Barbara Metzger (4 page)

* * * *

Viscount Mayne proceeded methodically down his list. His first stop was the bank, his second Rundell and Bridges, the jewelers. After consulting their sales records, the store’s manager was able to find a duplicate of Mademoiselle Rochelle’s erstwhile gift. Forrest matched the simple bracelet to a necklace set with emeralds—a redhead,
n’est-ce
pas?—and dangling earbobs.

* * * *

“Coo-ee,” Bren’s
chérie
exclaimed in perfect cockney. “If those ain’t the dabbest sparklers Oi ever seen!” Having seen a bit of the world herself, she knew the meaning of such a generous gift. “‘E’s not comin’ back, then, your love of a brother?”

“His illness is more than a trifling indisposition, he regrets. He did not want you to wait.”

“Ain’t that a real gentleman.” She was admiring the effect of her new possessions in a smoky glass over a dressing table littered with bottles and jars and powders. She suddenly spun around to face his lordship, eyes wide with concern. “ ‘Tain’t nothin’ catchy-like, is it?”

Forrest’s lips curved in a slow smile. “Nothing he won’t outgrow.”

“That’s all right, then.” Roxy considered that smile, and the viscount’s well-muscled figure leaning nonchalantly against the door frame. “Oi don’t suppose you’d ... ?”

Lord Mayne’s head shook, but his smile widened, showing even white teeth.

Roxy turned back to her reflection. “Well, you can’t blame a girl for tryin’
.
”

“Au contraire, chérie,
I am honored.” He raised her hands to his lips in farewell.
“Enchanté, mademoiselle.”

“Enchant-tea to you too, ducky.”

* * * *

The proprietor of the gaming rooms on King Street recognized the crest on the carriage. It was Alf Sniddon’s business to know such things. He made sure his doorman told Viscount Mayne the place was closed till evening. The doorman made sure he’d stay alive till evening instead, and was therefore richer by a handsome tip besides. The place was open for business, but not for long, it seemed, unless Mr. Sniddon changed his policy.

“But I don’t make the bets or take the young gentlemen’s vouchers, my lord.”

“No, you take only a hefty cut of the winnings. Let me put it this way, Sniddon: How long would you stay in business if word went out in the clubs that you ran a crooked table, plucking young pigeons with drugged wine?”

Sniddon calculated how long it would take to find new quarters, change the name of the establishment, change
his
name, establish a new clientele. It was cheaper to change policies.

“Right-o, cash on the barrel it is, my lord, for all young gentlemen.”

“There, I knew we could agree. And who knows, you might just set a new style, an honest gaming hell. I’d be tempted to stop in myself.”

Sniddon recognized Mayne’s soft-spoken words for the mixed blessing they were: a threat that the powerful lord would be monitoring Sniddon’s compliance, and a promise of reward, for where the handsome viscount led, his well-heeled Corinthian set followed. Sniddon nodded. He’d try it the nob’s way a while, then move if he had to. It wouldn’t be the first time.

* * * *

So much for business. The viscount tapped his cane on the coach roof to signal his driver on to the next destination. It was time for pleasure.

* * * *

Otto Chester lived in rooms at 13 Jermyn Street, where accommodations were cheap because of foolish superstitions. Such imbecilic notions meant little to a man used to making his own luck with marked decks and loaded dice. Today his luck was out. Otto Chester wished he’d been out, too. Instead, he was in the act of setting the folds in his neckcloth when Lord Forrest Mainwaring strode into the room without waiting to be announced. Fate seldom makes an appointment.

Chester was a jackal dressed in gentlemen’s togs. He was everything Viscount Mayne despised: pale, weak, preying on the unwary like a back-biting cur. In short, he was a coward, not even attempting to regain his feet after Forrest’s first hard right.

“But—” he gulped around the rock-hard fist that was embedded in the material of his neckcloth, dragging him up and holding his feet off the ground. He batted ineffectively at the viscount’s steely right arm with an effete left. “But I had notes of my own. You know, debts of honor, play and pay.”

Forrest sneered in disgust. There wasn’t any satisfaction in darkening the dirty dealer’s daylights; the paltry fellow was already quaking in his boots. On second thought, he reflected, there might be a modicum of satisfaction in cramming the muckworm’s mockery of the gentleman’s credo down his scrawny throat. “You wouldn’t recognize honor if it hit you on the nose,” he growled, following through with a cross punch to said protuberance. “Now you will.”

Lord Mayne tossed the offal aside like a pile of rags and wiped his hands on a fresh neckcloth waiting in reserve on a nearby chair back. He threw it to the sniveling scum in the corner. “Here, fix yourself up. We’re going for a ride.”

Chapter 4

Debt and Dishonor

The office of 0. Randall and Associates, Financial Consultants, was located on Fleet Street in convenient view of the debtors’ prison. Randall himself was a small, stocky man a few years older than Forrest, he guessed, with carroty hair, a soft Irish brogue, and hard, calculating eyes. Those eyes shifted from his distinguished caller sitting at ease across the desk to the sorry lumpkin huddled in an uncomfortable wooden chair in the shadows. As far away from his lordship as the room would allow, Chester dabbed an already-crimson neckcloth to his broken nose. Randall’s gaze quickly left the gory sight and returned to the viscount.

“And may I pour ye a bit of Ireland’s best, me lord?” he offered. “No? Well, ‘tis a wise man who knows his limits. That’s what I tried to tell the lad, I did. A fine boy, young Mainwaring, an’ the spit an’ image of yourself, b’gorn. ‘Twas sorry I was to see him in a mite of trouble.”

“We were all sorry. That’s why I am here.”

Randall poured himself a drink. “Ah, family feeling. “Its a fine thing indeed.” He shot a dark look toward Chester’s corner. “Never had a brother o’ me heart m’self. Never regretted it more than today.”

For all his relaxed manner, Lord Mayne had no desire to discuss his family with any loan shark. He reached to his inside pocket and retrieved a leather purse. Tossing it to the desk with a satisfying thud and the jangle of heavy coins, he announced, “There’s your thousand pounds. You can count it if you wish, but the Mainwarings always pay their debts.
Always.”

Randall missed the danger in the viscount’s silky “always,” too busy scheming. His eyes on the sack, he sipped his drink and licked his thick lips. “Well now, a thousand pounds was the figure two days ago. Ye do ken the nature o’ me business, would ye now?”

Slowly, with careful deliberation, Forrest removed his pigskin gloves while he addressed the third man in the room. “What do you think, Mr. Chester?”

Chester clutched the stained cravat to his nose as if to hold all his remaining courage inside. Wild-eyed over the cloth, he babbled, “I fink a fousand pounds is fine.”

Lord Mayne smiled. Randall didn’t like the smile, and the leather purse
had
played his favorite tune. He nodded and reached out for the gold. The viscount’s iron grip was around his wrist before Randall could say
compound interest.
“The chits?”

“For sure an’ we’re all bein’ reasonable men conductin’ a little business.” Randall pulled a chain with a ring of keys out of his pocket, selected one, and opened the top drawer of his desk. Then he used another key to open a side drawer. Glancing quickly back and forth between Forrest and the pouch, he withdrew a stack of papers. He slid them across to the viscount, keeping one hand close to the open top drawer.

Forrest checked the signatures. They were a good enough forgery to pass for Brennan’s. He nudged the leather purse toward the Irishman, who put both hands on the desk to draw it closer.

The viscount proceeded to rip up the vouchers. When that chore was finished to his satisfaction, with small, narrow pieces, he started to move around the desk, prepared to rip up the Irishman.

There was that smile again, and a glimmer of anticipation in Mayne’s blue eyes. The moneylender finally realized he’d been petting a panther instead of a lapcat. He pursed his lips to whistle but, instead of a breath of air, he suddenly found a fist in his mouth.

It was hard to whistle with a mouthful of blood, so Randall went for the gun in the top drawer. That was an error. The viscount dove headfirst across the desk, reaching for the weapon. He flung Randall’s arm up at the height of his lunge, then crashed to the ground with Randall under him. The pistol discharged its one ball, wounding the ceiling grievously, sending plaster down on all of them.

Forrest stood up, brushing at the white dust in his hair. Randall managed to get to his knees, where he tried to whistle again. This proved an impossibility with his two front teeth gone missing. So he reached down for the knife in his boot.

The viscount was grinning. “Thanks for evening the odds. I hate to maul a smaller man. It’s not gentlemanly, but you wouldn’t know about that, would you?” He removed his coat and wrapped it about his left arm, all the while keeping an eye on the little man.

Now, Lord Mayne had his superb physical condition from working alongside his laborers in the country, and his boxing science from sparring with Gentleman Jackson himself whenever he was in town, but he had his gutter instincts from his naval days. Dark quays and stench-ridden harbors were excellent school yards for dirty fighting, where there was nothing to keep a pack a cutthroats from your wallet but your fists and your wits. In the dark you didn’t wait to see if your opponent was giving you fair odds. He never was.

Randall was shouting, “Whithtle, Chethter, whithtle,” as he lost his knife to a well-placed kick. Then he lost the use of his hand to a vicious chop. Then he lost his lunch to a fist in the breadbasket.

Between Randall’s retches and moans, Chester asked “Wha?”

Forrest wasn’t even breathing hard. He looked at the man, still in his corner, still nursing his broken nose. “He means ‘whistle.’ “

“Whiddle?”

“Yes, man, whistle. Go on, do it.”

If Forrest had said “fly,” Chester would likely have tried flapping his arms. He puckered his lips and tweeted—the opening bars of
la Marseillaise!

Forrest shook his head. “Spineless and a traitor to boot. Here, man, let me do it.” He put two fingers in his mouth and let loose a piercing shrill that almost always brought Nelson to heel.

* * * *

Sam Odum was as big as Brennan had said, and twice as ugly. Bald, scarred, and snaggle-toothed, he lumbered into the room swinging a piece of kindling. Odum’s kindling was more like a medium-size tree, but who was going to quibble with him about starting a fire? The ape paused in the middle of the room, looking around in confusion.

“Your employer is on the floor behind the desk,” Forrest pointed out helpfully. “We’ve had a small disagreement. The gentleman with the interesting headpiece”—nodding in Chester’s direction—”has wisely selected a neutral corner. Have you any opinions on the matter?”

Sam Odum scratched his head, then his crotch. “Huh?”

Randall spat out, “Kill him,” along with another tooth, so Sam Odum hefted his club and plodded in Chester’s direction.

“Not him, you ath! The thwell!”

Sam Odum was confused again, not an unusual occurrence, it seemed. Gentleman that he was, Mainwaring decided to help the poor bastard identify his intended victim. He tossed a chair at him. It missed, but the hard right that followed didn’t. Sam staggered, but came back swinging the bat.

Forrest was ready with the other chair. He used it as a shield to parry a blow that could have decapitated him, then followed by smashing the chair over the mammoth’s head. The chair broke, and Sam Odum just staggered a little more. And kept swinging that blasted tree trunk. Forrest kept ducking, getting in punches where he could, getting battered when he couldn’t.

There were no more chairs except the one Chester crouched behind. Forrest backed toward the desk and swept the papers, all those little shreds, into Odum’s ugly phiz. While the ogre was distracted, the viscount finally managed to land a kick and a punch and a jab and another punch. Odum still stood, but at least the club had come dislodged from his hamlike fist. Now Forrest could close in for some real boxing.

No human could stand that kind of punishment. Sam Odum wasn’t human. “Oh, hell,” Lord Mayne swore, then took the small pistol from his boot. He turned it around and whacked the bruiser alongside the head.

That brought him to his knees. Forrest threw all his remaining strength into a blow to Odum’s chin, then grabbed him by both ears and banged his head into the floor.

“Now that I have your attention”—wham!—”this is for my brother.” Wham. “And this”—wham!—”is for kicking him while he was down.” There was now a considerable dent in the floor, to say nothing of Sam Odum’s head. He stayed put when Forrest took his hands away.

The viscount looked around to see if anyone else was offering further entertainment. Randall was still moaning and Chester appeared to be praying. Forrest pocketed the pistol and Randall’s knife, out of temptation’s way. He didn’t think he’d be tempted to skewer either of the muckworms, but one never knew. He hauled the unconscious bully to the doorway and shoved him down the outside stairs.

“Take him to the docks,” he ordered his driver and waiting footmen, “and find the recruiting officer. Give my name and tell him I said Mr. Sam Odum is dying to join the navy.”

* * * *

“Well, gentlemen, now that I’ve introduced myself, shall we discuss
my
terms?”

The question was entirely rhetorical; Chester and Randall sat bound and gagged on the floor in front of the desk. On Forrest’s return from disposing of the late debt-collector, he’d found Randall creeping toward Sam Odum’s tiny “office” and the small arsenal stashed there. “How convenient,” the viscount murmured, gently tapping the Irishman’s fingers with a length of lead pipe. He swept all but two pieces of rope into a carpetbag nearby for later removal. The two associates wouldn’t be needing weapons. He tied Randall for safety’s sake, “So you don’t hurt yourself during our little talk,” and stuffed the man’s neckcloth in his mouth to stop his foul curses. He did the same to the taller man, whose whining pleas were embarrassing both of them, then took his seat in what was left of Randall’s chair.