Barbara Metzger (9 page)

“What’s the matter, runt? Cat got your tongue?” Bella cackled, then peered at him. “Nah, Mayne’s known for a gentleman. He’d never carve a man up like that, not even a little maggot like you.”

“My teeth are mithing. I thwear I’ll kill the bathtard.”

“That ain’t no way to talk about your brother. ‘Sides, he just gulled the flat. The duke would of coughed up the reckoning. You’re the one what ordered him worked over, not Chester.”

“Not Chethter. Forretht Mayne. I’m going to thee him dead.”

“I always said your bark was bigger’n your bite. Ha-ha!” Sympathy was not one of Bella’s strong points. “You’re just lucky they didn’t set the magistrate on us for what you done.”

“The deuthed codth head threatened to do jutht that. That’th why I-”

“Oh, shut up already. You sound just like your father at his last prayers.”

Since Padraic O’Toole’s last prayers were spoken through a hood with a noose around his neck, Randy shut up.

Bella was shaking her head. “You two together have about as much brains as the average pullet. All that schooling, and you didn’t even learn to listen to your ma. I told you time and time again about quality and family. You know, how some of them watch out for kinfolk just the way we look after each other.”

* * * *

A few days later the same little group was gathered at Bella’s row house in Chelsea.

“Stop looking over your shoulder, Chester. Swells like Mayne hardly set foot out of Mayfair. ‘Sides, he wouldn’t recognize you anyways. I hardly do myself and I’m your mother. I ain’t happy about that neither, but I can live with it.”

“But, Ma, what are we going to do? We can’t just stay here. I say we take what we have and set up on the Continent.”

“Shut up, you pudding heart, we ain’t running,” his brother said.

Randy had false front teeth by now, fancy ivory ones taken from some dead nabob by the undertakers next door. They hurt like hell, which did not do much for his temper. The top set stuck out over his bottom lip, not doing much for his appearance either. “I still say we kill Mayne. Then we don’t even have to relocate.”

“That’s the most harebrained idea I ever heard. Get that? Harebrained, rabbit-toothed?” Bella nearly fell off her chair, laughing so hard. When she stopped laughing she boxed Randy’s ears until the false teeth flew out. “You got your father’s same nasty temper. You want to end like him too? Like as not you will, but you ain’t making gallows bait out of me and Chester. Didn’t you learn anything from your father? No one can kill a titled nob less’n he’s got a higher title. They call that a fair fight. Or if he’s got more money. They call that justice.”

“And what about the money, Ma?” Chester asked. “How are we going to collect without Sam?”

“We’ve got enough of the ready for now. As for the slips His Nibs left us, a solicitor’s letter with them big words like ‘debtors’ prison’ ought to be just as encouraging as a visit from Sam.”

“And what about that thousand pounds he gave away?” Randy wanted to know.

Bella’s pudgy arms waved that aside. “We’ll get the blunt back easy enough. But this ain’t about money, you blockheads. It’s about revenge.”

Chester started shaking but Randy smiled, looking more like a rabid rodent than anything else.

* * * *

Bella’s plan was simple: hit ‘em where it hurt. Mayne’s pockets were so deep, he wouldn’t even feel the loss. His pride was another matter.

“We can get the money from that dandy Scoville anyway. Soon as he announces the engagement and can’t back down from the wedding, we threaten to go to the gossip rags with word that his bride’s family ain’t all it should be. Shady dealings in back-street offices and all. He’ll pay quick enough to keep that quiet.”

“But how are we going to know if he picks the right girl?” Chester was nervous. Chester was already packed. “We don’t have the chit’s name. Even if Mayne wouldn’t kill me on sight, you know I’m not fit enough to go to the clubs to listen to the gossip.”

“You’re not fearless enough, you mean,” Bella taunted. “Don’t worry, chicken-liver, we won’t ask you to go outside yet. We just have to read the gossip columns ourselves. If that pompous ass Scoville is sniffing ‘round some filly, the papers’ll know it. If not, you just have to follow the footman home from that prize fight to see where he goes.”

“Me?”

“Well, rabbit-face sticks out like a sore thumb, don’t he?”

“I want to know about Mayne.” Randy wanted to change the subject.

“Oh, we get to him through the other wench, the one with gumption. My kind of female, from what you say, conniving and crafty. Imagine if your sister’d had that kind of bottom. B’gad, she could have been some rich man’s mistress by now. No matter, we find out who that little baggage is and wait till she’s got her name on everybody’s lips, which I misdoubt will take too long. If she don’t do it herself, we help her along, like mentioning her betting on the mill. Then we shout it loud and clear that the high and mighty Viscount Mayne has ruined her. He compromised her all right and tight. A gentle-bred innocent what’s blotted her copybook. Either he’ll have to marry the hobbledehoy brat and be miserable the rest of his life, or he’ll see his name dragged through the mud along with hers. That won’t sit well with him, not with his notions of family honor and all. Of course, if none of that works ...”

“We kill him.”

“And run to the Continent.”

Chapter 9

Mills and Masquerades

“I swear I’m sick of this petticoat tyranny, Forrest. You’ve got to do something!”

Brennan stormed into his brother’s study, interrupting to no one’s displeasure an uncomfortable meeting between the viscount and one of his tenants. The farmer touched his brim and nodded to the younger lord on his way out.

“What was that about?” Bren asked, flopping into the chair just vacated.

“It was about the proper handling of randy young bulls. Whipslade can’t seem to keep that Fred penned in, so I said I’d castrate him myself the next time he got into trouble.” Forrest grinned. “Now, what was your complaint, little bull, er, brother?”

Bren got the hint. “But dash it all, Forrest, there’s nothing to do!”

Forrest had plenty to keep him occupied, overseeing the vast Mainwaring holdings, to say nothing of checking all the London dailies for mention of acquaintances. Brennan’s cracked ribs had kept him more confined to the house and his mother’s carping, and he was fretting to be gone. He would have returned to London a se’night past, in fact, had the duchess not given strict orders to the stables forbidding him horse or carriage. No way was she letting him go back to the fleshpots of the city ... or his father’s house.

“You’ve got to talk to her, Forrest, convince her she’s wrong about London.”

“Dear boy, do I look that paper-skulled? I’d rather be keelhauled than tell the duchess she’s wrong, thank you.”

“Then the grooms. They will listen to you, Forrest,” Brennan begged. “Deuces, they can’t deny you your own cattle, can they? I know you wouldn’t let me have the bays, but surely you’ll lend me Old Gigi and the pony trap? The dog cart? How about a ride to the nearest posting house?”

For Brennan’s sake, the viscount decided to make a short excursion to town. For Brennan’s sake, he planned some harmless diversions, like a drive out to a prizefight at Islington two days later. They weren’t doing
The Merchant of Venice
at Drury Lane, and he had to keep the boy entertained and out of trouble, didn’t he?

* * * *

They took the viscount’s phaeton to Islington, with his matchless bays and his tiger Todd. Brennan half jokingly wondered why, if this was supposed to be his treat, he couldn’t handle the ribbons. Todd nearly fell off his perch on the back, laughing.

They left town early to set an easy pace on account of Brennan’s ribs—and the viscount’s sworn word to his mother. As it turned out, they were none too early and had no chance of springing the pair with the roadway so clogged. All the sporting bloods were on their way to Islington, along with every other buck in town who was game for a wager. The upcoming bout had caught the attention and imagination of the entire male population of London, it seemed, and they were all on the road at once.

The Dutch champion was not called the Oak just because no one could pronounce his name. He had stood unbent through years of matches, never once being knocked to the canvas. Few men were cork-brained enough to meet him these days, so an exhibition of fisticuffs by the near legend was not to be missed. No one except the viscount knew much about the challenger, one Walter Minch. The word was he was undefeated in some shire or other, a young lad with size if no sense. Some claimed they’d seen him in training and he stripped to advantage. “Minch the Cinch” they dubbed him, hoping for better odds. Others swore he had to be a sacrificial shill for the bout’s promoters. They weren’t betting on his winning or losing, just on how long he stayed standing.

The viscount, of course, would have gone to the grave without divulging any foreknowledge of any footman’s brother. He hoped and prayed Miss Lattimore’s connection never came to light, much less his own. Not even his brother knew it was a servant named Willy who’d darkened Forrest’s daylights, not the bloodsucker’s hired killer. The viscount’s eye was still sore; Wally stood a deuced good chance.

There were shouts, wagers, and rumors all along the slow drive. The clamor grew worse near the actual meeting grounds, naturally, as the drivers tried to thread their vehicles through the crowds to good vantage points. Todd jumped down to clear a path, and the viscount slid the bays between a racing curricle and a gig, with at least an inch to spare on either side. Then there were greetings and fresh odds, and everyone wanting to know the viscount’s opinion, since he was known to be a follower of the Fancy himself.

Forrest smiled and told his eager listeners that since he’d never seen the man box, he couldn’t make a fair guess. That’s what they were all there for, wasn’t it?

Anyone wishing an expert’s advice before making his own wagers would have been wiser to follow the viscount around when he climbed down from the phaeton, leaving Todd at the horses’ heads and Brennan with an ale in his hand.

Forrest greeted his friends, smiled at casual acquaintances, and ignored would-be hangers-on. The crowd was a mix of London gents, local gentry, neighborhood workingmen, pickpockets, and other riffraff. The viscount strolled about the grounds with no fixed purpose in sight, placing a wager here, making a bet there. He never put his name down for a lot of money, always denied knowing the new boxer. He shrugged good-naturedly about rooting for the underdog and took the long odds. The longer the better. If he’d staked all his blunt with one bookmaker, the odds would have swung considerably, with less profit for him—and Miss Lattimore.

Content, he ambled back across the field toward his phaeton, from whose high perch he’d have a clear view of the roped-off square. He was so satisfied with his transactions that he tossed a coin to an odd-looking clergyman standing on the perimeter of the crowd, clasping his Bible. “Say a prayer for Minch, Reverend,” Forrest called over his shoulder.

The minister appeared as if St. Peter had just called his name off the rolls, but he hoarsely answered to the viscount’s back: “Bless you, my son.”

* * * *

He was the last person you’d expect to see at a place like this, a holy man at a mill, and this was the last place Reverend Cheswick wanted to be. But if Cheswick had to be there—and Bella seemed adamant about that—then Chester was going in disguise. Randy tried to tell him that his own wishy-washy phiz with its newly bloated nose was the best camouflage, but Chester went out and got himself a bagwig, thick spectacles, and a moldy frock coat from the same source as Randy’s choppers. The mortuary workers threw the Bible in free.

Chester’s identity was well hidden, in the one disguise guaranteed to draw attention to himself. He stuck out among the other men like a sore ... nose. And wasn’t it just his luck that the bastard who broke his nose had to be so bloody charitable? First Mayne gave away their thousand pounds and now he went out of his way to toss a golden boy to a man of the cloth. Chester supposed he was the type to encourage beggars with handouts too.

At least the worst was over. His disguise passed the test and now he could go home. He didn’t have the information Bella wanted about where the footman lived or who he worked for, but she would have to understand. His pants were wet.

* * * *

“Who was that rum touch you were talking to?” Brennan wanted to know.

“Who? Oh, the old quiz? Most likely some missionary come to save our souls. Why?”

“Something about him just looked familiar.”

“I doubt you meet many religious sorts in the circles you travel,” his brother noted dryly, passing over the hamper of food they’d brought from town.

Before they could do justice to the cold chicken and sliced ham and Scotch eggs and crusty bread, a roar went up from the crowd. The champion was coming. The Oak strode to the clearing. The ground almost shook with his every step. The spectators cheered themselves hoarse, then they passed around the bottles and flasks again.

The Oak waved to the crowd, turning toward all four compass points while his seconds set a footstool in his corner. His cape swirled around his massive frame. Next he removed the cloak and slowly repeated the move so they could all appreciate his naked upper torso. They did, howling and stamping their feet as muscle rippled over muscle every time he raised an arm.

The viscount held his looking glass to his eye. “The Dutchman seems heavier than the last time I saw him fight. I wonder if it’s all muscle or if the weight might slow him down.”

“Care to hazard your blunt on it?” Bren asked, forgetting he’d sworn off wagering, at least for the remainder of this quarter.

Since Forrest was already financing the chub until his next allowance, he declined. “But I’ll take you up on the bet anyway. If the Dutchman wins, you get to drive the bays home.”