Vanity (38 page)

“Octavia—”

But she’d gone in a swish of silk, the door banging closed behind her.

Rupert swore every vile oath he knew. Then he filled his glass and drank in morose silence. The facts were damning and he didn’t know how to soften them. If Octavia couldn’t forgive, then there was nothing to be done. Except to release her from her obligation.

He rose from the table and left the dining room. At Octavia’s door he raised his hand to knock, then decided not to risk a refusal. He lifted the latch and went in without ceremony.

Octavia was sitting on the window seat, still in her finery, and when she turned at the sound of the door, he saw her eyes were glistening, her cheeks wet with tears.

“Ah, sweeting,” he said with soft remorse, crossing the room swiftly, hands outstretched to comfort her.

“Don’t touch me!” she said, holding up her hands as if to fend him off.

His own hands dropped to his sides. He stood looking down at her, feeling as helpless as he had ever felt as a child in the face of his twin’s malevolent machinations. And he couldn’t rid himself of the ugly recognition that what
he
had done to Octavia was worthy of Philip.

“I’m not going to touch you,” he said after a minute. “I came merely to say that I no longer hold you to your side of our bargain. I will fulfill my side but you have no further obligations. If you wish to leave here, then I will arrange for you to set up your own establishment with your father until I can return your fortune to you. If you wish to remain until my business with Rigby and Lacross is completed, then I will make no demands upon you.”

Octavia shook her head. Once she would have given anything to hear those words, but that was when she believed they would have come voluntarily, out of respect and feeling for her. Now they were forced from him out of shame and remorse—if he was capable of feeling such things. And she wanted him to suffer that shame.

“No. I will not renege on my obligations. I will get that
ring from Philip Wyndham as I agreed to do. We have a business contract, but from now on that is all we have, sir.”

Her face was set, her voice flat, her eyes cold. Her tears had dried, except those flowing from her heart in a wretched torrent of misery and betrayal. But those tears could not be seen.

“Very well,” Rupert said quietly. He had injured her, and he’d lost all rights in this partnership. There was nothing more he could say on the subject of that first night in the Royal Oak.

He told himself that he had spent many years getting to this point and the time was close now when Philip Wyndham would know his twin again. If Octavia was still determined to play her part, then he would accept her help in the harsh spirit in which it was pressed upon him. He had already worked out how to achieve his object with her minimal involvement.

“But we will follow a different course,” he said, and his voice was curt as he struggled for the detachment that would hide his own wounds. He had no right to inflict upon Octavia his own grief.

“I decided to change the plan a few days ago. There would have been no need for your assignation this afternoon, if you’d alerted me to it.”

“Forgive me, but since I didn’t know, I can hardly be blamed,” she said with bitter sarcasm.

“On the contrary. If you’d followed your instructions, you would have known.” He spoke with the same curt authority, his mouth set in a grim line.

“However”—he held up a hand as she opened her mouth to protest—“that’s water under the bridge. Now you will lure Wyndham to Putney Heath, where I shall be waiting for him.”

“You would rob him?”

“Just so.”

“But he might recognize you.”

“No, he won’t.”

“You will still be putting yourself at grave risk.”

“No more than I am accustomed to. And you will not be at risk.”

When she said nothing, he bowed and went to the door. “Good night, Octavia.”

Octavia gazed down at her tightly clenched hands as the door closed behind him. Had he really decided before this debacle to change the plan to one that would not involve her sacrifice?

But even if he had, what did it matter? How could it possibly matter in the light of his confession? A man who could do such a despicable thing was capable of anything.

T
he hackney carriage slowed and came to a halt at the intersection of Gracechurch Street, Eastcheap, and Cannon Street. Within the carriage, Dirk Rigby and Hector Lacross simultaneously laid hands on their sword hilts as the raucous chant of the jostling throng in the streets swelled. Faces appeared in the windows on either side: bucolic faces, lean faces, faces suffused with liquor, faces drawn and twisted with anger, faces split in grins of holiday-making merriment.

“No popery … no popery.” The chant was mouthed at the inhabitants of the hackney, rose on the sultry early-summer air in a great chorus. The carriage swayed as the crowd pressed ever closer.

“Gad, but this could be ugly,” Hector muttered, half drawing his sword.

“No, don’t draw upon them,” Dirk pleaded urgently. “It’ll only provoke them.” He reached sideways and let down the window. “No popery, good citizens,” he bellowed, waving his hand at the sea of faces. “No Catholic relief. No popery.”

A roar of approval greeted this. “Let ’em pass,” someone called.

The jarvey leaned down from his box and shouted, “No popery,” at the top of his lungs. The throng roared its approval yet again and moved backward a fraction, pushing and shoving each other to create just enough of a path for the frightened horses to press forward toward London Bridge. The jarvey cracked his whip, the horses picked up speed, and they were out of the mob, although the rhythmic, vociferous chant pursued them across the bridge.

Hector sat back and wiped his forehead with a scented handkerchief. “Filthy scum. Who do they think they are, impeding the progress of their betters?”

Dirk pulled up the window again. The air in the hackney was close, but the stench of London under the midday sun was worse.

“They should call out the army … put Lord George in irons,” he declared. “The man’s mad … crazy as a bedlamite.”

“But he knows how to rouse a rabble,” Hector said. “Everywhere he goes, it’s the same. People flock to hear him, and they come away from his meetings fired with antipapist zeal.”

Dirk grimaced but made no other response. He leaned forward to peer out of the window. The redbrick warehouse loomed ahead beside the greasy water of the Thames, flowing sluggishly, gray beneath the suffused yellow light of a hazy sun. The hackney clattered off the bridge and turned into the courtyard, coming to a halt before the iron-barred door.

The two passengers alighted and looked around. It was as quiet this afternoon as it had been on their two previous visits. On the last occasion they’d attended a board meeting of Thaddeus Nielson’s investors; this afternoon they’d been bidden to an emergency meeting to discuss urgent new developments in the building scheme on Acre Lane.

“Want me to wait fer ye, gents?” The jarvey leaned down from his box and sent a stream of tobacco-stained spittle into the kennel running down the center of the cobbled courtyard.

“We won’t be above half an hour,” Hector told him, stepping aside from the kennel, his lip curled in distaste.

“Right y’are, then.” The jarvey settled back on his box and took out his pipe from the deep pocket in his caped greatcoat. “Let’s ’ope that rabble’s been an’ gone by then.” He Ht the pungent tobacco. “There’ll be trouble ’afore this is all over, you mark my words,” he pronounced. “That Lord George Gordon’s got a bee up ’is arse and it’s buzzin’ fit to bust.” He grinned. “Beggin’ yer pardon, gents, fer speakin’ so free of the Quality.”

Neither of his passengers deigned to respond, merely turned on their shining heels and picked their way through the debris-strewn cobbles to the door.

Ned opened the door on their knock, bunking into the sunlight, the cavernous dark stretching behind him.

“So y’are ’ere,” he declared. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Y’are the last. Master’s waitin’ on ye above stairs.”

Rigby and Lacross obeyed the imperative gesture of the thumb and stepped past the elderly man into the now familiar interior. The great iron door closed with a reverberating slam. The air was as cold and damp as it had ever been, despite the late-May afternoon.

Ned preceded them up the curving iron staircase, lighting the way with the lamp held high. He muttered and grumbled under his breath the whole way, pausing every now and again to sneeze as clouds of dust rose with every step.

“Reckon ye knows yer way from ’ere.” He stopped at the head of the stairs, sniffed liquidly, and wiped his nose with his sleeve.

Hector edged gingerly past him, Dirk on his heels, and by the wavering light of the oil lamp held up behind them, they trod to the door at the rear of the landing. Hector banged with his fist. The truculent knock gave him confidence, and he raised the latch and flung open the door with an assertive air.

“Ah, Mr. Lacross … is Mr. Digby with you … oh, yes, there he is, right behind you. So good of you both
to come. Pray come in … come in … take a glass of wine. You remember your fellow investors, of course.”

Thaddeus Nielson came toward them beaming, mittened hands outstretched in welcome. He was wearing a cutaway coat of threadbare gray velvet, with a greasy moleskin waistcoat and a spotted kerchief knotted in the neck of his collarless shirt. His beam widened, and the jagged scar lifted the corner of his mouth.

In honor of his guests he wore an unkempt wig perched askew, but despite his disreputable appearance, there was something about his presence that awed both of his visitors whenever they were in his company. A glitter in the gray eyes that seemed somehow too youthful and penetrating for the rest of the man; a power in the tall frame despite the slight hunch of his shoulders.

There were four gentlemen sitting around a pockmarked deal table in the middle of the room. An elderly group, they appeared for the most part to be half-asleep. As one body, they nodded and murmured acknowledgment of the new arrivals, who took the two vacant seats, Hector dusting his off with his handkerchief before sitting with a fastidious grimace.

“Wine, gentlemen.” Their genial host filled two smudged glasses from a dust-encrusted bottle and passed them down the table before making the rounds, refilling the other glasses. “Now, to the order of the day.”

“Just tell us where to sign, Thaddeus. We don’t need any ramblin’ explanations,” growled the oldest of the crew into his long white beard.

“Aye, trust ye with my life, I would,” put in another with a hearty slap of his open palm on the table. The glasses shivered, the table creaked.

Their host regarded him from beneath sleepy lids that concealed the sharp warning in his eyes from all but its recipient. The actor was being a little too fulsome for strict credibility.

“Why, Banker Moran, you do me too much honor,” Thaddeus drawled, taking a sip of his wine. “But I’d not dream of taking your money without full disclosure.”

“No, of course not,” the pseudo-banker declared hastily. “Just what I was saying … just what I meant to say,” he added, and retreated into his wineglass with a confused cough.

“So what’s the urgency, Nielson?” demanded Hector with some asperity. “You need more money, is that it?”

Thaddeus stroked his chin with a thoughtful frown. “Well, as I was explaining before you arrived, it’s a little complicated. There’s been a small hitch with the Funds, where I invested your little nest eggs. They promised to pay seven percent but it seems as if they’re only going to pay five percent this quarter.”

He glanced around the table, seeming completely untroubled by this revelation. Indeed, all of his audience, with the exception of Hector and Dirk, appeared similarly sanguine.

“How should that be?” Dirk asked, frowning in the gloom, wondering why the man didn’t open the shutters onto the river. At least it would let in some natural light. There was something very unpleasant, almost sinister, about sitting in this dark, dank cave on a warm, sunny day.

“Funds on the Exchange are always subject to market vagaries,” Thaddeus said. “Isn’t that so, Mr. Moran?”

“Quite so … quite so,” corroborated the banker.

“Nothin’ to worry about, though,” put in a third member of the group with an indolent yawn. He was very splendidly dressed in crimson satin, with gold-frogged buttons and a hedgehog wig.

Hector regarded this gentleman respectfully. “You believe that, my Lord Justice Greenaway.”

“Oh, without doubt, m’boy … without doubt,” the justice said with another yawn. “What d’ye think, Bar-tram?” He nudged his so-far-silent neighbor.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Mr. Bartram said solemnly, pulling at his angular chin. He was thin as a needle, with a pointed head and a shining bald pate revealed beneath a slipping wig. “Seems to me, if we’re promised seven percent and we get five percent, it is a matter for concern. That means that Thaddeus here has less funds for
his building … makes our investment less. See what I mean?” He looked around the table, blinking like a wise old owl.