A Gentleman’s Promise: A Regency Romance (Gentlemen Book 1)

by Penny Hampson

  The food Richard had been looking forward to all afternoon was now sticking in his throat. Was he really related to such a worm?

  Crawford quirked an eyebrow. ‘Anyway, according to my father, those who really knew Frederick and his ways guessed the truth of it and cut him from their lives.’ He picked up his fork and stabbed a piece of chicken. ‘Father never told me any of this until he saw the obituary in the papers. I’ve never seen him so vehement in his hatred of someone.’ His eyes flickered across to Richard and he smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry, old chap. But you did ask.’

  Richard grasped his friend’s hand. ‘Thanks for telling me. It’s best that I know.’ He gestured to the food. ‘Let’s forget about him for now. How about making a start on some of this before it gets cold?’

  The remainder of the afternoon passed most enjoyably, the two friends exchanging reminiscences.

  A sly grin appeared on Crawford’s face as he set his tankard down on the table. ‘Do you still see anything of that Scottish chap? He was trying to build a self-propelled steam engine, wasn’t he? Or was that just another of your tall tales? You used to tell such bouncers!’

  Richard made a face of mock outrage. ‘Never! But you must mean William Murdock? That story is true. Father took me to the King’s Head hotel in Truro when I was about seven years old, and I swear we saw it working.’

  Richard had a vivid memory of a large, noisy machine. He’d hidden behind his father’s legs as the crowd of gentlemen he was with tried to make themselves heard above the thudding of the engine and the hissing of the steam. He grinned at Crawford across the table. ‘Of course, now the talk is all about engines running on rails, not roads. Sounds a bit safer that way, if you ask me. Engines on roads would surely scare the horses.’

  They both roared with laughter.

  After sharing a bottle of the inn’s finest claret, the pair at last decided to call it a day. It was gone eleven o’clock. Before they took their leave of each other, they agreed to meet up again in London.

  Feeling more than a little foxed, Richard retired to his room to compose instructions for his solicitor. He was sure the clue they needed lay in Frederick’s past. He wondered about the child his friend had spoken of and whether it had survived. Blast! He’d forgotten to ask Crawford when it had all happened. He made a mental note to get Blake to look into it.

  Richard found himself picturing Emma’s face and smiled; for some reason, she was never far from his thoughts. His smile rapidly faded when he wondered how on earth he could tactfully reveal the unsavoury details of her uncle’s life.

  Shrugging that unpleasant notion aside – there was time enough to work that problem out – he blessed the day that he’d met her. It’d been pure chance that they’d both arrived at Easterby Hall at the same time. Were all life’s connections built on such tenuous links? he wondered. Whatever happened, he was going to stay with her until all was sorted. He’d given his word.

  Letters written, Richard readied himself for bed. Untying his neckcloth, he folded it and carefully placed it on the chest of drawers together with his jacket and kerseymere waistcoat. It was a struggle getting his boots off – damn, they were tight – but he managed it at last, picturing Emma’s face to dull the pain of his aching feet.

  He smiled lazily as he stripped off his shirt, smoothing out the creases before it, too, joined the tidy pile. The smile turned to a scowl as he recalled Emma’s wretched state on that first dreadful night. Pent-up anger against the unknown blackguard responsible for her misfortune welled up inside him; his breeches, wrenched off in one violent movement, were slung across the room. He vowed that if it were up to him, she’d never suffer the like again.

  Chest still heaving, he regained control of his emotions and padded over to retrieve his breeches from where they’d fallen, placing them with his other discarded clothes.

  At last, ablutions completed, he clambered unsteadily into bed. He doused the candle and hoped his dreams would be of the young woman he’d departed from that morning. A smile formed on his lips as he drifted off, thinking how close he’d been to kissing her that night he’d carried her up the stairs and wishing that he had.

  Chapter 7

  The next morning – washed, shaved, and impeccably dressed, even down to his tight-fitting boots – a slightly bleary-eyed Richard strode purposefully to the parlour and ordered breakfast. There was time to kill before his meeting with…? The alcohol from the previous day still befuddling his brain, Richard screwed up his eyes in concentration, trying to recall the informant’s name through the thudding of his head. It’d been a while since he’d overindulged, but the fortuitous renewal of his friendship with Crawford and the discoveries about Frederick’s past had made it all worthwhile. Richard had never had the habit of drinking to excess and no intention of forming one. The sensation of not being in control, especially of himself, was something he didn’t enjoy.

  At last it came to him. Bill Rogers, that’s right.

  Unlike his head, Richard’s stomach did not suffer from the effects of the previous night’s indulgence. After eating his fill of eggs and thick slices of ham and finishing a second cup of coffee, a stroll into the hazy early daylight of the High Street seemed in order. His feet took him towards the Physic Garden, then a turn along the footpath beside the river beckoned, where the early-morning mist hovered over the grey, flowing water. The gravel footpath crunched beneath his boots as he made his way back towards the High Street, taking in lungfuls of crisp, cold air as he went. He’d always considered Oxford to be at its best in the early morning, before the workers started their day and the commoners reluctantly roused themselves to attend their lectures.

  Richard strolled along the footpath up the side of St Mary’s church towards the Radcliffe Library, halting briefly to admire that building’s monumental circular dome. He turned onto Catte Street, which finally brought him in sight of his destination. The White Horse inn had been one of his haunts when he’d studied in Oxford, which seemed a lifetime ago. He paused for a moment, letting his gaze drift over the familiar view of the Sheldonian, the Printing House, and the empty expanse of Broad Street, before turning his steps towards the inn’s open door. Ducking his head, he entered the smoky taproom and peered about. A fug of smoke hung in the air. At a table in the far corner, a shifty, weasel-featured individual looked up from the tankard of ale he’d been contemplating and scrutinised Richard through narrowed eyes. He gestured to Richard with his pipe.

  ‘You be Mr Lacey, sir?’

  Richard nodded and, after catching the tapster’s attention for two tankards of ale, made his way over to join the fellow who’d beckoned him.

  ‘Yes, I’m Lacey,’ Richard confirmed. ‘And you must be…?'

  The man’s eyes darted round before he answered in a whispered rasp, ‘Rogers, Bill Rogers.’ Scratching his head – the sparse grey hair adorning it looked none too clean – he added, ‘Your man Blake told me you’d make it worth my while to talk to you. He’d better be right.’ Rogers’ eyes took on a furtive glint. ‘I’m risking my life coming here. If he finds out I’ve told what I know…’ Rogers pulled a finger across his throat. ‘Well, I know how ruthless his nibs can be.’ Rogers’ pipe trembled as he raised it to his mouth to take a long pull.

  The cynical side of Richard questioned whether this was just an act to get him to part with his money, or was Rogers truly in fear of his life? Neither prospect was pleasant. He decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  ‘If you’ve got anything useful to tell me, I’ll be generous,’ he said, jingling the purse of coins in his greatcoat pocket.

  Rogers shot him a suspicious look.

  ‘Show me. I’m not saying more till I’ve seen your blunt.’

  Disliking the chap’s manner, Richard nevertheless placed two guineas on the table. Rogers’ hand shot out and the coins disappeared.

  The man’s lips parted in
a sly smile, revealing crooked teeth. ‘That’ll do for starters.’

  ‘There’ll be no more until you tell me something.’ The menace Richard injected into his next words was unmistakeable. ‘Now… talk, or else.’ It wasn’t often he got angry.

  Rogers blinked, then began to speak in a wheezy, panicked whisper.

  ‘Well, I’ve worked for his nibs ten years now, and I’ve done some things for him, I can tell you.’ He mopped his brow. ‘But that’s it, no more.’ Rogers’ eyes darted across to the tapster, who was lounging near the door. Assured that he couldn’t be heard from that distance, he continued, ‘Thought he’d changed at last. There’d been no nasty business for a fair while. Not since… never mind. But this was the limit for me.’

  An icy shiver crawled up Richard’s spine.

  ‘Who are you speaking of, man? Tell me.’

  There was a pause as Rogers’ throat bobbed up and down convulsively, then his eyes lifted and met Richard’s.

  ‘The Duke of Wheatley, that’s who.’ Rogers seemed not to hear Richard’s sharp intake of breath as he continued. ‘I’ve worked for him for years… or rather, for his man of business. I saw his correspondence.’ Rogers shrugged. ‘Well, most of it. He’s always been very good at getting what he wants.’ He sent Richard a knowing look. ‘All rich, powerful men pull strings, don’t they?’

  Richard squirmed inwardly. Wasn’t he also such a one, pulling strings? Banishing the uncomfortable thought from his mind, he rapidly tried to recall everything he knew about Wheatley. It wasn’t much.

  The aristocrat was a shadowy figure, rarely seen in society, but the rumours that had reached even Richard’s ears were that the man was ruthless. It was also said that he had a penchant for haunting the more unsavoury gaming hells and brothels when he did visit town. It wasn’t sounding good.

  Resting his chin on his hands and trying to project an air of insouciance, Richard prompted Rogers for more.

  Leaning forward across the table, Rogers continued in an undertone. ‘A few years ago, things began to change. Wheatley ordered investigations to be made about the Smythe family. In p’ticular, Frederick, the oldest son.’ Rogers winked. ‘Bit of a wild one, by all accounts, though I couldn’t see what Wheatley had against him. Not his usual sort.’ There was a pause as he sucked on his pipe, blowing out a cloud of smoke from the side of his mouth. ‘Anyways, I was told to take a message to someone from Seven Dials to do away with this ’ere Frederick and to say that his death should be made to look like an accident.’

  Richard raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  Rogers blinked rapidly. ‘So I ’appened to read it. I can read, you know.’ He sent Richard a sly look. ‘Besides, you never know when things will become useful, do you?’

  Richard’s eyes narrowed. The man was shameless… a good thing really, considering. He focussed back on what Rogers was now telling him.

  ‘Next thing I hears, Frederick had a fall from his horse and broke his neck.’ Rogers leaned back into his seat. ‘Told you I’d make it worth your while. But I’m not saying more until…’ Rogers’ gimlet eyes lingered on the pocket where Richard had his purse.

  Richard was thunderstruck. Good God, there was more? He slid another two guineas across the table, and they disappeared just as quickly as before.

  Satisfied with his remuneration, Rogers began again.

  ‘Just after the celebrations for Trafalgar, when all sorts was going on, Wheatley was in London.’ There was a snigger and another pull on the evil-smelling pipe. ‘Letters were sent to the consulates in Athens and Patras. Seemed the duke was looking for the younger Smythe brother too.’ Rogers’ eyes flickered as he met Richard’s steely gaze. He held up his hands. ‘I know, I know. I read ’em before they were sealed.’ In a more belligerent tone, he added, ‘It’s lucky for you I did, so don’t come the ’igh and mighty with me.’

  The nerve in Richard’s cheek twitched. ‘Just tell me what you know. I don’t care how you came by the information.’

  ‘Well, Wheatley paid someone at the consulate in Patras to intercept all mail between the Smythe family members and to re-direct it to himself instead. I reckon he expected that the family would get caught up in the local troubles there and people would forget about them. Probably assume they were dead.’ A smirk appeared on Rogers’ face. ‘They did die, didn’t they?’ Rogers drained his tankard and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. His lips pursed and his eyes locked knowingly with Richard’s. ‘You’re the viscount now, ain’t I right?’

  ‘Yes, I’m the viscount now.’ Richard’s lie came easily.

  ‘Then I’d be careful if I were you, my lord. As for me… I’m going to disappear.’

  Despite his dislike of the man, Richard was curious.

  ‘Why did you decide to talk?’

  Rogers shrugged. ‘Murder ain’t right. Why should a duke get away with it when us common folks would hang? Anyway, I need the money.’ He sent Richard a meaningful look.

  Richard shook his head. ‘In good time. I’ve a few more questions. Did anything happen in the duke’s household before he started on this quest with the Smythe family? Think. Anything at all?’

  Rogers pulled a face.

  ‘Can’t really think of anything.’

  Richard’s fingers twitched. He’d a strong desire to get them round the man’s throat and choke the truth out of him.

  Sublimely unaware of the anger he’d provoked, Rogers took another puff of his pipe and gazed into the distance. Then he cleared his throat. ‘There was the new chap,’ he muttered, scratching his head, then examining his fingernails. ‘That’s right,’ he added in a more animated tone. ‘He was taken on a year or two before the business with the Smythe family started. Started helping His Grace at the War Office.’ At Richard’s questioning look, he added, ‘Forgot to mention, Wheatley has an office there. He works with Lord Liverpool. Something to do with what’s going on abroad. Never managed to discover much about that.’

  Richard was privately grateful that the inner workings of the government’s War Office were immune to the pryings of men such as Rogers. Otherwise goodness knows what secrets would be revealed to His Majesty’s enemies.

  ‘Anyways,’ said Rogers. ‘This chap I was telling you about is Wheatley’s private secretary now. Good-looking young cove.’ He sniggered again.

  A shiver of excitement swept through Richard. He was getting close, he knew it.

  ‘What’s this young man’s name, this secretary?’

  Before answering, Rogers blew out several more smoke rings that curled gently upwards to the tobacco-stained ceiling.

  Richard’s fists clenched under the table.

  ‘Hesketh… Holiday… no, that’s not right,’ teased Rogers, before noting the dangerous gleam in Richard’s eye. ‘Heslop, Francis Heslop. That’s right. He’s still there, as far as I know. Wheatley takes him everywhere. But he’s a right nice cove. Not high in the instep. Always civil to those beneath him… not like some.’

  Richard kept his face emotionless, hiding his elation at having a name and far more information than he’d ever expected. He decided it was worth another push.

  ‘Anything else you can tell me about Wheatley, anything at all?’

  Rogers snorted. ‘Nah. He’s a man of routine. Doesn’t have many visitors. Spends most of his time at his Warwickshire estate. When he’s in London, he often visits Horse Guards. Probably to see Lord Liverpool.’ Rogers wagged his finger. ‘I don’t know everything, you know. I only dealt with some of the paperwork, after all.’ He cupped his chin. ‘There’s a young sister, or ’alf-sister, I should say. Looked after her since their father died, he has. Saw to her education with governesses and such, then sent her to a school in Bath. Visited her regular. Not many single men would bother themselves about their sisters if they could pay someone to do it for them. But he always has time for her.’ His eyes, now holding
an avaricious gleam, fixed on Richard’s.

  ‘Now, about the blunt. I’ve told you all I know.’

  As he stood up to leave, Richard dropped a handful of coins on the table, where they landed with a noisy clatter. ‘There’s ten guineas. If you remember anything else, contact Blake.’

  As Richard reached the door, he heard Rogers’ voice.

  ‘Remember what I said, won’t you?’

  He turned back to see the smirk on Rogers’ face. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Better be careful, my lord.’

  Richard paid his shot at the Mitre, collected his things, and set off, expecting to reach Minster Lovell well before nightfall. By mid-afternoon, the Eynsham toll bridge was in sight. From his vantage point atop his horse, Richard gazed over the bridge’s parapet. The Thames beneath sparkled in the crisp afternoon air, dazzling his eyes, and for some reason he was reminded of Emma. He wondered what her reaction would be to the news he brought. Would she have any idea as to why a duke or his secretary might be involved in her uncle’s death and the recent attacks on himself?

  Drawing level with the toll booth, Richard fumbled in his pocket for coins. Impatient to be on the move, his mount snorted and pawed the ground.

  ‘Steady, Caesar.’

  The toll keeper, who’d stepped out of the booth, took a hasty step back. He’d obviously been in the job a while and knew all about horses and their tricks. The sound of hooves clattering over the bridge behind him caused Richard’s mount to prance about. Whoever it was, they were not slackening their pace. Richard caught only a glimpse of a muffled figure as a bay horse skirted past him and charged onwards through the open toll gate.

  Richard stared in disbelief at the rapidly disappearing rider.

  ‘Well I never! Of all the cheek.’ The old toll keeper shook his fist in the rider’s direction, then hawked and spat on the ground.