Gayle Buck (8 page)

At length, Lord St. John said, “I must admit to curiosity, Captain. I had not thought us such particularly good friends that you would feel able to make free with my settee.”

Captain Hargrove flushed. “My apologies, my lord. I had no intention of doing so. I meant only to call on you briefly. Though now that I am sober, it seems a dashed stupid thing to do at all.”

Lord St. John leaned back in his chair, having finished with his breakfast. He waved aside the footman’s offer of coffee. Drawling, he said, “Not at all, sir. I am quite willing for you to call on me, for I enjoyed immensely our last encounter. Are we to try pistols at twenty paces with the pips of playing cards for targets?”

Captain Hargrove laughed. “Not this morning, my lord. My head is not in it and I fear my hand would shake so that I would disgrace myself.”

“A pity, for I would like nothing better than such a contest.” Lord St. John regarded his guest for a moment. He dismissed the footmen and when the door had fallen shut behind their retreating backs, he then asked softly, “Why
have
you come, Captain?”

Captain Hargrove again flushed. He looked uncomfortable. “As I said before, it was a dashed stupid thing to do. I had a notion, you see, that—well, it is neither here nor there now. Pray disregard the intrusion, my lord. I should get back to my quarters before my batman decides I have been abducted.”

Lord St. John played with his knife. He looked up as the captain rose from the table. “But I fear that I cannot disregard it. Captain Hargrove. We are scarcely acquainted; yet you felt so strongly about this notion of yours last night that you insisted upon waiting for me to return. I really cannot let you go without understanding something of what was in your thoughts.”

Captain Hargrove appeared acutely uncomfortable. “My lord, I would rather not say.”

Lord St. John smiled thinly. The bare warmth in his eyes had disappeared. His voice turned cold. “Indulge me, Captain.”

For a moment the gentlemen measured each other.

Captain Hargrove smiled then, and shrugged. “You will likely plant me a facer for it, but I suppose that even with this head I shall survive. The plain fact of it is, my lord, I come to offer you whatever might be in my power to give. I-I have heard of your reverses and having taken a liking for you, I determined that I, at least, would not turn my back.” There was resolution, as well as an underlying echo of anger, in his voice.

Lord St. John heard it and understood. He felt a surge of fury at the hypocrisy of society. He drew in a breath to steady himself. “My name makes the rounds, is that it, Captain?”

Captain Hargrove balled his fingers on the table. “However reluctant I am to say it, yes, my lord.”

“It is not unexpected.”

Lord St. John rose abruptly, flinging his napkin to the table. He saw the gentleman opposite squaring his shoulders as though preparing to receive a blow. “No, I have no intention of brawling with you, Captain. I am not an ancient Greek to punish the bearer of unpleasant tidings. Instead, I accept the gesture that you have made on my behalf. It is a rare thing to find friendship in my present position.”

Lord St. John’s lips twisted, then eased into a genuine smile, faint though it was. “Are you up to seconding a race, Captain?”

“A race, my lord?” Captain Hargrove’s eyes reflected startlement, then the instant of his understanding. “I should like nothing better. When do you leave?”

Lord St. John’s glance raked the captain’s figure, still attired in evening clothes. “I shall take you up at your lodgings in a half hour. That should be time enough to effect a change.”

“More than ample, my lord! I shall be awaiting your arrival,” said Captain Hargrove with the flash of a grin. He gave the viscount his address at an hotel that catered to military gentlemen when they were on leave from the Peninsula.

Lord St. John went around the table and clapped the gentleman’s broad shoulder. “Good. I shall alert a few of my acquaintances to the start of the race and then be with you.” He showed his twisted smile. “Though I am somewhat out of favor in certain quarters, I can yet command attention over a sporting wager.”

Captain Hargrove shook his head. After shooting a keen glance at the viscount’s flinty expression, he wisely did not attempt to express his sympathy. Instead, he said, “I trust that the book is not yet closed, for I should like to place a small wager of my own. I have a shrewd notion that one could pocket a tidy sum from backing you, my lord.”

Lord St. John glanced at his companion as he reached for and opened the breakfast room door. He felt a vague disappointment. He had not thought the gentleman to be a toad-eater. As he crossed the threshold into the entry hall, Captain Hargrove matching his steps, he said with cynicism, “Surely that is a far-reaching assumption, sir. You have never seen me drive.”

“But I have seen your team, on the occasion of our duel. I’ve never laid eyes on a finer set of cattle. As for your driving skill”—Captain Hargrove smiled faintly as he met the viscount’s cold eyes.—”I am a fair dab at judging my man, and in addition I have had the rare privilege of measuring a length of steel against you. Aye, I think it safe enough to risk my blunt on you, my lord.”

Lord St. John cracked a laugh as he accompanied Captain Hargrove to the front door. He saw the gentleman out, much to the astonishment of his wooden-faced porter. “I am humbled, indeed. Captain, I look forward to furthering our acquaintance.”

“As shall I, my lord,” said Captain Hargrove, flashing his dazzling grin once more. He ran lightly down the steps to the curb and hailed a hackney.

Lord St. John turned back into the town house, a rare smile easing the severity that had lately come to deepen his characteristically cynical expression.

Chapter 8

Lord St. John took up Captain Hargrove at the curb in front of that gentleman’s lodgings. Several fashionable acquaintances, some of whom had given the viscount a scarce nod of recognition in the days just past, and many unknowns had gathered on the walk in front of the hotel to witness the beginning of the race. A brisk business was done in the placing of last-minute wagers.

Captain Hargrove placed his own wager, remarking that there was nothing he liked better than a contest whose outcome could not be in doubt. His cheerful declaration aroused a fury of competition in the breasts of some of those who heard him and they loudly proclaimed that the viscount could not possibly shave off the necessary minutes. The odds increased sharply.

Lord St. John listened with a sardonic expression in his eyes.

The gentlemen who had taken it upon themselves to record the wagers agreed that Captain Hargrove, despite his partisan remark, had already established a reputation for fair dealing and, in addition, was just in from the Peninsula and so had no loyalties, so that he could be depended upon to give impartial witness to the finish.

Pocket watches were consulted in order to mark and record the starting time. Captain Hargrove put the yard of tin to his lips and gave a flourishing blast. Lord St. John flicked his whip and guided his team away from the curb. A few interested parties had come to the beginning of the race in their own carriages or on horseback and they accompanied the viscount’s vehicle through the street, shouting cheerful witticisms back and forth among their company.

Lord St. John paid little heed to the tomfoolery. He tooled the curricle through the tangle of carriages and wagons, horsemen and pedestrians with consummate skill, coolly negotiating even the most impossibly narrow gaps without mishap.

Quickly enough the other drivers fell behind and gave way. One or two of those in hacks remained in sight of the viscount’s curricle almost to the outer reaches of the congested London byways, but then they, too, turned back.

Captain Hargrove watched the viscount work, giving a soundless whistle at a particularly harrowing squeeze between two draft wagons. “You are quite good at this,” he said.

He was startled when Lord St. John flashed a completely open grin. In his short acquaintance with the viscount, Captain Hargrove had taken for granted that his lordship’s faintly mocking air was habitual. He recalled only one other time that he had seen such naturalness in the man and that had been on the occasion of their duel. It was an interesting insight into the viscount’s character, he reflected thoughtfully.

London was eventually left behind and Lord St. John let his horses go. The countryside swept by in a blur of high green hedges and glimpses of fine estates and cottage roofs.

Lord St. John drove his horses hard but not beyond what he judged to be their limits of endurance. Barring unforeseen accidents or barriers in the road, he was completely confident of making Dover well under the designated time.

* * * *

And so it proved. Upon entering the outskirts of Dover, Captain Hargrove pulled out his pocket watch. “Oh, well done!” he exclaimed, faithfully marking the hour in a small notebook he had carried for the purpose.

Lord St. John said nothing, but the unusual ease of his expression was enough to show his companion that he was also pleased.

“I think a celebration is in order, my lord,” said Captain Hargrove, putting away the notebook.

“Do you indeed, Hargrove?” asked Lord St. John with the glimmer of a smile. “What manner of celebration had you in mind?”

“A pint of ale and a hand of beef are called for after such dusty work,” said Captain Hargrove firmly. “There is an inn that gained my favor when last I embarked for the Peninsula. It is not the stop of the fashionable, of course, but instead lays out a man’s trenchers.” There was an underlying contempt in his words for the haunts of the fashionable that made St. John laugh.

“You intrigue me, sir. Direct me to it, I pray,” said Lord St. John.

Captain Hargrove did so and within a few short minutes the gentleman’s carriage turned into a lively inn yard. After Lord St. John had given instructions for the care of his team, he and Captain Hargrove entered into the crowded taproom.

While Captain Hargrove made known to a waiter what was wanted, Lord St. John stripped off his driving gloves and looked about him with interest.

It was as Captain Hargrove had said. The taproom clientele was of a commoner sort than he was used to mingling with, the majority being respectable tradespeople or of the same military stamp as Captain Hargrove. He was the only gentleman in the room, his identity marked by his fine apparel, and he had already garnered a few flickering glances of curiosity.

But instead of being made uncomfortable because he was so obviously out of place, Lord St. John felt a liberating sense of anonymity. None here would know or care about his financial difficulties. There would be no supercilious smiles or barbed greetings to meet and deflect.

Captain Hargrove returned to the viscount, rubbing his hands together. “We shall shortly be taken care of, my lord. Have you a preference of one table over another?”

He suddenly appeared a shade uncertain, as if struck for the first time by the incongruity of his lordship’s appearance in that setting. “That is, if you do not mind remaining here belowstairs rather than taking a private parlor.”

Lord St. John smiled at his companion. There was a gleam of unusual satisfaction in his gray eyes. “None whatsoever, Hargrove. As for bespeaking a private parlor, I cannot imagine anything more boring. I infinitely prefer the taproom.”

Captain Hargrove flashed a grin. “Very well, then. Let us lay claim to a table at once, my lord. My dry throat is begging to be slaked.”

Lord St. John and Captain Hargrove were soon toasting the successful completion of the race with good ale and a late luncheon. An hour later, replete and good-humored, the gentlemen rose and made their way out of the taproom to pay their bill. Captain Hargrove insisted that the honor was to be his and as the viscount’s expression frosted, he leveled a look on him. “My lord, I would not insult you. I have made a fair profit by wagering on your chances in the race. Would you deny me the pleasure of properly showing my appreciation of the sport you have shown me?”

A faint smile curled Lord St. John’s lips. “Forgive me, Hargrove. My pride is perhaps overly sensitive these days.”

Captain Hargrove nodded acceptance of the viscount’s apology and turned to the innkeeper.

Lord St. John had scarcely finished pulling on his driving gloves when he was suddenly knocked off-balance by a flying figure. Instinctively his hands steadied the woman as she rebounded from her collision with him.

The edge of the bonnet lifted as a startled feminine face was raised to his own. The lady’s dark eyes were wide with an incongruous distress that he realized had nothing to do with embarrassment at running into him.

“My pardon—!” she gasped. She looked beyond him toward the innkeeper, scarcely appearing aware that his hands were still on her shoulders or that she was clinging to one of his arms. “My father—I must have help!”

In that fleeting instant, Lord St. John recognized the depth of her alarm, and responded. Much later he would wonder why he did so, but the question never entered his mind at the time. He tightened his fingers, thus drawing her attention. His eyes met and held hers commandingly. “Your father, I believe you said. Perhaps I can be of service.”

She did not question his authority, but relief flashed in her eyes. “Yes, yes! He has fallen and I cannot rouse him.” Her hands went to cover her lips as she tried to stifle a sob.

Lord St. John released her. “Show me.”

The young woman turned and hurried toward the stairs and he followed. At Captain Hargrove’s startled question, he threw over his shoulder a terse explanation even as he continued to mount the stairs. Behind him, he heard the swift trod betokening that Captain Hargrove was following.

On the narrow landing, the young woman stopped and knelt. A portly gentleman sprawled over the steps, his head lower than his feet. His hat had tumbled from his head, leaving its white fringe and bald pate peculiarly vulnerable. A bleeding cut marred the gentleman’s brow and his eyes were closed.