A Daring Deception

by Trentham, Laura

  Rafe tapped his fingers on his knees, the only sign he was agitated. “Does he owe you coin? Can you exert pressure?”

  “He refuses to play with me after the thrashing at the table I gave him at Wintermarsh last fall.”

  “That’s a shame,” Rafe said.

  Damien took a chit from his waistcoat pocket and deftly turned it in his fingers. It was a long-standing habit of his when he was plotting. “What is your plan, Simon? Arrive on Miss Tremaine’s doorstep hat in hand to make Goforth another offer? He would be more likely to put a bullet between your eyes than agree. You should have played the game and bided your time.”

  “It’s not a game for me, Damien.”

  Damien ceased his fiddling and nodded. “I know, but the fact of the matter is Goforth will never accept your suit. He has hated you since your first meeting, and tonight is not likely to have changed his feelings.”

  “I understand the antipathy he feels for you, but he is mad not to want to align himself with a duke through marriage.” Rafe twitched the curtains open to check their progress.

  “Not really,” Simon said. “If I wed Jessica, I may become Lord Penhaven’s guardian. I would be in a position to mentor and guide him, thereby weakening Goforth’s connection to society and influence in the upper House once the young earl takes his seat. He wants Lord Penhaven as his puppet.”

  “Then he has much to lose if you win Miss Tremaine’s hand,” Damien said. “I suggest you retreat, regroup, and approach the situation with a bit more planning and exponentially more cunning.”

  “I must see her and verify her well-being.” Fear churned in Simon’s gut now the ramifications of his actions reverberated.

  “That would be extremely foolish.” The warning in Damien’s voice was almost a growl.

  Simon bounced his knee, impatient to do something. Even something foolish.

  “Talk some sense into him, will you, Drummond?” Damien nudged Rafe’s knee with his own in the tight confines of the carriage.

  Rafe rubbed his jaw and grunted. “In Simon’s position, I would have broken Goforth’s jaw, but then again, I’ve always been a hot-tempered son-of-a-bitch. I would want to whisk Miss Tremaine to Gretna Green as soon as possible. However, the question is how to gain access. A morning call is not an option.”

  “I’ll sneak inside.” Simon crossed his arms.

  Damien threw his hands up. “And when you’re caught by Goforth? He’s a regular at Manton’s and known to be a crack shot. Most of those Americans are. I fear these tender feelings you hold for Miss Tremaine will be the death of you.”

  “Or his saving grace,” Rafe said.

  “Dear God, not you too?” Damien sounded aggrieved. “For a man who’s rumored to have killed a half dozen men with your bare hands, your wife has turned you into a milquetoast.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear, Northcutt.” Rafe’s deliberate pause sent a chill through the carriage. “It was many more men than that.”

  The carriage came to a stop outside the Drummond town house. Rafe hopped out, but when Simon went to follow him, Damien tugged on his sleeve. “Can I count on you to not do anything romantically suicidal this evening? I have an appointment to keep.”

  “I won’t do anything rash.” It was a promise Simon wasn’t sure he could keep.

  He exited to the curb, but before he closed the door, Damien called out, “Tell my uncle I’ll be by for tea soon.”

  Simon nodded. “I’ll do that. Thank you for not letting me get myself killed tonight.” It was a weak attempt to convey his feelings of gratitude toward his staunch friend.

  Damien merely raised one brow and rapped on the ceiling. Simon watched the black carriage turn the next corner and disappear. He trudged up the steps. Northcutt, the Drummond’s butler in town and Damien’s uncle through his mother, was not there to greet him.

  Simon divested himself of his hat and cloak, laid them over a chair in the entry, and made his way to the study where he knew Rafe would be waiting. And waiting he was with two glasses of brandy already poured.

  “What now?” Simon asked.

  “We see what insight Minerva’s gleaned once she’s returned.” Rafe sat behind his desk and propped a leg over the corner of the gleaming mahogany in a stance of total relaxation.

  Simon couldn’t locate even a sliver of his calm. He paced the room like one of the caged lions at the Tower. An agonizing hour passed before Minerva appeared. Simon peppered her with questions.

  “Goodness, Simon, let me catch my breath.” She took the small glass of port Rafe offered and collapsed in the nearest chair. “What an evening!”

  “You’re making me daft. What news?” Simon resumed his pacing, this time in front of his sister.

  Minerva took a sip and tracked him with her gaze. “Goforth railed against you, of course. Called you a madman. The ladies tittered behind their fans. Luckily for you, Goforth is not particularly well liked, so the gentlemen paid him little mind, and I’m afraid the ladies might be even more entranced with you now that you’ve gained an air of danger.”

  Simon waved away the suggestion. “And Miss Tremaine? Did you see her? Speak with her?”

  “Only very briefly. Goforth bundled her home not long after you departed. She was quite upset, both with you and for you.” Minerva twirled the crystal stem of her glass between her fingers and added in a slightly chiding tone, “You acted quite rashly.”

  “So I’ve been told multiple times. I don’t know what to tell you except that I saw red. Goforth is a bastard who deserves more than a thrashing.”

  “I have no doubt. Still…” Minerva cocked an eyebrow but added nothing more, to his already growing chagrin.

  “How damaging will the gossip be?” Rafe asked.

  “It depends on how soon another scandal breaks. If a debutante is caught in a rake’s embrace tomorrow night, then we need not worry.” Minerva’s tone made Simon think the possibility was unlikely.

  “What course of action do you suggest?” Simon asked his sister.

  “I will make some calls tomorrow and subtly hint at a political disagreement between you and Goforth. That shouldn’t be a difficult story for the ton to swallow. The fact is, most ladies find politics dry and uninteresting. As long as you stay away from Miss Tremaine for the time being, I predict the incident will be forgotten in a week.” Minerva finished her glass of port and set the crystal glass on the side table. When she turned to face him, her expression was stern. “Can you manage that?”

  A week? Considering he wanted to tear through the streets of London this very moment, he had a difficult time grinding out a reluctant agreement. “I can try.”

  Simon let himself out and walked the short distance to his own London home. Goforth had rented a town house in a semifashionable area of London known for housing well-off cits and high-ranking members of the judiciary. Simon could be there in twenty minutes.

  But Minerva was right. If his name was attached to Jessica’s so soon after his scuffle with her stepfather, the talk would escalate and sully her reputation. As much as he railed against the plan, he needed to take Damien’s advice and play not to win a trick, but to win the game.

  He would retreat. For now.

  Chapter 19

  The week passed in fits of excruciating nerves and worry for Jessica’s well-being. Simon attended every function he was invited to and some he wasn’t. He’d promised Minerva not to approach Jessica, but until he clapped eyes on her to verify she was hale and hearty, he wouldn’t rest easy. Neither Jessica nor Goforth put in an appearance.

  As Minerva predicted, the gossip died a quick death once she ascribed the disagreement to politics. Now he was worried less about her reputation and more about her person. Why was Goforth keeping her locked away? Had he hurt her because of Simon’s rash actions? The thought was turning him into a madman.

  Which was why he had sent a desperate note the evening before and was standing outside the Drummond town house at an ungodly ear
ly hour. A dignified white-haired butler answered the door and took his coat and hat.

  “Good morning, Your Grace.”

  “Northcutt. I apologize for the early hour. Are the lord and lady of the house still abed?”

  “His lordship is in his study if you’d like to go up. And how is my scapegrace nephew? He hasn’t been by for tea in a fortnight or more.”

  “He’s been occupied with a new venture. One he’s been tight-lipped about, as a matter of fact,” Simon said.

  “A venture of the female variety?”

  “Honestly, I’m not sure, but he did give me a message to pass along to you. He promised he’d stop by for tea soon.”

  “I’m not sure if he’s the pride or the scourge of the family,” the butler intoned in the way only a good, solemn butler could but with a quirk of his lips.

  “I’d say both, depending on the day.” Simon headed to the study and paused in the doorway.

  Rafe was lying on the rug in front of his desk playing toy soldiers with Christopher.

  “You can’t do that, Papa!”

  “’Course I can. See, this knight is me, and I’m worth ten of your weak-kneed men. Make that twenty,” Rafe said teasingly.

  “This knight is me, and I’m worth thirty of your chicken-hearted men.” The boy knocked all Rafe’s men over with gusto.

  “Ouch. Chicken-hearted, are they? I’d best beat a hasty retreat in that case.”

  Christopher caught sight of Simon and launched himself off the floor for a hug. Simon picked the boy up, spun him around, and then plopped in the nearest chair with the boy on his lap. Christopher prattled on about a trip to Covent Garden, his excitement making his words trip over one another.

  The chimney sweeps had particularly caught his attention, and Simon held his tongue, letting Christopher think the boys led a merry, carefree life without parental oversight. The bleakness of the world would eventually touch the child, but Simon wouldn’t be the one to make the introductions. Eventually, Rafe sent Christopher up to tickle his mother awake.

  “Minerva’s still abed?” Simon asked.

  “Indeed. She’s increasing,” Rafe said with worry-tinged satisfaction.

  Her confinement with Christopher had been difficult. She’d been heartily sick, and the delivery had left her weak. “Congratulations. I can’t wait to be an uncle again. She’s seemed well. Has she been ill?”

  “Not like last time, thank the Lord. Everything is progressing smoothly.” Rafe took the armchair flanking Simon’s before the grate. “I assume you’re here about your situation and not mine.”

  “It’s been a week with no sign of Jessica. Damien tells me Goforth has been frequenting one gaming hall after another, winning just often enough to keep him coming back. Goforth might be beating Jessica or starving her or worse. I can wait no longer. Will you help me?”

  “Even before your note, I had set a plan in motion. I dared not mention it, as I didn’t want to get your hopes up, but”—Rafe glanced at the clock—“our secret weapon will be arriving any moment.”

  As if waiting for the pronouncement, an arrival echoed through the marbled entry. Simon tensed and shifted to see the study door.

  A disreputable-looking man in coarse woolen breeches and a patched jacket slunk in, his shoulders hunched. His hair was dark and lank, and he wore a filthy, wide-brimmed cap on his head. It wasn’t until the man straightened and tipped his hat back with a smile that Simon recognized him.

  “Gray Masterson!” Simon couldn’t stifle a bark of surprise.

  “Northcutt refused to touch my hat.” Gray dropped his filthy hat on Rafe’s desk.

  “I can’t say that I blame him. I hope it’s mostly bluster and not actually vermin-ridden.” Rafe exchanged a handshake with Gray and then poked the hat to the far corner of the desk, away from his ledger.

  “Why are you dressed like a rag-and-bone man?” Simon asked.

  “Rafe confided your troubles the other evening. I offered to discover what I could about Goforth and Miss Tremaine.”

  Simon’s shoulders tensed. “Did you see her?”

  “Unfortunately not. She and Goforth had a row after returning home the evening in question, and since then, Miss Tremaine has been confined to her room. The hired footman is rattled and was only too willing to air his troubles after a pint or two.” Gray leaned against the desk, stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing his worn boots at the ankle.

  “That tells us nothing about her physical and emotional state of well-being.” Simon’s frustration heated his words.

  “I also discovered her room is on the third level facing the mews, which is rather convenient.” Gray didn’t seem at all perturbed by Simon’s attitude.

  “That calls for a bit of reconnaissance tonight. What say you, gentlemen?” Rafe asked.

  “Yes!” Simon wasn’t sure how he was going to be able to wait until the evening.

  “The moon is waning, and the rain should hold off until the wee hours.” Gray pointed at Simon. “You’ll need something more practical to wear.”

  Comparing his tailored Weston jacket and scuff-free Hobby boots to Gray’s unmatched patchwork clothes, Simon gave a rueful laugh. “I’ll have to borrow something.”

  “We’re of a size. I’ll send something over.” Gray’s smile flashed like lightning before his expression turned serious. “Let’s meet at the Laughing Goat at midnight.”

  “Is that really necessary?” Rafe asked with a slight eye roll. “We’re hardly on the hunt for royal secrets.”

  “Don’t spoil my fun, dammit,” Gray said with the same petulance as five-year-old Christopher earlier. “It’s not often I get in the field anymore. Since taking over for Hawkins, I’ve been forced into shuffling papers and giving orders.”

  “Good Lord. Fine. Midnight, it is.” Although Rafe spoke with his typical gruffness, an undeniable spark twinkled in his eyes.

  Simon, on the other hand, fought nerves and anxiety for the rest of the day. After dismissing his valet and sending his servants to bed with instructions not to wait up for his return, he dressed himself in the borrowed clothes. While they were approaching threadbare, they were at least clean.

  He tied the black neckerchief around his collar in a simple knot, put on the hat, and examined himself in the looking glass. He could be any working man walking the streets of London. It was a reminder how only an accident of birth separated him and the rest of his ilk from the common man.

  Simon walked until he could hail a hack to take him the rest of the way to the Laughing Goat. It was easy enough to spot Gray and Rafe in the sparsely filled pub. Midnight was late for all but the most hardened, dedicated drinkers.

  Gray and Rafe rose from their corner table and led Simon out the back of the establishment into a narrow alley speaking in gestures. Once they were outside, Simon whispered, “Aren’t you two taking the skullduggery to extremes?”

  “Better to be safe than dead, I always say.” Rafe grinned.

  Gray shushed them and motioned them farther into the shadows through the alleys and mews that ran behind the town houses. The chuffs of horses sounded over the occasional rattle of carriage wheels on the main streets. The occasional groom went about putting their charges away after a long evening.

  The three of them moved like wraiths. Or at least Gray and Rafe did. Simon felt as if his every boot strike would bring a yell for the night’s watch.

  Finally, Gray halted and pointed. “Here we are, and there is Miss Tremaine’s room, if my source was correct.”

  No light shone from any of the windows, and the curtains had been drawn on Jessica’s room. The town house might as well be deserted, except for the frisson of awareness that heightened his senses. She was close.

  “What now?” Simon asked. “Should I throw pebbles at her window?”

  Rafe ignored the suggestion. “I could watch the house for a day or two. Note the routine of the servants and sneak in. No one would be the wiser.”

  “It
’s not a large town house, and you are a large man and out of practice. Wait here.” Gray slipped over the low wall into the garden, lost behind a line of sculpted evergreens. He returned in less than two minutes. “The door is locked and bolted.”

  “We could bring back the tools we need to cut it.” Rafe turned to Gray, shutting Simon out of the deliberations.

  “Neither one of us can be tied to a break-in. What if I get myself taken on as a footman?” Gray asked.

  “Aren’t you getting a little long in the tooth for that? I doubt you’d make it past the first interview.” Rafe rumbled a soft laugh.

  While the two of them quietly argued, Simon looked up and studied the bricks and pipes and ledges that made up the back of the town house. In his misspent, dissolute youth, he’d had to take alternative exits more than once to escape wrathful husbands. It was a skill he hadn’t put to use in some years, but hopefully, it was like riding a horse.

  “I can’t wait for your subterfuge, gentlemen. I’ll make a direct assault.” He jumped the garden wall and grabbed hold of a downspout with one hand while he wedged his booted foot into a crack in the mortar.

  His progress was slow but steady. As he pulled himself to a squat on the narrow outcropping of her window, holding precariously onto the narrow stonework at the top, he looked down to see Rafe and Gray watching him intently.

  Rafe cupped his hands around his mouth and called out barely loud enough for him to hear, “Nice job, Romeo. I assume you’ll be occupied for some time?”

  Perched like a gargoyle, he lifted a hand to wave them off, immediately regretting the move when he almost tipped backward. He clamped the ledge tighter and pressed his cheek against the top of the wood sill, praying Gray’s sources were correct and this was Jessica’s room.

  He rapped on the window and waited. If Goforth’s red-faced visage appeared, Simon might as well jump to his death.

  Chapter 20