Gareth: Lord of Rakes (22 page)

Holbrook let himself into his study, lost in thought. At first he didn’t see the man sitting on a cushioned window bench, but when the fellow cleared his throat, Holbrook glanced up.

“Jennings,” he said, nodding with the briefest of smiles. “I see you’ve helped yourself to the brandy. Am I advised to do likewise?”

“It wouldn’t go amiss,” Jennings said, rising to stand before the fire. He was a handsome man—as tall as Holbrook, but dark where Holbrook was fair. Jennings, however, had perfected the art of looking forbidding. When he chose to, Thomas Jennings could be surprisingly charming, a trait all the more interesting for the contrast it made with the man’s usual demeanor.

Holbrook had known Jennings for years, however, and knew that in whatever guise—gracious, civil, or ruthless—Thomas Jennings was, at the very least, loyal.

“You have news for me?” Holbrook asked. He wanted a brandy, and for that reason denied himself the pleasure. Discipline was not so much a habit as a hobby, and encounters with Thomas late at night deserved a clear head.

“I haven’t news, so much as information, though I wish it weren’t my task to pass it along.”

“You are too careful of my sensibilities, Thomas.” Holbrook leaned against a table near the window, leaving Thomas to bask in the fire’s heat. “What information?”

Rather than admit to any anxiety over Jennings’s late night report, Holbrook comported himself like a man who had all the time in the world.

Which he did not have, as they both knew.

“I came across a rumor you should know about concerning Miss Worthington.”

The table scraped back a few inches under Holbrook’s weight. “This rumor also concerns the Marquess of Heathgate?”

“It does, tangentially.” Thomas was choosing his words, and this did not bode well.

“Out with it.”

“There’s word in low places Miss Worthington has inherited a brothel from a distant relation, and to perfect her title to it, she has to take on the responsibilities of the brothel’s madam. Heathgate is said to be assisting her in this regard.” Jennings made his report while appearing completely absorbed in the study of the fire. Thomas had once confessed to enjoying the sight of dancing flames the way some men enjoyed watching women promenade.

“That is an ugly rumor, Thomas. What facts have you to back it up?”

Jennings swirled his drink, took a delicate whiff, and held it up to the firelight, while Holbrook’s hip began to ache from the cold coming off the window.

“The facts are few, but what we do have is this: Until a few months ago, there was no evidence Heathgate even knew of Miss Worthington’s existence. The young ladies, as you know, do not go about in Society. Callista Hemmings did own a brothel here in London, a very exclusive place that continues in operation some months after her death—as you also are aware. Heathgate and Miss Worthington have been seen on the premises on at least one occasion. And I need not remind you both the Misses Worthington were Heathgate’s houseguests at his estate in Surrey, that visit having been chaperoned by his mother.”

Which had been some comfort when Holbrook had had Heathgate’s party trailed to the wilds of Surrey, though no comfort at all when Holbrook realized some third party had also been interested in keeping the marquess’s coach in sight.

“Why would the marchioness lend her presence to something as sordid as you are implying?” he asked, his mind buzzing with the ramifications should this rumor gain wider circulation. “And what aren’t you telling me?”

“As you know, Miss Hemmings was a relation of the Worthingtons, though her immediate family had long since cut her off prior to her demise. It is also of note that if Miss Worthington were to inherit a profitable business, that might provide a motive for whoever is bent on harming her.”

Jennings’s reasoning was sound, as usual. As always.

“We don’t know somebody is trying to harm her.”

Jennings’s tone shifted from deferential to ironic. “Right. But you, yourself, saw that the idiot in the park was spurring his ‘runaway’ horse right toward Miss Worthington, and I was the one to tell you Heathgate’s coach was followed from London to Surrey by a man on horseback carrying rifle and shot. You are aware, as well, that the cause of the fire at her house—in the middle of a damp night—was never discovered. Heathgate’s man, Brenner, sniffed around the entire block and every tavern for a mile in any direction and came up empty-handed.”

All damnably true. Holbrook gave up on his hobby and poured himself a drink, but rather than joining Thomas before the fire, he lifted the cat out of the chair behind the desk and appropriated the warmed seat.

“Could Heathgate be orchestrating these incidents to somehow get his hands on the business?”

The cat stropped itself against Thomas’s boots then hopped onto the desk, skidding a few inches on a stack of reports from Holbrook’s land agent in Kent.

Thomas finished his drink then tilted the fire screen back to shake drops of brandy onto the flames.

“Heathgate might be the author of Miss Worthington’s ill fortune, but his personal worth matches your own, and that doesn’t include the holdings of the marquessate. Why would a wealthy man scheme to get his hands on a brothel? In the first place, he commands plenty of willing attention from the ladies without paying for it. In the second, he could buy any damned brothel he wanted with his pocket change.”

Also all damnably true. “What about the younger brother? Lord Andrew’s in a close orbit around Heathgate these days. Maybe he resents the marquess’s consequence, or has a gambling problem?”

Jennings prowled across the room to set his empty glass on the sideboard, then leaned a hip on the desk and scratched the cat’s chin. Callista had liked Thomas, and Thomas had liked Callista. More than that, Holbrook had not wanted to know.

“The younger brother, Lord Andrew, is the current heir, so you’d think, if anything, he might be trying to end his brother’s life. Nonetheless, this family did not expect to inherit the title, and I don’t think either of the brothers really wants it. If Lord Andrew is in a close orbit anywhere, it’s around Miss Astrid.”

Well, blast and perdition.
Holbrook had missed that.

“She’s not even out of the schoolroom, for God’s sake.” But who was he to decide what the Worthingtons should and shouldn’t be doing with their social lives? He was no one to them, no one at all—and might always have to remain in that posture.

“I noticed this evening that Heathgate’s men are still parked on my doorstep,” Holbrook said as the cat made a halfhearted swat at Jennings’s hand. “Any luck getting a peek at Callista’s will?”

Jennings took up a white quill pen and began to tease the cat. “We’re working on that. She used a small, family-owned business of solicitors, and while they are marginally decent, they won’t be as careful as a more prominent firm might be. I can’t imagine their reputation will be flattered if news of this situation begins to make the rounds, assuming the rumors are true.”

The cat caught the quill pen in its claws, looking comically surprised to have wrested the prize from Jennings’s grasp. Jennings slipped the feather free of the cat’s paws and set it down on the other side of the blotter.

The cat yawned, reminding Holbrook that he, too, was tired. “Callista once threatened to leave her damned business to me. I treated it as a jest, which probably hurt her feelings.” Because Callista, despite all appearances to the contrary, had been a sweet and generous woman. Too sweet, and too generous.

“It’s profitable,” Jennings said. “There are worse investments.”

“Some man of business you are. Every penny earned in that trade takes a toll off a man’s reputation, regardless of his station. Funds, we can replace, but one’s good name—”

Thomas glanced at the clock, and from him, that single flick of his gaze was the equivalent of others taking out their gold watch, flipping it open, and studying it at length.

“Thomas, I have a sneaking suspicion your rumors are true, and Miss Worthington was driven to accept this bequest because her household coffers were empty. That is my fault, though I have yet to ascertain how to rectify the situation without causing difficulties. I will puzzle on this, though I hope it wraps itself up damned soon.”

Jennings regarded him with a hint of a smile as the cat rose and padded across the desk, then paused, likely to contemplate exactly where on Holbrook’s evening finery cat hairs would make the most telling statement.

Holbrook scooped the cat onto his lap and finished his lament. “I am sick of slipping out of my own house dressed as a footman, and skulking around London after the marquess and his lady love. And one more thing,” he added as the cat’s claws sank into his thigh.

Jennings shoved off the desk. “Yes?”

“I saw Riverton at the theatre tonight in the company of a lovely, petite, if slightly used blond whom I believe to be Lady Edith Hamilton, widow of one Baron Hamilton. The woman regarded Heathgate with open regret—or perhaps regarded Heathgate and Miss Worthington with envy. I’d like to know what grudge she carries. Hell hath no fury, and all that. What’s afoot could be nothing more complicated than a love triangle, and the whole issue of the brothel is beside the point. I cannot think Lady Hamilton is in happy circumstances if she’s consorting with Riverton.”

“I’d missed that angle,” Jennings said. “Will that be all?”

“It will, Thomas. Thank you, as always. Seek your bed, and keep me posted. Trouble is brewing for the Worthingtons, and that is the last thing I wanted to add to their lives when I came to Town. And, Thomas? Mind you be careful. The whole situation leaves me feeling uneasy, and you have a knack for being in the thick of trouble.”

The cat rumbling happily in Holbrook’s lap shifted around in a slow circle, making sure to stomp Holbrook’s cods with at least three paws.

Jennings’s rare smile flickered into view as he thumped the cat once gently on the head. “I cannot recall a single time when, across the years and continents and oceans it has been my pleasure to travel with you, your intuition has ever been wrong.”

***

“You finger that little diamond as if it’s a noose,” Riverton observed. “Do your sentiments regarding the marquess become murderous, or is it the young lady with him who has put such speculation in your eyes?”

Edith Hamilton stopped toying with the gem nestled at her cleavage, stopped thinking of how the color matched Heathgate’s eyes when he was displeased.

“The hour grows late, and I find myself tired,” Edith said. “You may stay up all night losing coin you cannot afford. I’d prefer to go home.” Prefer to be anywhere other than at Riverton’s side, but the damned man had appropriated a seat in Edith’s box, and casting him out would have caused a scene.

And now, they were in a hackney, the scent of horsehair and urine thick in the air, and Riverton wanted to make the rounds of every den of vice in Mayfair.

“One needs one’s beauty sleep as one ages,” he remarked mildly—meanly.

She let the remark pass, though Riverton was certainly showing signs of wear—signs of disease, if the rumors were to be believed. Then too, mercury treatments were expensive.

“Who is Heathgate’s latest diversion?” Because to his lordship, they were all diversions. Edith nearly pitied the red-haired woman, for she’d had a decent look about her, and Heathgate would toss her over the same way he did every other female to end up in his bed.

“I’m not supposed to know,” Riverton said, patting Edith’s knee. The gesture made the punch she’d swilled at the theatre lurch in her belly. “But I do know. I know a great deal people don’t give me credit for. And I never forget a wrong.”

Riverton was arrogant—most titled men were arrogant, and their womenfolk no better—but his tone bore a nasty gleefulness that boded ill for both the lady and her escort.

“People might give you credit for your cleverness if you paid your bills, Riverton. Are you going to signal the coachy to take me home, or must I pay the fare for you?”

Because that was his plan. He was that much pockets-to-let. He would have her drop him on St. James Street first, and thus stick her with the fare.

Heathgate had never expected her to take a malodorous cab, had never quibbled over funds, had never treated her with less than perfect courtesy in public, and perfect consideration in private.

“You can afford the blunt,” Riverton said. “I know you’ve earrings to match that necklace, and a bracelet as well. Enjoy Heathgate’s largesse while you can.”

The earrings were already gone, surrendered into the dubious keeping of Edith’s solicitors, whom she suspected of fleecing her outrageously as they turned her assets into coin—they’d been Riverton’s suggestion, and topped a growing list of regrets.

“You know very well I’m finished enjoying anything from the marquess except his polite greetings.” Riverton and all of Society expected scorn from her toward the marquess, and yet, something in Edith still enjoyed merely watching Heathgate. Society could go hang as far as he was concerned, and that monumental self-assurance had been as appealing to Edith as the size of his various assets.

As fortifying. As comforting.

“Soon, the marquess himself will be finished,” Riverton said. “Did you ever know a girl named Julia Ponsonby?”

In a certain strata of Society, many had
known
Julia, though she’d never been a girl. She’d been one of those females born ambitious, naughty and unhappy with it, determined to snag as high a title as possible—no mere viscount for her if the heir to a marquess came waltzing by.

“We made our come outs together,” Edith said. “A restless woman, though I’m sure her family has missed her all these years.”

“A woman with better taste in men than you’ve demonstrated, my dear. A woman for whom I had plans which Heathgate’s family interfered with, and Heathgate destroyed when he caused the lady’s demise. And yet, you chose to associate with Heathgate.”

It had been Edith’s privilege to associate with the marquess for a time, while this evening, she’d permitted association with Riverton—suggesting her judgment was, indeed, slipping. The coach rattled along its stinking way for another two blocks, while Edith made a decision.