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

by Penny Hampson

  Crawford’s eyes sparkled with anticipation. ‘Evening, Lacey. Evening, George. I’m quite looking forward to this. I’ve been lacking excitement in my life lately.’

  Crawford frowned, suddenly noticing the extra figure in the corner.

  ‘And who is this?’ he asked in a mock stern tone. ‘I thought it was just to be the three of us. Don’t say you thought we’d need reinforcements, Richard? I’m mortified you think George and I are weaklings.’ There was a chuckle in his voice as he said this. Crawford’s eyes narrowed as he peered at Emma’s half-hidden face. George coughed and turned an I-told-you-so expression towards Richard. Crawford, noticing, asked, ‘Well, are you going to tell me?’ He stretched out his hand to remove the hat covering Emma’s face.

  Richard’s arm streaked out and grabbed him.

  ‘Don’t.’

  Crawford sat back in his seat with a look of amusement.

  ‘Well, this is interesting… Let me guess.’

  Emma spoke up.

  ‘Major Crawford… it is I, Emma Smythe. I’m coming with you to see Wheatley. You can’t stop me, so if you wish to leave now, please do so.’

  Crawford chuckled.

  ‘Well, Lacey, I see you’ve finally met someone to shake you out of your steady life.’ He grinned at Emma. ‘Miss Smythe, I’m delighted to accompany you. The prospects for this evening seem to be getting better and better. I haven’t had this much fun since… Well, I’d better not say in mixed company.’ He folded his hands behind his head and stretched out, careful not to knock his bad leg in the cramped space. A relieved Richard felt fortunate to have such loyal friends.

  It didn’t take long to get to Grosvenor Square. The coach drew up outside the duke’s imposing property, which was set back behind iron railings. Richard alighted first, studiously avoiding assisting Emma. For her disguise to work, she needed to pass as a male until they were safely back home. He perused the impressive façade of Wheatley House. George sidled up to him, craning his head to gaze up at the windows. They were all ablaze. Emma loitered in the shadows.

  George gave Richard a nudge.

  ‘Wheatley mustn’t be bothered about the cost of illuminating all those rooms when he isn’t entertaining. I’ve heard he’s very plump in the pocket.’

  ‘Not bothered at all by the looks of things,’ agreed Richard.

  All three turned at the sound of Crawford’s groan as he finally alighted from the coach. The poor chap had landed heavily on his bad leg.

  ‘Sorry about that, lads. Damned leg is playing up again.’

  Richard read the frustration in his friend’s face and heard the suppressed anger in his voice. Crawford had seemed a trifle ungainly clambering into the coach when they’d picked him up.

  ‘Seems to happen from time to time. Blasted thing just stiffens up when the weather turns cold,’ Crawford muttered, his voice gruff.

  ‘Oh, stop whining, man. Don’t play the sympathy card with me; you’re not getting out of this now,’ Richard shot back. He knew Crawford would hate to be pitied.

  His friend straightened up, cast a quick glance at Emma, and snarled back, ‘Not a chance.’ His sardonic smile indicated that he understood Richard’s tactics.

  ‘Right, gentlemen, this is it.’ Richard led the way up the steps.

  Two lanterns, one either side of the door, illuminated the large brass door knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. Richard grasped it and knocked twice. The sound reverberated round them in the dark and deserted square. Richard shivered. Only because of the cold night air, he told himself. He angled himself so that no light would fall on Emma when the door opened.

  A stately butler waved them into the foyer.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen. I believe you are expected.’

  Richard looked around, taking in the impressive hallway. The walls glowed in the flickering light of the central chandelier suspended from the ornately plastered ceiling. Black-and-white marble tiles made up the floor, and a fireplace to one side sent out welcome heat into the large space. Above the mantelpiece hung a full-length portrait of a gentleman dressed in what Richard surmised was fashionable court dress during the reign of Charles II. No doubt one of Wheatley’s illustrious forbears. Richard kept an eye on Emma, who was keeping to the shadows, hovering at the edge of the hallway away from the light cast by the chandelier and the fire. Clever girl.

  ‘Your cards, gentlemen.’

  The butler held out a tray.

  A jolt of horror ran up Richard’s spine. Why hadn’t he remembered to pick up one of David’s cards?

  ‘I’m afraid my brother doesn’t have a card as yet. He’s only just down from Oxford and the printers have not completed the order. I do apologise.’

  The butler nodded, and once the three cards were placed on his tray, he left the four companions standing in the hall. Richard turned and winked at Emma. She looked shaken but had kept her nerve.

  ‘Talkative chap, isn’t he?’ grinned George as he went over to the fireplace, stretching his hands out towards the warmth cast off by the glowing coals.

  ‘I think it’s meant to keep us in our proper place,’ answered Richard.

  Crawford sat down on one of the austere wooden chairs that stood at each side of the fireplace. He stretched his right leg out, kneading it where his breeches met the top of his immaculately polished boot.

  ‘Playing up still?’ Richard asked him.

  Crawford gave him a hard look.

  ‘Don’t worry. I can still manage if you need some muscle.’

  Richard grinned at him.

  ‘Well, I wasn’t intending to come to fisticuffs with Wheatley, but it’s good to know you’ll have my back.’

  Crawford looked speculatively at Emma, who was now pacing up and down.

  ‘Don’t worry about her, Richard,’ he said in lowered tones. ‘We’ll see you both home safe and sound. For what it’s worth, I think Miss Smythe is more than a match for a mere duke. You’re a lucky man, my friend.’

  Richard silently agreed.

  Despite his air of levity, Richard’s nerves were as taut as viola strings. He didn’t expect Wheatley to physically attack him – as he’d told Emma, that was not Wheatley’s style. Besides, Francis had warned him how the duke’s health had deteriorated. No, he was more concerned about accusing a man of murder to his face. How would Wheatley react? He had a good idea how he’d respond to such an accusation, and it wouldn’t be pretty. He wasn’t expecting much different from Wheatley and wondered how Emma would deal with it.

  Richard caught the sound of footsteps coming down the polished stairs. Turning, he saw a nervous-looking Francis descending, followed by the butler. Francis, as usual, was dressed in an impeccable but understated style, with close-fitting black trousers that finished just above the ankle and shining buckled slippers. Beneath his beautifully embroidered waistcoat, whose green and yellow silk threads glistened in the candlelight, was a fine linen shirt. The whole was topped off with an exquisitely folded cravat. Richard reckoned his own valet would be green with envy to see such elegance.

  ‘Good evening, Richard. You’re very punctual,’ Francis said, before nodding to Crawford, who acknowledged him with a bow of the head, and then George, who was lounging near the fire. Francis then spotted the third figure, and Richard heard his gasp of surprise. It was apparent that Francis hadn’t believed Emma when she’d said she was coming along.

  ‘I didn’t realise you’d be bringing company, Richard,’ Francis said in strained tones.

  ‘Yes, it was a last-minute decision to accompany my friends,’ interrupted Crawford in a jovial manner. ‘We’re planning on going to White’s later.’

  Good old Crawford, thought Richard. He made it sound as if he and George were just tagging along, not that they were in fact acting as bodyguards.

  ‘Francis, allow me to introduce my brother-
in-law, George Morton. George, this is Francis Heslop, Emma’s cousin, and mine too.’

  He thought it worth mentioning that fact to impress on Francis that he wasn’t going to be cut adrift from the family, regardless of what was to be learned tonight. Francis extended a hand to George.

  ‘Good to make your acquaintance, Morton. You must be married to Richard’s sister, Julia. Is that right?’

  George grasped his hand in return. ‘I have that honour, yes. Pleased to meet you.’

  Richard continued the introductions for the benefit of the butler who was hovering nearby. ‘And this is David, my younger brother. You don’t mind if he accompanies me, do you, old chap?’

  Francis peered at Emma as she lifted her head and slowly removed her hat. Richard hoped the butler was not standing close enough to get a good look at her facial features. He held his breath until Francis slowly extended his hand.

  ‘Good evening, David. I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.’ He turned to Richard. ‘His Grace was only expecting to meet with you, Richard, but I think he’ll not object to your… erm, brother being present. But, if you don’t mind, gentlemen’ – he waved to George and Crawford – ‘I think it best if you wait in the drawing room. Too many people upset him when he’s indisposed. The fire is lit in there, is it not, Smith?’

  ‘Indeed, sir.’

  ‘And, Smith, if you would bring the gentlemen some refreshments while they wait.’

  ‘Certainly, Mr Heslop. Please follow me, gentlemen.’

  George and Crawford trailed after the butler, Crawford making a long job of the stairs on account of his bad leg. At last they reached the first landing where they turned right towards the public rooms. Coming behind them, Francis led Richard and Emma in the opposite direction towards Wheatley’s private apartments.

  ‘His Grace’s health is not too bad this evening, but please don’t tire him,’ whispered Francis.

  ‘I promise we won’t stay overlong, but I do mean to have this matter out,’ replied Richard. He hadn’t come here with Emma just to make a social call. Francis sent him a sidelong look and opened his mouth as if about to say something, but then he seemed to think better of it.

  Through a pair of polished wooden doors, Richard found himself in a sumptuously appointed chamber. It was quite an effort for him not to gawk like a complete bumpkin. The rooms in his own house in Cornwall he’d considered very well appointed, but this room was truly special. This was Wheatley’s famed library, an indicator, if one was needed, that said that Wheatley was a cultured and educated man. Richard knew it held an impressive collection of rare manuscripts and incunabula. Book presses lined the walls. Fires blazed in two large marble fireplaces, one at each end of the room. He glanced at Emma. Her eyes were wide, taking everything in. Knowing her love of manuscripts, Richard guessed that this must be her idea of heaven.

  In addition to the glow cast by the fires, the room was illuminated by several large candelabra placed on tables arranged around the room, their flickering light glancing off the gold lettering embossed on the spines of the volumes lining the shelves. A lion’s head picked out in gold adorned the base of each spine. Silk brocade sofas in shades of yellow and green were placed near each of the full-length windows. Francis pointed to the lion’s head carved into the centre of each mantelpiece.

  ‘That’s the Wheatley heraldic beast. You’ll find it all over the house.’

  Francis led them across the room towards the matching set of doors at the far end. He tapped softly and, without waiting for a reply, opened the door and ushered them both in.

  Here was a room of a totally different ambience to the one through which they’d just passed. Dimly lit as it was, Richard saw it was more comfortable, masculine in character, and conveying the feeling that this was a place where one could relax. It was furnished in shades of red and cream, with silk crimson wallpaper covering the walls and matching heavy velvet curtains draped across the windows to muffle the sounds of tradesmen’s carts and carriage wheels on the cobblestones in the square below.

  ‘I see you are admiring my private retreat, Viscount Easterby… or should I call you by your real name, Mr Lacey?’

  Wheatley’s purring voice took Richard by surprise. The duke, dressed in a dark-blue brocade banyan embossed with silver thread, was reclining in a high-backed wing chair near the fire. His slippered feet rested on a footstool and a cashemire rug covered his legs. Richard’s eyes widened. The figure before him was the shadow of the man he’d seen mere days before, with gaunt, hollow-cheeked features and dark circles round his eyes. He wondered how someone looking so ill managed to draw breath and almost considered making his excuses and departing.

  ‘You’re quite correct, Your Grace. I’m Richard Lacey.’ Richard gestured to Emma who was standing several paces behind. ‘And this is my brother David. I hope you don’t mind that he’s accompanied me this evening?’

  Emma bowed.

  ‘David, eh?’ Wheatley arched a sardonic eyebrow. ‘I see. Not at all. Forgive me for not rising to greet you. As you can see, I’m not in the best of health at the moment.’ Wheatley gestured to the table at his elbow on which stood various bottles and glasses.

  ‘I think my doctors have decided to kill me slowly with their potions and poisons, haven’t they, Francis?’ Wheatley smiled up at Francis who stepped towards him, his face filled with concern.

  ‘No, you’re not dying. You will recover, Henry, erm, I mean, Your Grace.’ Francis looked stricken and Richard felt a pang of sympathy. Wheatley reached out and took hold of Francis’ hand. The depth of feeling between the two men was obvious.

  Richard inwardly squirmed. He shouldn’t be intruding when plainly the man did not have long to live. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me, Your Grace. I understood you were not in the best of health but hadn’t realised… that is to say, would you prefer me to call back when you’re feeling better?’ Privately, he decided a miracle would be required before Wheatley recovered his health.

  Wheatley chuckled.

  ‘I’ve had several of these bouts since I turned forty, and each time I’ve recovered, apparently spontaneously. I’ve consulted different doctors, and I’ve taken the potions they give me, but as none of them know what my condition is, I don’t think they help. Bleeding and cupping only make me feel worse.’ Wheatley pointed to the bottles on the table beside him. ‘These will be the next to go, I’ve decided.’ He held his hand up as Francis opened his mouth. ‘No, don’t interrupt, Francis.’ Wheatley sighed and shook his head. ‘I think my chances of complete recovery are extremely remote, whatever dear Francis chooses to believe. I’ve reluctantly accepted that I may suffer these episodes until I end my days.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s a trifle inconvenient for someone with my responsibilities.’

  Richard nodded. This illness, whatever it was, was indeed a heavy burden for a man with ducal responsibilities.

  Wheatley shifted in his chair. ‘So we must talk now, Mr Lacey. I don’t think this bout of illness will end soon, and as my fatigue lessens slightly in the evenings, this is the best time to discuss what we must.’ Wheatley pointed to the chair matching his own at the other side of the fireplace. ‘Please be seated. You are making me uncomfortable.’

  Richard reluctantly sat down. Emma took a seat a short distance further back. Richard was grateful that the room wasn’t ablaze with candles – at that distance, Wheatley would be unlikely to see her clearly. He was still uneasy about raising the subject he’d come to discuss, having no desire to increase Wheatley’s suffering. These could be Wheatley’s last few days on earth for all he knew. Then he turned and saw Emma’s face, and his resolve hardened. She, her brother, and the dowager had all been through hell and back, and they deserved to know the reason. The truth, however unpalatable, should be disclosed. He mustn’t allow pity to cloud his judgement. Was the man sitting opposite really b
ehind the attempts on his own life and the death of Frederick Smythe? Had he also arranged for Emma’s parents to be wrongly advised in Greece? If the answer was yes to all of these, then the next question would be why. What triggered a campaign of vengeance against one particular family?

  However, before Richard could formulate his first question, Wheatley pulled Francis to one side. ‘Leave us to speak privately, there’s a good fellow. I’ll call if I need you.’

  Francis looked distraught. ‘But, Henry…’

  ‘No buts, if you please, Francis. I’m fine for now, and this is not for your ears. Now go.’

  Francis didn’t argue, and with shoulders slumped he left the room.

  Chapter 22

  Wheatley looked at Richard over slender, steepled fingers, his silver eyes glittering.

  ‘I know why you’ve come, Mr Lacey. It’s about Frederick Smythe, is it not?’

  There was a sharp intake of breath from Emma. Richard decided to be equally blunt.

  ‘Yes it is, Wheatley. I’ve reason to believe that you were somehow involved in his untimely death and possibly also those of his brother Charles and his family.’ Richard’s eyes narrowed. ‘Not to mention the subsequent attempts on my life.’

  Tension crackled in the air.

  ‘Well, you don’t mince your words, do you, Lacey?’ drawled Wheatley. ‘I admire you for that. Therefore I will not mince mine. I did have a hand in helping that despicable worm Frederick to meet his Maker rather earlier than he anticipated. He was completely foxed and shouldn’t have been riding in that state in any case. My man just ensured that his horse was a little friskier than he should have been.’ He paused and gazed thoughtfully into the fire.

  Richard fidgeted, waiting for Wheatley to give a reason.

  At last the duke’s eyes turned back to him. ‘I hear you’re assisting one of our agents, Mr Lacey… a Mr Cullen, I believe?’