Authors: Brazen
In any event, Everhart’s visit quite effectively demonstrated the social gap that existed between Gavin and Christina. Her future would be with an upstanding peer of the realm, not a former assassin for the crown.
And that was an end to it.
Gavin did not allow himself to dwell any further upon Christina and Everhart as he went out to her stable. Perhaps he would not return to Sunderland House later. He’d seen the delight on Christina’s face while visiting with the earl. Gavin thought perhaps he ought to bow out now and give her a chance to rekindle the association they’d once shared. She did not seem at all opposed to this suitor, as she’d been with the other—the one who’d spent time in Plymouth with Lang.
Muttering a low curse under his breath, he mounted his horse and rode to Fleet Street, where he was to meet the men who’d stood watch with him the night before. They’d all fought together in Spain, and Gavin trusted each one implicitly. All were good men with excellent instincts, and their reconnaissance at All Hallows Church now would go a long way toward making their venture on the morrow a success.
Gavin was the last to arrive at the tavern, into the midst of a discussion of what they ought to do about Chetwood and his blatant lies to the magistrate. He collected a mug of ale and carried it to their table and sat down, glad for something else to occupy his mind besides Christina and her solicitous caller.
“The man’s in line to become Duke of Windermere,” said Osborne, the fourth son of an earl. A gentleman to his core, Osborne still possessed some respect for the nobility. From all that Gavin had heard, Osborne’s sire was nothing like the maggot Gavin’s was.
“I’ll admit the thought of Chetwood with a duke’s status and power takes me aback,” Andrews said.
“How do we know the magistrate will believe us?” Mason asked. “Chetwood is quality. And we’re naught but—”
“We’re soldiers without any prospects,” Caldwell finished for him.
“We
don’t
know if he’ll believe us. Or even listen to us.” Andrews took a swallow of his drink. “But we’ve all got honorable reputations. Why wouldn’t the man hear us out?”
“Because Chetwood will soon become a duke, a prince of the realm. His word trumps all others.”
“Ah, but his reputation can’t have escaped the magistrate’s office,” Gavin said. “Even
I
am aware he’s a member of the Hellfire Club. How would it be possible the authorities do not know?”
“True enough,” Caldwell remarked.
“Shall we go to All Hallows?” Gavin asked. “We can figure out what to do about Chetwood later.”
The men all assented. It was time to get the lay of the land so they would be prepared for whatever happened there the following morning.
“I
know it is a painful topic, Christina,” Lord Everhart said, sitting forward in his chair so that his knees were a breath away from touching hers, “but please be assured I would do anything in my power to ease your distress.”
“Thank you, my lord.” She wondered if he referred to the disgraceful manner in which Edward had died.
But of course not—no gentleman would make reference to such an indelicate situation, especially to the offended lady. Likely, he meant Lang’s death. His
supposed
death.
She found herself sliding back in her chair to avoid making accidental contact with him.
“Perhaps you should have gone to Italy with your family.”
His hazel eyes were so understanding, so sympathetic. But Christina felt no affinity toward him. No attraction whatsoever, no matter how kind or how handsome he was. “I had reasons for remaining here in London,” she said.
He reached out and took her hand, and spoke in a quiet, cosseting tone, as though he thought she might crumble into pieces at any moment. “Your parents are well?”
Everhart was nowhere near as charming as Christina remembered him. She extracted her hand as she lifted her chin and looked into his eyes. “They are as well as they can be under the circumstances, my lord.”
“I understand. I hope—” He snapped his fingers suddenly. “Now I remember.”
Surprised at his quick gesture, Christina looked at him inquisitively. “Remember what, my lord?”
“Where I heard of Briggs.”
Christina swallowed, curious, but a little bit worried about what he might say. Gavin had shared so little of his background with her, she hardly knew him.
“He is the son of Viscount Hargrove, of Durham.”
“Yes, he—”
“More important, they’re saying Captain Briggs was the hero of Waterloo.”
“W
h-what do you mean?” Christina stammered. “I thought Lord Wellington was—”
“Oh, of course Wellington, but there was said to be a sniper—a certain Captain Briggs under Wellington’s command—who arrived just ahead of the Prussians and started picking off the French artillerymen.”
“Picking off?”
“Shooting them. Disrupting their line.”
Christina was not familiar with the word
sniper
, although she gleaned its meaning from Everhart. She shuddered. “And you think this man was Captain Briggs?”
“He is Gavin Briggs, is he not?”
Christina nodded, frowning. Of course he’d never said anything about it. He’d been surprisingly reticent about speaking of his wartime experiences. “That is his given name, yes,” she said, looking at Lord Everhart doubtfully.
“Well, I only recount to you what I’ve heard. Briggs has eyes so sharp, he caught sight of a French rifleman who was about to take a shot at Lord Wellington. Your friend felled the man before he was able to pull his trigger.”
G
avin spent an hour at the church with the others, deciding on a few hand signals, where they would position themselves, and how Gavin would apprehend the bastard who was taking advantage of Christina’s loss. And while they inspected the premises, Gavin considered the course he would take with Baron Chetwood.
He toyed with the possibility of sending Osborne or one of the others to Sunderland House to collect the blackmail money, but knew he would be the one to go back. Because no matter how much distance he knew he should put between them, he could not stay away.
Besides, Baron Chetwood had proven how brutal he could be. He might have sent proxies to do away with Christina’s sister, but he’d clearly demonstrated how twisted he was, and how capable. Gavin knew that only someone as deadly as he could thwart the bastard.
Lady Chetwood’s words rang in Gavin’s ears.
You wouldn’t dare.
Clearly, her husband would and did. The baron must have used the information Gavin discovered about Lily and Christina while he searched for them. Chetwood paid men to find Lily and kill her, and it was quite likely that while Gavin was searching for Lily, Chetwood had sent men to find Christina. Whatever Lady Chetwood thought her husband would not dare to do—it seemed he had done it.
Gavin had no doubt that the baron had cut his wife’s throat and left her body at the bottom of the staircase, then set the scene to look like a burglary. The man’s viciousness reached heights even Gavin had not touched during his years as Lord Castlereagh’s pawn. It turned his stomach.
Chetwood’s presence at the Black Sheep Inn still rankled, and Gavin wondered what the baron would have done had Christina taken lodgings there. He was sure it was not mere happenstance that put the man at the inn at that moment, just as Christina completed her day’s journey. Chetwood had to have been aware of her progress toward London.
He must have had a man following them all the way from Holywell, and reporting their progress. It infuriated him to know someone had gotten past him without his knowledge.
No one was going to get past him tonight. If Chetwood could kill his wife so callously, there was every chance the man would be just as brutal with Christina for interfering with his inheritance, even though the disposition of Windermere’s wealth was not her decision.
Gavin had to stop the bastard before he could do any more damage.
“Let’s go to the magistrate’s office in Westminster,” Gavin said when they were finished at the church. “It’s time to speak with him about what we saw last night.”
C
hristina stood to indicate an end to her visit with Lord Everhart. The earl took her hand in his, bowed over it, and placed his lips upon it. “Will you allow me to escort you to church on the morrow, my lady?” he asked.
The invitation seemed inappropriate. Her parents were away, and she was in mourning. He ought to know she could not accompany him to church or anywhere else without causing talk.
“If you’ll forgive me, I think not tomorrow, my lord.”
He was not quite successful at masking his disappointment, and Christina supposed she ought to feel flattered. Everhart was still a very eligible bachelor, handsome, and possessed of numerous prosperous estates. Her father’s objections to his suitability would surely be moot now that she was a widow—not that her father would have quite so much to say about her next marriage.
Thanks to a generous settlement Sunderland had negotiated with Edward before her marriage, she had her own funds as well as Sweethope Cottage and a house near Ullswater. When she married again, she would be certain to make arrangements so that her new husband would not have free access to them.
She knew it was rather a callous approach, but she’d learned her lesson with Edward. Not so much with money, but with trust. Christina was no longer the green girl she’d been on that February morning at St. George’s Church when she’d signed the papers that bound her to Edward until death parted them. She knew better now.
“Then will you allow me to call on you again tomorrow afternoon?”
Christina paused. Everhart must realize that if he proposed to her, there would be some delay in their nuptials because of Lang. Her mourning period for Edward would be over soon, but Lang had been gone only three months.
But neither his patience nor his attentions thrilled her as they once would have done. Her life and all her expectations had been drastically altered by her sham of a marriage, and now Lang’s . . . disappearance.
That was how she had to think of what had happened to her brother, at least until someone proved otherwise. How could she do anything but hope Lieutenant Norris had been wrong about Lang’s death?
“I think not yet, Lord Everhart,” she said quietly. “It has been only three months since Lang . . .” She swallowed and looked into his eyes. “Forgive me. I am not yet ready.”
She exited the drawing room alongside Lord Everhart, and entered the foyer just as Maycott responded to a knock at the front door. The butler opened to yet another suitor whom Christina had not seen in the nearly two years since her marriage. Word of her return to Sunderland House had spread far too quickly for her peace of mind.
Christina stopped short. “Viscount Brundle,” she said with some surprise as the man stepped inside. Brundle was one of the last people to see Lang alive.
“Good God, gel, what happened to your hair?”
“What sort of question is that, Brundle? ’Tis quite original, I think,” Everhart chided, his tone chilly. It surprised Christina, for she’d always thought they were friends. Or, at least, on friendly terms.
Perhaps not when they saw each other as competitors.
“Well, you’re quick, Everhart,” Viscount Brundle said. “I’ll say that for you.”
Christina chanced a quick glance at Everhart’s face and found him reddening. He
had
been rather quick, although Christina would never mention it. She had too many other pressing issues on her mind, one of which was the realization that she would not need to go all the way to Plymouth to ask Brundle what he remembered about the night Lang was . . . the night of the explosion.
Christina wished Gavin was present to do the asking, for she wanted as little to do with the viscount as possible.
The man was as distasteful as ever. He’d been obtuse and incredibly boorish during the season of Edward’s courtship, and Christina had found him intolerable. She’d tried to discourage his suit, but he’d ignored her gentle rebuffs and offered for her anyway. Christina had begged her father not to consider his suit, and he had agreed. He hadn’t cared for Brundle any more than she had.
Christina found it strange that the viscount did not mention one word of sympathy for her losses. He knew about Lang, obviously—had even had some close connection to Lang’s demise. And yet he said nothing. He was as dull-witted as ever.
“I don’t notice you hesitating, Brundle,” Everhart said, bristling in response to the viscount’s remark.
Christina wanted them both to leave, but Brundle took her hand and kissed the back of it. His heavy mustache brushed unpleasantly against her skin, and she found herself unable to suppress an unpleasant shiver at his touch.
She pulled her hand away.
“Of course I do not hesitate,” Brundle snapped, though he smiled at Christina. “Came to pay my respects, of course.”
Brundle’s eyes had always sparkled with a bit too much eagerness, and his thick mustache seemed to twitch at inopportune moments. Christina could not envision kissing such a furry lip.
“I appreciate your visit, my lord, but—”
“Dashed bad luck in your family these days,” Brundle said, turning over his walking stick and hat to Maycott.
Christina gasped at the man’s rudeness and once again found herself wishing Gavin were there. He would have booted the viscount from the house in no uncertain terms, and likely Everhart as well. Gavin was a man who could be counted upon to deal with whatever situation arose.
“Shall we . . . go inside?” Brundle asked, raising his brows inquisitively.
Christina clenched her teeth. She had no intention of entertaining the beastly man now, or at any other time. If he wanted to crow like some old gossipmonger over her misfortunes, he could do it elsewhere.
Gavin would find him and question him if it became necessary.
“I am so sorry, Lord Brundle.” She spoke without the slightest hint of civility in her tone and beckoned Maycott to return the viscount’s walking stick and hat to him. “I was just going out.”
“Allow me to escort you, my lady,” Everhart said.
She shook her head. “No, my lord. But thank you for the offer.” She turned and started back to the drawing room. “Maycott will see you both out.”
I
t was late afternoon when Gavin’s men reached Chetwood’s residence. Two policemen guarded the door, and they observed another two men exiting the house. Gavin guessed one was the coroner, and the other, the magistrate himself.
Naturally, the highest official in the magistrate’s office would personally look into Lady Chetwood’s death. The woman would have become the Duchess of Windermere, and her murder would not have been left to anyone of lesser rank or stature.
Besides, such violence did not occur in Mayfair. Ever.
Gavin looked closely at the two men. “Is that Colonel Watkins coming out of the house?”
“Looks like him,” Andrews said. “Nobody else could be as gaunt as all that and still live.”
“And that head of red hair . . .,” Mason added.
Gavin dismounted and tied his horse, silently agreeing with Andrews and Mason. His unit’s former colonel was as tall and thin as a reed, his hair as bright as a copper coin.
“I haven’t seen him since Buçaco,” said Osborne.
“Nor have I,” Gavin remarked as the four men started toward the house. He’d been a lieutenant under Watkins in Spain, and already one of Wellington’s sharpshooters. “If I remember correctly, Watkins was badly wounded there.”
The others nodded in agreement, searching their memories for details of the battle that had taken place six years before.
“It’s a bit of luck for us,” said Sergeant Caldwell. “Watkins was a devilish good cove back then.”
“Let’s see what he’s like now.”
Watkins stood in front of the house, deep in conversation with the other man. But when he caught sight of Gavin and the others, he squinted and watched them approach. Gavin noticed the minute recognition dawned.
“Briggs?”
Gavin nodded and shook the colonel’s hand, and brought his companions forward. “You remember Andrews and Osborne? And here are Caldwell and Mason.”
Watkins looked pleased to see them, but puzzled. “What brings you to Cavendish Square this afternoon, gentlemen?”
“If I might have a private word with you, Colonel Watkins?”
The colonel’s prodigious red brows came together. “Has this aught to do with the . . . er, situation in this house?”
“It does.”
“Gentlemen, come inside.”
Gavin and the others followed Watkins and his associate into the house. They walked past a large bloodstain at the foot of the stairs and went into the adjacent drawing room. Clearly, the rumors about Lady Chetwood’s cause of death were true.
“This is Mr. Gell, our coroner. Anything you have to say to me, you may say in his presence.”
He introduced Gavin and the others.
“Briggs? Captain Briggs?” Gell asked.
Gavin nodded. “Formerly captain, but I am no longer in His Majesty’s service.”
Gell shook his hand vigorously. “ ’Tis a pleasure to meet you, Briggs. Your reputation precedes you.”
Gavin took no notice of Gell’s remark. “Is Baron Chetwood in custody?” he asked Colonel Watkins.
“No, he is not,” Watkins replied, his expression one of puzzlement and concern. “Beyond having questionable associates in his damned Hellfire Club, I have no reason to arrest him. I allowed him to leave in order to make arrangements . . .”
Gavin believed Chetwood had made certain the servants—all but his valet—had retired for the night before taking a knife to his wife. So his story of burglars would not be contradicted by any witnesses.
The thought of Chetwood on the loose when Christina had only a few young footmen to protect her in her father’s house was disturbing.
Lord Everhart might also be with her, but the kind of protection the earl might provide would not be effective in the least. Not with those soft hands and that pampered manner.
Clearly, Chetwood was a twisted bastard, his actions proving he was more than just a little desperate. Gavin needed to get back to Sunderland House. Needed to assure himself that all was well there.
“For reasons I will explain later,” Gavin said, “these men and I had reason to keep this house under surveillance last night.”
Gell’s narrow gray eyes seemed to light up. “Reasons?”
Gavin gave him a nod. “Aye. We came at dark—Caldwell and I out front in the square, and Osborn with Mason near the stable in back. Andrews was free to move between us. We had the entire house in our sights all night long.”