A Gentleman's Honor

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Thank you.”

  Hungerford stepped back.

  Tony gestured to the drawing-room door. “I’ll introduce you to Mrs. Swithins, the housekeeper, later—she can show you the rooms they’ve prepared. But first, come and meet Miranda.”

  Buoyed by her impression of the hall, Alicia went forward eagerly. Entering the drawing room, she glanced around—and was again struck by the house’s warmth. Without consciously considering it, she’d been expecting a house like him, coolly, austerely elegant, but that wasn’t the pervading atmosphere here. The furniture was not new, far from it; every piece looked antique, lovingly polished, the tapestry and brocade upholstery and hangings carrying the rich, jeweled tones of a bygone age.

  An age that had valued comfort and convenience as well as luxury, that had expected pleasure and enjoyment to be part of daily life. Hedonistic, but rich, warm, and very much alive.

  Like the bright-eyed lady rising from a chair by the hearth. She came forward, smiling widely, hands extended.

  “My dear Mrs. Carrington—Alicia—I may call you Alicia, may I not? I’m Miranda, as Tony’s doubtless told you. Welcome to Torrington House—may your stay be long and happy.”

  Miranda’s smile was winning; effervescent laughter lurked in her blue eyes. Alicia gave her her hands, smiled back. “Thank you. I hope you won’t be too inconvenienced by our descent.”

  “Oh, I certainly won’t be, and I doubt anyone could inconvenience Hungerford—he’s terrifyingly efficient— all the staff are.” Miranda looked at Tony. “You may take yourself off—we want to talk, and we’ll do so much more readily without you. I’ll take Alicia to meet Mrs. Swithins, so you’re relieved on that score, too.”

  Alicia barely smothered a laugh. She glanced at Tony, saw chagrin briefly flare in his eyes as he sent Miranda a sharp glance, then he turned to her. “I’ll send the carriage around for your family.”

  She smiled. “Thank you.”

  He hesitated, then, reluctant to the last, nodded and left them.

  “Now!” Miranda turned to her, curiosity and delight in her face. “You must tell me all about your family—you have three brothers and a sister, that’s all Tony’s told me.” Waving her to a chair, Miranda resumed her seat.

  Alicia sank into the velvet comfort of an armchair, felt a solid sense of safety and security reach for her and wrap her about. Meeting Miranda’s expectant gaze, she smiled and assembled her thoughts.

  By the time Hungerford brought in the tea tray and she and Miranda had shared a pot, they’d progressed from acquaintances to friends, to newly found bosom-bows. The fictitious nature of her widowhood notwithstanding, they shared many interests—family, country pursuits, household management, and social necessity.

  Miranda sent for her daughters; the girls arrived and made their curtsies, then asked polite but curious questions about her brothers. Alicia answered, inwardly heaving a sigh of relief; the girls were well-brought-up, well-bred young ladies, but not in the least sweet, retiring, or weak. They would, indeed, give her brothers pause.

  Then it was time to meet Mrs. Swithins and look around the rooms before the others arrived. After performing the introductions, Miranda hung back, letting the housekeeper, a woman of considerable age but imposing presence, softened by a twinkle in her eye, guide Alicia through the house.

  “We thought your young brothers would be most comfortable up here, ma’am.” Mrs. Swithins led the way into the schoolroom; she waved to rooms opening off the central room. “There’s three beds in the long room, and two in the next, so they can sleep together or separate if they wish.” She smiled at Alicia. “We weren’t sure, so both rooms are prepared.”

  Alicia frowned. “They’re used to being together, but David is twelve.”

  Mrs. Swithins nodded. “We can leave it to them to decide what’s most comfortable.”

  With a grateful inclination of her head, Alicia allowed herself to be led on to view the bedrooms for Fitchett and Jenkins.

  “So they’ll be close enough should the boys have need.” With an airy wave, Mrs. Swithins sailed on.

  The rooms on the first floor that had been prepared for her and Adriana filled Alicia, not with surprise, for she’d expected something of the sort, but with a sense of having stepped into a fairy tale, or, more specifically, into her own dreams.

  Her room lay in the central wing of the mansion, above the long ballroom and overlooking the rear gardens. A wide, spacious chamber, it possessed a sitting area with two chairs before the fireplace, a delicate escritoire against one wall, a bank of large windows with a padded window seat beneath, a gigantic armoire, and a huge four-poster bed hung with pale green silks and covered with an ivory silk coverlet embroidered in green.

  “The master mentioned your maid was not with you, so I’ve assigned Bertha.” Mrs. Swithins beckoned to a young girl, who came forward and shyly curtsied. “She knows her way around a lady’s wardrobe and is quick with her hands.”

  Alicia returned Bertha’s smile, a trifle shy herself. She’d never had a maid, just Fitchett, not quite the same thing.

  “I’ve hung your gowns in the armoire, ma’am.” Bertha’s voice was soft, carrying a country burr. Greatly daring, she glanced up and met Alicia’s eye. “Absolutely stunning, they be.”

  “Thank you, Bertha.” Alicia hesitated, then added, “I’ll need you this evening to help me dress—we’ve a dinner and two balls to attend.”

  “Oh?” Miranda pricked up her ears; she came forward to link her arm in Alicia’s. “What’s this? Tony gadding about in society? Whatever next? You must tell.”

  Alicia laughed. She thanked Mrs. Swithins, then let Miranda sweep her back downstairs.

  The others arrived just in time for luncheon. Emerging from a room Alicia took to be the library, Tony joined the melee in the front hall, then shepherded her family into the dining room, where Miranda waited with her daughters.

  Introductions between children could sometimes be awkward; in this case, the arrival of the luncheon dishes cut short any difficult moment. Quickly wriggling onto the chairs to which Tony and Miranda directed them, both her brothers and Miranda’s girls were at first on their best behavior, their responses stilted. That lasted only until the platter of sausages was uncovered. Thereafter, needing to ask each other to pass this or that, they quickly lost their shyness in the quest for sustenance.

  Margaret and Constance were sturdy young ladies with long blond plaits; both ate heartily, showing no overt sign of consciousness of the boys. That piqued David’s and Harry’s interest enough for them to extend an invitation to go kite flying in the park.

  The girls exchanged looks, then agreed.

  When three faces turned up the table to Alicia, and two to Miranda, at the table’s other end, the ladies exchanged pleased glances and nodded permission; with just one whoop—from Harry, valiantly smothered—they all pushed back from the table, bobbed curtsies or bowed, then, dismissed with nods, they headed in a bumbling crowd for the door, and Maggs, Jenkins, the park, and the sky.

  “Well,” Miranda said, turning back from watching them go, “they seem to have fallen on their feet.”

  Tony shrugged. “Why not?” His gaze went to Alicia, sitting beside him, lingered, then he looked down the table at Adriana, seated beside Miranda. “The others should be arriving any minute.” To Miranda, he explained, “We’re holding a council of war, so to speak, in the library this afternoon, to discuss the latest developments in our search for A. C.”

  Miranda’s eyes opened wide; she glanced at Alicia. “Is this a private meeting, or can I listen in?”

  Tony grimaced. “All in all, it might be as well if you did.”

  A knock sounded on the front door, and he rose. He didn’t trust A. C., not on any level; given Miranda was here with her girls, sharing his roof with Alicia and her family, it was only fair she knew the whole score.

  He ushered the three ladies, all determined to attend the gathering, into the front hall as Hun
gerford opened the door. Members of the Bastion Club streamed in. Tony nodded in greeting; beside him, Miranda murmured, “Well, well—you didn’t mention them. And they are?”

  The introductions took a few minutes, by which time Tristan and Leonora, Geoffrey, and, most importantly, Jack Hendon and Kit, had arrived. Once everyone was comfortably seated in the library, the large room looked unusually full.

  A knock fell on the front door; it opened. A deep voice, not Hungerford’s, was heard. An instant later, the library door opened, and Charles walked in. Seeing all eyes on him, he raised his brows. “Am I late?”

  Tony waved him to a chair. “I thought you were away.”

  “No such luck.” Charles drew up a chair and sat. “Merely a visit to Surrey with my sisters, sisters-in-law, and dear mama. I got back”—he glanced at the clock—“two hours ago, but matters are so fraught in Bedford Square, I dared not remain. I took refuge at the club, and Gasthorpe told me of the meeting.”

  His dark gaze, along with a piratical smile, swept the room. “So, what do we have?”

  Alicia followed that sweeping glance around the faces, saw in each an impatience, an eagerness, a determination to get on with the business of unmasking A. C. They were quite a crowd, five ladies and eight gentlemen, an intelligent and talented company focused on their common goal.

  “So what did you find?” Tony’s gaze rested on Jack Hendon.

  Jack had settled on a straight-backed chair. “I got the information from Lloyd’s, unfortunately not as much as I’d have liked. There’s a watchman who goes around every half hour. I could only chance three passes—I had to put out the light every time he came by. Without it, I couldn’t see to make copies of the bills of lading.” He drew a sheaf of papers from his inside coat pocket. “I got the full details of six ships before I called it a night. However—”

  He distributed the papers, handing three to the men on his right, three to his left; the ladies, on the two chaises perpendicular to the hearth, had to contain their curiosity until the men had scanned the pages and passed them their way.

  “As you can see,” Jack resumed, as the men finished with the papers and looked up, “there’s nothing obvious, no particular goods or commodities that were carried on all six ships.” He paused, then added. “I’m not sure where that gets us. I was assuming there would be something in common.”

  The men frowned; they looked at the six sheets, now in the ladies’ hands.

  “How did you choose which ships to examine?” Christian asked.

  “More or less randomly over the years ’12 to ’15.” Jack grimaced. “I thought that would be most useful, but now I wonder whether whatever’s the crucial element changes over time. One thing for so many months, another later.”

  Gervase Tregarth leaned forward, peering at the lists Kit and Alicia had spread on a low table before the chaise. “Is there definitely no item in common?”

  Kit, Alicia, and Leonora shook their heads.

  One of the men muttered something about the seasons.

  Alicia tapped an item on one list. “Three hundred ell of finest muslin. Remember how expensive muslin was? The price is much better now, but when this was brought in, it would have been worth a small fortune.”

  “Hmm.” Leonora studied the entry. “I never thought of it before—one simply grumbles and pays the price—but it must have been due to the war.”

  “Supply and demand,” Kit said. They were speaking quietly, their lighter voices a counterpoint against the men’s rumblings. “Jack says it’s the merchants who best supply the demand who get on in business.”

  “True,” Miranda put in, “and during the war, the demand was always there, never satisfied. Anything imported was by definition expensive. Just think how the prices of silks—”

  “Let alone tea and coffee.” Alicia tapped another entry on one list.

  Miranda nodded; so did the others. “All those things became hideously dear….” Her words faded.

  Their gazes met. They all exchanged one long wondering glance, then looked at the lists.

  “You don’t think…?”Adriana leaned nearer.

  All five ladies bent over the lists again.

  The gentlemen continued to reassess and revisit their reasoning, trying to see a way forward.

  Alicia straightened. “That’s it.” She pointed triumphantly to items listed on each of the six bills of lading. “Tea and coffee!”

  “Yes—of course!” Kit snatched up one of the lists and checked the entry, then reached for another.

  “Ah—I see!” Leonora, face lighting, picked up another list.

  Tony, Tristan, and Jack exchanged glances. “What do you see?” Tristan asked.

  “The item in common.” Alicia picked up another list and pointed to a line. “Tea—one thousands pounds of finest leaves from Assam.”

  Handing that list to Tony, she picked up another. “On this one, it’s coffee—three hundred pounds of best beans from Colombia.”

  Kit sat back. “So sometimes it’s coffee, and sometimes it’s tea—one from the West Indies, the other on ships from the East.”

  “But they’re often both handled by the same merchant,” Leonora informed the men as the lists made their way around the circle again. “Not necessarily sold through the same shops, but it’s usually the same supplier.”

  “Which supplier?” Christian asked.

  The ladies exchanged glances. “There are many, I imagine,” Miranda replied. “It’s a profitable area, and fashionable in its way.”

  “But it’s the price that’s so important.” Alicia looked around the male company. “It’s always difficult to get good-quality coffee and tea—there never is enough brought into the country, even now. As Kit said, it’s supply and demand, so the price always remains high.”

  “For good quality,” Adriana stressed.

  “Indeed.” Kit nodded. “And that, perhaps, is where A. C. might have made his money. During the war, certainly over the years ’12 to ’15, the price of tea and coffee—the better-quality stuff—fluctuated wildly. It was always high, but sometimes it reached astronomical heights.”

  “Because,” Leonora took up the tale, “you men always insist on your coffee at the breakfast table, and we ladies, of course, must have our tea for our tea parties, and the ton wouldn’t go around if those things weren’t there.”

  There was an instant’s silence as the men all stared at them.

  “Are you saying”—Charles leaned forward and fixed them with an intent look—“that during the war, the price of tea and coffee was often driven high—very high— because of sudden shortages?”

  All five ladies nodded decisively.

  Miranda added, “Only the best-quality merchandise, mind you.”

  “Indeed. But tea and coffee—the finest quality—appears on each of those lists? One or the other at least?”

  Again, the ladies nodded.

  “That,” Alicia concluded, “seems the only link—the only thing in common, so to speak.”

  “Held to ransom over our breakfasts.” Gervase gathered the lists and shuffled through them. “Doesn’t bear thinking of, but it certainly looks—and sounds—right.”

  Tristan was looking over his shoulder. “Two ships from the West Indies with coffee, the other four, all East Indiamen, carried tea.”

  “These prices.” Jack fixed his wife with a questioning glance. “How much of an increase are we looking at— prices twice as high, three times?”

  “For the best coffee?” Kit glanced at Leonora and Alicia. “Anything from ten, to even fifty times the usual price, I would say.”

  “For tea,” Miranda said, “it could easily be from ten to thirty times the price before the war—and even that price was always high.”

  “How high?” Tristan asked.

  The ladies pursed their lips, then tossed around figures that made the men blanch. “Good God!” Charles stopped, calculating. “Why that’s…”

  “One hell of a lot of
money!” Jack growled.

  “One hell of a lot of profit,” Gervase said.

  “One very good reason to ensure that the supply failed at critical times.” Tony fixed the ladies with an inquisitorial look. “From what you’re saying, the person who would stand to gain—”

  “Is the merchant who had brought in a cargo of tea and coffee safely just before any shortage occurred.”

  It was Jack who had spoken. Tony looked at him. “Before?”

  Jack nodded. “The warehouses and docks know when a ship and its cargo doesn’t arrive, and the merchants mark up the prices of the goods they have in stock accordingly—that I know for fact.”

  “So…” They all sat and thought it over, then Tony called them to order. “Assuming the answer is tea and coffee, how do we go on from here?”

  “We first check the waybills of the other ten ships we know were lost courtesy of Ruskin’s information.” Jack glanced at Tony. “Two of us, now we know what we’re looking for, could probably check all the waybills at once.”

  Tony nodded. “We’ll do it tonight.”

  “Meanwhile,” Christian said, “the rest of us can start investigating the merchants who specialize in tea and coffee. The connection to A.C. must be through them.” He frowned, then glanced around. “What could the connection between A.C. and a merchant be, given we know, or at least can surmise, that A.C. is one of the ton?”

  Charles grimaced. “Can we surmise that, do you think? That he is one of us?”

  “I think that’s beyond question,” Tony answered.

  “Who else would have known how to manipulate the ton against Alicia? And Dalziel confirmed that the third round of information against her had been laid through the most exclusive gentlemen’s clubs. There seems little doubt A. C. is a member not just of the ton, but the haut ton—our circle.” A memory floated through his mind; he grimaced. “Indeed, I suspect I’ve seen him.”

  “You have?”

  “When?”

  He briefly explained, describing the man he’d seen through the mists in Park Street all those nights ago.

  “Astrakhan—you know, that’s not all that common,” Jack Warnefleet said. “A point to remember, especially if he didn’t know you’d seen him.”