Once he knew where she was.
He would post into Kent at once and would assert his authority more in sorrow than in anger. He would be the misunderstood, falsely maligned guardian, and he would insist on bringing them both back to London with him. If the lawyer and the physician protested, he would remove his wards with the full force of the law.
Chapter Seventeen
The Honorable Sebastian Sullivan ran his cane along the railings as he sauntered down Half Moon Street in the company of his twin. “When d’you think Jasper will make his announcement, Perry?”
“I don’t know . . . and really, Seb, I don’t think we should be visiting her without Jasper’s say-so. She’s his business, not ours.”
“Nonsense,” Sebastian declared, playing a robust tune on the railings. “We used to visit Gwendolyn whenever the urge took us; he never objected to that. Besides, Mistress Ordway’s going to become part of the family, if Jasper has anything to do with it. It’s only natural we should visit our brother’s betrothed; of course we’d be interested in looking her over.”
Peregrine shook his head. “She’s not yet his betrothed, and you know it. And if you think Jasper’s going to be interested in your approval, you have windmills in your head. I’m certainly not going to submit my prospective bride for your or Jasper’s approval.”
“Who is she, anyway?” His brother turned his head against his high starched cravat to regard his twin with a quizzical grin.
“I’m not ready to say just yet. Who’s yours?”
Sebastian’s grin broadened. “Oh, a positive winner, Perry. I’ll snatch her from a den of iniquity just as she’s about to forfeit her immortal soul.”
“Has Uncle Bradley seen her yet?”
Sebastian looked mysterious. “Well, maybe he has, and maybe he hasn’t. It rather depends.”
“On what?” Perry demanded.
“On what he remembers. Have you shown him yours?”
Peregrine shook his head. “Not yet. It’s hard for her to find the time.”
“Why? What occupies her time otherwise?”
Perry shook his head again. “Not telling you yet. We’re here.” He stopped at the door of Jasper’s house. “Are you sure it’s not discourteous to descend upon her without warning?”
“Why should it be? It’s a perfectly respectable time for a morning call. If she’s going to make a passable countess, she’s got to be able to show to advantage in a social setting. What more ordinary a social setting than receiving visitors?”
“Well, I hope you’re right. I don’t want to be in Jasper’s black books.”
“We won’t be.” Sebastian ran lightly up the steps and banged the knocker.
Sally opened the door, expecting Lord Blackwater. She blinked in surprise at his lordship’s brothers. “Good morning, sirs. His lordship isn’t here.”
“We didn’t come to see him,” Sebastian said cheerfully. “We came to pay our respects to Mistress Ordway.”
“Oh.” Sally looked a little doubtful. “If you’ll wait in the hall, sirs, I’ll let my mistress know you’re here.”
“Oh, we’d like to surprise her.” Sebastian half lifted Sally out of the way. “Is she in the drawing room? Come, Perry.” He started for the stairs just as a small boy catapulted into the hall from the kitchen.
“Sally, I’m goin’ to find the peddler down the road. He just left an’ Mistress Newby forgot to get some pink ribbon she wants for ’er Sunday bonnet, so I’m goin’ to get it for her. Will you tell my s—” He swallowed the word in the nick of time, just as he took in the presence of strangers. “Tell the mistress?” he finished in a rather more subdued tone. “In case she wants me.” He was already struggling with the door latch.
“Yes, I’ll tell her, but don’t be long. I’ve work for you to do,” Sally said. “And go out the back door, the front door’s for the gentry. Surely you know that?”
The child bit his lip, then turned and scampered back through the rear door to the kitchen.
“He’s new around here,” Peregrine observed. “What happened to the other lad?”
“Oh, he’s still around,” Sally said with something of a martyred sigh. “And the pair of them are always up to no good. Encourage each other, they do.”
“Best not let Jasper catch ’em,” Sebastian said with a chuckle. “Small boys can annoy him. Remember Cousin Julia’s boy, Perry? He took Jasper’s gun out of the gun room at Blackwater Manor and then dropped it in the pond because it was too heavy for him. Oh, that was a ruckus. Cousin Julia standing in front of her ewe lamb with her arms outstretched to defend him, and Jasper, black as thunder, threatening all kinds of retribution.”
“We never seemed to annoy him,” Peregrine observed.
“Oh, I don’t know about tha
t. Don’t you remember when we got stranded on Dough Crag that time we set out to climb it and it was too late in the day . . . God, he was as mad as fire when he found us.”
“We’d scared him silly, that’s why.” Peregrine ran lightly up the stairs ahead of his brother.
Clarissa was sitting at the secretaire composing a difficult letter to Lawyer Danforth when the brothers entered the drawing room. Hastily she covered her composition. It was the devil’s own task to reassure the lawyer that all was well with both herself and Francis, without telling him any details, but in good conscience she couldn’t leave her friends worrying any longer. And she knew they would probably be frantic by now. She had to give him an address to write back to, and the only possible one was Half Moon Street, so she’d constructed yet another fantasy about a kindly woman who ran a lodging house, where she was staying to be close to her brother, since her uncle’s house was not really big enough for all of them, and as it was a bachelor’s establishment she didn’t feel too comfortable living there. It all made perfect sense, and she could see no reason why anything in that narrative would disturb the lawyer.
She had been so deeply immersed in her complicated task that she hadn’t heard the door knocker and now looked in startled surprise at the unceremonious arrival of her visitors.
She stood up, looking automatically for Jasper, who had surely come with his brothers. He’d said he would be bringing her visitors this morning. “Gentlemen . . . is your brother not with you?”
“No, ma’am. We took the liberty of visiting you alone. Must we go away again?” Sebastian’s smile was endearing.
“No . . . no, of course not. You are both most welcome. Pray, be seated.” She gestured to a sofa. “What may I offer you? Sherry . . . Madeira . . . or claret if you prefer?”
“Oh, a glass of Jasper’s claret, I think. What about you, Perry?”