by Julia Quinn
“Indeed,” Bunty added with a laugh. “We’ve defied fate, it seems.”
Ellie choked on her tea, causing her father and Bunty to look at her with concern. “I’m all right,” she managed, but even as she spoke, Lawrence’s words echoed through her mind.
Even your dimpled smile and big brown eyes might not be enough to overcome the dictates of fate.
Angry with herself, she set down her cup and reminded herself how ridiculous it was to think a coin could have any influence over her destiny. It was high time, she decided, to change the direction of this conversation to something more pleasant and productive.
“How was your dinner with Lord Bluestone?” she asked as she picked up her knife and fork. “I trust the two of you had a pleasant evening together?”
Her father paused over his eggs and bacon for only a moment, but it was long enough for Elinor to see a glimmer of worry cross his face. “Bluestone wasn’t able to come to dinner, I’m sorry to say.”
Her anger with herself for speculating about superstitious nonsense gave way to anger of a different sort, and she cursed Lawrence for getting to London ahead of her and making mischief. But her father spoke again, making her appreciate that blaming Lawrence had been premature.
“The viscount has caught a cold. He’s all right,” the earl hastened to add. “In the note he sent me, he assured me of that. His physician has prescribed bed rest, but he is certain he’ll be back on his feet within a few days.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” She paused a moment, noting that her father did not seem to share that opinion.
“It is,” she insisted when he didn’t reply. “A cold is a trifling thing, he will soon be well, and we can try again. Supper and cards, along with several of our friends? For that sort of evening, it is perfectly acceptable to issue a spur-of-the-moment invitation.”
The earl nodded in agreement. “Perhaps I should call upon the viscount this afternoon? Inquire after his health, you know, express our concern. He even might be up to receiving visitors, and if so, I could issue the invitation directly. And who knows?” His expression lightened a bit. “He might bring up the topic of your future, and we could settle things then and there.”
Ellie felt a sudden, inexplicable wave of dismay. “No,” she said without thinking, her voice sharp, and at her father’s look of surprise, she added, “You’re so old-fashioned, Papa. If I am to be honored with the viscount’s proposal, I should very much like it to be made to me, not to my father. Besides, if the viscount isn’t quite well, we wouldn’t want to put him in the awkward position of feeling obligated to see you. Call on him, but do so in the morning just to leave your card. If his illness is as trifling as it seems, he will surely be well enough to attend the Atherton ball on Friday, and you can issue the supper invitation then. Any sooner, and it might seem a bit . . . well . . . desperate. And we’re not that, I should hope,” she added with a forced laugh.
Her father laughed with her, but in his face she saw a hint of the desperation they both denied, and Lawrence’s voice whispered to her mind like a chill wind.
I’m wondering what sort of man approves of his daughter selling herself to save his skin.
Her father looked at her and frowned, as if he could see her apprehension written on her face. He picked up her hand. “I do so want to see you settled, my dear. It’s important that happen soon, before . . .” He paused and swallowed hard, glancing at Bunty, then back to her. “I want to see you settled,” he said again, and let go of her hand to pick up his knife and fork.
“Spoken like a good father, indeed,” Bunty put in with approval. “Not all fathers would be so generous. Many would prefer their daughters never married and stayed forever at home to look after them.”
Her father laughed again, and yet, watching him out of the corner of her eye, Ellie couldn’t shake her uneasiness. Damn Lawrence, she thought as she picked up her knife and fork. He could find and exploit anyone’s weaknesses or fears, however small, for he was so devilishly clever.
No, I have an entirely different line of attack in mind.
Just what had he meant by that? she wondered, her hands stilling over her plate. If he wasn’t intending to divert Bluestone from her, what was his plan?
Unfortunately, there was no way to know. With Lawrence, it could be anything, so she gave up trying to anticipate his next move and resumed eating her breakfast. Whatever plan he was concocting, she intended to be safely wed before he could implement it.
Chapter 4
The crossing over the Irish Sea was rough, the rain torrential, and all the roads out of Dublin mires of mud. Three days had passed since his encounter with Ellie before Lawrence managed to reach Drummullin, a tiny hamlet in the middle of County Roscommon. Night had fallen and the rain had eased to a gentle sprinkle by the time he arrived at the shabby inn on the edge of the village.
His initial knock on the door yielded no response, nor did his second. He tried a third time, to no avail. He began to fear this entire ghastly journey had been a waste of time, when at last the door opened.
The elderly man on the threshold scowled at the sight of him, a reaction that did not surprise Lawrence in the least. “Damn it, man, I told you in my last letter that I needed more time to consider.”
Lawrence set down his traveling valise and removed his dripping wet hat. “I fear we may no longer have the luxury of time, sir.”
John Hammersmith looked him over, noting his soaked cloak and muddy boots, and heaved a sigh. “Best come in,” he muttered, and opened the door wide. “But remove your boots first,” he added as he started up the stairs, his gait awkward, his left leg stiff as a board. “My landlady’s a tartar.”
Lawrence did as he was bid, leaving his boots in the minuscule foyer, along with his cloak, hat, and valise. On stockinged feet, he followed the other man up the stairs and into a small parlor.
“I’d offer port,” Hammersmith said as he opened a cabinet against the far wall. “But from the look of you, whiskey’s a better choice.”
With a murmur of thanks, Lawrence accepted the glass of whiskey and one of the chairs before the fire that the other man offered him.
“So, what’s happened to bring you here?” Hammersmith asked, settling into the chair beside him. “Though I don’t know why I should want to know.”
“There is a possibility my investigation of Daventry will be quashed.”
Much to Lawrence’s irritation, Hammersmith didn’t seem surprised. “Told you the worm would wiggle his way off the hook.” He paused for a swallow of whiskey. “How’d it come about?”
“The earl’s daughter may soon be engaged.” He paused, finding it hard to get the words out. “To Viscount Bluestone.”
“Little Ellie marrying a duke’s son?” He looked up sharply. “Wasn’t she supposed to be marrying you?”
“She was.” Lawrence took a hefty swallow of whiskey. “Until I chose to do my duty.”
“Ah.” That single murmured word held a wealth of understanding.
“A duke, eh?” Hammersmith went on after a moment, and made a sound of contempt. “Well, so much for your man Peel’s attempts at reform. The aristocracy’s always been able to thwart justice when one of their own’s in trouble, and that fact won’t be changing any time soon, even if Peel gets his Metropolitan Police.”
Lawrence’s irritation deepened, mainly because he feared the other man might be right. “It’s not only the fact that Wilchelsey’s a duke. It’s worse than that. He is also in charge of the investigation committee to which I shall be presenting the results of my inquiry. He will have the final say as to whether or not the evidence warrants bringing Daventry before the House of Lords for trial.”
Hammersmith gave a short laugh. “Best get on with it, then, before Ellie marries into the duke’s family.”
“Just so. But I need evidence that ties the faulty guns directly to Daventry’s munitions factory.”
“When you came to me in December you said every
other munitions supplier operating out of Birmingham at the time had been cleared of manufacturing the faulty guns, and that’s what made you sure it had to be Daventry. Isn’t that evidence?”
“An absence of evidence is hardly conclusive. Daventry can claim the other manufacturers falsified their records to cover their traces. Given that his own factory burned down, destroying his records, I don’t have enough evidence to make a case against him.”
“You’ve got Sharpe, don’t you? Daventry ordered him to burn the place down, you said.”
Lawrence leaned back with his glass, giving the other man a wry look. “The testimony of a man in prison won’t hold any great sway.”
“Even if he’s in prison for arson?”
“All that would prove is that Daventry burned down his own building, not why he did it. And Sharpe’s arson conviction wasn’t for Daventry’s factory. The only reason he offered me his story is because I was prosecuting his case and he hoped I would agree to lessen his sentence in exchange for his testimony about Daventry. I was able to agree to his terms, but for his testimony to be of any use, I still need corroboration. I have managed to acquire a collection of the faulty guns, but they all lack a maker’s mark.” He met the other man’s eyes. “But then,” he added softly, “you knew that already.”
Hammersmith stiffened in his chair, apparently sensing they were about to have the same conversation they’d had in December when Lawrence had first discovered him here, holed up in an obscure speck of the Irish countryside. In that conversation, Hammersmith had confirmed his worst fears about Ellie’s father, but he had refused to come forward. Lawrence’s subsequent entreaties by letter had not changed his mind, and the other man’s next words told Lawrence that he had still not done so.
“Surely, Mr. Blackthorne, army records can give you the proof you need. The British Ordnance—”
“The purchase orders for all guns from Daventry’s factory are missing. I’ve searched every dusty crate of papers in the British Ordnance, and I can find no trace of Daventry’s guns.”
“That’s a pity.”
“You have a talent for understatement, sir.” Lawrence’s voice was bitter. “I have nothing that links Daventry directly to the manufacture of the faulty guns except the testimony of a convicted arsonist.” He paused, gesturing to the other man with his glass. “And you.”
“As I’ve repeatedly said, I can’t help you.”
“You were Daventry’s accounting clerk. If anyone can testify as to what the earl did, it’s you.”
“I’ve already told you, I can’t testify.”
“And as I told you in my last letter, Peel has agreed to grant you immunity in exchange for your testimony. He wants Daventry, not you.”
“I can’t, I tell you!”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
“Does it matter?” His face took on a belligerent cast. “I’m not living in Ireland because I like the weather, you know. Daventry thinks John Hammersmith died in the fire, and I intend to keep it that way.”
“I realize you might have some trepidation about returning to England and facing him—”
“Trepidation?” Hammersmith gave a laugh, though Lawrence suspected there was no amusement in it. “You could say that, yes. I barely escaped that fire with my life.”
“It was late. Daventry couldn’t have known you were still there when Sharpe set the fire.”
“Couldn’t he? Somehow, I have more faith in the earl’s ability to know things than you do.”
Lawrence sighed, knowing the other man could be right. Who really knew the depths to which Daventry could sink? “I will arrange protection for you.”
“How kind.”
Lawrence ignored the ironic inflection in the other man’s voice. “You are my best hope. You know what he did, the decisions that were made. You were there.”
“I was a clerk! I couldn’t do anything to stop him. He was determined to milk as much money out of it as he could, and I couldn’t stop him!” There was anguish in his voice, and Lawrence felt a glimmer of hope. But after a moment, the other man fell back in his chair with a sigh. “What does it matter now?”
“Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of men may died because of Daventry’s greed. Don’t you care? For God’s sake,” he added as Hammersmith made no reply, “you were in the British navy before being invalided out after Trafalgar.”
“Aye. And what did I get when I fought for King and country?” The other man touched a hand to his knee, scowling. “This.”
“Forget King and country. What of the men you fought with? Your comrades-in-arms? Will you see the ones who died because of Daventry go unavenged? You say you couldn’t do anything then. But you can do something now.”
Hammersmith turned away, his jaw working, staring into the fire, rubbing his knee. He was silent so long that Lawrence feared he’d played his last card to no avail, when at last the older man stirred and reached for his cane.
“Wait here,” he said as he stood up and left the room. When he returned a few minutes later, he had a large book in his hand, a volume worn with time and blackened by soot.
“The fire didn’t burn everything.” He thrust the book under Lawrence’s nose. “I managed to grab this on my way out. Take it.”
Lawrence did so, setting it on his lap and carefully pulling back the cloth-bound cover. When he saw the columns of neatly penned figures and the names and descriptions beside them, his heart gave a leap in his chest. Tin, he noted, had been purchased in significant quantities. No part of a British musket ought to be made with a soft metal like tin. Tin, however, could be made to look like steel in a cursory inspection, and tin was cheap.
He looked up. “But why didn’t you give this record to me when I came to you in December?”
“Because you’re one of them. You’re part of Daventry’s social sphere.”
“I’m not, actually. My father was merely a squire. I have an estate, yes, but I am not a peer.”
“No, but you are a gentleman.” His contempt for that particular breed was clear in his voice. “Your lot usually hangs together when it comes down to it. I never thought you’d turn on him in the end.”
“Giving me this book indicates you’ve changed your opinion of me. Why?”
He shrugged. “You gave up the girl.”
Lawrence felt cold suddenly, remembering that January afternoon and the bitter words he and Ellie had exchanged, and the choice he had made. He downed the rest of his whiskey in one swallow. “The decision was mutual,” he said as he set aside his empty glass.
Hammersmith gestured to the book on Lawrence’s lap. “Does that give you the corroboration you need?”
Lawrence turned several more of the fragile pages, scanning the notations and numbers in Hammersmith’s neat copperplate hand, then he looked up to meet the other man’s gaze. “This might be enough, and it might not. It’s hard to say. Daventry still has a great deal of influence. So does the Duke of Wilchelsey.”
“Which is why your cause, while noble, is ultimately doomed.”
“Not if you testify. Combined with this, your testimony would clinch the case against Daventry.”
The other man glared at him, but did not reply, and Lawrence decided to take that as an encouraging sign. He waited, staring straight back, and at last, the older man spoke. “Read that first,” he said with a sigh. “Then . . . we’ll see.”
Lawrence didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed by the equivocation. Still, he thought, his grip tightening around the ledger in his hands, he had more evidence now than he’d had before. His trip had not been in vain. He would have to be content with that, at least for now.
During the season, possession of a large London house was of more importance than the Holy Grail. The Marchioness of Atherton was fortunately placed in that regard, and her beautiful home on Park Lane meant that the Atherton ball was always one of the most sought-after invitations of the London season.
Over three hundred people w
ere crowded into the marchioness’s ballroom by the time Ellie arrived with her father. Finding Lord Bluestone, she appreciated as her gaze roamed over the crowd, would prove a difficult task.
Finding certain other gentlemen, however, proved far too easy. Between the dancers gliding across the ballroom floor, Ellie’s gaze caught the dark, chiseled countenance of Lawrence Blackthorne, and she felt a sudden pang of alarm. Ever since that man had reappeared in her life, nothing but trouble had come her way. God only knew what fresh aggravations lay in store.
As if to answer that question, he looked past the dancers to find her watching him. He grinned at once and drew something from the coin pocket in the waistband of his trousers. He held it up in his fingers, and Ellie’s misgivings gave way to outrage at the sight of her sixpence. Arrogant devil, she thought as he tucked the coin back into his pocket. How dare he taunt her with his theft of her property?
“Lady Elinor,” a friendly female voice broke into her thoughts, and grateful for the interruption, she turned to find the Duchess of Wilchelsey at her elbow.
“Duchess,” she greeted, offering a bow. As she straightened, Ellie glanced around, but to her dismay, the duchess’s son was nowhere in sight. “How delightful to see you.”
“Is it?” The older woman chuckled, recapturing Ellie’s full attention. “More delightful if my son were with me, I daresay.”
Caught out, Ellie blushed, but the duchess only seemed to find that even more amusing, for she laughed again. “You’ll look for him in vain, my dear. Bluestone isn’t here this evening. He and his father have both left me all on my own this evening, can you believe it?”
“Oh.” Ellie swallowed hard at that disappointing news, but rallied. “I shall be perfectly content with your company, Duchess.”
“You’re a sweet child,” the other woman said, tapping Ellie’s arm with her fan, “but you’re not fooling me.” She turned to Ellie’s father with an acknowledging nod. “Daventry.”
“Duchess.” He bowed gallantly over her hand, retaining it as he straightened, giving her the dazzling smile that had made him quite the ladies’ man in his day. “My daughter may be disappointed by the absence of your husband and son this evening, but I am not, for it means I shall have you to myself.”
