by Donna Hatch
Grant scowled. “I need a drink.”
He moved away from Ingle’s pity. After securing a brandy, he sipped slowly, careful to keep his head clear. At the far side of the room, an argument broke out. Grant ambled toward them to be on hand if the argument turned violent. But the bully boys had already noticed and were taking up protective positions.
“How dare you, sirrah!” shouted a fair-haired escapee from college.
The towhead swung a fist at his red-faced companion but his movements were slowed by too much drink. The other youth dodged. The blond missed, but the swing threw him off balance.
Grant grabbed the tottering lad before he fell. “You’ve had enough merriment for tonight, boy. Time to leave.” Fisting his hands in the boy’s coat, Grant hustled him toward the door.
“M’ mothah wash a lady,” the boy slurred.
Grant held his breath at the stench of liquor emanating from the sot, and glanced back at the other youth. If Grant had known the altercation was over an insult to a mother, he would have helped the blond get in a few good blows. No one insulted mothers and got away with it, if Grant could help it. But now was not the time to start a brawl.
To the blond, Grant said, “Indeed, she was. A very fine lady. Come, I’ll call you a cab. Where do you live?”
“Mayfair.” Then he giggled. “Oxford. But Mayfair for a few daysh till I go back to shschool.”
Of course. Most indolent brats lived in Mayfair. Grant hailed a passing hansom cab.
“I’m not a shnot-nosed whelp, either.” The young man cast an accusing glare over his shoulder at the door of the building, but the motion threw him off balance. He staggered and fell against Grant.
He put a steadying hand on the boy’s shoulder and adopted a soothing, albeit condescending tone used for a stupid child. “No, indeed, and you hold your liquor just fine.”
His sarcasm was apparently lost on the boy who grinned at him. “Jush sho.” He stuck out a hand. “Jonathan Fairley, at your shervish.”
The son of the man Grant had been sent to investigate? Grant recovered his surprise enough to regain the role, however unfamiliar, of a gentleman. He replied without missing a beat, “Grant Amesbury, at yours.”
The boy tried to bow but lost his balance again. Grant grabbed the scruff of his neck and held the tottering drunk until the hansom drew up alongside.
Grant called up to the jarvey the address of the Fairleys’ residence. Young Mr. Fairley collapsed into a dead weight. Grant swore and considered his options. He could load the pup into the cab like so much baggage and leave it to the driver to deposit him into the care of his relatives. However, perhaps this situation could be used to Grant’s advantage. This may be the key to securing the notice, and perhaps even gratitude, of his prime suspect in the assassination plot. Such gratitude might bring him close enough inside the family circle to earn the confidence of the plotters, or at least give him more opportunities to investigate Fairley.
Grant gathered up the gangly lad, loaded him into the hansom, and swung into the seat. The drunk snored as they clattered over the cobbled streets. When they arrived in front of the Fairleys’ townhouse, Grant collected his drooling companion, got out with boy draped over his shoulders, and paid the jarvey. Glancing in every direction to ensure no one lay in wait, Grant carried his snoring burden toward the front of the house.
He paused in front of the steps. If the family were in the midst of hosting a soiree, sans one errant son, they might not appreciate a stranger showing up with said errant son senseless and slobbering for their guests to view. Grant smirked. It might be amusing to see stuffed shirts in an uproar over the public return of their wastrel son. However, such entertainment would not further his purposes.
Grant shifted his burden more comfortably on his shoulders and walked around to back to the servants’ entrance on the ground floor. A brief rap on the door brought the silhouette of a man holding a spoon in one hand. Grant blinked in the light behind the figure.
“Good evening, my good man,” Grant said politely, still immersed in his role. “I have a special delivery.” He turned enough to show the face of the lad draped over his shoulder.
The kitchen servant let out a gasp. “It’s the young master.” He called over his shoulder, “Elwood, fetch Mr. Owen at once, and inform Miss Fairley. Mae, show this gentleman the way to Master Jonathan’s chambers.” He waved Grant in.
A scullery maid dressed in a plain frock too short for her thin legs bobbed a curtsy. “This way, sir.”
Grant followed the small girl up a narrow, steep flight of stairs not unlike the back stairs in his family estate that he’d used as a boy to sneak into the kitchen and steal sweets. He maneuvered carefully so as not to bump the unconscious youth’s head, though the pup likely deserved a good head-thumping. Most nobility did at his age. Grant let out his breath in disgust. Useless, bored aristocrats lived for the next pleasure while Grant and other loyal Englishmen spent their youth answering the call to serve king and country. A fat lot of good it did him. But for all he knew, maybe he helped tip the scales toward victory before he was captured. He resisted the urge to let out a healthy snort at the overly optimistic thought.
As he ascended to the family wing behind the maid, a diminutive middle-aged man with the clothes and air of the butler met him in the corridor. “Upon my word, Master Fairley!” His gaze landed on Grant, taking a swift appraisal of his clothes. “Where did you find him, sir?”
“At a gaming…er…establishment trying to start a brawl. I hailed him a cab, but he passed out so I thought I ought to bring him home myself before he came to harm.” He almost laughed at the overly concerned tones he adopted for the butler’s benefit.
“How very kind.” The butler bestowed a smile so fatherly and affectionate that Grant blinked. “I am Owens, sir. If you would be so good as to bring him in here?”
Owens nodded to the scullery maid in dismissal and she scurried away. The butler led the way to a Georgian-style bedroom with an abundance of red and gilt. He gestured to the bed. “Please lay him there. His valet will put him to bed.”
As Grant unburdened himself of the snoring youth, the butler said, “My master will wish to thank you, sir. May I give him your name?”
“Amesbury. Grant Amesbury.” He retrieved a calling card that Clark had tucked his pocket since no gentleman of good ton would be without one.
Footsteps neared mingled with the whisper of silk. Grant glanced at a young woman wearing a white lace ball gown hovering in the doorway. Her yellow-gold hair was caught up in the kind of ridiculously elaborate style all the husband-seeking females of her class wore, and pearls hung from her ears and neck. Fairley’s daughter, no doubt, probably as vain and empty-headed as all high society chits.
“Is Jonathan injured?” Concern wove through her husky contralto. Surprising, that. Most empty-headed chits spoke in thin, high-pitched voices like children about to burst in to peals of giggling, and tittered behind their fans.
Grant tempered the first words that came to his head about how foxed her Jonathan had gotten, and reminded himself that his goal was to ingratiate himself into the family, not to offend the sensibilities of a member of it.
“No, not injured—merely intoxicated,” Grant said. “I caught him before he hit the ground when he passed out.”
The chit shot a glare at the slumbering sot. But when she returned her gaze to Grant, she smiled with mingled curiosity and gratitude. “That was noble of you, sir. I hope you didn’t go to a great deal of trouble.”
Grant wanted to smirk at the understatement. “Not at all. It was my pleasure.” He almost choked on the words. But if bringing home the sot and earning the appreciation of a villain’s daughter led to exposing the plot, then it was worth it. Time would tell.
“We are in your debt, sir,” she added.
A sudden thought struck Grant. To his knowledge, Fairley only had one daughter. Had this been the lady he’d attacked in Fairley’s study? She, too, had worn
pearls around her neck, right below where he’d pressed his hand. Grant gave her a quick once-over, searching for signs of trauma, but she stood composed and clear-eyed. Either she hadn’t been his victim, or the lure of a party had the power to pull her from hysterics.
A servant dressed as a valet arrived and set about removing the drunk’s boots. The valet nodded to the girl. “I’ll see to him, Miss Fairley.”
The butler headed for the door and Grant followed him out of the room. As he drew near the girl, Owens hesitated, then bowed and intoned, gesturing to Grant, “The honorable Grant Amesbury, miss.” Then turning to Grant, he indicated the girl. “Miss Jocelyn Fairley.”
Amused that the butler took on the role of introducing them, Grant inclined his head in an aristocratic bow.
She offered a very proper curtsy. “I am the very grateful sister to the young man you were so kind to have aided.”
She smiled so brightly that Grant almost shielded his eyes from its sheer brilliance. No doubt, hers was a perfectly rehearsed maneuver designed to ensnare some poor, unsuspecting male in the parson’s noose.
The butler discreetly left.
“Mr. Amesbury?” she said. “Brother to the Earl of Tarrington?”
“The same.”
The chit knew her book of peerage. Of course she did. All marriage-minded, gold-digging females memorized that book so they could customize their attack plan when they met a man of significance—not that Grant cared to place himself in that category.
The wench’s smile deepened and her eyes sparkled. “I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you, Mr. Amesbury for bringing home my brother. And I’m sure my father will share my gratitude. I was growing concerned when Jonathan failed to appear. I’d asked him to come home from Oxford specifically for this night.” Her cheer faded as she cast another frown in the boy’s direction before returning her attention to Grant’s face.
For a society chit, she had a remarkably direct gaze, remarkably bright blue eyes as if lit from within, and a remarkably sunny smile. And she expected something. Conversation.
He seized on the first thing that came to mind. “Jocelyn is an unusual Christian name for a girl.”
Her expression turned amused. “My Grandmother’s maiden name was Jocelyn so she named my mother Marie Jocelyn. When I was born, my parents reversed her names and gave them to me: Jocelyn Marie.” She ended with a bouncy sort of grin.
He blinked. “That explains it.”
Some inner joy, or a calculating thought, widened her smile. “We are about to have dinner. Won’t you please join us and allow us to thank you properly?”
Grant could hardly resist rubbing his hands together at the thought of so quickly earning entrance into the household where he could continue his investigation. He called upon all his lessons in good breeding, dusty as they were. “You’re too kind, but I wouldn’t wish to intrude.”
“It would be our honor.” She hesitated. “Unless you have a previous engagement?”
“Nothing I can’t miss. In fact, I’d like to meet your father. I understand he has just announced his intent to become the next prime minister?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“I’m sure he’ll do a better job than the buffoon in that office now.”
She smiled and gestured down the corridor. “This way. I wouldn’t call Lord Liverpool a buffoon, but I am persuaded my father will be a brilliant leader if given the opportunity.”
As she kept pace with him, she glanced at his arm. Then he remembered his role as nobleman’s son in the presence of a lady and offered his elbow. Smiling, she wound her arm through his. Shocked by the long-absent experience of a woman voluntarily touching him, he barely managed to keep moving. She led him to a grand curving staircase overlooking the main foyer with black and white marble tiles. Her perfume tickled his nose, the exact scent worn by the girl he’d roughed up in the study. And she wore pearls, as did his victim. So it had been Fairley’s daughter he’d threatened. Grant tried to keep his face benign. His threats repeated in his mind, the threats he’d whispered into her ear as he’d muscled her against the wall and silenced her. Not to mention his grip on her throat. He refused to cringe at the thought. She’d obviously suffered no harm.
He returned his focus to his mission as they descended the stairs. “So you believe Lord Liverpool will be replaced as prime minister?”
“Perhaps. There’s talk of casting a vote of no-confidence which will force the House to choose a successor to bring before the king. His will be the final decision, of course.” She shrugged delicately. “We shall see.”
Grant studied her but saw nothing beyond guileless cheer in her countenance—as if any female could be without guile.
The wench paused to whisper lengthy instructions to a passing footman who instantly dashed away. Returning her cheerful expression to his face, the Fairley chit led him to a drawing room almost as elaborate as the grand ballroom at Tarrington Castle.
The Fairley girl glanced up at Grant, her head not quite level with his shoulder, and gestured to the couples waltzing. “We’re just about to begin the dinner set, so we’ll dine shortly. I’ve seated you next to my father. I hope that meets with your approval.”
“Perfectly.” His gaze darted about the room, noting every door and window, and recognizing many of the nearby guests. He absently noted the intricate woodwork and the paintings on the soaring ceiling illuminated by hundreds of candles.
The finest stuffed shirts, including his brother Cole, the illustrious Lord Tarrington, appeared to be present. His youngest brother, the perfectly perfect Christian and his new wife, Genevieve, whirled by. Even his brother Jared, who’d recently escaped both piracy and death waltzed with his wife, Elise. Jared normally despised social gatherings as much as Grant, but he’d started making more and more social appearances since his marriage to the young widow who’d proved she possessed more than met the eye. A number of other lords and powerful families gathered in the room. Tonight, no lack of pedigree danced at the Fairley’s auspicious gathering of nobs.
Grant glanced at the Fairley girl with raised brow. “I see you have a plethora of Amesburys this evening.”
She grinned. “You are an unexpected, and might I add, most welcome addition.”
Smooth. One corner of his mouth tugged upward. Hopefully, she’d interpret it as friendly and not mocking. And must she smile so much? It wasn’t natural. No one was that happy. Either she was a desperate and meticulously trained husband hunter, or she had perfected the role of politician’s daughter coached to garner goodwill toward her father.
While Grant entertained and rejected every reply that came to mind as being too rude or cutting to fit the part he played tonight, the wench tugged on his arm. “I’ll introduce you to my father.”
As he and the girl wound through the guests, a few turned curious gazes on Grant. Some stared at the scar running the length of his cheek while other vaguely familiar faces gazed at him in surprise—probably speculating about the arrival of a man reputed to shun polite society. Grant’s only appearances at social gatherings since he’d returned home from the war had been his brothers’ weddings, events he’d attended out of duty. Besides, he’d actually grown to like the women his brothers married. Wonders never ceased.
The Fairley chit led Grant to a tall, fit man with gray fading his blond hair. He stood in a circle talking to two known members of Parliament, and a man whose face Grant could not place.
She touched the blond man on the arm. “Papa, forgive me for interrupting, but I’d like you to meet Mr. Grant Amesbury, brother to the Earl of Tarrington.”
Curious, assessing blue eyes swept over Grant only a heartbeat before Fairley offered a bow. “Your servant, Mr. Amesbury.”
Fairley’s girl rose up on tiptoe and whispered into his ear. Fairley’s eyes opened wide, narrowed, and then he quickly mastered his expression. “A great pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said to Grant. “And our thanks to you, as well.”
&nbs
p; Grant cast off the first flippant response and summoned something that sounded urbane enough for these nobs. “Happy to be of service, sir.”
Fairley indicted his fellow stuffed shirts. “Please allow me to introduce Mr. Dawson and Mr. Redding.”
Grant returned their bows. He saw nothing overly unusual about either of them except that they were perfect foils, with Mr. Dawson being tall and so thin that a stiff wind might blow him over, and Mr. Redding so short and portly that he appeared almost the same size in every possible direction. And they cast suspicious, almost hostile glances at one another.
This must be Mr. Redding who’d announced his desire for the office of prime minister—Fairley’s only contender. For his part, Fairley seemed to have many supporters in the House, but the office of prime minister would be open only if the House of Commons cast a vote of no confidence on Lord Liverpool, which seemed unlikely. However, if the current prime minister died, it would almost certainly guarantee Fairley’s name would be presented to the king. Murder could be a quick path to power.
Chapter 3
Jocelyn stepped back to leave the gentlemen to their discussions and did a quick, visual survey of the room. Guests talked and laughed, couples filled the dancefloor, liveried servants carried trays of drinks through the crowds, and just the right amount of candles burned to softly illuminate the room.
Yet try as she might, she could not keep her attention from wandering back to Grant Amesbury. He was, without a doubt, one of the most savagely handsome men she’d ever seen. With hair as black as a raven, eyes of purest silver, and the chiseled features of a nobleman, he belonged within the pages of a novel by her favorite author. Wearing all black, except for his white shirt and cravat, he gave the impression of severity. Or perhaps he was still in mourning for his father, deceased only five or six months ago.
Judging by his tall, lean but muscular build and the assured grace of his walk, he had to be athletic—probably a fencer and a pugilist. A ragged scar running down the right side of his face as well as his guardedness suggested he bore a hundred secrets. He would have made a perfect pirate or spy. His expertly tailored clothing of the latest fashion revealed his taste in simplicity, yet he wore his hair slightly longer than strictly fashionable as if he often walked just outside society lines.