by Liz Carlyle
It was odd, really. For so long, he had feared the exposure of who he was—or, better put, who he was not—and the loss and embarrassment such exposure might cause his mother. For years, Jonet had kept his secret, remaining silent even when her own situation with Cole had made it imperative that she explain the truth of their relationship. And yet, she had stoically kept her sworn oath to David, because she knew he had disliked and distrusted Cole.
At the time, he had been deeply touched, for in a world fraught with dishonor and deceit, his sister’s word had been her bond, though the cost to her could have been dear. But now, strangely, he would have given up all that Jonet had held so sacred on his behalf simply to know what was in Cecilia’s heart. It was a sensation which was dreadful in its uncertainty, since never before had he feared rejection.
Well, perhaps once.
In an effort to push back the memories which threatened, David went to his desk and abruptly withdrew a sheet of writing paper from the center drawer. He had a missive to send to de Rohan. There was urgent work to be done this day. But even as he trimmed and relit the wick of his lamp, the uncertainty would not be shut out. Even as he stared down at the paper, white against the mahogany of his desk, he could see another letter written on paper just as blindingly white.
It had been just a little over five years ago when hehad finally understood that his brief and extraordinary betrothal to Cecilia Markham-Sands was over. It had been early August, and the letter from her Uncle Reginald had arrived in Curzon Street by private courier. “I regret to inform you that my niece cannot be persuaded to your suit,” he had written in a hand as heavy and dark as his words. “Sadly, I must ask that you sever all contact, and cease any attempt to convince her...”
Until that point, God help him, David had thought it all a game. And yet, he had wanted her so badly, he had played it. Not six weeks earlier, he had gone down to the Times to deliver the announcement of their engagement, thinking as he did so that it should have felt frightening to take such a step with one’s life. And yet, it had not. It should have felt as if he were sacrificing his personal happiness to set right a grievous error. But it had not felt like that, either.
Moreover, the absence of those emotions had had nothing to do with the belief that the betrothal was a sham. Because he had not believed it. In some pathetic, inexplicable way, he had imagined he could make it so; that his grim implacability would impel Cecilia to the altar if his wealth and position did not. Worse still, he had convinced himself that the fact that he was being forced to marry her relieved him of any obligation to tell her the truth about his origins. What kind of twisted logic was that? And what did it say about the level of respect he had shown her?
Afterward, as he had read her uncle’s letter over and over, it had left him incensed, reassured, and relieved. Incensed that she had rejected him. Reassured that she had had the wisdom to do so. And relieved that she had not meant to trap him after all. He had understood, once and for all, that she was not acting the coy young miss in order to play upon his sympathies, or to gain a more generous marriage settlement. She simply did not want him. He had frightened her. And that was that.
Suddenly, a light knock sounded upon his door, jolting him from his reverie. David’s head jerked around, and he stared at the mantel clock. Damn! His bathwater, judging from how the time had flown. He called out permission to enter, and a servant came in bearing two brass cans.
Behind him, Kemble floated in, called out a cheery good morning, and sailed into the dressing room to help situate the tub. David bent his head to the task of writing de Rohan, but at once, a shrill shriek of displeasure assailed him.
“Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” Kemble wailed. He marched out of the dressing room, hands balled into fists at his sides. “Just what in heaven’s name caused that desecration in the dressing room—?”
David winced as memory stirred. “Is it dreadful?” he asked sheepishly.
Kemble crossed his arms, tapped his toe furiously, and jerked his chin toward the dressing room. “Well, your best top hat is ruined,” he said, as if that explained it all. “Crushed! Crushed beyond repair! It is a sacrilege! A travesty! Your shelves and bandboxes tipped over! Shirts and cravats wrinkled! Indeed, I should not have come here had it been explained to me that you—that you—”
He broke off, apparently too enraged to finish. But David, perhaps in some misplaced wish to be punished, egged him on. “That I what?”
“Drank!” proclaimed Kemble with a haughty flourish of his hand. “Drank to excess, I should have said. For there is no other explanation which might justify the brutality which has been perpetrated in your dressing room. And when a man imbibes to the point that his wardrobe must needlessly suffer, then that is indeed excessive.”
David bowed his head so that Kemble would not see his expression. “I shall endeavor to sober myself up,” he said as humbly as he could manage. “Would you be so obliging as to ring for coffee? I fancy that would be of help.”
Against the backdrop of his valet’s ongoing histrionics, David managed to down his coffee, scratch out de Rohan’s letter, post it by way of his groom, then plunge into the tub. Quickly, he bathed while Kemble, still seething with indignation, laid out his morning clothes. When he stood up in a cascade of warm, soapy water, Kemble came forward with a bath towel.
His eyes lit on the scratches down David’s left shoulder. At once, a curious little smile quirked up one corner of his mouth. “Hmm...” he softly mused, draping the towel over David. “Now that I think on it, I’ve never seen a brandy bottle make marks quite like that.”
As best he could, David ignored Kemble’s suspicious looks and dressed hastily, on the off chance his pretty kitten had left some other scratches of which he was unaware.
“I mean to be out for most of the day,” he announced as Kemble slid a sober gray superfine coat up his arms.
“As shall I,” responded Kemble, giving the shoulders a mollifying pat. “I’m to hire your runners, you’ll recall. Then I’ll see what can be had from Kitty O’Gavin before I pack the lot of them off to Derbyshire.”
“Right!” said David. “I hope that she is well enough to travel.”
“She is,” said Kemble, drawing back to squint at David’s silk neck cloth.
“You’ve checked?”
“I sent a note ‘round to that steely-eyed matron of yours last night,” murmured Kemble, giving the silk a little fluff. “Yes, the small diamond, I think.”
“Well, you’re very efficient,” answered David appreciatively.
“Oh, I always say that gray wool calls for the simplicity of the diamond,” agreed Kemble as he situated the pin into the folds. “Does she have ballocks under those dark serge skirts, do you think?”
At that, David managed to laugh. “Until tonight, then,” he said, seizing his hat. “I shall likely have need of you, for I have a vast deal planned this evening.”
Kemble trilled with laughter. “Anything which will require bandaging?”
“Let us pray not,” said David grimly as he went out the door.
In short order, he was in his carriage and rolling along to Brook Street. At such an early hour, Mayfair was free of traffic, and the journey took but a few minutes. Since Charlie Donaldson and most of the footmen had accompanied Jonet to Cambridgeshire, he was admitted by a housemaid whom he scarcely recognized.
The girl looked a little alarmed when he announced his intention of calling upon Lord Robert Rowland. “I’m sorry, m-my lord,” she managed to stammer. “But I’m not all sure that I ought—or what I mean to say is, that it’s entirely possible he mightn’t be at—”
“At home to ill-mannered, early-morning callers?” Delacourt finished helpfully, tossing down his hat on the hall table. “Worry not, for you needn’t disturb him. I claim that honor for myself.” At once, he slid out of his greatcoat and handed it to her, then leaving her openmouthed in the hall, went swiftly up the stairs.
Outside Robin’s door, he p
aused to knock. There was no response. David stripped off one glove and, with all his strength, knocked again, hammering out a thunderous tattoo on the mahogany. Still, there was no answer. Abruptly, David drew back his foot and kicked, rattling the door in its frame.
Across the hall, David heard Stuart’s door crack open. “Good God, leave off!” muttered a tormented voice behind him. “Just go on in! Drag his arse out—murder him in his bed—anything! Only stop that infernal banging!”
David turned around. “Sorry,” he whispered.
At that, the young Marquis of Mercer poked his head fully out, puffing away at the tip of the nightcap which threatened to tickle his nose. “Oh, just you, eh?” he mumbled, squinting out into the passageway at David. “Well, go in. You’ll never wake him from out here. Indeed, he mayn’t even be in yet. God only knows.”
David flashed him a teasing grin. “Are you not, then, your brother’s keeper?”
Finally, Stuart opened both eyes, lifting his eyebrows in lordly disdain. “Rather fancied that was to be your job this trip,” he said, shutting the door with a thump.
Well. Not a morning person.
Inwardly, David shrugged and twisted Robin’s doorknob. It was, as he expected, unlocked. He crossed the room and jerked back the bed curtains, much to his regret. The stench which roiled up to assail his discerning olfaction would have been enough to fell a less experienced man.
Apparently, his nephew had been steeped in cheap gin, then doused with an even cheaper perfume. Robin was stretched diagonally across the mattress, bare-bummed and on his belly, with one big foot dangling crookedly off the edge.
“Wake up!” David ordered, smacking Robin hard on his lily-white buttocks.
Robin jerked spasmodically, then rolled over onto one elbow, a shock of chestnut hair falling forward to cover one eye. “Damn,” he mumbled, dragging the hair back off his face. For a moment, he stared in bewilderment as David neatly drew his glove back on.
Reality finally dawned. “Oh, David ...” Robin managed. “Awful bloody early, ain’t it?”
David grinned and clapped his hand over his heart. “Yes, but happily I think on thee, like the lark at break of day arising,” he quoted. “Now! Awake, sweet Robin, and sing to me at heaven’s gate.”
“What the hell!” muttered his nephew irritably as he sat up in bed. “Is that any way to wake a fellow up? With a butchered sonnet and a flock of damned birds?”
“Ah, perhaps not,” agreed David, dragging Robin by one arm from the bed. “But sing you shall, my boy!”
Robin staggered along behind until they reached the chair, then he tripped and tumbled into it, sitting down with the gracelessness of the near terminally inebriated. He leaned forward, catching his face in his hands. “Bugger me, then,” he muttered into the carpet. “What the devil am I to sing about?”
David jerked hard on the bellpull, hoping that some merciful servant would have the foresight to bring coffee, then joined his nephew in sitting down by the hearth. The floor all about their feet was littered with the clothing Robin had apparently worn last night.
“What you will sing about, my dear boy,” he answered, “is the Honorable Bentham Rutledge.”
At that, Robin’s head jerked up. Never had David seen a man so seemingly near death become so swiftly sober. “Why, I don’t know a thing about old Bentley,” insisted Robin hotly. “What the devil would I know? If anyone told you I knew anything at all, they were much mistaken. I see him about town, no more, no less.”
A blatant lie. Heaped with partial prevarications and passionate denials. Not a good sign. A shudder of unease ran through David. “You mistake me, I think,” he said softly. “I merely wish to know where you met Rutledge. And where he lives. Where he spends his evenings. I understand he has a fondness for gaming hells, and I should like to know which one he favors. I somehow fancied you might know these things.”
Robin blinked in stupefaction. “Why... I met him at the Lamb and Flag, I seem to remember.”
Which meant he probably didn’t remember. Another bad sign. “And how long ago would you say that was?” David prodded. “I understand he had recently been in India, and I have a very keen interest in discovering which ship he came in on, and when it disembarked.”
Just then, a chambermaid came in to set down a tray laden with a coffee service. Almost as an afterthought, she cut a casual glance toward Robin, then abruptly, a quick, earsplitting scream tore through the room. In the silence which followed, a teaspoon clattered off the tray and onto the floor.
Swiftly, Robin crossed his legs and arms, but the girl’s black skirts were already disappearing through the door. David lifted a wrinkled shirt from the floor, gingerly pinching it between his thumb and forefinger, then tossing it at Robin.
“Mr. Rutledge’s itinerary?” he again inquired.
After dragging the shirt over his head, Robin resumed blinking. “Why, I don’t think he’s been in town above a month or two. And I believe he came from India. But you needn’t look up which boat,” he added more cheerfully, “for I do know that much.”
“Do you indeed?” asked David, amazed.
His eyes narrow, Robin nodded. “The Queen of Kashmir,” he said swiftly. “Nina—that’s old Hell-Bent’s dolly-mop—she was in her cups one night and carved it into the table with a penknife. Said it was her lucky ship come in, since he’d been on it.”
Well. That was a bit of luck for David, too. He wondered if the Queen of Kashmir was still in port. It was possible, given the time it took to offload and refit. De Rohan would know about such things. David made a mental note to ask him. If Rutledge were part of a smuggling operation, his ship could have easily hauled ill-gotten gains. There were probably any number of things which could be profitably brought in from India, provided they could be got past the Customs House. But how many of them were worth killing over?
Thoughtfully, he rose and crossed the room to the coffee service, pouring out two cups. He pressed one into Robin’s hand and sat back down. “What can you tell me of Rutledge’s family? Or where he lives?”
Robin seemed to hesitate. “I believe he hails from Gloucestershire,” the boy said slowly. “But he doesn’t go there often. His elder brother is Lord Treyhern, but Rutledge lives in Hampstead, in his sister-in-law’s childhood home.”
Quietly, David took it all in. “I have heard it said,” he suggested, “that Rutledge plays deep. Would you know?”
Robin looked as if he might choke on his coffee. “I know nothing of his habits to speak of,” he waffled, setting the cup back down with a clatter. “But I daresay it may be true.”
David sipped at his coffee pensively. “Well, know this,” he said softly. “If you play with him, you are a fool, and you will lose. And a debt of honor is a debt of honor, whether or not the man to whom you lose is a scoundrel, and whether or not you have reached your majority. You understand that, do you not?”
Robin nodded with alacrity. “Indeed, yes. But you need have no concern on that score.”
“I’m exceedingly glad to hear it,” returned David. “You should also know, my boy, that while Rutledge may be young—perhaps five-and-twenty at most—he is accounted a very dangerous character.”
“Oh, I think you go too far, David,” Robin averred. “I find him a perfectly pleasant fellow.”
David simply nodded. “Yes, well, your perfectly pleasant fellow murdered his first man before his eighteenth birthday. And since then, he has sent a couple more on to an early reward. And so I hope you will have a care, Robin. I should deeply regret to hear that you have ended up on the wrong end of either a gaming table or a brace of pistols with one such as he. I hope I make myself plain?”
Apparently, he had. What little color Robin’s skin had possessed was gone.
David crooked one eyebrow and put down his coffee. “And now, the name of that gaming hell?”
“Lufton’s,” said Robin swiftly. “In Jermyn Street.”
———
H
is business with Robin concluded, albeit rather uneasily, David ordered his coachman to drive on to Pennington Street. He was eager to see Cecilia, desperate to reassure himself that the passion of last night had lingered. He wondered if he would ever escape the fear that this tenuous, fragile relationship would somehow vanish. Indeed, Cecilia had seemed a little subdued on the journey back to Park Crescent in the wee hours of this morning, but that could easily be attributed to a nearly sleepless night. He hoped that was all it was.
As his coach spun along the Strand and into Fleet Street, he tried to turn his attention to his conversation with Robin. Some of it, particularly Robin’s guilty expression, worried him just a bit. Nonetheless, if Robin had gotten himself into serious trouble, David would surely have heard of it by now. He always kept one ear to the ground, and little escaped him. No, he thought it was not that.
Not yet, at any rate. But clearly, Robin was running with a fast crowd, far too fast for his age. He certainly wanted watching, just as his mother had said. And as for Bentley Rutledge, David was a little confused. It seemed out of character for a man of his sort to live in a bucolic village like Hampstead. And in his sister-in-law’s house, no less. One must therefore assume he was not wholly estranged from his family. It also explained his occasionally racking up in town—but not his choice of hostelries, a smuggler’s den along Wapping Wall.
It was all very confusing. Particularly Rutledge’s visits to Lufton’s. It was a notorious gaming hell, true. But the clientele was a decent one, and unpleasantness a rarity. David had played there himself, though he found it a little tedious for his taste. Still, some of the finest families in town had been ruined within Lufton’s portals, and as with all such establishments, the house skimmed liberally.
Yet it did not seem the sort of place which would entertain a man like Rutledge. The play was deep, yes. But the vicious edge was missing. And so perhaps Rutledge went there for some other purpose? But what? To fleece foolish young rams like Robin? Or for something more dastardly? It was time, he supposed, to pay another visit to Lufton’s, but to what end, he did not yet know. As he tried to puzzle it all out, he realized that he had reached the mission’s front door.
