Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (83 page)

With Harry holding the reins, the conversation predictably remained in stultifyingly correct vein. Lucinda, smothering a yawn, considered an option that might, conceivably, assist her cause while at the same time rescuing her poor court.

“It's getting rather warm, don't you find it so?” she murmured, her hand heavy on Harry's arm.

He glanced down at her, then lifted his brows. “Indeed. I suspect it's time we left.”

As he lifted his head to locate Em and Heather, Lucinda allowed herself one, very small, very frustrated snort. She had intended him to take her onto the terrace. Peering through the crowd, she saw Em deep in discussion with a dowager; Heather was engaged with a party of her friends. “Ah…perhaps I could manage for another half-hour if I had a glass of water?”

Mr Satterly immediately offered to procure one and ploughed into the crowd.

Harry looked down at her, a faint question in his eyes. “Are you sure?”

Lucinda's smile was weak. “Positive.”

He continued to behave with dogged correctness—which, Lucinda belatedly realised, as the crowds gradually thinned and she became aware of the curious, speculative glances cast their way, was not, in his case, the same as behaving circumspectly.

The observation brought a frown to her eyes.

It had deepened by the time they were safely in Em's carriage, rolling home through the now quiet streets. From her position opposite, Lucinda studied Harry's face, lit by the moonlight and the intermittent flares of the streetlamps.

His eyes were closed, sealed away behind their heavy lids. His features were not so much relaxed as wiped clean of expression, his lips compressed into a firm, straight line. Seen thus, it was a face that kept its secrets, the face of a man who was essentially private, who revealed his emotions rarely if ever.

Lucinda felt her heart catch; a dull ache blossomed within.

The
ton
was his milieu—he knew every nuance of behaviour, how every little gesture would be interpreted. He was at home here, in the crowded ballrooms, as she was not. As at Lester Hall, here, he was in control.

Lucinda shifted in her seat. Propping her chin in her palm, she stared at the sleeping houses, a frown drawing down her fine brows.

Free of her scrutiny, Harry opened his eyes. He studied her profile, clear in the moonlight. His lips curved in the slightest of smiles. Pressing his head back against the squabs, he closed his eyes.

 

A
T THAT MOMENT
, in Mortimer Babbacombe's lodgings in Great Portland Street, a meeting was getting underway.

“Well—did you learn anything to the point?” Joliffe, no longer the nattily attired gentleman who had first befriended Mortimer, snarled the question the instant Brawn ambled through the door. Heavy-eyed from lack of sleep, his colour high from the liquor he had consumed to calm his nerves, Joliffe fixed his most junior accomplice with a dangerous stare.

Brawn was too young to heed it. Dropping into a chair at the parlour table about which Joliffe, Mortimer and Scrugthorpe were already seated, he grinned. “Aye—I learned a bit. Chatted up the young maid—no mor'n a bit of a thing. She told me a few things before that groom—yeller-haired lot—came and fetched her orf. Heard him giving her what for “bout talking to strangers, so I don't think I'll get any more by that road.” Brawn grinned. “Pity—wouldn't ha' minded—”

“Damn you—get on!” Joliffe roared, his fist connecting with the table with enough force to set the tankards jumping.
“What the devil happened?”

Brawn shot him a look more puzzled than frightened. “Well—the lady did go orf to the country that day—just like you'd planned. But seemingly she went to some other house—a place called Lester Hall. The whole household went up the next day—the maid said as she thought it'd been planned.”

“Damn!”
Joliffe swilled back a mouthful of porter. “No wonder I couldn't get any of the crew who'd gone up to Asterley to say they'd seen her. I thought they must've been practising discretion—but the damned woman hadn't gone!”

“Seems not.” Brawn shrugged. “So what now?”

“Now we stop playing and kidnap her.” Scrugthorpe lifted his face from his tankard. “Like I said from the first. It's the only way of being sure—all this trying to get the rakes to do our job for us has got us precisely
nowhere.
” He spat the last word, his contempt bordering on the open.

Joliffe held his eye; eventually, Scrugthorpe looked back at his mug.

“That's what I say, anyway,” Scrugthorpe mumbled as he took another swallow.

“Hmm.” Joliffe grimaced. “I'm beginning to agree with you. It looks like we'll have to take an active hand ourselves.”

“But…I thought…” Mortimer's first contribution to the conversation died away as both Joliffe and Scrugthorpe turned to look at him.

“Ye-es?” Joliffe prompted.

Mortimer's colour rose. He put a finger to his cravat, tugging at the floppy folds. “It's just that…well—if we do do anything direct—well—won't she know?”

Joliffe's lip curled. “Of
course
she will—but that's not to say she'll be in any hurry to denounce us—not after Scrugthorpe here has his revenge.”

“Aye.” Scrugthorpe's black eyes gleamed. “Jus' leave her to me. I'll make sure she ain't in no hurry to talk about it.” He nodded and went back to his beer.

Mortimer regarded him with mounting horror. He opened his mouth, then caught Joliffe's eye. He visibly shrank, but muttered, “There must be another way.”

“Very likely.” Joliffe drained his tankard and reached for the jug. “But we don't have time for any more convoluted schemes.”

“Time?” Mortimer looked confused.

“Yes,
time!
' Snarling, Joliffe turned on Mortimer. Mortimer paled, his eyes starting like a frightened rabbit's. With an effort, Joliffe reined in his temper. He smiled, all teeth. “But don't you worry your head over it. Just leave everything to Scrugthorpe and me. You do your bit when asked—and everything will work out just fine.”

“Aye.” Brawn unexpectedly chipped in. “I was thinking as you'd better get a different plan. From what the maid told me, seems like the lady's in expectation of ‘receivin' an offer,' as they says. I don't know as I understand these things rightly, but seems pretty useless making her out to be a whore if she's going to marry a swell.”

“What?”
Joliffe's exclamation had all of them starting. They stared at their leader as he stared—in total stupefication—at Brawn. “She's about to
marry?
”

Warily, Brawn nodded. “So the maid said.”

“Whom?”

“Some swell name of Lester.”

“Harry Lester?” Joliffe calmed. Frowning heavily, he eyed Brawn. “You sure this maid got it right? Harry Lester's not the marrying kind.”

Brawn shrugged. “Wouldn't know about that.” After a moment, he added, “The girl said as this Lester chap had called this afternoon to take the lady for a drive in the Park.”

Joliffe stared at Brawn, all his certainties fading. “The Park,” he repeated dully.

Brawn merely nodded and cautiously sipped his beer.

When Joliffe next spoke, his voice was hoarse. “We've got to move soon.”

“Soon?” Scrugthorpe looked up. “How soon?”

“Before she's married—preferably before she even accepts an offer. We don't need any legal complications.”

Mortimer was frowning. “Complications?”

“Yes, damn you!” Joliffe struggled to mute his snarl. “If the damned woman marries, the guardianship of her stepdaughter passes into her husband's hands. If Harry Lester takes the reins, we can forget getting a farthing out of your lovely cousin's estate.”

Mortimer's eyes widened. “Oh.”

“Yes—oh! And while we're on the subject, I've a little news for you—just to strengthen your backbone.” Joliffe fixed his eyes on Mortimer's wan countenance. “You owe me five thousand on a note of hand. I passed that vowel on, with one of my own, to a man who charges interest by the day. Together, we now owe him a cool twenty thousand, Mortimer—and if we don't pay up soon, he's going to take every pound out of our hides.” He paused, then leaned forward to ask, “Is that clear enough for you, Mortimer?”

His face a deathly white, his eyes round and starting, Mortimer was so petrified he could not even nod.

“Well, then!” Scrugthorpe pushed his empty tankard away. “Seems like we'd best make some plans.”

Joliffe had sobered dramatically. He tapped the tabletop with one fingernail. “We'll need information on her movements.” He looked at Brawn but the boy shook his head.

“No good. The maid won't talk to me again, not after the roasting that groom gave her. And there's no one else.”

Joliffe's eyes narrowed. “What about the other women?”

Brawn's snort was eloquent. “There's a few o'them all right—but they're all as sour as green grapes. Take even you till next year to chat 'em up—and they'd likely refuse to talk even then.”

“Damn!” Joliffe absentmindedly took a sip of his porter. “All right.” He set the tankard down with a snap. “If that's the only way then that's the way we'll do it.”

“How's that?” Scrugthorpe asked.

“We watch her—all the time, day and night. We make our arrangements and keep all in readiness to grab her the instant fate gives us a chance.”

Scrugthorpe nodded. “Right. But how're we going to go about it?”

Joliffe sent an intimidating glance at Mortimer.

Mortimer swallowed and shrank in his chair.

With a contemptuous snort, Joliffe turned back to Scrugthorpe. “Just listen.”

F
IVE NIGHTS LATER
, Mortimer Babbacombe stood in the shadows of a doorway in King Street and watched his aunt-by-marriage climb the shallow steps to Almack's unprepossessing entrance.

“Well.” Heaving a sigh—of relief or disappointment he was not quite sure—he turned to his companion. “She's gone in—no point in watching further.”

“Oh, yes, there is.” The words came in a cold hiss. In the past five days, Joliffe's polite veneer had peeled from him. “You're going to go in there, Mortimer, and keep a careful eye on your aunt. I want to know everything—who she dances with, who brings her lemonade—
everything!
” Joliffe's piercing gaze swung to fix on Mortimer's face. “Is that clear?”

Mortimer hugged the doorframe, his relief rapidly fading. Glowering glumly, he nodded. “Can't think what good it'll do,” he grumbled.

“Don't think, Mortimer—just do as I bid you.” In the shadows, Joliffe studied Mortimer's face, plain and round, the face of a man easily led—and, as was often the case with such, prone to unhelpful stubbornness. Joliffe's lip curled. “Do try to recapture a little of your earlier enthusiasm, Mortimer. Remember—your uncle overlooking your claim to be your cousin's guardian and appointing a young woman like your aunt instead is an insult to your manhood.”

Mortimer shifted, pulling at his fleshy lower lip. “Yes, it is.”

“Indeed. Who is Lucinda Babbacombe, anyway, other than a pretty face smart enough to take your uncle in?”

“Quite true.” Mortimer nodded. “And, mind, it's not as if I've any bone to pick with her—but anyone would have to admit it was dashed unfair of Uncle Charles to leave all the ready to her—and just the useless land to me.”

Joliffe smiled into the night. “Quite. You're merely seeking redress for the unfair actions of your uncle. Remember that, Mortimer.” He clapped Mortimer on the shoulder and waved towards Almack's. “I'll wait at your lodgings for your news.”

Mortimer nodded. Straightening his rounded shoulders, he headed for the sacred portal.

Deep within the hallowed halls, Lucinda nodded and smiled, responding to the chatter with confident ease while her mind trod an endless trail of conjecture and fact. Harry had driven her in the Park on the past five afternoons, albeit briefly. He had appeared every evening, unheralded, simply there, waiting when she descended the stairs to escort them to the balls and parties, remaining by her side throughout but saying not a word as to his purpose.

She had gone beyond impatience, even beyond chagrin—she was now in the grip of a deadening sense of the inevitable.

Lucinda summoned a smile and gave her hand to Mr Drumcott, a not-so-young gentleman who had recently become betrothed to a young lady in her first Season.

“I beg you'll do me the honour of dancing this quadrille with my poor self, Mrs Babbacombe.”

Lucinda acquiesced with a smile but as they took their places she caught herself scanning the crowd—and inwardly sighed. She should, of course, be glad Harry had not arrived this evening to escort them here—that, she was convinced, would have been the last straw.

That he intended making her his bride was patently clear—his likely motive in underscoring that fact publicly was what was dragging her heart down. The memory of his first proposal—and her refusal—haunted her. She hadn't known, then, of Lady Coleby and her earlier rejection of Harry's love. Her own refusal had been driven by the simple belief that he loved her and would, if pushed, acknowledge that love. To hear the words on his lips was something she craved, something she needed. But not, she was increasingly certain, something Harry needed.

She couldn't rid herself of the idea that he was painting her into a corner, that his present behaviour was designed to render a second rejection impossible. If, after all his studied performances, she refused him again, she would be labelled cruel-hearted, or, more likely, as Sim would put it, “dicked in the nob”.

Lucinda grimaced—and had to hurriedly cover the expression with a smile. As they embarked on the final figures of the quadrille, Mr Drumcott blinked at her in concern; she forced another smile—a travesty considering her true state. If Harry kept on as he was, when next he proposed, she would have to accept him, regardless of whether he offered his heart along with his hand.

The quadrille ended; Lucinda sank into the final, elaborate curtsy. Rising, she straightened her shoulders and determinedly thanked Mr Drumcott. She was not, she told herself, going to dwell on Harry's motives any longer. There must be some other explanation—if only she could think what it was.

At that precise moment, the object of her thoughts sat at the desk in his library attired in long-tailed black evening coat and black knee-breeches, garments he considered outmoded in the extreme.

“What have you learned?” Harry leaned both arms on the blotter and pinned Salter with a steady green gaze.

“Enough to make my nose quiver.” Salter settled himself in the chair before the desk. Dawlish, who had shown him in, closed the door; folding his arms, he leaned back against it. Salter pulled out a notebook. “First—this Joliffe chap is more of a bad egg than I'd thought. A real sharp—specialises in ‘befriending' flats, preferably those who come fresh on the town, gullible and usually young, though, these days, as he's no spring chicken himself, his victims also tend to be older. Quite a history—but nothing, ever, that could be made to stick. Lately, however, quite aside from his usual activities, Joliffe's taken to deep play—and not in the hells either. Word has it he's heavily in debt—not to his opponents—he's paid them off—but the total sum amounts to a fortune. All evidence points to Joliffe being in the clutches of a real bloodsucker—a certain individual who works out of the docks. Don't have any information on him except that he's not one to keep dangling too long. A mistake that often turns fatal, if you take my meaning.”

He lifted his gaze to Harry's face; his expression grim, Harry nodded.

“Right then—next up is Mortimer Babbacombe. A hopeless case—if Joliffe hadn't picked him up one of the other Captain Sharps would have. Born a flat. Joliffe took him under his wing and underwrote his losses—that's the usual way these things start. Then, when the flat gets his hands on whatever loot is coming his way, the sharps take the major cut. So when Mortimer came into his inheritance, Joliffe was sitting on his coattails. From then, however, things went wrong.”

Salter consulted his notebook. “Like Mrs Babbacombe told you, it seems Mortimer had no real understanding of his inheritance—but Charles Babbacombe had paid off his debts annually, to the tune of three thousand at the last. Seems certain Mortimer assumed the money came from his uncle's estate and the estate was therefore worth much more than it is. My people checked—the place can't make much more than expenses. It's apparently common knowledge up that way that Charles Babbacombe's money came from Babbacombe and Company.”

Shutting his book, Salter grimaced. “That's all right and tight—and a nasty surprise it must have been for Joliffe. But what I can't see is why he's gone after Mrs Babbacombe—knocking her on the head isn't going to benefit them. Joliffe's more than experienced enough to work that out—some old aunt of hers is her nearest kin. Yet they're keeping constant watch on Mrs Babbacombe—and not as if they've got anything cordial on their minds.”

Harry stiffened. “They're watching her?”

“And my people are watching them. Very closely.”

Harry relaxed. A little. He frowned. “We're missing something.”

“Precisely my thought.” Salter shook his head. “Operators like Joliffe don't make too many mistakes—after his first disappointment with Mortimer, he wouldn't have hung around unless there's a chance of some really rich pickings in the wind.”

“There's money all right,” Harry mused. “But it's in the business. As you know, Charles Babbacombe willed that to his widow and his daughter.”

Salter frowned. “Ah, yes—this daughter. A young chit, barely seventeen.” His frown deepened. “From all I've seen, Mrs Babbacombe's no easy mark—why pick on her rather than the daughter?”

Harry blinked, somewhat owlishly, at Salter. “Heather,” he said, his tone oddly flat. After a moment, he drew in a long breath and straightened. “That must be it.”

“What?”

Harry's lips twisted. “I've often been told that I've a devious mind—perhaps, for once, it can be of real use. Just hear me out.” His gaze grew distant; absent-mindedly, he reached for his pen. “Heather is the one they
could
use to milk the business of cash—
but
—what if Lucinda is Heather's guardian, as well as Heather's mentor? In either role, Joliffe and company would have to
get rid
of Lucinda to get to Heather.”

Slowly, Salter nodded. “That's possible—but why try that ramshackle business of sending Mrs Babbacombe to that fancy orgy palace, then?”

Harry hoped Alfred never heard of his ancestral home referred to in such vein. He tapped the blotter with the pen. “That's what makes me so certain Heather's guardianship must be the key—because in order to get rid of Lucinda for such purposes, showing her as unfit to be guardian of a young girl would be sufficient for Mortimer, who is Heather's next of kin, to apply to overturn Lucinda's guardianship in favour of himself. Once that's done, they could simply cut all contact between Heather and Lucinda—and use Heather to draw funds from her half of the investment.”

Gazing into space, Salter nodded. “You're right—that must be it. Roundabout but it makes sense.”

“And now they've failed to paint the lady scarlet,” put in Dawlish, “they're planning to snatch her up and do away with her.”

“True enough,” agreed Salter. “But my people know what to do.”

Harry refrained from asking just who Salter's “people” were.

“Even so,” Dawlish continued, “they can't keep a-watching her forever. And seems to me this Joliffe character's one as should be behind bars.”

Salter nodded. “You're right. There's been a few unexplained ‘suicides' in Joliffe's past that the magistrates were never convinced about.”

Harry repressed a shudder. The thought of Lucinda mixed up with such characters was not to be borne. “At this instant, Mrs Babbacombe is safe enough—but we need to make sure our conjecture's true. If it's not, we could be following the wrong scent—with potentially serious consequences. It strikes me that there might well be a second guardian, which would render our hypothesis unlikely.”

Salter lifted a brow. “If you know the lady's legal man, I could make some discreet inquiries.”

“I don't. And he's very likely in Yorkshire.” Harry thought—then looked at Dawlish. “Mrs Babbacombe's maid and coachman have been with the family for years. They might know.”

Dawlish straightened from the door. “I'll ask.”

“Couldn't you just ask the lady herself?” Salter asked.

“No.” Harry's reply was unequivocal. His lips twisted in a grimace. “At the moment, the very last thing I want to do is ask Mrs Babbacombe about her legal affairs. The question of Heather's guardianship can't be all that hard to answer.”

“No. And I'll tip my people the wink to yell the instant they sniff any shift in the wind.” Salter got to his feet. “As soon as we know for sure what these jackals are about, we'll devise a way to trip them up nicely.”

Harry didn't reply. He shook hands with Salter, the thought in his mind that if tripping up Joliffe involved placing Lucinda in any danger at all, it simply wouldn't happen.

When Dawlish returned from showing the ex-Runner out, Harry was standing in the centre of the room, strapping his gloves on his palm.

“Well!” Dawlish opened his eyes wide. “There you be—all tricked out and not at the party. Best I drive you there, then.”

Harry looked down, casting a long-suffering glance at breeches he had long ago sworn never again to don. His expression grimly resigned, he nodded. “Best you do.”

His knock on Almack's door very nearly prostrated old Willis, the porter. “
Never
did I think to see
you
here again, sir!” Willis raised his shaggy brows. “Something in the wind?”

“You, Willis, are as fervent a gossip as any of your mistresses.”

Unrepentant, Willis grinned. Harry gave him his gloves and cloak and sauntered into the ballroom.

To say his entrance caused a stir would be a gross understatement. It caused a flutter, a ruffling of feathers, and, in some, a mild panic akin to hysteria, all fuelled by the intense speculation that rose in feminine breasts as he strolled, gracefully but entirely purposefully, across the room.

Her emotions aswirl, Lucinda watched his approach with unwilling fascination. Her heart started to soar, her lips lifted—then her earlier thoughts engulfed her. A tightness gripped her lungs, squeezing slowly. Candlelight gleamed on his golden hair; in the old-fashioned attire, he looked less suave and debonair but, if anything, even more the rake than before. As she felt the touch of a hundred eyes, her lips firmed. He was exploiting them all, manipulating the whole
ton
—shamelessly.

As he neared, she held out her hand, knowing he would simply take it if she didn't. “Good evening, Mr Lester. How very surprising to see you here.”

Her gentle sarcasm did not escape Harry; he raised his brows as he raised her fingers to his lips and gently brushed a kiss across their tips.

He had done it so often Lucinda had forgotten it was no longer the accepted mode of greeting. The collective gasp that seemed to fill the ballroom reminded her of the fact. Her smile remained in place but her eyes flashed.

The reprobate before her merely smiled. And tucked her hand in his arm. “Come, my dear, I rather think we should stroll.” With a nod, he excused them from the two gentlemen who had been passing the time by Lucinda's side. “Gibson. Holloway.”