The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5 (166 page)

Yes, now he could hear the frustration, the burgeoning anger.

“I can help you. I can do incredible things for you. Now, where did you come across the scroll? Have you managed to translate all of it yet? Does it give exact details about any sorts of magical instruments or objects?”

Thank God Reverend Older didn’t really know anything, just about the scroll, but no specifics. But he knew about magic, and so it was greed that was pushing him. It was a disappointment, but Lord Beecham wasn’t unduly surprised. His fellow man rarely showed honesty, much less honor, be he churchman or not.

“Ah,” said Lord Beecham, shading his eyes from a barely existent sun’s rays, “I believe I see Lady Northcliffe, just over there on the walkway, speaking to her husband. Excuse me, Reverend Older.”

“Wait! You must deal with me, my lord!”

Lord Beecham turned slowly back to the man he had always liked, had always admired, a man who frankly amused him. “There is nothing to tell you. There is no strange scroll, no ridiculous magical anything. Old Clothhead is spinning yarns. You have approached the wrong person. None of this has anything to do with me.”

“But Old Clothhead told me he followed his brother because he was acting so mysteriously. He said his brother met with you at the British Museum, in one of the small back rooms. He knows who you are, my lord. Come now, don’t cut me out. I need to be in this, I surely do.”

“Good day, Reverend Older.” Lord Beecham dodged an earl’s carriage, a dray filled with ale kegs, and three young bucks riding horseback, and made it intact across the street. He wondered cynically if Reverend Older had made an unwise wager at a horse race. He bowed to Alexandra Sherbrooke and turned to her formidable husband.

“Good day to you, Douglas. You are well?”

“I passed my thirty-fifth birthday in the warm bosom of my family. Of course I am well. Do you now believe I am too old to be well? What do you want, Heatherington? Stop staring at my wife or I’ll bash your pretty face and knock you into the next street.”

Alexandra Sherbrooke, roughly half the size of her husband, nudged him aside and took Lord Beecham’s hand. “How are you, Spenser? Ignore poor Douglas here. He fancies that he found a gray hair this morning and is trying to blame me for it, all because I enraged him last night by taking Ryder’s side in an argument.”

“My brother was wrong about that ridiculous notion of his, Alexandra. Imagine, letting children decide whether or not they wish to work in the factories, whether or not they wish to be assigned to be apprentices, or to be given schooling. It is the parents’ choice; it must be, else there would be chaos and havoc. Can you imagine our boys being allowed to make any kind of decision? It is utter nonsense. You will retract your support when you see him next.”

Alexandra Sherbrooke just laughed and leaned closer to Lord Beecham. “Now, about this gray hair of Douglas’s. Perhaps now, if you continue to bait him, he will consider you as the cause of this gray hair. Who knows?”

“Hello, Alexandra.”

“Why must you continue to call this damned dog by his first name?”

Alexandra patted her husband’s arm as she continued speaking to Lord Beecham. “It is good to see you. I don’t suppose you know anything about Helen Mayberry?”

“You know very well that I am now Helen’s partner and that I returned with her and her father to Essex, to Court Hammering.”

“Yes, but you are here and she doesn’t seem to be. Where is she?”

“She is at home. I am back here to use better minds than mine at the British Museum.”

“Oh, goodness, Spenser, does this mean that you have found anything about King Edward’s lamp?”

“It is all bloody nonsense,” Douglas said, his dark eyebrow raised higher than any of Spenser’s eyebrows.

“Well, Douglas, actually it isn’t,” and with those few words, Douglas Sherbrooke was all ears. He stared at Spenser Heatherington. “It is surely a myth,” he said slowly, “a silly tale that just won’t die. Don’t say there is something to it.”

“Just perhaps there is.”

Douglas began a tapping rhythm with his cane on the walkway, a sure sign that he was getting excited. “Yesterday I heard that lecherous old reprobate, Lord Crowley, telling some fellows who were nearly ready to fall down dead drunk that he was on the trail of something fantastic, something that would make him very, very rich. I never considered that it could have anything to do with the lamp. Was that what he was talking about?”

“Well, damn.” Lord Beecham sighed. “I hope it wasn’t, but with my blasted luck, I’ll wager it was.” He sighed again and this time streaked his long fingers through his hair, making it stand on end. Alexandra raised her hand and smoothed down his hair.

“Please don’t, Alexandra,” Lord Beecham said, taking a step back. “Else your fierce husband will pound me into the walkway. I’m too young to be pounded, only thirty-three. Now, I just managed to escape Reverend Older and he had already heard about it from Reverend Mathers’s brother, whom he refers to as Old Clothhead. Other than you and Alex, Reverend Mathers and me, no one else in London should know about this. But it turns out that Reverend Mathers talks in his sleep and his brother told Reverend Older and God knows who else. Damnation, is there nothing at all sacred? Nothing that a man can depend upon to remain only his?”

“Yes,” Douglas said absently, stroking his jaw, “his wife. You mean all this started with Reverend Mathers talking in his sleep about it?”

“I fear so. And now Lord Crowley—damnation, that man makes me want to scrub my soul after I am forced to be near him. On a good day, he might even be worse than my father, who was bad enough, let me tell you. Hell’s bells, I don’t like this. I’ll wager he knows a bit now. At least it is not specific, but he will burrow about, you know his reputation. Perhaps half of London knows what he knows now, at least the scurrilous half. I would not be surprised now if some of these buffoons ended up in Court Hammering trying to threaten Helen. Damnation, now I must think of some way to protect her.”

“Protect Helen?” Alexandra said, her left eyebrow going up. Her cloak then fell open. Her husband’s eyes glittered before he pulled the cloak shut again and said to her, “You will go to your modiste, tomorrow at the very latest, and you will instruct her to hoist up this blasted gown a good three inches. Just look at Heatherington. The fellow has nice teeth. I would hate to have to knock them down his dog’s throat were he to ogle you, and he would find the temptation well nigh impossible to deny. He will be moaning on the walkway soon, his jaw broken, if you continue to flaunt yourself.”

“I see,” Alexandra said, ignoring Lord Beecham and eyeing her husband. “Let me see if I have this exactly right. You feel sorry for the gentlemen because I am forcing myself upon them.”

“Yes,” Douglas said. “Perhaps you can go to the modiste this afternoon.”

“Look, Douglas. All you can see now is my fist closing over my cloak. May we return to more interesting matters now?”

“The gown isn’t cut all that low, Douglas,” Lord Beecham said mildly.

“Just how the hell would you know that, you damned scoundrel?”

“I swear to you I am jesting with you, nothing more.”

“I don’t believe you. If by some small chance you are telling the truth, it would mean that you are clearly not yourself, Heatherington. Something is wrong with you. Come, what is it? I know it can’t be this lamp business. I still don’t believe such a thing can actually be real—real, as in you and I could actually touch it and make something incredible happen.”

“I’m not sure that I believe in it either, but it makes me furious to know that scoundrels are now on the scent. You know Crowley. If he even had only the veriest smid gen of belief, he would go after anyone. I know he would find out about Helen.”

Douglas eyed him for a while longer. “You are really worried about this?”

Alexandra eyed the two men and said, “In all truth, knowing Helen, she will take one look at Crowley and put him in the stocks she has at the back of the stables.”

“Stocks?” Lord Beecham said, staring at her. “As in a man or a woman has to put his head and his hands through these holes and is locked in? And he or she has to just stand there in the middle of a street for all and sundry to come by and taunt him or her?”

“Oh, no,” Alexandra said, and giggled “the stocks are behind the stable, not in the middle of the street. Helen says taunting is nothing, it is far too lenient a punishment.”

Both men’s eyes were nearly crossed, particularly since Alexandra had flushed to her hairline.

“No,” she said firmly. “We can discuss stocks once this is over. Now we will figure out what to do. I am worried about Helen as well, despite her prowess. What if there is some danger? Since things are now getting about, what if some bad man goes to Helen’s house to force her to tell him about the lamp? Perhaps Spenser is right. We need to protect Helen. She is still at home?”

“She is at home, minding her inn and setting up a marriage between the butcher’s son and her maid, Teeny. Flock, who appears to do everything for Lord Prith, is very loud in his pain over this. My valet, Nettle, must needs share in this unrequited love with Teeny, and he looks like a wounded dog.

“Helen is fine, Alexandra, surrounded by more people than any of us ever are. I imagine she is trying her very best to decipher the leather scroll.” He paused just a moment, then added, his eyes narrowed, “She is very smart. Given time, I’d wager she could do it.”

Douglas said, grinning, “Helen could snap the neck of just about any scoundrel I could pick off the streets in Soho. This stock business, Alexandra, I do want to speak more about this later, perhaps tonight in bed, perhaps—” Douglas cleared his throat, then continued, “Besides being beautiful and big and strong, Helen is also smart. I agree with you about that.”

“What is this, Douglas?” his wife said, coming right up to him, rising on her tiptoes and staring at his chin. “You’re going on and on about Helen again, and it dis tresses me. I know you admire her, Douglas, but it would be wise of you to keep it to yourself. But I will still know even if you do keep it to yourself because I am a part of you, so you must get Helen once and for all out of your mind. Forget about stocks and Helen. Do you hear me, Douglas?”

Douglas was staring at his wife’s once again open cloak. He swallowed, lightly stroked his fingers down her nose, and said, “I know where my bread is buttered, my sweet. I am merely attempting to reassure Heatherington here.”

“I don’t need any reassurance,” Lord Beecham said. “Well, I do, and I shall write Helen this very day and warn her to take care. Besides, I have been gone from her nearly two weeks now, and I have learned quite a lot. Perhaps it is time I returned to Court Hammering. Then we will decide what to do.”

“Not until you tell us all about what you and Helen have discovered.” Douglas began to elbow Lord Beecham along the walkway toward his carriage. “You can even ride with me and Alexandra.”

“I want to know why Helen isn’t with you, Spenser,” said Alexandra. “I cannot imagine she would let you out of her sight if it came to her precious lamp.”

“It was a close thing,” Lord Beecham said. He wasn’t about to add that Helen wasn’t with him because he needed time alone to come to grips with himself about her. He had made up his mind. Since he did not yet want a wife, since Helen was a lady, since he could not continue making love to her three times a day, he had to remove the lustful part of himself from her beautiful premises. He had to become her partner, pure and simple. He had thought about it a lot. He knew he could do it.

Well, damn. He had been gone from Helen for nearly two weeks now, and no matter how busy he kept himself, he still felt, at odd moments, like he had left part of himself back in Court Hammering—possibly the most important part, which was ridiculous. He was simply suffering withdrawal pains, and that didn’t mean a thing in the long stretch of things. Still, it was disconcerting. He would avail himself of an opera girl, perhaps this very evening, and take her until he fell down dead. It wouldn’t be three times either, it would be five, perhaps even six, which would surely ensure any man’s demise, including his.

It was the newness of Helen, the splendor of her magnificent legs and—he had seen her breasts only once, in that rotted relic of a cabin when he had helped her to strip off her wet clothes. He nearly swallowed his tongue remembering that day. He had been so frantic he hadn’t even kissed her breasts. He had to stop this. Tonight, he would sate himself with someone new. Three times at least, in fifteen minutes, no more.

Lovemaking, once a favorite sport, was fast losing its joy. Lovemaking should not be hard work, and suddenly he realized he wasn’t looking forward to any new girl, to taking her three times. He sighed, dropped his chin onto the top of his cravat—not so perfectly tied today, since Nettle was distraught over losing Teeny and wanted his master to be well aware of it.

“Spenser, what is the matter with you? You’re looking off at that lamppost and there is this strange expression on your face.”

“He is probably just thinking about his latest conquest,” Douglas said.

“Actually, he’s right,” said Lord Beecham. “Now, I have an appointment with Reverend Mathers at the British Museum. Since the good reverend talks in his sleep, it also might be wise of me to send him to Grillons’ Hotel, so if he babbles in his sleep his brother won’t be anywhere near to hear him. Douglas, Alexandra’s gown doesn’t need hoisting. If you wish, I will see you two later and tell you more about that bloody lamp.”

“Oh, no, you don’t, Heatherington. You move one step and I’ll flatten you.”