by Julia London
“Oh, thank you!” she exclaimed, smiling gratefully. “I am forever in your debt, sir,” she said, holding her hand out for the parasol.
Liam could not seem to find his tongue or wrest his gaze from her smile as he handed the parasol to her. She grasped it firmly, her slender fingers grazing his rough ones once more, and stuffed it securely under her arm. “I will just step aside now and let you pass,” she said with a little laugh, and still smiling, she made a show of stepping out of his way. “Thank you again, sir,” she said, with a demure nod.
“Of course,” Liam muttered, stealing a last glimpse of her bonny face as he passed, walking on. When he reached the end of the square, however, he turned around to look at her and that bonny smile again, but the angel had disappeared. Pity, that. Liam continued on.
He found the Farnsworth household, all right. At first glance, it looked to be a house of great means, since it dwarfed most of the houses surrounding it. The huge structure took up almost an entire face of the square, with big banks of windows, ornate stone trim, and gaslights that illuminated the huge front door and steps leading up to it.
But then the door was opened by a woman who so closely resembled Liam’s auntie Gwyneth (his father’s scary spinster sister, may she rest in peace) that Liam inwardly recoiled. From the gray hair peeking out from beneath the woman’s cap to the pinched face to the long, skinny frame, it was like looking at a ghost from his past.
“Yes, sir?” she asked, peering at him through beady little raisin eyes.
“I beg yer pardon, mu’um, Captain Lockhart calling for Lord Farnsworth, if ye please.”
She frowned, looked him up and down, glared at the knapsack on his shoulder with an unmistakable look of disapproval. “Is he expecting you, Mr. Lockhart?”
“Actually, that’d be Captain Lockhart. But no, I’ve no’ met his lordship. I’ve come to see about the rooms for let.”
Auntie Gwyneth seemed to consider that for a moment, puffing out her cheeks and peering at the square behind him. After a moment, she focused her eyes on him and asked, “Have you a card, Captain?”
A card? Bloody hell, of course he had no card! What, did she think he passed them about to the French? He delved deeply into the pocket of his regimental coat, managed to look as if he couldn’t understand what he might have done with his cards, and shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers, then his waistcoat, until Auntie Gwyneth sighed with great exasperation. “Yes, sir, please step inside and I will announce you to his lordship!”
Liam quickly did so before she could change her mind. Inside the foyer, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark, for it was not properly lit, and he began to see the accuracy of Lovat’s description of the place.
“I’ll be a moment,” Auntie Gwyneth said, and proceeded to stomp away in what sounded like her very own pair of regimental boots.
Liam stood patiently at the door, taking in his surroundings, quickly deciding it was the most austere house he had ever seen. The walls were darkly paneled and devoid of any artwork—with the exception of a couple of portraits above the stairwell leading to the upper floors. Liam could see into what looked to be the main drawing room, and the furniture there appeared to be only nominal and efficient—one couch, one settee, and two chairs were all that graced the room. Oddly, the hearth was cold on such a gray and blustery day. In fact, the house had quite a chill to it.
Curious now, Liam took a few steps forward to have a look down the front corridors. To his right, a corridor of bare planked wood ran past several closed doors. There was a spindly console halfway down, but even it was devoid of any adornment. The wall sconces were empty, and as the floor-to-ceiling windows were covered with heavy velvet drapes, there was precious little light. To Liam’s left an identical corridor stretched, but at least it was lit, and it boasted a narrow ribbon of carpeting down the center. But here again, the doors were closed, the heavy drapes drawn.
He stepped back, wondered about the musty odor that seemed to permeate everything, and thought perhaps old Farnsworth had lost his furnishings to gambling. But then, MacDonnell and Lovat said he never spent as much as a farthing of his own money on his habit. Perhaps, then, the man didn’t have any money to speak of, in spite of Lovat’s claims to the contrary. Liam had heard that some Englishmen had lofty titles but no income because of old entails that left them on the verge of poverty. That would at least explain the sparse furnishings.
And perhaps Farnsworth was just a cheese-paring, parsimonious bastard. He certainly wouldn’t be the first miserly Englishman, nor would he be the last.
The sound of a cow clomping across a barn caught his attention, and indeed, Auntie Gwyneth appeared in the foyer once again. Nose wrinkled, she glared at his knapsack. “His lordship will see you in his study,” she announced, and without further ado, she pivoted and began clomping down the corridor on Liam’s left.
He quickly fell in behind her, following closely, absorbing as much as he could. Not that there was much to see. He noted that every other wall sconce in this corridor was lit, and judging by the black scars on the wall above them, the candles used in this house were the cheaper tallow, not beeswax. There was a handful of portraits, mostly small, dark, and nondescript, save the portrait of an elegant blond woman, dressed in the fashion of the last century, holding a small dog on her lap.
Auntie Gwyneth abruptly stopped in front of two very dull double doors and turned the handle of one, pushing it open just a crack. “Captain Lockhart,” she announced, and stepped aside with what Liam was quite certain was a sneer.
He ignored her, pushed the door open wider, and stepped into the study, where he was immediately hit with a blast of warmth from the blazing hearth. Unlike the rest of the house, this room was well appointed, with various pieces of artwork, a thick Aubusson carpet, leather chairs, a handsome couch, and a long French-style desk that he knew from his travels was almost certainly a collector’s item. Behind the desk, beneath portraits of two very stern gentlemen, sat a man with a bald crown surrounded by a ring of coiffed hair, a monocle through which he peered at Liam, and clothing that strained across his belly. His feet, Liam noticed, did not quite reach the ground. And he was scowling mightily.
“Well, then? What is it?” he demanded coldly.
So much for civility. “Lord Farnsworth,” he said, bowing low. “Allow me to introduce myself, if I may. I am Captain Lockhart of the Highland Regiments of the Royal British Army, in service to His Majesty, the king.”
“A Scot?” Farnsworth exclaimed, pushing himself off his chair to stand on tiny little feet covered in tiny Hessian boots. “What in blazes is a Scot doing in my house?” he asked, as if the word actually caused him a pang of nausea.
Bloody little… Liam caught himself. “Me father is no’ accepting of service to the English king,” he said simply.
Farnsworth’s eyes narrowed as he assessed Liam. “The English king? What are you saying, that you’ve been disowned?”
“One might say that I prefer London to Edinburra,” he lied.
Farnsworth tottered around the desk until he was standing in front of it, and casually crossed one tiny foot over the other as he leaned against it, reminding Liam, strangely enough, of a dancing elf. “What you prefer is no business of mine, sir,” Farnsworth said gruffly. “I will ask again—what are you doing in my house?”
“I was given to understand that ye might have a room for let.”
Farnsworth snorted. “I might. But I wouldn’t hire out rooms in my house to just anyone, now would I? Frankly, I’m not of a mind to have a Scot in my house. I had a servant once—the dirtiest and drunkest human filth I’ve ever seen. You wouldn’t be kin to Angus, now would you, Captain?”
All right, now that wasn’t very kind. Liam had the capacity and a growing desire to smash the fat little pea, but he had been in the company of men far better and far cleverer than Farnsworth to be so easily goaded. He smiled. “I rather think no’, milord.”
Clea
rly disappointed that Liam hadn’t taken the bait, Farnsworth crossed his arms across his mountain of a belly and considered Liam for a long moment before he spoke. “I don’t want your kind here. Be gone with you.”
“I have money,” Liam calmly responded.
Farnsworth snorted. “Oh you do, do you? And what makes you think I need your bloody money?”
“I wouldna imply such a thing, milord. I merely meant to convey that I have the cash to let the room, if ye’re of a mind.”
Farnsworth walked to the hearth, looked up at a gold mantel clock, his chubby hands clasped behind his back. “Highland Regiments, you said?”
“Aye.”
He said nothing for a moment, then: “I expect my rents the first day of each month. I won’t wait for some military pension.”
“As ye wish.”
“And it’s not one room, it’s two. It’s hardly worth my while to let the one. Breakfast and supper only. No tea. No luncheons.”
“That will do.”
Farnsworth whipped around—rather quickly in spite of his girth—to glare at Liam again. “Have you a manservant? I’ll not feed him if you do.”
“No man. Only me.”
“No valet? No driver?” he pressed.
“I come with what ye see, milord,” Liam said calmly. “I am accustomed to looking after meself.”
Farnsworth nodded, strolled toward Liam, studying his uniform. “A captain in the military surely must be trustworthy,” he said to himself.
“I’ve taken a vow of honor, milord.”
“Don’t be coy!” Farnsworth snapped. “You’ve taken no such vow when it comes to women, have you? I’ll not have any lewd behavior under my roof!”
That angered Liam. He could tolerate a man’s condescension only up to a point, but to call his honor into question—“Milord, I am an officer in the royal military and a gentleman, and I’ll no’ stand for ye to besmirch me good name,” he said coldly.
That actually seemed to shrink Farnsworth a little, but the man quickly puffed his chest again like a preening blue jay. “I will not provide a chambermaid. You must keep your quarters clean. A footman will bring your food to your quarters twice daily, along with linens, remove your rubbish, fill your basin, and provide you with coal. That’s all, nothing more. And I’m not a gentleman’s club, Captain. I don’t want your company—is that understood?”
“Aye, milord.”
“And I’ll not have you wandering about my house. Your rooms, should I decide to offer them to you, are on the ground floor. There is no need for you to ever ascend those stairs. I am abroad quite frequently and will not be here to monitor your movements, so I must have your word on this. You will not go upstairs.”
“Ye have me word.”
Farnsworth clenched his jaw and strolled to the hearth again. “This is my home. I am doing you a rather remarkable favor,” he said to the fire. “And for that, I require forty pounds a month,” he said, and glanced over his shoulder at Liam.
How Liam managed to keep from choking at the usurious rate was nothing short of a miracle. For that amount, he could let an entire floor in some hotel, and the thought did cross his mind. But there were three advantages here that he could see: one, the house was centrally located; two, he could use this address to ingratiate himself to the good citizens of the ton; and three, he could come and go from this house with little fear of detection—by Farnsworth’s own admission, he was frequently gone, which gave Liam even greater ability to maneuver.
“Very well, then,” Liam said, and reached for the small leather purse in his pocket to extract the money.
“I must have two months’ let up front,” Farnsworth said quickly.
Liam looked up and pierced him with a look of exasperation that caused Farnsworth to flush and look to the fire again. Nevertheless, Liam walked to where he stood, handed him the eighty pounds, keenly aware that left him with just three hundred pounds. Farnsworth, who even in his boots did not reach Liam’s shoulder, snatched the bills from his hand and quickly pocketed them. Without another word, he walked to a bellpull on the wall and yanked it hard. He then went to the door and stood there until Auntie Gwyneth appeared.
“Show the captain to the rooms for let,” he said, and without looking at Liam again, he waddled to his desk.
The rooms he had rented for the outrageous sum of eighty pounds were devoid of any furniture save a bed and an armoire in one room, and a table and a chair in the other. Auntie Gwyneth, having shown him the lay of the ground floor, muttered something about fresh linens, and returned a few minutes later with two towels and a set of linens for the bed. Behind her was a rather sickly looking footman, who carried a basket of coal for the small brazier. The hearth was, apparently, for appearances only. The windows were cloaked in the same heavy velvet that was in the corridor, but in here the velvet was quite threadbare. For someone who lived among London’s haute ton, Farnsworth maintained an unusual level of austerity in his home. It was worse than anything Liam’s family had been forced to suffer in recent years. In fact, Talla Dileas looked rather warm and inviting compared to this place.
Grousing beneath his breath, Liam lit the brazier and unpacked his things. He hung his clothing in the armoire, laid his plaid on the bed, hid his sgian dubh, pistol, and an extra, smaller dagger beneath the mattress. On the table, which he dragged into the main room, he arranged his toiletries, a small polished stone he had taken from a stream that coursed the mountain of his family’s estate, his war medals, and his sporran. Beneath the table he laid his boots, his ghillie brogues, and the belt he wore with his plaid.
It was early evening when he had finished settling in and heard the knock at his door. The same sickly young man who had brought his coal stood at the door holding a tray. “Your supper,” he said blandly, and proceeded to the table, where he placed the tray, then quit the room again without so much as a look at Liam.
Friendly people, these English. Curious, Liam walked to the tray, lifted the silver dome, and instantly blanched. He slammed the dome back down, for on a cracked china plate had been a fish of some sort and a helping of steamed cabbage. Liam was quite used to living off the land and even eating what most people would consider inedible, but he had never, in his thirty-five years, been able to eat a fish with its eyes still staring up at him. He pushed the tray away from his things and decided this was as good a time as any to go out and have a look around town. Perhaps find a leg of mutton if he were lucky.
He walked to the door, closed it, and locked it from the inside. He took the key from the lock and put it in his pocket. He tried the door, and satisfied that no one could gain entrance without a key, he turned and walked to the window, threw back the drapes, and looked down. The drop to the mews below was no more than twelve feet. Shoving into his coat, Liam opened the window, stepped out on the sill, closed the window carefully behind him, and dropped to the ground.
It was well past midnight when he returned to Belgrave Square, this time with a tankard or two of stout ale under his belt to warm him. He was all but whistling—he had not expected to be quite so successful in the twenty-four hours he had been in London, but then again, he should hardly be surprised. He was excellent at what he did, if he did say so himself.
Tonight, when he had by chance wandered onto Pall Mall, he’d had a bite to eat and noticed there were a number of gentlemen’s establishments there. After he’d finished his supper, he’d made his way into one, content to just look at the serving girls for a time. But as luck would have it, he’d struck up a conversation with an elderly man who was intent on telling someone his life story that very evening. Unable to divest himself of the man, Liam had let him talk.
When the man at last had finished his discourse on the plumbing problems in his house, Liam asked if he knew of the Lockharts. Not only did he know them, but he directed him to the house with the elaborate engraved on the door fan.
An hour or so later, Liam stood across from the mansion with the engraved on t
he fan above the door. It was a larger house than Farnsworth’s—much nicer. And the area, which the old man had called Mayfair, seemed very prestigious. The English Lockharts had done well for themselves, Liam thought, so well that they wouldn’t miss a wee beastie, now would they?
He made his way back to his rooms on Belgrave Square, entered through the front door, and groped about until he found candles and matches. With his candle finally lit, he moved forward, his boots echoing loudly on the plank floors. At the door of his room, Liam checked that the door was still locked, then opened it with his key. His plaid was exactly where he had laid it, but he would have to be more careful—one corner was carelessly bunched. Liam put the candle down, sat on the edge of the bed to remove his boots, and unthinkingly looked at the table where he had arranged his things. A breath caught in his throat—the toiletries and sporran had been switched around, and the rock from Talla Dileas was much closer to his medal of honor than he had left it.
Someone had been in his room and gone through his things!
Four
Liam immediately suspected the puny footman who had brought him the fish. But as that dead thing still lay there, starting to reek, he dismissed that notion. Farnsworth, then? That didn’t seem likely—as peculiar as the old bird was, he did not seem the type to concern himself with his tenant’s few personal belongings. Which left Auntie Gwyneth…or French operatives?
That notion was hardly far-fetched, Liam realized—he had been a wanted man in France, and in fact, there had been a fairly hefty price on his head before the Battle of Waterloo. Was it possible Bonaparte sympathizers still wanted him dead? Or even the new loyalists? But how could they have tracked him here so quickly? He had sailed from Glasgow to Liverpool on a packet ship. It seemed near to impossible for them to have discovered that, since he had left Talla Dileas so quickly. In Liverpool he had boarded the first of several coaches he took precisely to avoid detection. No, it seemed highly improbable that the French could have found him so quickly—if they were even still looking for him.
