Ravished

by Virginia Henley

  Kit looked at his twin’s clenched fist and saw that it rested on two envelopes. Seized by panic, he jumped from the chair and lunged for the letters. “What the hellfire are you doing, reading my personal mail? You are forever sticking your nose in where it isn’t wanted. It seems you need a reminder that I am Lord Hatton, and you are here on my sufferance!” he shouted desperately, as he tried to snatch the letters from beneath his twin’s clenched fist.

  In a flash, Nick picked up the letter opener and jabbed at his brother’s hand. Kit drew back his fingers immediately, and Nick proceeded to take the first letter from its envelope and read it. It was a letter from Barclays Bank informing Lord Hatton that once again his account was overdrawn.

  Nick looked at his twin blankly. “Kit, what does this mean?”

  “What the hell do you think it means? It means the money is gone … spent … every goddamn shilling!”

  Nick’s words were low, deliberate, soft. “You mean that you have spent all the money you inherited in the year I’ve been gone?”

  “It wasn’t my fault, Nick!” his twin cried. “That bastard Eaton forced me to sign an authorization giving him the power to make all my financial decisions!”

  “Forced you?” Nick’s voice was quiet, deadly.

  “I was in over my head, Nick! He loaned me money for lucrative investments, then lost it all and told me Father’s stocks were worthless. He defrauded me, when my back was against the wall! You were right, I never should have trusted him!”

  Nick put up his hand in a commanding gesture to stop Kit’s words. “Let me understand this correctly. Not only did you go through the money in the bank, you lost all the investments too?”

  Nick took the second letter from its envelope. It was from John Eaton informing Hatton that his loans were due.

  As you know, I hold the title deed on Hatton Hall, and unless the loans totaling more than fifty thousand pounds are repaid in full by the end of this month, the property is legally forfeit to me.

  Nick raised his eyes from the letter. They were no longer gray. They were obsidian black. He stood up from the desk and advanced slowly toward his twin. “You gave him the deed to Hatton Hall.” It was not a question.

  Kit took a step toward him in supplication. “I’ll be able to pay off the loan with Alexandra’s money!”

  The first blow smashed into Kit’s cheekbone, lifting his feet off the carpet; the second thudded into his gut, doubling him over. As he rolled on the rug in a fetal position, the dregs of the brandy he had imbibed the night before came spewing forth in a torrent.

  Nick looked down at his twin with contempt. “You are pathetic.” He strode to the window and flung it open, staring with unseeing eyes at the garden beyond. He saw the young men who had served under him, honorable men, courageous men, fighting for their country, dying for their country, while a profligate young buck like his twin had debauched away a fortune.

  Mr. Burke came to the library door. He was horrified at the scene that met his eyes. “I’ll fetch a bucket and mop, sir.”

  “You may bring water, Mr. Burke,” Nick said implacably, “but from now on Christopher Hatton will mop up his own spew.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Nick strode to the wall safe and opened it. Miraculously, he found the money he had put there intact—almost twelve thousand pounds. He removed it and went upstairs to his bedchamber to pack a bag; he wouldn’t need much, for most of his dress clothes were in London. He had not yet formulated a plan of action, but obviously he couldn’t hide out at the Grange. One thing was certain: Eaton would not get his greedy hands on Hatton Hall. Nick would die first.

  He would take the money with him; he dared not leave it here, for there were too many temptations close at hand. There was Epsom, with its horse races; Chiswick, with its boxing matches; and even closer was The Cock and Bull in Hounslow, where cockfights were held twice a week in the inn yard. Nick decided that he would deposit the money in Coutts Bank, where neither Kit nor Eaton could get their hands on it. When he opened his drawer and saw the black leather mask, half a dozen reckless schemes flashed through his imagination. He dismissed them out of hand, yet some perverse whim made him stuff the mask into his bag.

  On his way out, Nick paused on the library threshold. His brother had managed to pull himself up into a chair, and Meg Riley bathed his face. When Nick saw that Kit’s cheek was badly bruised and his eye swollen closed, he felt a surge of deep satisfaction.

  “You can’t leave!” Kit shouted, then winced from the pain. “I cannot let Alexandra see me like this.”

  “I suggest you send Alex some flowers and a note of apology telling her you have unavoidable business in London. That should give you a week to crawl to your bed and lick your wounds.”

  When he arrived in London, Nicholas immediately went to Coutts Bank and deposited most of the money under the name Flynn Hatton. He kept one hundred pounds for gambling, knowing a game of chance was likely the only way he would get his hands on more money quickly. At Curzon Street, Nick stabled his horse and went straight upstairs to his twin’s chamber. He methodically emptied the contents of Kit’s desk and finally found what he was looking for. It was the list of investments that John Eaton had sent the day before Nick had left for Spain.

  As he read the list, suspicion reared its ugly head. Not only did the list appear to be inadequate but the investments seemed improbable for a businessman like Henry Hatton. He could well believe that his father had invested in shipping, but the vessels would not be American; they would be British. Nick also doubted that his father would sink money into crops such as tobacco grown in the Colonies, when England was at war with America. British manufacturing was at its height, and her factories produced everything from guns to machinery that wove cloth for uniforms. It was inconceivable that his father had not taken advantage of the opportunities available in times of war. He folded the list, tucked it into his pocket, and decided to pay a visit to Tobias Jacobs, his father’s former solicitor, in Chancery Lane.

  There were a great many law offices in the area, but he finally managed to locate Jacobs’s place of business in an ancient building with wooden stairs. He went through a door marked SOLICITOR AT LAW and was surprised to see a young man with a familiar face. Nick’s brows drew together as he searched his memory for a name. “Jake … Jacob Smith … do you work here?”

  The young man was grinning from ear to ear. “Captain Hatton, sir, the Jacob part is real enough, but my name was never Smith. Remember I told you my father wanted me to be his clerk, so I ran off and joined the army?”

  “I do indeed. Don’t tell me your father is Tobias Jacobs?” Nick asked in disbelief.

  “Yes, he is, sir. After I had a taste of what real war was like, I was damn glad to come home and be a law clerk. I’ll get Father.”

  Tobias Jacobs emerged from an inner office. “You’re Captain Hatton? The man who dug the bullet from my son’s arm and took him under your wing? But you’re the twin, the one who inherited a great estate. Why did you join the army?”

  “I am the other twin, Mr. Jacobs. I’m Nicholas, the one who was disinherited.” Nick handed him the letter that he had made Kit sign allowing him to handle his affairs.

  “Ah, it begins to make sense. I don’t believe I can help you, Captain Hatton. Though grossly unfair, your father’s will followed the letter of the law scrupulously.”

  “I’m not here about contesting the will, Mr. Jacobs. I strongly suspect that my father’s financial advisor misrepresented the investments my twin inherited. I am hoping against hope that when you prepared my father’s will, you made a list of the investments he had with John Eaton.”

  “It is most probable that I did, knowing that I would need to prepare a statement of assets and liabilities of the estate for probate. Let me locate your father’s file.”

  Within ten minutes, Jacobs provided Nicholas with the list he was seeking. Nick took Eaton’s list from his pocket and began to compare them. He saw immedi
ately that they were totally different. “Shares in coal, lead, and copper mines seem far more likely ventures for Henry Hatton,” Nick said. He read the complete list of investments, which included northern factories that produced not only guns but copper pipes to carry water and gas.

  “I remember thinking he had great foresight to invest in gas. At the time, gaslight in the streets was only an experiment, but now there are plans to light half of London, and I predict it will eventually illuminate every city in England.”

  “I need this list,” Nick said decisively.

  “My son will make you a copy, which I shall certify. If you are considering litigation, Captain, please keep us in mind.”

  “I hope it won’t come to that, Jacobs; lawsuits cost money. But I sincerely thank you both for your help in this matter.”

  “Nay, Captain, it is we who give thanks to you.”

  Nick descended the wooden stairs two at a time. Now that his suspicions had been confirmed, a hot, burning anger ignited in his gut and threatened to flame out of control. He had long known that Eaton was a greedy, avaricious swine; now he was convinced that the financier was corrupt. Nick knew he would not have a moment’s peace until he confronted the thieving bastard. He strode down to the Strand and took a hackney cab to Jermyn Street. When he saw that number 10 was a brick town house, Nick concluded that John Eaton must conduct business from an office in his home. He knocked loudly, twice, before the door was opened by a man wearing spectacles, who seemed distracted.

  “Yes, sir?”

  Nick saw the ink stains on the man’s fingers and surmised that he was Eaton’s clerk. “I have business with John Eaton.”

  “Sorry, sir, but you’re too late. Mr. Eaton has closed this office for the summer and we are in the midst of packing up everything for his transfer to Eaton Place in Slough.”

  Nicholas banked his anger and masked his irritation. “I’m quite sure Eaton will see me, if you will be good enough to announce me.”

  “That is impossible, sir. Mr. Eaton had a social engagement and left early. If you will excuse me, sir, it looks like rain, and I must transfer the files to the coach before the deluge starts.”

  Nick uttered a foul oath when the door closed in his face. His fingers fairly itched to rifle through Eaton’s documents. If I had a gun, I would relieve you of your bloody files! Then it came to him that at Curzon Street he did have a gun. He also had a mask. Nick crossed the street to observe the house from a discreet distance. He could see that there was indeed a coach at the back door of the house. There were no horses in evidence, however. Nick reasoned that if Eaton had a social engagement this evening, likely he would not journey to Slough until tomorrow. An inner voice told him that it would be a simple matter to break into the coach after midnight and lift the files.

  Nick felt a cold drop of rain hit his face. It was barely three o’clock in the afternoon; he had at least ten hours to kill and knew he could put them to better use than standing in a downpour.

  Champagne Charlie was observing a game of four-hand bezique, a fast-paced diversion that was becoming quite fashionable. She left the players and with a radiant smile came to greet the tall, dark man. “Since Rupert isn’t glued to your side, it must be Nick.”

  “Hello, Charlie. I came to pick your brains.”

  “Oh, I thought you might have dropped in for another shave,” she drawled with exquisite sarcasm.

  “Sorry,” he said shortly, “I’m in a dangerous mood. I need money—as much as I can get my hands on. Do you know of any high-stake games going on tonight where the betting will be steep?”

  “Well, it certainly won’t be here with my bezique players. Actually, there’ll be deep play tonight at the Mollies’ Club, but that’s not in your style. Better wait until Saturday night. The brandy-soaked Prince of Wales, his buffoon-of-a-brother Frederick, and their profligate cousin, the Duke of Gloucester, will be gathering at the Foxhole losing thousands to the wily Dukes of Rutland and Bedford.”

  “The Foxhole?”

  “That gaming hell Charles James Fox opened near Carlton House. It’s just a stone’s throw from here.”

  “I thought they closed that place when Fox died.”

  “Only officially. Prinny offers a melodramatic toast to Fox, dripping with bathos, before every game. They sometimes ask for a couple of my girls, who invariably return convulsed with laughter. That would be your place to make a killing.”

  He drew her hand to his lips. “Charlie, you never disappoint.”

  As he walked out onto Pall Mall, he looked up at the sky. It was still only spitting rain, but gathering bruise-colored clouds had stolen the light from the afternoon and darkened the city. Since Curzon Street wasn’t that far, it suited Nick’s mood to gamble on the weather. As he strode past White’s on St. James’s Street, the urge to gamble further soared in his blood, and he knew that before the night was out he would risk much more than getting drenched.

  He thought about the Mollies’ Club, where homosexuals and men dressed as women shared intimate oyster suppers and other decadent appetites in the club’s private rooms. Before they withdrew up the stairs for their licentious fun and games, however, they indulged in reckless bouts of gambling in the opulently furnished gaming rooms. When it came to Nick that the Mollies’ Club in Piccadilly was just around the corner from Eaton’s town house, where he planned to be at midnight, he knew where he would go to play cards.

  After Fenton served him a light supper, Nick picked up the Political Register to pass the time before he dressed for the evening. What he read only inflamed his temper and made his mood more dangerous. Because Wellington was considered a hero by the public and was fast becoming the most popular man in England, the idiotic Prince Regent was denouncing him with scathing criticism and was doing his best to prevent the government from honoring him at a public reception upon his return to England. Nick flung the newspaper across the room. Come Saturday night, it would give him the greatest satisfaction to spit in Prinny’s royal eye, by winning Prinny’s royal gold.

  When he judged the time to be right, Nick dressed for his night’s adventure with care. He put on his black evening clothes, chose a black stock for his throat, then pulled on black riding boots. Only his shirt was white, and he planned to remove it before he ransacked Eaton’s coach. He slipped the black leather mask into his coat pocket, then donned his long black evening cape and a black tricorn. They would not only protect him from the rain but would conceal his identity. Before he forgot, he took the list that Jacobs had given him and put it into his wallet; from now on he intended to keep it in his possession at all times.

  Nick loaded his army pistols and took them down to the stables. When he had saddled his mare, he mounted the weapons in their saddle holsters. He rode to Pall Mall and stabled his horse in the cobbled coach house behind Charlie’s, then he walked to Piccadilly.

  At the Mollies’ Club, the doorman’s bulk was imposing, his pugilist’s face intimidating. Nick slipped the man five guineas in lieu of the password and gained entrance. Inside, it was extremely crowded because of tonight’s high-stakes betting. He couldn’t get near the cloakroom, so he removed his hat and folded his cape over his arm. Nick kept to the shadows, walking the perimeter of the gaming room, focusing his attention on the brightly lit tables rather than on the painted creatures in their garish gowns who were making wagers. The raucous laughter and exaggerated, high-pitched voices were an assault on the ears. He narrowed his eyes against the blue smoke that filled the air as he searched for the table holding the most money. When he found it, he saw that it was a roulette table. He blinked to make sure he wasn’t seeing things as his glance fell upon a stack of rouleaux that must have represented twenty or thirty thousand. His nostrils flared as he was about to walk a direct path toward the spinning wheel of fortune, when suddenly he raised his eyes and saw something that momentarily rooted his feet to the carpet. When he could move, he stepped quickly back into the shadows.

  “Joan, dahling,
I warrant you’ll break the bank!”

  “Oohh, Joan, let me rub you for luck!”

  “I’ll let you rub me for fun, but not for luck!” came the arch reply from the woman they addressed as Joan.

  Nick was mesmerized as he stared at the creature in the striking red gown and jet-black wig. It cannot be possible; my imagination is playing a trick on me! Yet the longer he studied the woman’s face, the more convinced he became that the agate eyes and long arrogant nose bore a remarkable resemblance to someone he knew. Though he could not be absolutely certain, Nicholas strongly suspected that Joan was not Joan at all, but John … John Eaton!

  “Place your bets, ladies!” admonished the croupier. When the wheel stopped, a cheer went up from the crowd, and Nick was jostled aside as a rush of people gathered closer to enjoy the excitement and completely blocked his view of the lucky lady in red.

  Nick knew he must leave. If it was Eaton, he could not take the risk of being recognized by him. But if he was right, the knowledge he had just gained would be worth far more to him than anything he could win at the tables. He put on his cape and tricorn and stepped out into the night. He heard the distant rumble of thunder in the west and was thankful that the rain had moved off. He crossed the road and stood in the recessed doorway of the building opposite, prepared for a long vigil. Nick had no choice; he had to prove to himself that the man he had seen in the striking red gown was indeed John Eaton. If he was a habitué of the infamous Mollies’ Club, Nick knew he would hold the upper hand.

  His wait turned out to be shorter than anticipated. Within the hour, Joan came out of the club, escorted by the burly doorman. The black leather satchel she carried obviously held her winnings, and Nick assumed her escort would be armed. He held his breath, half expecting a carriage to draw up and whisk them away. When the pair walked briskly to the corner, his spirits soared. He willed them to turn the corner and make their way to number 10 Jermyn Street. When they were out of sight he controlled his impatience by counting to two hundred before he stepped from the doorway to follow them. He kept a safe distance behind the queer-looking couple, not actually believing his good fortune until Joan entered her town house and her vigilant escort departed.