The Dangerous Lord (2 page)

“Of course not.” Jordan shrugged. “It's all those stupid rumors about you and your bloodthirsty past…I keep forgetting it's nonsense—”

“Yes, it
is
nonsense.” Some of it. He wasn't about to discuss his “bloodthirsty past” with his best friend. That really
would
widen the chasm. “You shouldn't listen to rumormongers.”

“And you shouldn't do things that might stir up more gossip. Or prompt the man to write further columns about you.”

“Don't worry about that,” Ian retorted. “When I'm finished with him, he'll know better than to gossip about me or my friends again.” When Jordan lifted an eyebrow, Ian growled, “I merely intend to
talk
to the man, Jordan. Bribery, manipulation, or threats should work, especially on the sort of sniveling coward who hides behind a pseudonym.”

Jordan relaxed a little. “How will you find him?”

“Anybody can be found if one knows how to look.” Ian rose and stared down at his friend. “I'll speak to his superior first—the publisher of
The Evening Gazette
.”

“John Pilkington? He'll give you no help. He delights in concealing the identity of his most popular correspondent.”

Maybe, but even John Pilkington had vulnerabilities. And Ian excelled at using a man's vulnerabilities to find out what he wanted. “Then I'd best get started now, hadn't I?” he said, turning quickly toward the door.

“We'll see you next week at Sara's new country house, won't we? Emily's looking forward to it. We won't be staying at the house ourselves, since Emily hates to leave home for too long with the new baby, but we'll pop over for the ball. And you must come and see the baby.”

“I'll be there. I promised to bring Katherine and her parents in my carriage.”

Katherine. God only knows what
she
would make of this. It irked him that she might think him so callous as to flaunt a mistress while they were courting.

Well, Lord X wouldn't be mentioning Waltham Street in his column any more. Ian would make sure of that. First Ian would warn Miss Greenaway how to handle any inquiries; then he'd run this Lord X to ground. And when he did, the man would wish he'd kept to jibes about Bentley's excesses.

T
he red missile dropping past the window of Miss Felicity Taylor's study strongly resembled a piece of fruit. At the sounds of a carriage screeching to a halt and a coachman spewing vile profanities, Felicity leapt from her chair and hurried into the hall.

“William, George, and Ansel, come out here at once!” she shouted up the stairs to the next floor.

A suspicious silence ensued. Then one by one, three identical towheaded six-year-olds peered over the railing at her, guilty expressions smudging their faces.

She glowered at her triplet brothers. “For the last time, you boys are not to bombard carriages with fruit. Do you hear me? Now, which one of you threw that apple?” When the boys muttered their usual protests, she added, “There
will be no pudding for anyone at dinner until someone confesses.”

Two heads instantly swiveled to stare accusingly at a third. George. Of course it was Georgie. He was as troublesome as his namesakes—the late mad king and the reckless son who'd ascended to the throne this year.

His brothers' defection leached Georgie's face of color. “I didn't throw it, Lissy, honest. I was eating it, and it was real juicy, so when I leaned out the window—”

“Which you're also
not
supposed to do,” she bit out. “I've told you before, only lowborn ruffians hang out of windows and throw things at unsuspecting passersby.”

“I
didn't
throw it!” he protested. “It slipped!”

“I see. Like last night when your Latin grammar ‘slipped' and nearly put a hole in a hackney's roof, or this morning when that snowball ‘slipped' and hit the vicar.”

Georgie's head bobbed up and down. “Uh-huh. Like that.”

She glared at him. Unfortunately, glaring at Georgie made no impact whatsoever on the incorrigible scamp.

Nothing did, although that was understandable. The triplets were still reeling from Papa's death last year, as was she. They'd never known Mama, who'd died within hours of their births. But Papa had been their world. They considered their sister a poor substitute, since the debts their architect father had left behind kept her too busy trying to provide for them to spend much time parenting them.

Planting her hands on her hips, she stared at Ansel, the tattler among the triplets. “Where's James?”

“I'm here.” Her fourth brother appeared behind the others, his gawky frame towering over their bent heads.

“I thought you were watching them for me,” she said irritably.

She regretted her sharp tone the instant he flushed. “I-I'm sorry, Lissy. I was reading. I'm keeping up with my studies until I can return to Islington Academy.”

His beloved Islington Academy, which they could no more afford than gold plate and silk suits. “It's all right, James. You
should
maintain your studies.” Though God only knew when he'd be able to resume them, if ever.

A weary sigh escaped her lips. She shouldn't have put the eleven-year-old in charge anyway. Her studious brother had as much business playing nursemaid to three rapscallions as a puppy to three wolf cubs. But she couldn't afford a real nursemaid.

Nursemaid or no, Georgie needed the fear of God put into him before the other two began mimicking his antics. “Well, Georgie, I suppose we must call the doctor.”

Georgie's jaw dropped. “What d'you mean?”

“You seem to have a problem with dropping things, so something must be wrong with your hands. Perhaps you have the shakes. I'll send for a doctor to examine you.”

“I don't need a doctor, Lissy! Truly, I don't!” He held his hands out over the rail. “See? They're fine!”

She tapped her finger against her chin, feigning a look of deep speculation. “I don't know. A doctor might cure your sudden malady. He could suggest a physic—minced frog's eyes or some such.”

Georgie went green. “F-frog's eyes?”

“Or cod liver oil. Three or four times a day.” Georgie detested cod liver oil.

“Honest, Lissy,” Georgie blurted out, “it won't ever happen again! I'll be very careful next time I lean out…I-I mean, next time I'm near a window.”

“See that you are.” She caught the other two looking smug, and added, “If the rest of you find yourself with shaky hands, I'll be happy to call the doctor for you, too.”

That sobered them at once.

“Now go on with you. And play quietly, for pity's sake.”

They didn't budge. Hanging on the rail, Ansel cast her a wistful look. “Maybe you could come tell us a story.”

“About the peacock eating the dragon,” William added
hopefully. Peacocks and fanciful creatures were William's current obsession.

“Not that one,” Georgie piped up. “Tell us the one where the evil knight falls off his horse into the slime pit and his armor just sli-i-i-des off of him!”

His enthusiasm made her heart constrict. “I can't right now, moppet. I'm sorry, but I must finish this article. Mr. Pilkington is sending Mr. Winston over for it, and I can't keep him waiting.”

“I don't like Mr. Winston,” Ansel complained. “
He
should fall into a slime pit.”

She daren't tell him, but Mr. Winston had indeed been the model for her tale.

“Mr. Winston is smelly and ugly,” Georgie added. “When he looks at you, I want to punch his face. He's a bloody arse, that's what he is.”

“George!” She tried to look shocked, but it was difficult when his word choice was so astonishingly accurate. “Watch your language, or I'll use that cod liver oil to rinse your mouth!” When he grimaced, she added, “Besides, much as we dislike Mr. Winston, we must be civil to him if I'm to keep writing for the paper.”

“But I hate him!” Georgie cried. “We all hate him, don't we?”

“Uh-huh. If he were here, I'd punch him in the nose,” Ansel said vehemently.

“I'd spit him on a sword,” William added, as if he used one every day.

“I'd…I'd…” James hesitated, lacking his brothers' bloodthirsty instincts. “Well, I'd do something.”

“No, you wouldn't. I wouldn't allow it.” She bit back a smile at the thought of her little tin soldiers manhandling the oily-tongued Mr. Winston. “I tell you what. If you'll stay out of trouble in the nursery for the next hour, I promise I'll tell you
both
stories—the one about the peacock eating the dragon
and
the one about the evil knight.”

“Hurrah! The peacock eating the dragon and the evil knight!” the triplets chorused as they ran back into the nursery.

Bless their hearts, they never walked anywhere.

James glanced down at her. “I'll look after them better this time, I promise.”

“I know you will, sweetheart.” She flashed him a maternal smile. “You're a good boy and a great help to me. Now go on with you.”

James beamed as he hurried after his brothers. She must remember not to scold him unnecessarily. He was as sensitive as a poet, poor dear.

Though he'd not been half as sensitive with Papa.

A fit of anger seized her, and she scowled up into the heavens. “You see what you've done, God? Why did you let Papa fall into the Thames while he was drunk? You could have performed some miracle—parted the river or something. You certainly used to do enough of those. But no, you had to let Papa drown. Well, I hope he's giving you a time of it up there, gambling by the pearly gates and drinking in the streets of gold.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I hope he's building your dratted mansions backwards.”

She brought her head down to find a maid staring at her. The girl jerked her gaze away and began furiously sweeping the carpet again.

Curse it all
, Felicity thought, embarrassed. Oh, well. By now the entire household must be accustomed to hearing her lecture the Deity—as if a house full of scamps wouldn't drive any normal person to rail at God. How could she accomplish anything with the boys underfoot? Thank heavens Mrs. Box would have them for the next few days while Felicity took her trip. She needed to escape her tin soldiers, especially the triplets.

But first, work. Hurrying into the drafty study that had once been her father's, she sat down at the desk by the window and examined a sheet of heavily inked foolscap.

Hmm, where was she? Ah, yes.
Finally, for advice concerning fashion, consider the Duke of Pelham's profound opinions: “What young girls need is that ancient apparel, the chastity belt, to restrain their passions. Then we won't have all these elopements
.”

She dipped her quill in the ink bottle and crossed out the
s
on
opinions
. Of course, to be perfectly fair, the whole thing needed a drunken slur, but that was a trifle difficult to mimic in words.

Passions
, indeed. It was the duke's passions the
young girls
must avoid, as she knew only too well. Fit
him
for a chastity belt, and every woman would cheer. Though to be truly effective, they'd have to bind his roving hands and gag his disgusting mouth.

The thought of that was so gratifying she sat back and savored the image of Pelham bound and harmless for once. Attach the lecher to a moving carriage and—

The sound of rumbling carriage wheels was so real, she jerked up out of her seat. Through her window she spotted a hackney lumbering up the snow-bordered street, its wheels knocking icy water out of every pothole. When it halted in front of the town house, an unladylike oath escaped her lips. The odious Mr. Winston had arrived.

She wrenched her attention back to her article. Drat. She hadn't finished reading it over for errors, and there was that troublesome phrase in the second paragraph that she had intended to amend…

Down in the street and out of Felicity's line of vision, Ian stood in the shadows watching Mr. Winston fumble through his pockets for the fare. Quickly Ian stepped forward and hailed the driver.

Producing a few coins, Ian paid him, and said, “Wait a minute, will you? The gentleman has somewhere else to go.” Then he flashed the newspaperman a smile. “Pilkington will be relieved that I caught up to you.”

Winston regarded him curiously. “Who the devil are you?”

“I'm the new man Pilkington hired this morning.” Actually, Pilkington was still interviewing the applicants he'd advertised for, but Winston couldn't know that. “He needs you at Haymarket. Told me to come here and redirect you. He said since I'm new, I could handle the Lord X article.” When Winston looked suspicious, he added, “There's a riot going on, and he wants you over there right away.”

“A riot?” The sudden light in the man's gimlet eyes told Ian he'd judged his subject correctly. Winston was virtually licking his lips over the prospect of seeing violence in the streets. “I see. Well…” After a cursory assessment of Ian, he was apparently satisfied by the cheap wool greatcoat and beaver hat Ian had donned to make himself look less like a viscount and more like a workingman. “All right then. Just knock at the door and tell them who you are.”

As Mr. Winston jumped in the hack and ordered the driver on, Ian smiled to himself. Three days of bribing clerks and following Mr. Winston around had finally paid off, thanks to techniques Ian had honed during the war. He didn't need Lord X's real name now. He'd located the man's house, and that was enough.

Carefully navigating the town house's icy steps, he noted the door's Gothic design and unusual griffin knocker. The knocker looked familiar. Where had he seen one like it? When the answer didn't immediately come to mind, he filed the information away for future consideration. Then he examined the town house façade through the steadily falling snow. The house was a superior example of the Gothic style, with pointed windows and excellent tracery work. A gentleman's house—but he'd expected that.

Lord X's poison pen was definitely aristocratic. Ian had studied the man's columns thoroughly, and though he still considered them gossip, he now understood why duchesses held back dinner to read them, and why every chambermaid
and footman in London spent their hard-earned pence to buy
The Evening Gazette
. And why Pilkington protected his major resource so assiduously.

Lord X was any publisher's dream—sharp and witty, with an engaging style and an uncanny ability to discover the most hidden secrets. He provided both praise and censure in an entertaining manner. Like one of Ian's masters at Eton, who'd eschewed the usual canings for the subtleties of sarcasm, Lord X criticized with finesse. His subjects were principally those members of society exemplifying its worst traits—haughty disregard for the needs or feelings of others, misplaced arrogance, and love of licentious living.

No doubt that was why Ian had appeared in the column. Given the many misdeeds attributed to the Viscount St. Clair, Lord X probably considered him the son of the very devil. Ian shrugged. That might be half-true, but true or no, Lord X needed to learn more discretion in his choice of subject. And Ian intended to teach him that particular lesson.

A sharp rap with the iron knocker brought an instant response, although the snowy-haired woman who answered the door seemed perplexed by the sight of him. “Yes, sir? May I help you?”

He doffed his hat, sending snow flying off the brim. “I'm Mr. Lennard from the
Gazette
.” Might as well use his real surname—Lord X probably knew him only by his title. “I'm here to pick up the article.”