What he needed was to find a friend gullible enough to loan him the money he needed to flee the country. Pacing
back and forth in his now virtually empty rooms, he consid
ered where best to look.
There were not many options. He could not, for example,
go to any of his clubs or to the more popular gaming hells,
because he was sure to run into someone he owed money
to. And it had been weeks since he had received an invita
tion to a ball
...
but on the other hand, this was Wednes
day, and there was a chance that he could gain admittance to Almack’s.
But only if he still had a pair of knee breeches. With
every muscle and joint in his body protesting, he got down on his knees and began to retrieve his few remaining pos
sessions from their hiding place.
* * * *
With glee Geoffrey realized that his moment of revenge
was at hand. His bastard brother had come to Almack’s with Lord and Lady Edington, but now the cripple was
leaving early with his wife. Which meant there would soon be no one for Rendel to hide behind.
He had dreamed of this moment all through those
months of exile. There had been times when only the
thought of destroying his half-brother had kept him going.
And now that the opportunity was finally here, he would
enjoy every minute of his triumph.
* * * *
Waltzing with her husband was like nothing else, Bethia
decided. With other men a dance was simply a pattern of
steps, but with Digory it was a hint of what heaven must be
like.
But as always, the music ended too soon. “Thank you for a lovely dance,” he said softly, smiling down at her.
“You are quite welcome,” she said, taking his arm.
Then above the chattering of the crowd, a voice rang out. “By jove, it’s my bastard half-brother, Digory Rendel. How the devil did a baseborn smuggler ever gain admittance to
Almack’s?”
The sudden silence of the crowd struck Bethia like a
blow, and she froze in place.
“It seems that I was wrong,” her husband whispered.
“My brother does not intend to bleed us dry. He prefers revenge to bank notes.”
The crowd around them had quickly begun moving
away, and they were soon isolated in the middle of a vast
empty space. Then the murmurs started and spread like a
wave. Someone snickered, and another person laughed, and the volume of noise seemed to rise in a horrible, discordant crescendo.
“Steady on,” Digory said. “We shall soon be out of
here.”
Clutching his arm, Bethia managed to walk stiffly to
their chairs, but just before they got to their seats two fig
ures separated themselves from the crowd and stood di
rectly in their paths. It was Mrs. Drummond Burrell and the
Countess Lieven, and they were positively livid with rage.
Gradually, the crowd quieted down in eager anticipation of more bloodletting.
“We are not amused,” Mrs. Drummond Burrell said.
“We must ask that you surrender your vouchers and
leave at once,” the countess added.
Sally Jersey emerged from the crowd to stand shoulder-
to-shoulder with her fellow patronesses. “And if you are
wise, you will not remain in London.”
Now instead of amusement, the crowd began to grow
hostile. Bethia feared that they might become violent, but a
path cleared before them as they walked toward the door.
“I think we should take Lady Jersey’s advice,” Bethia said when they emerged into the cool night air. “I would
like very much to go back to your cottage in Cornwall.”
Instead of replying, her husband stopped abruptly. Look
ing up, she saw a man blocking their way, his face so con
torted with anger, it took her a moment to realize it was her cousin Wilbur Harcourt.
“How dare you cheat me out of my fortune,” he said. “It should have been mine—all mine!”
Bethia shivered and clung to her husband’s arm. Her
cousin was attracting the attention of the coachmen and
grooms waiting in front of Almack’s.
“You should be dead—I saw your body—you are an im
poster,” Wilbur screeched.
“He is mad,” she whispered. “Totally insane.”
He began cursing, and when they tried to go around him, he scuttled sideways, again blocking their way. Oh, if only
Big Davey and Little Davey were here! But her husband
had instructed them to return at one o’clock, and it was not
even midnight yet.
Casting her mind back at the faces she had seen in Al
mack’s, she realized that Lord Edington was the only one
of the former espionage agents who had been there, and he had left early.
It was not until Lord Blackstone came up and stood beside her that she belatedly realized how well he had chosen the time to denounce them.
“How interesting,” he said. “It would seem that I am not the only one who bears you a grudge. Well, dear brother, never let it be said that I did not do you a favor.”
Before her husband could reply, the earl pulled a pistol
out from under his jacket and without hesitation pulled the
trigger.
The noise was deafening, and at first Bethia could not
believe the evidence of her own eyes, not even when
Wilbur Harcourt staggered backward, then fell to lie mo
tionless on the ground.
“Murder—murder—help me!” the earl cried loudly, ca
sually tossing the pistol down on the ground in front of
them. “Rendel has killed Mr. Harcourt in cold blood—shot him down like a dog on the street. Seize him before he gets away!”
To Bethia’s great relief, the various grooms and coach
men just stood there, looking at the body on the ground
and then at the three people standing next to it. Despite
Lord Blackstone’s order to seize her husband, they showed obvious reluctance to lay hands upon a gentleman.
“It is Lord Blackstone’s gun,” she cried out. “He is the
one who pulled the trigger.” Clutching Digory’s arm, she
said, “Tell them you are innocent. Tell them that it was
Lord Blackstone who killed my cousin.”
“Indeed, Rendel, tell us—we are all ears,” the earl said,
smiling maliciously.
“I did not shoot Mr. Harcourt,” Digory said, biting off
each word.
The earl turned to the crowd with a look of mock bewil
derment. “Here is indeed a puzzle. The unfortunate Mr.
Harcourt, God rest his soul, lies before us obviously dead. I
say I did not shoot him, yet Rendel and his wife claim that I
did. That is two against one, so it appears you must believe
them when they say that I am lying. And yet
...”
He
paused, and the crowd became even more attentive.
“And yet I would ask you to judge whether we can be
lieve the word of Rendel, who has been passing himself off
as a gentleman. Why, he has even gone so far as to marry
this lovely lady, who is a great heiress. Indeed, until I rec
ognized him in Almack’s, he had successfully concealed
from everyone that he is nothing more nor less than a
smuggler from Cornwall.”
Still the crowd did not move, and for a brief moment
Bethia thought they did not believe the earl. But then he
laughed and spoke again.
“And I should know, after all since he is my bastard half-
brother, although I am sure I will be excused if I do not
usually care to acknowledge the connection.”
An excited murmur ran through the crowd, and two liv
eried grooms grabbed her husband’s arms from behind. He
could easily have gotten free, but to Bethia’s surprise he
stood quietly, making no effort to get away.
“No, no!” she cried, trying to pry the men’s hands loose. “The earl lies!”
Fortunately, assorted gentlemen and even a few ladies
began streaming out of Almack’s, saying that they had
heard a shot, and demanding loudly to be told what was
going forth.
To her dismay, they were even quicker to condemn Dig
ory than their servants had been. Ignoring her pleas to listen
to the truth, they spoke only with the earl, and he was doing
his best to excite their emotions to a deadly degree.
“What is the meaning of this?” an imperious voice rang
out.
Bethia saw with relief that it was Lady Letitia. Using her
cane to good advantage, the elderly lady quickly cleared a path from the doorway of Almack’s to where the principals stood around the body.
As regally as if she were the queen herself—or perhaps, Bethia thought, it would be better to say as boldly as a general with an army at his back—Lady Letitia marched up to Digory and demanded to know what was going on.
“Lord Blackstone has shot and killed Mr. Wilbur Harcourt,” Digory said in a voice loud enough to carry to the
outer fringes of the mob.
Like an angry beast that has been taunted, the crowd surged forward, and assorted voices cried out, “You lie!
Murderer! Imposter!”
Lady Letitia stopped them with a single raised hand.
“Has anyone notified the watch that there is a body here?”
she asked.
“I do not believe so,” Digory replied.
“You, Mr. Farnall and Mr. Redvers, be so good as to see
to the arrangements for having the body removed.”
With obvious reluctance the two unfortunate gentlemen
departed to find the watch.
“And you, Lord Jodrell, be so good as to tell your men to
release Mr. Rendel.”
“He is a murdering imposter,” a voice cried out belliger
ently.
“Indeed, Major Henniker, and did you witness the crime
yourself?” Lady Letitia asked. When there was no reply,
she said, “Before you make any more unfounded accusations, I suggest that you think about the penalties for slan
der and defamation of character.”
From somewhere in the back of the crowd there were mutterings of “bastard” and “imposter,” but Lady Letitia
ignored them. Looking around, she said, “Since there is
nothing else to be done until the inquest, I suggest that you all disperse and go about your business.”
By this time only one portly gentleman was foolish
enough to try to take matters back into his own hands.
“That scoundrel belongs in jail, and I say we take him there
right now.”
His attempt to rouse the mob to action failed.
“I personally guarantee that Mr. Rendel will be present at
the inquest,” Lady Letitia said with icy disdain, contriving
somehow to look down her nose at the outspoken gentleman even though he was a good six inches taller than she
was. “But if you truly wish to be of assistance, Lord Bom
ford, I suggest that you make it your task to see that Lord
Blackstone also puts in an appearance. The earl, as I am
sure you have noticed, has a regrettable tendency to vanish from London when it suits him.”
A titter of laughter ran through the crowd, and Lord
Bomford’s face became quite red.
The earl, who had been observing the proceedings with a
look of sly satisfaction on his face, now spoke up hotly. “I
did not vanish, as you put it. My bastard brother here had
me kidnapped and sold to the Barbary pirates.”
Bethia felt a stab of fear. Despite his earlier lies, the earl
was now telling the truth, and there was no way she or Digory could deny the accusation.
But to her surprise, the crowd was less willing to believe
Lord Blackstone when he was telling the truth than when
he was lying outrageously. Instead of grabbing her husband
and dragging him off to jail, everyone merely tried to get a
better view, obviously not wanting to miss a single word of
the duel between Lady Letitia, whom none of them dared to
cross, and the earl, whom none of them actually liked.
“I see,” Lady Letitia said. “So the reports we have been hearing for the last year about how you have been bear-
leading Lord Keppel around Europe were quite false. You were really toiling as a slave in North Africa—languishing
in chains perhaps? Tell me, for I am truly overcome by curiosity, what was the name of your owner, and did he per
haps put you in charge of his harem?”
Now the merriment of the crowd could not be contained,
and it was a long time before the earl could make himself
heard. “I never reached Africa,” he said in a loud and angry voice. “I jumped overboard and—”