A Wicked Gentleman (16 page)

He watched Nigel Dagenham untie his horse from outside Messrs. Havant and Green and ride off. So the young fool had recourse to moneylenders…he wouldn't be the first and most definitely not the last. It was a piece of information that might prove useful at some point. How, he didn't know as yet, but Harry dealt in the world of dirty secrets, and he knew their value.

His gaze suddenly sharpened as he saw a figure across the street move out of the shadowed mouth of a narrow alley and slide into the crowd. He was joined almost immediately by a second man, and they moved swiftly after Nigel Dagenham, whose progress was little faster than a pedestrian's, and wouldn't speed up until he reached the crossing with Chancery Lane. In the subdued quarters of the Inns of Court, he would encounter much less traffic.

Harry's eyes followed the two men as they slipped through the throng. He knew what they were. He'd spent many hours eluding such men. Watchers, stalkers, spies—they all had an unmistakable way of moving. Indeed to Harry it seemed they gave off a particular distinctive aura. So who was having Nigel Dagenham watched, and why?

It was a disturbing question, and he didn't like the answer he came up with, not one little bit. He turned back to his workroom, to the charcoal burner and his drills and anvil. He tucked the issue of Nigel Dagenham into a far corner of his mind where it would stay until he was ready to examine it once more. For the moment he needed all his concentration for his work on the tiny snuffbox with its false bottom. The substitute for the lost thimble. It had to be ready for the courier by dawn.

 

“So, Jean, our young friend has fallen into the hands of the moneylenders.” The desiccated man behind the desk in the tall house on Gray's Inn Road turned his head slowly towards his visitor, candlelight throwing the shadow of his sharp nose huge and elongated onto the wall beside him.

“Oui, milord.”
Jean nodded, hands clasped at his back, his eyes, sunken deep in the hatchet face, fixed intently on his superior. “Yesterday he attempted to recoup his losses on a horse race.”

“I see. And how did his fortunes progress, Jean?”

The other man shrugged, spreading his hands wide.
“Hélas,”
he said simply.

A meager smile flickered across milord's ascetic lips. “I see,” he repeated. “A ripe peach ready to drop then?”

“Almost, milord. A little more pressure, perhaps.”

The hissing of the damp coals in the fireplace was the only sound in the gloomy chamber as milord gazed at the grime-encrusted panes of the mullioned window. A steady rain lashed the glass.

“Then we had better apply it, Jean,” he pronounced finally. “Time is running short. We must disable or at the very least create havoc within the British network in France before Napoleon and the Tsar meet. No word of the treaty must be allowed to reach our enemies until it is signed.”

“It's understood, milord.” Jean bowed and turned to go, then hesitated. It was risky to ask his superior for information that had not been freely given, but sometimes, if milord was in a mellow mood, or what passed for such with him, he would answer a question.

“It is certain then, milord, that the emperor will negotiate with Alexander?”

“After Eylau it is only a matter of time.”

Jean waited for a second and then accepted that he had been given all that was forthcoming. At the beginning of February the French and Russian armies had fought the battle of Eylau to a technical French victory but a practical draw, with massive losses on both sides. It was in the interests of both mighty empires to cease hostilities and join forces against the coalition of Austria, England, and Prussia.

“Alexander needs one final push.” Surprisingly, milord spoke again just as Jean laid a hand on the door latch. “Rather in the manner of our ripening peach.” Another thin smile flickered over exiguous lips. “You may rest assured, Jean, that Napoleon will administer the push in the spring. One more victory over the Russians, and a treaty will be signed by early summer.”

“Yes, milord. Thank you, milord.”

“So get on with your own task, Jean. I want that thimble…the emperor wants that thimble.”

Jean ducked his head in a semblance of a bow and hastily left the chamber. He had no time to waste. Milord gave no second chances, and Jean had no desire to meet the knife on the stair like the unfortunate Victor.

N
IGEL FELT NUMB
. Numb except for his head, which screamed with pain. Gin and water, particularly in the quantities he'd been drinking, was sheer poison. He lay down on his bed, closing his eyes in a vain effort to sleep. But all he could think of was that moment when Weatherbell had stumbled within a length of the winning post. Slowly the full horror of what he was facing hit him with all the shattering power of a firing squad. The interest rate on the loan from Havant and Green started at 30 percent, but that hadn't seemed like a problem since he would only carry the debt for twenty-four hours, and with fifty thousand guineas he could easily afford such a sum. But now he had to face the fact that after two days the rate went up to 50 percent, then increased every month after that. Even if he could scrape together the interest, he would never have a prayer of paying off the principal.

He got off the bed and went to the window staring down at the street below. It was a dreary morning. The night's rain had stopped, but the trees dripped, and the sky was still low and leaden. There were few pedestrians around, and those there were stepped gingerly over the puddle-strewn cobbles.

His head felt as if it would burst, and the walls seemed to be closing in on him. He needed to get out, somewhere soothing.

Half an hour later he was knocking on the door to Livia's house in Cavendish Square. A frigid, damp wind gusted across the garden, and he shrank deeper into his greatcoat. The door opened slowly, and Morecombe peered at him.

“Aye?”

“It's me, you old fool,” Nigel said, in no mood for playing the retainer's games. “The Honorable Nigel Dagenham, cousin of Lady Dagenham. Are the ladies at home?”

“Aye.” Morecombe didn't budge.

“I'll announce myself.” Nigel thrust him aside as he pushed open the door and strode into the hall. “Are they in the parlor?”

“Reckon ye'd best find that out fer yerself,” Morecombe said, closing the door firmly. “I've me own work to do.” He creaked off towards the kitchen regions, leaving the visitor fulminating in the hall.

Annoyed though he was, Nigel instantly saw the improvements that had been made since his last visit. He could smell fresh paint, dried lavender, and beeswax. The chandelier had a full complement of candles and threw a brilliant illumination around the hall. For the first time he noticed the few pieces of furniture scattered around the apartment. Choice pieces now that they gleamed with polish and glowed in the golden light, and there was a rather fine rug beneath his feet that he would swear had not been there before.

Curious, he stuck his head around the door to the salon and blinked in amazement. A noble room, no doubt about it now that its lines had been revealed. The furniture was not in the first style, but it had a certain dignity, despite the odd scuff. The curtains and carpet were a little worn, but not in a way that screamed poverty. More a lack of interest in the obvious trappings of wealth. It was empty, but a fire blazed in the grate, and the lamps had been lit, making it warm and welcoming.

It certainly reflected the temperaments of the house's present occupants, he reflected, feeling comforted despite his wretchedness. He went on to the parlor and after a brief knock opened the door.

All three women were in there, seated around the table, heads bent over a pile of magazines while the three children played in front of the fire. Tristan and Isolde hurled themselves at the visitor's boots, yapping frantically.

Nigel grimaced as the sound went straight through his head. “Be quiet.” He tried to push them away with his boots, but they bounced right back at him.

“Good God, Nigel, you look appalling,” Cornelia said, getting up from her chair. “Are you ill, love?”

“No,” he said. “But my head aches. Can't you stop these beasts from making this ghastly racket?”

“Not easily,” she said, bending to scoop them up. “Stevie, darling, will you go to the kitchen and ask Morecombe to come and take the dogs away?”

“All right,” the child said willingly. “Coming, Franny?” They ran off with squeals of laughter, the door banging shut behind them, making Nigel wince anew. Susannah lurched in their wake, only to be stymied by the closed door. She sat down with a thump and opened her mouth on a cry of protest.

Nigel began to regret his impulse to visit the domestic haven. Cornelia was holding the dogs, who were still offering periodic yaps, gazing at him from beneath absurdly thick fringes that must, he thought, obscure their vision. Susannah's protests were approaching full voice, and in desperation he turned and opened the door for her. She toddled forth, tears instantly dried, calling for her brother.

“That wasn't very clever, Nigel,” Cornelia said, thrusting the dogs at him. “She's only three. You have to watch her all the time.” She went after her daughter.

Nigel looked helplessly at his burden, which miraculously had ceased yapping. “Where shall I put them?” he asked, before realizing that Livia and Aurelia were rocking with silent laughter.

“Anywhere,” Aurelia said, taking pity on him. “They'll stop yapping now that they've greeted you. Sit down. Nell's right, you look dreadful. Are you sure you're not sickening for something?”

“No, don't fuss, Ellie.” He dropped the dogs with an air of relief. “I'm perfectly well, I just came for some peace and quiet.”

“That's a little optimistic around here,” Cornelia said, laughing as she returned to the parlor, Susannah clasped firmly in her arms. “The children are sick of being cooped up, but they can't go out in this weather, and the same applies to the dogs. The only one content to be inside is Puss. She's curled up on the rug in front of the fire in my room and shows no inclination to move.”

“What a menagerie,” Nigel muttered, depositing himself in a chair. “But I have to say, coz, you've done wonders with this place in such a short time.”

“Yes, it's surprising what five thousand guineas and an army of helpers can achieve,” Liv said complacently.

“You spent five thousand guineas?” Nigel sat up abruptly. He was about to say it was a fortune until he remembered that he had gambled away almost twice that. He slumped back in his chair.

“No, of course not,” Liv said. “Nowhere near, but enough to make our surroundings outwardly respectable, and now we're concentrating on making ourselves so.”

She waved at the magazines. “See, fashion magazines. If we're clever, we think we can manage with one riding dress, one morning gown, one afternoon gown, and one ball gown each. A variety of accessories…shawls, ribbons, scarves, different trimmings…should make the outfits look different, and Ellie and I are much the same shape, so we think we can wear each other's gowns…not Nell, because she's so much taller than us…but we can share hats and cloaks and—”

“Wait…” Nigel held up a hand, exclaiming in horror, “You're telling me you're going to enter society with just one wardrobe apiece. No one
ever
wears the same gown twice, Liv.”

“No one will know,” Aurelia said placidly. “We're very clever needlewomen ourselves, and we have a seamstress at our disposal who's a genius. She knows all the latest fashions and has any number of tricks up her sleeve for mixing and matching. Besides, it's only for a couple of months until…” She fell silent, glancing at Livia with a guilty grimace.

“Until what?”

“Until I find a husband,” Livia declared. “Now I have a dowry of sorts. I shan't be overly particular, I don't need an earl or such like, but I do need my own establishment. And I want children,” she added almost in an undertone.

Nigel blushed a little at this confidence. “Well, I'm sure that's very laudable, Liv, and I hope you get exactly want you want.”

The sound of the door knocker, briskly applied, set the dogs yapping again, skittering towards the door, noses pressed to the gap between the door and the floor, rear ends wagging violently in anticipation of some new excitement.

The parlor door opened to admit Morecombe who said, “Lord Stevie said you wanted me, ma'am.” Behind him the front door knocker sounded again, even more imperatively.

“Yes, please, Morecombe…Could you take the dogs to the kitchen?” Cornelia said distractedly. “And see who's…no, don't bother, I'll go myself.” She scooped up the dogs, dumped them unceremoniously into the retainer's arms, and hastened across the hall to answer the equally unceremonious banging of the knocker.

The bolts were now well oiled, and she caught herself thinking she should thank the new man, Lester. He seemed to find these little irritations and put them right without anyone asking. The door opened without a creak and she found herself eye to eye with Viscount Bonham.

A surge of something unnameable went through her with the power of a lightning bolt, and it took her several seconds to find her voice, and even then it sounded a little strange to her own ears. “My lord, this is a surprise…it's such a foul morning I didn't expect anyone to be abroad.”

“A little rain never deterred me, Nell,” he said, stepping briskly into the hall, shrugging out of his greatcoat as he did so. He shook drops off his beaver hat, tossed it onto the Jacobean bench that stood beside the door, and draped his coat beside it. He had learned not to expect the niceties of a butler's greeting in this household.

“So, how are you amusing yourselves on this miserable day?” he asked, regarding her closely. Her hair was coming loose from the heavy chignon at the nape of her neck, and he had an almost irresistible urge to free the rest of it…three pins and he would be able to weigh the thick luxuriant buttery mass in his hand.

She gave him one of her straight looks, a tiny question in the steady blue eyes. He smiled and saw the immediate flash that made her appear much younger, a little less certain, than she really was…an involuntary recognition of the sensual current that crackled between them.

And then she had it under control. Her responding smile was that of a hostess. “With those fashion magazines you sent us. We're most grateful for that thought, sir. And for the recommendation of the seamstress. Miss Claire is exactly what we need.” She turned to lead him to the parlor, saying pleasantly over her shoulder, “I wonder that you would know someone quite so comfortable with the need to watch the budget.”

“So you think me a mere fribble,” he remarked, even as he reached out and caught her arm. “Nell, we had an agreement, if you recall.”

She turned to face him. “I don't object to calling you Harry in private,
Harry
, but I doubt such informality would be appropriate in public. My friends and I intend to make an entrance, one unsullied by the slightest possibility of talk.”

He looked around him with an air of exaggerated interest. “The hall appears to be deserted.”

“For the moment,” she agreed. “But my friends are unaware of this…agreement, as you choose to call it…and I would have them remain so. In this house, if you please, we adopt a formal address.”

He detected the undercurrent of anxiety in her statement and once again accepted the need to back away. He would find out later what caused it, but for now discretion was the better part of valor. “Of course, ma'am. I am yours to command.”

Her lips twitched at the ironic edge to his voice, but she smiled her acceptance and led the way into the parlor.

“Ah, Dagenham, you had the same thought I see,” Harry said with a friendly handshake as he greeted Nigel. “Hearth and home provide a pleasant respite from the gaming tables, eh?”

He watched the young man's expression as the handshake was returned. A wan smile greeted the pleasantry, and the man's complexion was more whey than cream. Harry thought of the two men he'd just seen busily clipping the hedge in the square garden opposite. A different pair this time, but gardeners they most certainly were not. They might fool a casual passerby, but they couldn't fool Viscount Bonham. He had smelled them as pungently as he'd caught the aroma off the two in Holborn. Someone had a most unhealthy interest in Nigel Dagenham.

“Yes, indeed, Bonham.” Nigel managed a weak laugh and touched his temples. “Too much daffy last night, I've the devil of a head.”

“A raw egg beaten in a pint of milk,” Livia said with authority. “I had that from my father's head groom. He swore by it.”

Nigel shuddered. “I'll take your word for it, Liv.”

“What can I offer you, Lord Bonham?” Aurelia had gone to the sideboard. “I can ring for tea,” she said a shade doubtfully, “but I have an excellent burgundy here. Lady Dagenham says it's a first-class vintage.”

“Then I'd be delighted to try a glass, thank you.” Harry took a chair beside the secretaire. There were no examples of Nell's penmanship on display. But his eye fell upon the workbox on the drum table beside the window. He glanced across at her. She was sitting on the sofa with the little girl in her lap. The child was leaning against her mother's shoulder, lips slightly parted, eyelids heavy as she drifted into sleep. Cornelia had a faraway expression on her face, and he wondered where she was, what she was seeing. It gave him a feeling of exclusion that chilled him without his knowing why. He had no rights to such a feeling.