She was giggling again. They both said no.
“Then why are you still holding her?”
Now that was a damned good question.
Chapter Nineteen
N
anny clucked her tongue. She knew Amanda’s blond curls weren’t all every which way when she’d combed them. And she knew she did not apply any of the countess’s face paint to get the young lady’s cheeks so rosy or her lips so red. “Lady Royce sent a message that she was on her way,” she told Rex as he was leaving. “And not a moment too soon, I’d warrant,” she muttered under her breath, making him feel six years old again.
Heaven knew that what he’d done—worse, what he’d almost done—was more than a boyish prank. The problem was, he could not trust his unruly body not to do it again. The only solution was to keep his distance, so he dragged Daniel out to the Grand Hotel.
“I hear they set an excellent table,” he told his cousin.
“But I had my heart set on a rare roast!”
Well, Rex had his heart set on a bare breast, and he was not going to get his wish, either. “You were the one who said we had to be seen out and about, on the town, to preserve Miss Carville’s reputation. Besides, Lady Royce should be here soon, perhaps as early as tomorrow, so I can move to a hotel. I thought I’d look over the Grand and see if they will take dogs. It’s not as particular as the Clarendon or the Pulteney, I hear. You are welcome to stay with me, unless you prefer that rat’s nest you were living in.”
“What? Move away from Royce House just when your mother is bringing her cook back with her? That’s as cork-brained as the idea they’d take Verity at any decent place. She isn’t a dog, she’s a four-legged feed bag.”
“Then I shall find rooms somewhere until I can return to the country.”
“We could always stay with your mother. It’d be all right and tight, with a countess chaperoning the lass.”
“No” was all Rex said.
“That bad, eh?”
Rex did not know if Daniel meant living under the same roof as Lady Royce, or keeping his hands off Amanda. “That bad.”
They stopped at McCann’s Club first. A hunched-over old man in the club’s livery and white wig stepped out of the shadows, keeping his eyes deferentially lowered. “A message for Lord Rexford,” he said, handing over a sealed note. He bowed and backed away.
“Wait! Tell your master—”
The man was gone, too fast for such a relic. While Daniel went to see who was in the card room—and have a free glass of wine—Rex broke the seal on the letter and unfolded the single sheet. On it were written the same eight initials he had given Major Harrison, the ones from Sir Frederick’s journal. Beside each were one to three names, with question marks beside some, addresses under others.
L.B. could be the banker, Lloyd Breverton, the note indicated, but it could also stand for Lydia Burton, the infamous madam of a high-class bordello.
According to the spymaster, the initials L.C. could stand for a Lysander Cord whom Rex did not know, but he lived at the Albany, so could be assumed a gentleman.
J.J. was Joseph Johnston, with two locations, one near the docks, another in a newly fashionable section of Kensington; or Joshua Jacobs, a jeweler on Bond Street. Rex would bet on Johnston, the wealthy merchant who now supposedly had Sir Frederick’s valet in his employ.
G.C. had only one name beside it, George Cuthbert, with a question mark. Rex whistled. Cuthbert was second son to a prominent member of the Cabinet, and a former officer in the navy. No one knew why he’d been shipped home, which silence was unusual in itself, but there had been rumors.
R.V. might be any of three men, only one known to Rex. Roland Vaughan had been a university classmate of his and Rex liked the fellow, despite his idiosyncrasies. Vaughan was decent enough, if one avoided him in dark corners. One of the others had an Esq. after his name, another lawyer; and the last had Fleet Prison as his address.
T.H. was followed by two names, both with minor titles, both of Rex’s father’s generation.
The single name under A.B. was well known to Rex. Aldritch Bowdecker had been a fellow student at Eton, some years ahead of Rex, who exulted in tormenting the younger boys. The Aide’s question mark next to his name meant nothing. Rex thought the man capable of any cruelty, any misdeed.
The last set of initials on the list, N.T., also had one name: Nigel Turlowe, with no question mark.
These were obviously people the Aide’s office held in suspicion, but nowhere did the note say suspicion of what. Spying, smuggling . . . hell, they could be white slavers for all Rex knew—and for all Harrison, or Harris, told him. The only directive the man gave was written in an elegant hand at the bottom of the page.
Ask questions.
Rex knew what was meant was get answers, get the truth.
He just might get the answer to another question at Mrs. Burton’s establishment, Rex decided. Or at least a different hunger satisfied.
Daniel insisted on dinner first. “And it won’t hurt to be seen about, remember? The more people who notice us, the better.”
The wine and food at the Grand Hotel was excellent, the company less so. A group of foxed gentlemen at a table at Rex’s back were loud and crude, belittling the waiter and demanding faster service than the poor man could provide. They took offense when Daniel and Rex were served first.
Daniel put his wineglass down and stood to his full, intimidating height, quieting the men for the length of the fish course. Then they started to whisper, none too softly. Rex easily made out the words “Inquisitors,” “murderess,” and “cripple.” He set his own glass aside, stood, and turned.
“Why, speak of the devil,” he muttered, spotting Aldritch Bowdecker at the center of the group, food stains spotting his neckcloth, his small eyes sunken and bloodshot. The man looked far older than his years, raddledand wrinkled, and far meaner than he used to be, if possible. Rex did not bother with pleasantries. One did not bow to a boa constrictor. “Did you know Sir Frederick Hawley?” he asked.
Surprised at the blunt question, Bowdecker answered. “Of course I did. We all did.” He shifted his beady eyes to his companions.
The others nodded. One raised his glass. “To Sir Frederick, may he rest in peace.”
Another guffawed. “Not where he is now, I’d bet.”
The fourth man raised his glass in a toast to the wench who’d sent the baronet to his just desserts.
Rex looked directly at Bowdecker. “Miss Carville did not kill him. Did you?”
The man stood up with a roar. “What kind of question is that? I’ll murder
you
, you scurvy, scarred dog. Trying to blame me for your whore’s crime!” He pushed his table aside, silver and china and food gone flying. “You always were a sneaky little rat. Word is you still were, in the army. No one trusted you, I heard; not the Spanish, the French, or our own troops.”
Daniel sighed as Rex took his coat off. “My roast beef.”
“My reputation—and Miss Carville’s.”
“My dining room!” a voice with a French accent called out. No one would have listened except for the seven undercooks in clean white aprons lined up behind the chef, meat cleavers and carving knives in their hands. “Out! I serve only the best. The best food to the best patrons, no? My soup, she is on the floor? Out, or I call the Watch!” He advanced on the man who dared to show his shirtsleeves in the finest restaurant in London. Or in Paris, as it used to be.
Bowdecker’s associates were already dragging him away, out of the chef’s sight, before a challenge or a punch could be thrown. Bowdecker was known to be a terrible shot, a clumsy fencer, and a coward when it came to facing someone his size, even someone with a limp. They saved his life, for another day.
Rex and Daniel left, apologizing to the gaping diners at other tables on their way out. Daniel lifted a lamb chop off a lady’s plate. He shrugged when she screamed. “She was already thinking we were savages. Could you try a little subtlety next time?”
Next time was at Bancroft’s, a private men’s club that let in anyone with the right price. They were said to serve unwatered wine and well-cooked meals, along with high-stakes games in the back rooms and clean apartments above. Before they could be seated, a gentleman called out to them, inviting them to share their table. Roland Vaughan and a younger man were smiling in welcome. “My dear boy, how happy I am to see you recovering! Such sad news, when you were reported injured. Why, I could not sleep for days, could I, Harold? And your poor face! What a tragedy. I have the perfect concealing cream, don’t I, Harold?”
“Um, I don’t think I am hungry after all, Rex. I’ll just take a peek at the dice tables, shall I?” Daniel looked at the glasses of negus at the men’s table, a woman’s libation. “And I’ll order us a bottle of brandy while I am at it.”
“I’ll join you in a moment. Roland, did you know Sir Frederick Hawley?”
The young man screwed up his face as if he’d swallowed a lemon. Vaughan answered yes, to his regret. “Unpleasant chap, don’t you know. I always avoided his company.”
“Did you kill him?”
Tears sprang to Roland’s eyes. “Oh, how could you think such a thing of me? I thought we were friends.”
“I take it that is a no?”
“Why, I would not kill a spider in my bathing tub, would I, Harold?”
“But did you kill Sir Frederick, yes or no?”
“No!” The man started sobbing, the nearby patrons frowned at Rex, Harold offered a lace-edged handkerchief, and the manager wanted to know what Rex meant by bothering one of his best customers and favorite residents.
“I meant no harm. My apologies.” He tossed a bank-note on the table. “Have another drink on me. A pleasure, Mr., ah, Harold.”
Daniel was not happy to be leaving so soon.
Rex was not happy to have made a grown man cry. “You drink too much anyway.”
“Well, I need some kind of sustenance, don’t I? I still haven’t had my dinner.”
“Let us try Lidell’s.” That was a place frequented by navy men on leave.
George Cuthbert was there, as Rex had hoped. The former ship captain sat in a corner with a half-empty bottle. No one was near, no one spoke to him. Rex headed in that direction.
Daniel took one look at Rex’s target. “Uh oh. I won’t bother taking a seat. Or ordering supper.”
“I won’t be long.” He neared Cuthbert’s corner, knowing every eye in the place was on him. “Sir, I have a question for you.”
Cuthbert looked up, trying to focus his eyes. “Rexford, is it? One of the Aide’s boys, eh? And they say I did some dirty deeds. Hah! But you’re the one got the commendations, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir, and a bad leg and a scar to go with them. My question is this: Did you kill Sir Frederick Hawley?”
“I wish I did. I wish I did.” He threw his bottle across the room, to smash into a window, sending glass flying and officers cursing. “I wish I did!”
“I wish you did, too, sir. Good night.”
Silence and disapproval followed Rex as he limped out of the club. Out in the street, he looked around to get his bearings. “We are near Lydia Burton’s house of accommodation. What say we go speak to her?”
“I thought we were going to eat first? Do you think she serves supper? If she does, can you try to show a little finesse so we can stay to enjoy it? And the girls, too, of course. Diplomacy, that’s the ticket, old man. Mrs. Burton fancies herself a lady.”
The building was undistinguished among its prosperous neighbors, the decor was as elegant as Lady Royce’s, and the madam was dressed in the height of fashion, except for the depth of her décolletage. She was delighted to see them. Gentlemen with money were always welcome, no matter their reputations. After the pleasantries, Mrs. Burton waved her manicured, be-ringed hand at a cluster of females sitting on gilt chairs at the side of the room, fanning themselves and giggling like debutantes at Almack’s. “May I introduce you to one of my friends?”
The girls were trying to appear young and innocent and ladylike, and failing dismally. Rex turned away. He did not want a woman who reminded him of Amanda; the whole point of coming here tonight was to forget about her, and to let the world know she was not his mistress. He raised Mrs. Burton’s soft white hand to his lips. “Only the best will do, madame.”
She tittered. “The best is
très
expensive, my lord.”
He smiled. “And worth every pound, I am sure.” He carefully tucked an extravagant sum between her extraordinary breasts. She signaled for a maid to bring him a glass of champagne while she informed her assistant.
Daniel walked by and whispered, “Remember, finesse.”
“Do you want to ask her?”
“Hell no.” Daniel already had a brandy bottle in one hand and a redhead in the other. “This little lady is more my type.” The little lady was taller than Rex and broader, and evidently more appetizing than the tiny tea sandwiches Mrs. Burton was serving.
The madam came back and led Rex to a small chamber decked with flowers and scented candles and mirrors. The room was too warm, La Burton was too buxom, and Rex was suddenly too bored, tired, uninterested. Damn, had Amanda stolen all of his appetites? No, the thought of her, her kisses, her soft breasts pressed against his chest, raised his temperature, and Lydia Burton’s expectations. With her hand on the front of his trousers, she smiled and whispered, “Oh, my, a hero indeed,” which compliment had a tinge of truth.
The truth? He did not want another woman, only answers to his questions. He stepped back.
The madam frowned, at his distance and the scratching at her door. “I said no interruptions!”
Daniel ignored her and scratched again, louder this time. “Rex, did you ask her yet? I’m done.”
“Already?”
“I’m too hungry for seconds. A man needs his strength to perform, don’t you know.”
Mrs. Burton looked up at him. “What question?”
Her eagerness was gone. So was any notion of diplomacy. “Did you kill Sir Frederick Hawley?”