A Wicked Gentleman (18 page)

P
UNCTUALLY AT SIX O'CLOCK
, Harry stepped down from his carriage in Devonshire Place and mentally braced himself for the upcoming evening as he strode up the steps to the front door of his great-aunt's mansion. In truth he was rather fond of the old lady, but only in the smallest of doses.

The door opened as he reached the top step. “Good evening, Trent.” He greeted the elderly man who stood bowing in the doorway.

“Good evening, my lord. It's a pleasure to see you.” The butler took Harry's hat and silver-topped cane and waited while he unbuttoned his gloves. “Her Grace is in the blue salon, sir.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. The room in question was relatively small compared with the usual receiving rooms in a house that Harry privately thought resembled a mausoleum. “This is to be an intimate evening then?”

“The other guests are not invited until seven o'clock, my lord.”

“Oh,” Harry said a trifle glumly. His great-aunt obviously intended to corner him about something, and he could guess what.

“I'll bring a bottle of His Grace's '93 Madeira, sir, if that might help,” the butler said with a conspiratorial smile.

Harry returned the smile. “It can't hurt, Trent. Thank you.” The '93 was a particularly fine vintage. His great-uncle, the duke of Gracechurch, had been a fine judge of wine until the last few years, when his gout had finally forced him to moderate his drinking. Moderation had not sweetened his temper, however, and when he was at his worst, the duchess generally chose to visit town. Presumably an attack lay behind the present visitation.

He followed a footman upstairs to a corner apartment. “Lord Bonham, Your Grace,” the footman announced, opening the door.

“Ah, there you are, Bonham. I was wondering what was keeping you.” The duchess raised her lorgnette and regarded her great nephew critically.

Harry glanced at the clock on the mantel. “I understand I was summoned for six o'clock, ma'am. Could I have been mistaken?” He came across the salon to bow over her hand.

“How am I supposed to remember what time I said?” the lady demanded, letting her lorgnette drop on its long silver chain. “That's Eliza's business.”

Harry relinquished his aunt's hand and turned to bow to the other lady in the room, his great-aunt's companion. A small, middle-aged, brown mouse of a woman dressed in a plain gown of gray muslin, a white cap tied beneath her chin, she rose from her chair and bobbed a curtsy. “Good evening, my lord.” She had a pleasant if undistinguished face and a smile of particular sweetness.

“Miss Cox, how are you?” he asked warmly. “Keeping well, I hope.”

“Oh, yes…yes, indeed, so kind of you to ask, my lord. Too, too kind, I do declare.”

“Oh do stop wittering, Eliza,” her employer commanded. “Now sit down, Bonham. Where's Trent…I told him to bring…oh, there you are, man. About time too.” She waved imperiously at the butler with her fan. “What's that you've got there?”

“The '93 Madeira, Your Grace,” the man said, setting his tray on a console table. “Will you take a glass?” He lifted the decanter.

The duchess sniffed. “Might as well,” she said.

Trent poured the wine, and Harry carried a glass over to his aunt. Then he took a second to Miss Cox. “Ratafia, ma'am,” he said, setting it on a drum table beside her.

“Oh, thank you, my lord. Just what I like. So kind of you to remember…so kind.”

“Rot your insides that stuff will…nasty sweet muck,” the duchess declared, taking a sip from her own glass. “Hmm…not bad…not bad at all. Gracechurch always was a good judge…about some things at least,” she added. “Couldn't tell a horse from a donkey though.”

Harry refrained from comment. He sat down on a gilt chair opposite his aunt, took an appreciative sip of his Madeira. And waited.

His great-aunt lifted her lorgnette again and examined him.

“Is something amiss, ma'am?” he inquired.

“You look well enough,” she conceded. “Whatever else I might say about you, nephew, you always know how to dress.”

Harry contented himself with a faint inclination of his head. Knowing his aunt's old-fashioned views on prevailing fashion, he had dressed for the evening in knee britches rather than pantaloons, with the regulation white waistcoat and black tailcoat. His aunt's attire, a hooped gown of lavender silk decorated with dark green velvet bows, was from another era altogether, as was her curled and powdered wig adorned with three ostrich feathers and something resembling a bird in a cage.

“And how is His Grace?” he asked.

“Oh, complaining as usual. It's his own fault…won't listen to the leeches. Drank a bottle of port with Hamilton the other afternoon, and he's been laid low ever since,” the duchess declared, confirming Harry's earlier suspicions. “But I came up to town to talk to you. When are you going to find yourself another wife, Bonham?”

Harry had known it was coming. “I have no inclination to do so, ma'am.” He stood up and went to refill his glass.

“Nonsense…you owe it to the family. You need an heir.”

Harry turned back, the decanter in hand. “I have two brothers, ma'am. Either one of whom will be more than capable of handling the title and the estates. They both have sons. The family name is in no danger of dying out.” He brought the decanter over to her and refilled her glass.

“They don't have a whole brain between 'em,” the lady declared scornfully. “You know perfectly well, Bonham, that you can run rings around 'em.”

“I disagree, ma'am. Both Edmund and Robert manage their estates, their lives, and their families admirably.” A chill note had entered his voice, and his tone was clipped. He returned to his seat and looked at her over the rim of his glass.

The duchess pouted. There was no other way to describe it, he thought, suppressing a chuckle. She knew he would never tolerate criticism of his family and usually she was careful about what she said to him. The Madeira had probably loosened her tongue.

“Well, that's as may be,” she stated with a dismissive wave of her fan. “You can believe what you wish. But it's time you had a wife. It's been four years, man. No one pays any attention to the old story anymore.”

“His Grace does.” He sipped his wine.

“Oh, that old fool.” The duchess dismissed her nephew's father-in-law with a snort of disgust. “The duke's never been able to see what's in front of his nose. He should have known that his daughter—”

“Forgive me, ma'am, but that's enough,” Harry said softly but with unmistakable authority. “I don't care to discuss it any further.”

It silenced her for a few minutes. Eliza Cox seemed to shrink into her chair and busied herself with her needlework. Harry sat calmly, his face expressionless.

“You'll be taking Primrose Tallant in to dinner,” the duchess declared suddenly, as if the previous conversation had never taken place. “She's a plain creature, I grant you, but she's no fool, and there's twenty thousand pounds there.”

“I hardly think I need to marry an heiress, ma'am,” Harry said with a sigh.

The duchess snorted again. “If you ask me, you don't know what you need.”

Harry decided it wasn't worth further discussion. He said casually, “I was hoping to persuade you and Lady Sefton to visit some acquaintances of mine, ma'am. They're but newly arrived in town. I think you might enjoy meeting them.”

The duchess's gaze sharpened. “What makes you think so…who are they?”

“Viscountess Dagenham, her sister-in-law, Lady Farnham, and a friend of theirs, Lady Livia Lacey.”

His great-aunt frowned. “Lacey…related to Lady Sophia is she?”

“I believe there is some connection,” he said. “Lady Livia inherited Lady Sophia's house in Cavendish Square.”

“Hmm.” The duchess nodded. “Sophia was quite a woman in her day…older than I, of course…we moved in different circles.” She stroked her chin thoughtfully. “So what's the gal like?”

Harry shrugged. “I don't really know her. She seems pleasant.”

“So what's your interest there?” she asked, her eyes fixed intently upon him.

“I have no interest, ma'am,” he said patiently. “But I happened to meet the ladies quite by chance. They would benefit from an introduction to society. Lady Dagenham and her sister-in-law are widows.” He explained the situation briefly.

The duchess listened, for once without any forceful interjections, and when he'd finished, she said only, “Well, I suppose you may escort me to Cavendish Square. I'll look them over.”

“Thank you, ma'am.” It was as he'd expected. Her curiosity was aroused. If there was the slightest possibility that her nephew might be showing interest in some woman she didn't know, then she'd review the situation without delay. But whatever her motives, the end result would be the same. Cornelia and her friends would have their social introduction.

And now a long and tedious evening stretched ahead of him until he could get down to the real business of the night. At the thought of that business his blood surged with exhilaration. A few hours of tedium would only enhance the anticipation.

 

The gods were blessing his enterprise, Harry reflected, looking up at the black sky where not even a hint of starshine or moonlight showed behind lowering clouds. The garden below him as he straddled the wall was dark as the grave, only the faint gnarled shapes of the fruit trees offering contrast. The back of the house rose up against the sky, its windows lightless.

He remained where he was until he could make out the shapes of the various windows and was certain he'd identified Nell's. It wouldn't do to disturb someone else. But it was unmistakable given Lester's explicit directions. The second from the left on the first floor immediately above the library on the ground floor. And a sturdy copper drainpipe was most conveniently situated to its right.

Harry leaned forward to grab the branch of an apple tree that scraped the top of the wall. He launched himself off the wall, dropping soundlessly to the soft ground beneath. He paused, listening. Not a sound, not even the rustle of a vole in the underbrush. He darted at a crouch across the small expanse of open ground until he stood in the shadow of the house, his dark-clad figure blending seamlessly into the background.

He reached for the drainpipe and shook it. As Lester had promised, it was firmly affixed to the wall. Lester, in his capacity as handyman and general jack of all trades, had effected some repairs on his visit that afternoon.

Harry peered up at the window some fifteen feet above. He couldn't see that the sash was lifted a fraction of an inch above the sill, but Lester had assured him that it was open enough for him to slip his fingers beneath it, and raise it high enough to admit him. A generous dose of oil on the runnels ensured that it would lift without a sound.

He raised his hand above his head and felt the wall alongside the drainpipe. There were enough nicks in the brickwork to give him some toeholds if he needed them. He waited again, straining his ears into the darkness, listening for anything untoward. There was nothing except the iron wheels of a carriage on the street in front, taking home some late-night reveler. The inhabitants of this part of London were for the most apart asleep at three o'clock on a winter morning. In a couple of hours the servants would awake, but for now all was quiet.

He reached for the drainpipe and leaped up, his soft leather shoes getting purchase on the wall, his toes curling into well-placed crannies. He climbed upwards, hand over hand, his feet on either side of the drainpipe to take some of the weight off the narrow copper tube.

He reached the window and leaned sideways carefully, clinging to the drainpipe with one hand, feeling with his other for the gap between window and sill. It was there. Not that he'd doubted Lester for one minute; nevertheless, he was relieved. He leaned farther, turning his hand around so that he could get a grip on the window, and pushed it up inch by inch. It made not a sound as it crept upwards. He prayed silently that the sleeping woman wouldn't become aware of the sudden draft as the cold night air entered her chamber.

When he judged it open sufficiently to allow him to wriggle through, Harry climbed a little higher on the drainpipe until he could stretch one leg sideways to the window ledge. There was a moment when he seemed to hang in space, then with an agile twist he got himself astride the window ledge, his body hunched over in the narrow aperture. In an instant he had dropped to the floor and remained unmoving on his haunches barely breathing. At first he could hear no sound, then he heard the deep rhythmic breathing of a sound sleeper.

The embers of the fire still glowed in the grate, offering a little light, sufficient to make out the hulking shapes of the furniture. He straightened carefully, listening for any change in the sound coming from the big canopied bed. The curtains were drawn back, revealing the glimmer of white sheeting, the slight mound beneath the coverlet.