A Wicked Gentleman

by Jane Feather

  He had to open it, to confirm what he knew in his blood. His thimble was in there.

  “You know children, Lord Bonham,” Aurelia said, as Stevie and Franny raced off to the kitchen to persuade the twins to bake their knights. “You must be close to your sister’s children.”

  Harry remembered with a shock that Annabel had supposedly left him with five nephews and nieces to take care of. “I have several sisters, Lady Farnham,” he said with complete truth.

  “An extended family must be a great help to your late sister’s family,” Cornelia remarked with quick sympathy.

  “Yes,” agreed Harry without too much enthusiasm. The ramifications of his convenient white lie were making him uncomfortable. “What a pretty workbox,” he observed, wandering across to the drum table. He ran a finger over the mother-of-pearl inlay. “French?”

  “No, Italian,” Cornelia said. “It belonged to my mother.”

  “May I?” He lifted the lid without waiting for permission. The thimble lay neatly in a compartment beside the skeins of colored silks. He could palm it in a second, and this would all be over. But Cornelia had come up behind him and now stood at his shoulder.

  She reached over and took the workbox, “I love the painted panel in the lid. Aren’t the colors exquisite?”

  “Delightful,” he agreed. He wasn’t going to be able to liberate his thimble now, but confirmation of its presence was a huge step forward.

  Cornelia closed the box and set it back on the table.

  Harry took his leave shortly thereafter. Dagenham’s shadows were not immediately visible, but he knew they were there somewhere, waiting for their quarry to leave. Would they lose interest in Dagenham once the thimble was safely in English hands? Or did they have a more far-reaching interest in the young man? He wouldn’t be the first unlucky creature to have exposed a vulnerability that could be turned to good purpose by enemy agents. He’d need to alert his own side to keep an eye on Nigel. But first things first.

  He walked home, his mind thrumming with various strategies for getting hold of the thimble. Lester was well placed for the retrieval, since he seemed to have established a presence in the household. It needed to be done quickly. Particularly with the ominous presence of Nigel Dagenham’s watchers hovering so closely.

  He reached his own house just as it began to rain again. “Miserable day, my lord,” Hector observed as he took the viscount’s outer garments. “Will you want the carriage this evening?”

  “Am I going somewhere, Hector?” Harry asked in surprise.

  “I understood you were dining with Her Grace, sir.” Hector smoothed the brim of his master’s beaver hat.

  “Oh, Lord, I’d forgotten.” Harry grimaced with annoyance. The lady in question was his great-aunt who was paying one of her infrequent visits to town. She was a grande dame of the old school and never let her relatives forget it. A summons from the duchess of Gracechurch could not be ignored with impunity, although the evening promised to be dull as ditchwater when he wasn’t attempting to defend himself from unexpected attacks. But the old woman had stood by him when the scandal broke, as had all his family, and for that he reckoned he owed her his presence at her dinner table however lamentable the fare and irksome the conversation.

  “Yes, I’d better take the carriage,” he said, heading for the stairs. “What time am I supposed to be there?”

  “Her Grace’s invitation said six o’clock, my lord.”

  Harry nodded, unsurprised at the unfashionably early hour. His aunt was set in her ways that themselves were firmly rooted in the mores of a world some two decades earlier. At least it promised an early end to a tortuous evening.

  “Is Lester around?”

  “I believe he came in half an hour ago, sir.”

  “Ask him to come up to my office.” Harry strode up the stairs.

  “I’ll have the carriage brought around for five thirty, my lord,” Hector said to his retreating back.

  Harry raised a hand in acknowledgment and continued up to his attic sanctuary, where a fire crackled merrily in the grate, and the lamps were lit banishing the gloom beyond the windows. A letter with a familiar seal lay on the desk. He poured himself a glass of wine from the decanter on a side table and stood with his back to the fire as he slit the seal with his fingernail. He frowned as he read the letter’s contents.

  He was still frowning when a brisk knock at the door heralded Lester’s appearance. “You sent for me, m’lord?”

  “Yes, come in. Wine?” Harry gestured towards the decanter.

  “No, thank you, m’lord. A pint of ale is more my tipple,” Lester said. He saw the frown. “Something up, sir?”

  “I need you to go to Portsmouth this afternoon,” Harry said, tapping the letter against the palm of his hand. “Which is a damned nuisance, because I’ve found the thimble.”

  Lester whistled softly. “You’ve got it then, sir?” His gaze darted around the chamber in search of the precious object.

  Harry shook his head. “No, not as yet, but I’ve seen it. It’s in Lady Dagenham’s workbox, as I suspected.”

  “Well, it’s all right and tight there then.”

  “Yes, but not nearly as right and tight as it will be back in my possession,” Harry said grimly. “And safely destroyed,” he added. “There’s no time to waste, Lester. It’s as near out in the open as it could be.”

  Lester nodded his comprehension. “And I’ve got to go to Portsmouth,” he stated. “Can’t that trip wait a day or two?”

  Harry shook his head. “No, it’s Ministry orders. There’s a fishing boat expected from Le Havre on the dawn tide. It’ll have a message from one of our men in Rouen. It needs to be decoded at once.”

  “What about the man in Portsmouth? Can’t he meet the boat and bring it up?”

  Harry sighed. “He broke his ankle jumping from a boat to the quay. He can’t ride.”

  “Ah.” Lester nodded. “Then I’d best be off, sir. It’s close to a hundred miles. I’ll be back tomorrow evening. I could get the thimble then.”

  “I’m not prepared to wait that long. Every moment is dangerous.” Harry sipped his wine, his gaze somewhat distracted. “I intend to take it myself tonight and, since it’s absence will be noticed, I’ll substitute another in its place. I don’t want to start a hue and cry in the household.” He frowned slightly, his long fingers playing with the stem of his goblet.

  “Do you by any chance know where Lady Dagenham keeps her workbox?”

  “Well, as to that, sir, it weren’t in the ladies’ parlor this morning when I went in to fix a loose cupboard door. I’m guessing she took it up to her bedchamber at night.”

  Harry turned to gaze into the fire, the frown vanished, an amused smile instead playing over his lips. “That would certainly make sense,” he said softly. “Do you know where her ladyship’s bedchamber is?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. It’s a big one at the back on the first floor just above the library.”

  “At the back, eh…” Harry turned back slowly. “Secluded then?”

  Lester nodded. “Reckon so. There’s a bit of a walled garden out back but nothing to speak of.”

  “Nothing overlooking the back of the house?”

  Lester considered. “Not much. The wall’s quite high, and there’s a few fruit trees in the garden to block a straight sight line. What are you thinking, sir?”

  “Just an idea…a possibility, Lester. Can you go back to the house on your way to Portsmouth, find some excuse to go upstairs, and do something with Lady Dagenham’s bedroom window. Loosen the latch, perhaps?”

  Lester nodded, comprehension dawning. “You’re going in that way?”

  Harry shrugged with apparent insouciance. “It’s an avenue. If she keeps the box in there at night…”

  “I thought we’d done with the breaking and entering, my lord,” Lester said with a hint of disapproval.

  “In this case I see no alternative,” Harry said with a cool smile.

  �
�Whatever you say, my lord.”

  Lester’s expression revealed nothing of his inner thoughts.

  Chapter 13

  PUNCTUALLY AT SIX O’CLOCK, Harry stepped down from his carriage in Devonshire Place and mentally braced himself for the upcoming evening as he strode up the steps to the front door of his great-aunt’s mansion. In truth he was rather fond of the old lady, but only in the smallest of doses.

  The door opened as he reached the top step. “Good evening, Trent.” He greeted the elderly man who stood bowing in the doorway.

  “Good evening, my lord. It’s a pleasure to see you.” The butler took Harry’s hat and silver-topped cane and waited while he unbuttoned his gloves. “Her Grace is in the blue salon, sir.”

  Harry raised his eyebrows. The room in question was relatively small compared with the usual receiving rooms in a house that Harry privately thought resembled a mausoleum. “This is to be an intimate evening then?”

  “The other guests are not invited until seven o’clock, my lord.”

  “Oh,” Harry said a trifle glumly. His great-aunt obviously intended to corner him about something, and he could guess what.

  “I’ll bring a bottle of His Grace’s ’93 Madeira, sir, if that might help,” the butler said with a conspiratorial smile.

  Harry returned the smile. “It can’t hurt, Trent. Thank you.” The ’93 was a particularly fine vintage. His great-uncle, the duke of Gracechurch, had been a fine judge of wine until the last few years, when his gout had finally forced him to moderate his drinking. Moderation had not sweetened his temper, however, and when he was at his worst, the duchess generally chose to visit town. Presumably an attack lay behind the present visitation.

  He followed a footman upstairs to a corner apartment. “Lord Bonham, Your Grace,” the footman announced, opening the door.

  “Ah, there you are, Bonham. I was wondering what was keeping you.” The duchess raised her lorgnette and regarded her great nephew critically.

  Harry glanced at the clock on the mantel. “I understand I was summoned for six o’clock, ma’am. Could I have been mistaken?” He came across the salon to bow over her hand.

  “How am I supposed to remember what time I said?” the lady demanded, letting her lorgnette drop on its long silver chain. “That’s Eliza’s business.”

  Harry relinquished his aunt’s hand and turned to bow to the other lady in the room, his great-aunt’s companion. A small, middle-aged, brown mouse of a woman dressed in a plain gown of gray muslin, a white cap tied beneath her chin, she rose from her chair and bobbed a curtsy. “Good evening, my lord.” She had a pleasant if undistinguished face and a smile of particular sweetness.

  “Miss Cox, how are you?” he asked warmly. “Keeping well, I hope.”

  “Oh, yes…yes, indeed, so kind of you to ask, my lord. Too, too kind, I do declare.”

  “Oh do stop wittering, Eliza,” her employer commanded. “Now sit down, Bonham. Where’s Trent…I told him to bring…oh, there you are, man. About time too.” She waved imperiously at the butler with her fan. “What’s that you’ve got there?”

  “The ’93 Madeira, Your Grace,” the man said, setting his tray on a console table. “Will you take a glass?” He lifted the decanter.

  The duchess sniffed. “Might as well,” she said.

  Trent poured the wine, and Harry carried a glass over to his aunt. Then he took a second to Miss Cox. “Ratafia, ma’am,” he said, setting it on a drum table beside her.

  “Oh, thank you, my lord. Just what I like. So kind of you to remember…so kind.”

  “Rot your insides that stuff will…nasty sweet muck,” the duchess declared, taking a sip from her own glass. “Hmm…not bad…not bad at all. Gracechurch always was a good judge…about some things at least,” she added. “Couldn’t tell a horse from a donkey though.”

  Harry refrained from comment. He sat down on a gilt chair opposite his aunt, took an appreciative sip of his Madeira. And waited.

  His great-aunt lifted her lorgnette again and examined him.

  “Is something amiss, ma’am?” he inquired.

  “You look well enough,” she conceded. “Whatever else I might say about you, nephew, you always know how to dress.”

  Harry contented himself with a faint inclination of his head. Knowing his aunt’s old-fashioned views on prevailing fashion, he had dressed for the evening in knee britches rather than pantaloons, with the regulation white waistcoat and black tailcoat. His aunt’s attire, a hooped gown of lavender silk decorated with dark green velvet bows, was from another era altogether, as was her curled and powdered wig adorned with three ostrich feathers and something resembling a bird in a cage.

  “And how is His Grace?” he asked.

  “Oh, complaining as usual. It’s his own fault…won’t listen to the leeches. Drank a bottle of port with Hamilton the other afternoon, and he’s been laid low ever since,” the duchess declared, confirming Harry’s earlier suspicions. “But I came up to town to talk to you. When are you going to find yourself another wife, Bonham?”

  Harry had known it was coming. “I have no inclination to do so, ma’am.” He stood up and went to refill his glass.

  “Nonsense…you owe it to the family. You need an heir.”

  Harry turned back, the decanter in hand. “I have two brothers, ma’am. Either one of whom will be more than capable of handling the title and the estates. They both have sons. The family name is in no danger of dying out.” He brought the decanter over to her and refilled her glass.

  “They don’t have a whole brain between ’em,” the lady declared scornfully. “You know perfectly well, Bonham, that you can run rings around ’em.”

  “I disagree, ma’am. Both Edmund and Robert manage their estates, their lives, and their families admirably.” A chill note had entered his voice, and his tone was clipped. He returned to his seat and looked at her over the rim of his glass.

  The duchess pouted. There was no other way to describe it, he thought, suppressing a chuckle. She knew he would never tolerate criticism of his family and usually she was careful about what she said to him. The Madeira had probably loosened her tongue.

  “Well, that’s as may be,” she stated with a dismissive wave of her fan. “You can believe what you wish. But it’s time you had a wife. It’s been four years, man. No one pays any attention to the old story anymore.”

  “His Grace does.” He sipped his wine.

  “Oh, that old fool.” The duchess dismissed her nephew’s father-in-law with a snort of disgust. “The duke’s never been able to see what’s in front of his nose. He should have known that his daughter—”

  “Forgive me, ma’am, but that’s enough,” Harry said softly but with unmistakable authority. “I don’t care to discuss it any further.”

  It silenced her for a few minutes. Eliza Cox seemed to shrink into her chair and busied herself with her needlework. Harry sat calmly, his face expressionless.

  “You’ll be taking Primrose Tallant in to dinner,” the duchess declared suddenly, as if the previous conversation had never taken place. “She’s a plain creature, I grant you, but she’s no fool, and there’s twenty thousand pounds there.”

  “I hardly think I need to marry an heiress, ma’am,” Harry said with a sigh.

  The duchess snorted again. “If you ask me, you don’t know what you need.”

  Harry decided it wasn’t worth further discussion. He said casually, “I was hoping to persuade you and Lady Sefton to visit some acquaintances of mine, ma’am. They’re but newly arrived in town. I think you might enjoy meeting them.”

  The duchess’s gaze sharpened. “What makes you think so…who are they?”

  “Viscountess Dagenham, her sister-in-law, Lady Farnham, and a friend of theirs, Lady Livia Lacey.”

  His great-aunt frowned. “Lacey…related to Lady Sophia is she?”

  “I believe there is some connection,” he said. “Lady Livia inherited Lady Sophia’s house in Cavendish Square.”
>
  “Hmm.” The duchess nodded. “Sophia was quite a woman in her day…older than I, of course…we moved in different circles.” She stroked her chin thoughtfully. “So what’s the gal like?”

  Harry shrugged. “I don’t really know her. She seems pleasant.”

  “So what’s your interest there?” she asked, her eyes fixed intently upon him.

  “I have no interest, ma’am,” he said patiently. “But I happened to meet the ladies quite by chance. They would benefit from an introduction to society. Lady Dagenham and her sister-in-law are widows.” He explained the situation briefly.

  The duchess listened, for once without any forceful interjections, and when he’d finished, she said only, “Well, I suppose you may escort me to Cavendish Square. I’ll look them over.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” It was as he’d expected. Her curiosity was aroused. If there was the slightest possibility that her nephew might be showing interest in some woman she didn’t know, then she’d review the situation without delay. But whatever her motives, the end result would be the same. Cornelia and her friends would have their social introduction.

  And now a long and tedious evening stretched ahead of him until he could get down to the real business of the night. At the thought of that business his blood surged with exhilaration. A few hours of tedium would only enhance the anticipation.

  The gods were blessing his enterprise, Harry reflected, looking up at the black sky where not even a hint of starshine or moonlight showed behind lowering clouds. The garden below him as he straddled the wall was dark as the grave, only the faint gnarled shapes of the fruit trees offering contrast. The back of the house rose up against the sky, its windows lightless.

  He remained where he was until he could make out the shapes of the various windows and was certain he’d identified Nell’s. It wouldn’t do to disturb someone else. But it was unmistakable given Lester’s explicit directions. The second from the left on the first floor immediately above the library on the ground floor. And a sturdy copper drainpipe was most conveniently situated to its right.