A Wicked Gentleman (22 page)

She cast a quick glance at her sister-in-law as she said this, but Cornelia appeared not to have heard her. Aurelia went on, “But I don't see why anyone should know that we're driving around in his second-best carriage anyway.”

Cornelia followed her into the parlor. “Can you imagine the construction Markby would put upon it if it came to his ears?”

Aurelia looked at her in puzzled astonishment. “What possible construction could there be, Nell? It was an offer made to benefit all three of us.”

And Cornelia realized that
her
knowledge of the truly scandalous liaison between herself and Lord Bonham was coloring all her interpretations. Without that knowledge, there was really nothing objectionable in the offer. Ellie was as clearheaded as anyone about such issues, and if she saw nothing wrong with it, then probably there was nothing wrong. But then Ellie didn't know the truth. The truth changed everything.

She said with a feigned carelessness, “Maybe I'm being overcautious, but you know as well as I do how little it would take for the earl to find an excuse to drag us back.”

Aurelia laughed. “You think he'll decide that we're Viscount Bonham's harem? Really, Nell, that's absurd.” Her laughter deepened. “Lord Bonham's three kept women on Cavendish Square.”

Cornelia managed a tight smile. “You're right, Ellie, it is absurd, but I still think we should endeavor to manage this carriage business for ourselves.”

Aurelia threw up her hands in defeat. “As you wish, Nell. Let's send a note to Nigel. Funny that he hasn't been around lately,” she said, going to the secretaire. She answered her own question. “I imagine he's amusing himself too much to worry about his dowdy cousins.”

 

Harry had reached the corner of Wimpole Street when he heard the sound of rapid footsteps behind him. He slowed, recognizing them, but didn't pause until he turned the corner, and they were out of sight of the house.

“Lester,” he greeted briefly.

“Aye, sir,” the man said, coming abreast of his master. “I think I can make the exchange with the thimbles, sir. That nurse, Linton, was grumbling that the ladies were going out with the children to see the lions at the Exchange this afternoon.” He managed a fair imitation of the nurse's voice as he said, “And who's going to have to deal with them when they come back exhausted, poor little mites. As if I don't have enough to do…and Lady Susannah has the beginning of a head cold…”

Harry smiled, but he hesitated a little before agreeing. If Lester was caught, they'd have the devil's own job keeping him out of the hands of the Watch. But then again, Lester was experienced, and if the women were safely out of the house…

He reached into his pocket for the thimble. “If you think you can do it safely, Lester, I own I'll be glad to have this over and done with.”

Lester took the small object and held it up. “Looks just the same, sir,” he observed with something like awe.

“It's not,” Harry said a touch morosely. He didn't like cutting corners, and the engraving on this thimble came nowhere close to his standards. “I was in a hurry, the engraving's clumsy. But it should pass muster with Lady Dagenham. If our French or Russian friends do get their hands on it, they'll realize soon enough that it's a fake.”

He frowned with irritation. The original thimble represented hours of wasted work, and when he did get hold of it again he would have to melt it down to destroy the codes engraved upon it. Even though the snuffbox substitute was already on its way by courier, everything about the original thimble would shriek authenticity to British agents, and it could not be left intact. In the wrong hands it would be a powerful weapon for the dissemination of misinformation, not to mention the identification of English agents and double agents all across the Continent.

The sooner it was a puddle of molten silver, the better, but the enemy wouldn't know that, and he had to assume they were still planning its retrieval. One reason why Lester would remain on guard in the house on Cavendish Square. Harry had more faith in Lester's little finger than in the combined force of Morecombe's blunderbuss and those noisy little pink creatures.

And that brought him to Nigel Dagenham. The apparently missing cousin. Where was he?

Harry had intended to alert the Ministry to the possibility of Nigel Dagenham's recruitment by a French agent, but then he'd been closeted in his grimy space at the War Office, and the whole business had gone out of his head. He hadn't thought it particularly urgent, it took time and careful planning to effect such a recruitment but if the cub had disappeared, it was high time they ran him to ground.

He glanced at his fob watch. Four o'clock. Too early for the evening's gaming and too late even for those diehards who gambled all night and well into the next day. Those would be sound asleep at this hour readying themselves for the tables later that night. Most of his own friends would either be riding or driving in Hyde Park, or frequenting fencing studios or boxing clubs. Somehow he didn't think Nigel Dagenham would be among them. He was too much of a dissolute for the sweaty Corinthian pleasures. No, Dagenham would be sleeping off the effects of a heavy night.

He turned his steps towards Albermarle Street. A little hard exercise would clear his own head, and maybe he'd run into someone who had seen young Dagenham in the last few days. “Just keep an eye on the workbox, Lester. As long as you're in the house, I know no one else can get close to it.”

“Aye, sir.” Lester half turned back the way he'd come as he continued, “Will you want me to stay in the house tonight?”

A slight smile flickered across his master's cool green eyes. “No, Lester, I'll take care of it tonight.”

Lester said nothing, his expression giving nothing away. The ladies in Cavendish Square had nothing in common with the viscount's customary amours, and nothing that he could see with the late Lady Bonham. But then he wouldn't expect Lord Bonham to be tempted to dalliance with a woman remotely resembling his dead wife.

Harry turned onto Albermarle Street and went up the steps to number seven. A discreet plate by the door said simply,
MA
î
TRE ALBERT
. The master swordsman was slowing a little now, but he was still the most skilled fencing master in town.

The door was not locked and yielded to a turn of the handle. Harry ran lightly up the narrow flight of stairs at the end of the narrow hall and opened the double doors at the head of the staircase. The long mirrored
salle
was quiet, the only sounds the touch of steel on steel and the soft thud of stockinged feet on the wooden boards. The air smelled of fresh sweat, and the long windows at the far end were opened, letting in the chilly afternoon air. The sky was beginning to darken as the early dusk drew in but the long room was lit by a line of tapers in sconces along both sidewalls.

A man watching the several pairs of fencers on the floor moved towards Harry as soon as he entered. “Lord Bonham, I haven't seen you in a while.” He greeted the viscount with a bow that was neither subservient nor one between equals. “Do you care to try some hits?”

“If you please, Maître.” Harry shrugged out of his coat.

“Epée or saber?” Maitre Albert walked to the far wall and the neatly racked pairs of swords. He glanced back at Harry and answered his own question. “Epée, I think.”

“Whatever you say, Maître.” Harry sat on the long low bench that ran along the wall and removed his boots. He pulled off his cravat, shaking out the folds with a carelessness that would have horrified his valet, and rolled up his ruffled shirtsleeves.

“Have a little mercy,” he requested with a grin as he took the proffered hilt of the épée. “It has been at least two weeks.”

Maître Albert shook his head. “Two weeks won't slow
you
down, my lord.”

They took their places on the floor, saluted with their swords, and began. Harry as always forgot everything but the matter in hand. He saw only the flashing blades, felt only the tingle in his wrist as the blades made contact. He lunged, feinted, engaged in the wonderful mental exercise of outwitting the master, even as his body stretched and the tension of hours hunched over a desk left his shoulders and his neck, and he felt the muscles elongate and spring back.

He slipped beneath the master's guard in sixte, touched his breast with the foiled tip of his sword, and Maître Albert fell back, acknowledging the hit with the fencer's upthrown hand. “
Touché.
As I said, my lord, two weeks wouldn't slow you.”

“Bravo, Harry,” Sir Nicholas Petersham, who had just finished his own bout, dropped his saber point to the floor. He bowed to his opponent, who returned the courtesy. “I still haven't managed a hit with an épée in a bout with Albert. Have you, Forster?”

Lord Forster, a tall, willowy gentleman with pale eyes and a rather lackluster manner that belied a fierce competitiveness, sighed and wiped his brow with his handkerchief. “Alas, no, Nick. But none of us is a match for Harry.”

Harry laughed. “And you, David, have pinked me at least twice with the épée. So let's have none of that false modesty.”

Lord Forster gracefully shrugged slender shoulders. “Mere luck, dear fellow, mere luck.”

“Then let us try luck again,” Harry offered, his own competitive streak flaring. He raised his épée in a salute. “Unless you're fatigued after your bout with Nick.”

It was all the spur needed. David exchanged his saber for the épée handed him by Maître Albert and responded to Harry's salute. They took to the floor, Maître Albert retreating with a knowing smile. He stood beside Nick, watching the two very evenly matched fencers. But Harry had the mental edge, and they both knew it. He was physically no better a duelist than his opponent, but he had the devious mind of a chess player and could see more than the usual several moves ahead to plan his strategy.

The blades engaged, retired, advanced in a steady dance, the two duelists perspiring freely as the tempo increased. There came a moment when a slight stumble in his footwork left David's left side unprotected. Harry disengaged his blade, his foiled point dipped beneath his opponent's sword, and made contact with the other man's chest.

Harry retired his blade, laughing as he danced backwards, ready to engage in quarte. But David dropped his point with a gesture of defeat. “Enough,” he said, wiping his brow with the sleeve of his forearm. “I'll yield to you this time, Harry, but we'll have a return match, then you'll see who's master.”

Harry laughed and extended his hand. “I'm sure I shall, David. I'm sure I shall,” he agreed as he mopped his own brow.

The other man laughed with him and clapped an arm around his shoulders. “That feint in sixte was a neat trick.”

“Albert taught it to me the last time we fenced,” Harry said, acknowledging the master with a bow of his head. “I'm parched. Let's find a tavern and a pint of ale. How about you, Nick?”

“Oh, yes, anytime,” the other agreed amiably, picking up his discarded coat.

They made their farewells to Maître Albert and went out into the gathering dusk. The new gas lamps had been lit, and their strange yellow light cast an unearthly sulfurous glow through the gloom. It was chilly, and the sweat dried rapidly as the three men made their way towards Piccadilly and the lights of a tavern.

“So, family matters been keeping you out of circulation, Harry?” Nick asked, as he raised his foaming tankard to his lips.

“You guessed it,” Harry responded lightly, swiping foam from his upper lip with a finger.

“Thought as much.” Nick nodded, but his eyes were shrewd as he regarded his friend across the scratched and stained deal table in the window of the Red Fox. “They really keep you busy.”

Harry had the idea that Nick had guessed there was more to his absences than his regular excuse of family business, but he didn't think Nick would press him on it. For one it would be a grave discourtesy to imply that he didn't believe Harry's excuse and, for another, he was sure that Nick had some inkling that government business was involved. And if so, he knew to hold his tongue.

He changed the subject. “I have some business with young Dagenham,” he said. “I can't seem to find him anywhere. Have you seen him, Nick…David?”

“Don't know the man,” Lord Foster said, raising a hand to a tavern wench passing with a full jug of ale. “We need refills over here.”

“Right away, sir.” The girl curtsied and leaned over to fill their tankards, her low-cut bodice giving them all the view they could wish for.

“Bonny lass,” David observed, swiveling to follow her hip-swinging progress between the tables.

“You always did have a taste for the low life, Forster,” Nick observed genially. “And to answer your question, Harry, the last time I saw young Dagenham he was playing at Pickering Place…damned young fool,” he added, burying his nose in his tankard again.

Harry grimaced, silently concurring with the judgment. “How long ago was that?”