Beastly Lords Collection

by Baily, Sydney Jane

  At her shocked and hurt expression, he wished he could call back his words.

  “Never mind. We shall stay in one room, the better for me to keep an eye on you.”

  He should be flattered that Jenny wanted to be with him. In truth, he was moved by her deep affection and grateful beyond words. Moreover, at her apparent relief and happiness that he would share her room, he did, in fact, feel like a randy goat.

  He was not looking forward to a night on the floor or a chair, but for Jenny, he would do either.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Jenny awakened to the familiar sight of an empty bed. How chivalrous. At least they had enjoyed each other before he’d let her drift off to sleep and then abandoned her.

  Her mouth twisted. That was unfair, he hadn’t really abandoned her. She looked to the overstuffed chair and frowned. No Simon. Maybe he had left the room after all. Getting out of bed, she rounded the end of it and nearly tripped over her husband’s prone form.

  As it was, she kicked him in the head.

  “Ouch,” he exclaimed and sat up from his makeshift nest—a pillow upon the carpet and two blankets over the top of him.

  “This is ridiculous, husband. You are not a dog to lie on the floor at the foot of the bed.”

  He grinned. “I’ve slept in far worse conditions, as you know.”

  Tossing her hands up, she tried to step past him to reach her clothing hanging in the wardrobe, but he grabbed for her hand and, with a quick tug, pulled her down on top of him.

  Before she knew it, her shift was up around her waist and they were engaging in the best of Aristotle’s Masterpiece, as she’d come to think of their lovemaking. Afterward, lying with her head cradled against Simon’s shoulder and his arm around her, she couldn’t help the giggle that escaped her.

  “What is it?” he asked, still drawing tender strokes across her flat stomach.

  “I am certain this is the first time an earl and his countess have made love on this floor, right next to such a comfortable down mattress. Like Bedlamites!”

  He brushed a kiss across her forehead. “Truly, I am quite mad for you,” he admitted, “but you are probably right. Let’s break our fast and get on the road, the sooner you will see our townhouse.”

  Liking the sound of “our townhouse,” she dressed quickly and ate even more quickly.

  Three days later, as she supervised the unpacking of their trunks, Jenny was not disappointed. When Simon gave her a tour of the house, she tried to glean more about the man she’d married.

  “My lord, I am surprised your family ever left Town for Belton.”

  For instead of the usual London house with barely any land, the Deveres’ had a corner mansion with front and back gardens on Portman Square.

  “We’ve had offers,” he admitted, “from more than one duke and a member of the royal family. However, not needing the coin, we kept our place in Town. I don’t know if my father came here when I was … away.”

  According to the downstairs maid, Lady Maude, Lord James, and Lady Letitia had all used the Devere townhouse in the past few years.

  At that news, Jenny lifted an eyebrow to her husband. “The plot thickens.”

  “Such a mind for discovering deviousness,” he said, admiringly.

  *

  “Tell Mr. Keeble, Simon Devere, Earl of Lindsey, is here to see him.”

  Simon was no fool. He’d hired a man to follow Keeble for two days to determine what kind of man he was and for whom he worked. The news was not good. A legal steward for the underworld, as best he could tell.

  Because of that, he’d called upon one of his closest friends, John Angsley, the Earl of Cambrey, who luckily was in residence in London. After a great deal of “dear God in Heaven” and backslapping and “damned good to see you” and more backslapping followed by a few fingers of brandy, they’d set out together.

  “No, I’d never heard of him either,” Cam said as they rode to Keeble’s office. “That tells us nothing, though. I don’t run in his circle any more than you do. I doubt we’d ever come across the likes of Keeble at White’s.”

  “White’s?” Simon repeated, still staring out the carriage window. “I can’t think of going back there, as if nothing ever happened.”

  “You will be welcome wherever you go. Moreover, none of us can imagine what you went through. But listen, every bloody one of us thinks you’re a hero.”

  Simon flinched.

  “If I was, Toby would be here, too.”

  “That’s nonsense.” Cambrey crossed his arms and sat back. He’d known Simon’s cousin, though he was not in the same class at Eton. “Utter rubbish. I suppose you should have saved Admiral Nelson, too.”

  Simon shrugged, not ready to absolve himself of any blame. Still, he’d had other triumphs lately.

  “I took a wife recently.” He turned his face to his friend and couldn’t help smiling at the thought of Jenny. His Jenny, who now waited at their townhouse for his return.

  “You are married? Why didn’t I read of it in the papers?”

  “Bad of me, I suppose. I wanted to get it done, and the lady didn’t mind having a quiet country wedding.”

  “Lucky you. Her name?”

  “She was Lady Genevieve Blackwood.”

  Cambrey nodded. “Ah, Baron Blackwood’s eldest daughter.”

  “You know her?” Simon realized for all he knew, his friend might have danced with Jenny during her Seasons when he was stuck in Burma.

  “Not really. I’ve seen her, of course, at a number of events. Sweet face, as I recall.” He winked at Simon. “I do know what happened with her father. And her viscount,” Cambrey added pointedly. “It was common knowledge Alder dropped her like a hot tater and began courting a viscount’s daughter from Wembley.”

  “Thank God,” Simon muttered. “Alder’s loss, my gain.”

  “You are in love!” Cambrey deduced by the look on his friend’s face, the tone of his voice.

  “Yes. Honestly, I don’t see how I would even be here if not for her. I was in terrible shape when she found me.”

  “I’m glad you got a happy ending. You deserve that.”

  Simon brushed his words away with a wave of his hand.

  “What? Not happy?”

  Hesitating, Simon wasn’t sure what to tell Cam.

  “A story for later. But as for my wife, she makes me exceedingly happy.” The carriage had shuddered to a stop. “Will you come back to my home after we conclude this business, to meet her?”

  “I’d be honored. Now let’s give this fellow the what for, shall we?”

  Thus, they entered Keeble’s office, which was neither shabby nor sumptuous, simply two rooms above a successful stockbroker and below a commercial merchant in Bayswater, just north of Hyde Park. In the outer room, a thin middle-aged clerk sat at a desk and against Simon’s expectations, there were no ruffians present to intimidate or attempt to scare him off.

  The clerk’s eyes widened at their entrance and grew larger at hearing the identity of the two earls.

  “Well, is he in?” Simon asked.

  “He must be,” Cambrey pointed out, “or his office door would be open, no?”

  “Ah, yes,” the clerk said, jumping up and stumbling backward. Keeping his eyes on the two men, he knocked on his master’s door.

  “Come,” came a voice from within.

  “Perfect,” Cambrey said, “we’ll take it from here.” He gestured for Simon to proceed him.

  Approaching the clerk until he could do nothing except step aside, Simon pushed the door open and entered. An ordinary office belonging to what appeared to be an ordinary man. Yet, this was the man who for years had been receiving the Devere family’s income, from five different enterprises.

  “You are Keeble?”

  The man stood, obviously recognizing by their clothes he had two fine gentlemen in his office.

  “I am.”

  Simon looked him up and down. He didn’t look like a thug who funneled mone
y to the top gambling clubs in London, but that was his job, to get money from debtors and pay creditors.

  “I am Simon Devere, seventh Earl of Lindsey.”

  “My lord.” The man bowed respectfully.

  Studying him, Simon felt puzzled. The man looked vaguely surprised but not alarmed. Certainly not as Simon expected an embezzler would.

  “This is the Earl of Cambrey.” He gestured beside him to John without turning.

  “My lord” Keeble bowed to Simon’s friend in turn. Then silence.

  “Do you know why I’m here?”

  Keeble took a deep breath and glanced at his desk, strewn with papers and ledgers as if the answer would be there. “Would you gentlemen care to sit?”

  “No.” Simon wanted answers, not niceties.

  “Lord Lindsey asked you a question,” Cambrey reminded the man.

  “I assume you are here to discuss your account.”

  “My account?”

  The man almost smiled. “Well, not yours exactly, of course, but the Devere account nonetheless.”

  “What are you on about?”

  Keeble frowned. “Well, this is a bit awkward. Is that not why you’re here?”

  “I’m here because funds have been diverted from my estate to your office. And I want to know why.”

  “I see. That can be easily explained. I have gout, however, in my right leg and I would like to sit. I cannot sit unless you gentlemen sit. It is a sore predicament I find myself in. Nevertheless, while my gout pains me, it is hard to focus and to answer you as swiftly and accurately as you deserve.”

  Simon stared at the man.

  “Fine,” he said at last and took one of the chairs in front of the desk. Glancing at Cambrey, who rolled his eyes, he nodded for him to take the other seat. When both earls were seated, Keeble also sat.

  “Ahh,” he sighed. “Much better. Now, you want to speak about the accounts. Let me get the ledger.”

  The most polite, organized thief Simon could imagine. The man pulled open one of his desk drawers and thumbed through a number of items until he pulled out a slim volume.

  “Devere,” he stated, glancing from the leather-bound book to Simon.

  When the man opened the book that plainly held columns and numbers, for the first time since setting out to meet this unknown Keeble, Simon wished Jenny was beside him. He doubted Keeble was going to simply let him take the ledger home to his “bookkeeper.”

  “It’s very simple,” the man began, flipping through the pages, “for the past six years, five of your holdings have sent their money to me to distribute to debtors, who’ve all been paid off, except one. That’s what I do,” Keeble added, glancing up again at both the men in turn. “You don’t think folk of your ilk head over to Boodle’s or White’s, hat in hand with a bag of coins to pay off debts.”

  “Six years?” That was a lot of money. “How much?”

  Keeble scanned a page in the book. “I couldn’t say, my lord, without time to tally up the accounts. A substantial amount, however.”

  “What possible debt could be so confoundedly large?” Cambrey asked, breaking his silence for the first time.

  Simon couldn’t answer. He truly had no clue, unless—“By whose order?”

  “Why, your father’s, of course.”

  Simon and Cam looked at each other.

  “Are you certain? It was not Sir Tobias Devere?” Simon could not credit his father had done something like this behind his back.

  “No, my lord. I am certain. I received the missive myself with the former Lord Lindsey’s signature and a witness’s signature, as well. And then the payments began. And yes, at that point, I believe Sir Devere was in charge of making sure they arrived safely.”

  “Simply an endless flow of money? All the returns from each of those five enterprises. With no end date?”

  Keeble flipped back to look at the first page once more. His eyes widened a moment.

  “Oh, it will end, when the debtor is no longer racking up more debt.”

  “A riddle?” Cambrey asked. “Are you toying with us?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Alright, I’ll jump upon your hook,” Simon said. “Who is the debtor?”

  “Lord James Devere.”

  “My uncle!”

  “What kind of debt?” Cambrey asked when Simon said nothing else.

  Keeble shrugged. “The usual kind, I suppose you might say. Gambling. Cards. Horses. What have you.”

  “How can my uncle still be gambling? He lives hours from London.”

  The man leveled Simon with almost a pitying stare from across the desk. “He plays by proxy.”

  “What?” came the astounded question from Cambrey. “Another man is making bad wagers or losing at cards and the Devere family is on the hook for it?”

  Keeble spread his hands. “That is the arrangement. James Devere lost a great deal of money when he was a younger man. I suppose he still seeks to recoup it at the tables.”

  “I saw the state of his home. He has not recouped anything.” Simon sat up taller in his chair. “This makes no sense. He would have far more money to live on if he’d ceased this ridiculous proxy gambling and had the money from our holdings sent directly to him instead of to London.”

  Again, Keeble shrugged. “Your father was trying to help out his brother, I suppose. Perhaps your uncle didn’t want a handout but rather wanted ultimately to win. That’s a gambler for you.”

  “And you’re saying this arrangement continues in perpetuity until my uncle dies?”

  Keeble nodded. “Or until the gambling stops and all the debt has been paid, including the interest. Don’t forget the interest.”

  “Except the payments won’t continue,” Simon informed him. “I’ve already put an end to all of them.”

  The man behind the desk paled. “Oh, that is unfortunate. Crocky will not take kindly to that, my lord. No, not at all.”

  “Crocky!” Cambrey exclaimed.

  Simon ignored him. “Who cares if the debt is to old Crockford or the more refined owner of Whites?”

  Cambrey crossed his long legs. “Crocky can shed his veneer rather quickly. Remember where he came from. I hear ‘the Fishmonger’ is not the forgiving type.”

  “And the proxy who gambles in your uncle’s stead will find himself dangerously out of funding.”

  Keeble’s alarm seemed genuine.

  Simon shook his head. “There is, or was, an actual debt that needed to be paid. Yet it hasn’t been sufficiently settled in six years because more debt is being created … nightly?”

  “Just so. Almost nightly.” Keeble folded his hands upon the ledger. “And don’t forget—”

  “The interest, I know,” said Simon, feeling fed up.

  “And who has been making sure the payments arrive at your doorstep since my cousin and I left?”

  Keeble frowned, hesitating.

  Simon felt ready to do harm to the man. “It’s too late to hide anything from me now.”

  “Of course, you are correct, my lord.” Keeble glanced down at the book on his desk once more. “A man named Dolbert, someone who worked for your uncle, I believe.”

  Simon shrugged. The name meant nothing to him, but most likely Binkley would know who was hanging around Belton and handling accounts.

  “Your position is not terrible, Lord Lindsey.” Keeble seemed to be trying to cheer him. “Only recall that the Earl of Carlisle was paying one sixth of his own income to pay for Lord Fox’s debt, and he wasn’t even family.”

  “That’s absurd,” Cambrey said. “The Lord Lindsey may as well be Sisyphus pushing that damn rock up and down, as try to pay off a debt that keeps growing.”

  Simon brought his fist down on the chair handle. “How do I meet this so-called proxy who gambles and loses like the Duchess of Devonshire?”

  Keeble fixed him with a stare. “That’s not usually done.”

  “Then he can go to hell, and the money he gambles—”

 
“And loses,” Cambrey broke in.

  “—Will be his own, not my family’s. I want to meet with this man tonight, or you can tell him yourself his well has dried up.”

  “What of James Devere?”

  Simon nearly said his uncle could go to hell, too, but stopped himself. Family was family. He would deal with his uncle in private. Clearly, the man had a problem, one Simon’s father thought he could contain. Instead, he’d ended up funding the problem. And Toby knew about it. That was clear. He probably gave his father money, too, which would explain why his widow had none.

  No wonder Simon’s father had asked Toby to handle the ledgers and not his own son. Simon would never have agreed to such an arrangement created merely so his uncle could save face.

  Meanwhile, Keeble had picked up a quill and was scratching it across a bit of vellum. When finished, he sanded and folded it before handing the information to Simon.

  “The name of the proxy. You don’t need me to write down the address to Crockford’s, do you? I’m sure you’re familiar with it. Most young men are.”

  Once again in the carriage and heading back to his townhouse, Simon unfolded the paper.

  “Jameson Carlyle,” he muttered. “Never heard of the man.”

  “Me, either,” Cambrey muttered from the other corner of the carriage. “Crocky’s tonight?”

  Simon grunted. His first night back in London after three years and he had to spend it in a prettified gaming hell. And away from Jenny.

  Cambrey lifted his booted feet and rested them on the seat next to Simon. “Makes sense. Where else would someone go night after night? If you’re going to lose, you might as well eat the finest French cuisine while doing so.”

  Simon glared. “French cooking be damned.”

  “Truly,” Cambrey insisted, “wait until you taste it.” He kissed his own fingers in a gesture of good taste, making a sound of enthusiasm. “Crocky’s hired Eustache Ude, and his mackerel roe is …” Cambrey trailed off at the expression on his friend’s face. “Never mind, we’ll go in, find this blackguard Carlyle, and ring his neck.”