Victoria swallowed. She hadn’t stayed those extra weeks in Brambridge for the sun. She had stayed because she had been unwittingly lured into not leaving by a man of such vitality that it made the memory of her ex-husband a man of straw. Drawing her fingers sharply out of the hamper, she whimpered as a knife scraped along her knuckle. “Rule three,” she whispered to herself, stifling the pain. “Rule three.”
But the pain wasn’t in her knuckle, it was in her heart. Freddie had been trying to warn her. Do his clothes speak to you of refinement, his manners of haut ton? Bill would never fit into her world. He was the bastard son of a lord, a former smith for goodness sakes, whose estate had been given to him by his newfound brother, Lord Stanton. He would stand out like a zebra at a horse race, and she too by association. She shook her head. She could not stand out, she had only just gained equilibrium, the Armistead affair a great success, culminating in six weeks of freedom from… it.
Besides, she had vowed never to marry again.
When she looked up from the hamper, it was to see the others walking away towards the path. Bill remained, his arms folded, looking out towards the sea. Victoria took a deep breath and stood up.
“Mr. Standish, would you mind carrying the hamper?” she asked, hoping that the quiver in her voice had been bound by the normal steel that held her straight throughout the season.
Bill turned and strode back towards her. A light wind ruffled his raven hair; his brown eyes never wavered from hers. He put out a hand, but instead of reaching for the hamper, he captured her hand in his.
“I—“
She wasn’t given time to talk. Pulling her strongly towards him, he placed her hand on his shoulder and, grasping her at the waist, he looked deep into her eyes.
“Victoria.” It was the first time he had used her name. She could not break his stare. She did not want to break his stare.
With a short, intimate laugh, Bill took her mouth with his and feathered it with light kisses. Victoria froze, the sensation heating her chilled senses. Bill deepened the kiss. With a sigh, Victoria laid her other hand on his shoulder and clung on tight as if a ship tossed in a storm. She closed her eyes and gave herself over to the sensation.
“Such perfection,” Bill breathed in her ear, grazing her upturned chin with his mouth.
Victoria froze. Someone else had said that—Colchester, her late hated husband. She shivered in the warm air, gazing at her hands as they rested against Bill’s shoulders. What was she doing? It was, he was, all wrong. She stepped backwards, stumbling up the slope. Bill stared at her.
“We must follow the others,” she stammered. “We can’t be left alone together.”
Bill frowned. “What does it matter? They’ve all noticed our interest in each other, hell fire, that kiss…”
Victoria straightened. “That kiss should never have happened.”
“Dammit Victoria, of course it should have happened, you’ve been waiting for it all summer.”
“I.” She put a hand on her chest, feeling her heartbeat. “I’m going back to London.”
“Victoria?” Bill’s voice was questioning. But she had already stumbled past him and the hamper. The others were not far in the darkening distance. She would catch up with them. She had to for her own equilibrium.
CHAPTER 2
The heat from the furnace roared as Bill poked the amber flames. With practiced ease, he withdrew the glowing tip of the long piece of iron and, raising a hammer, let it fall with all his force on the luminescent metal.
Lord Granwich gritted his teeth as the clang reverberated throughout the forge. “I say, would you mind stopping just for one second, William?” He raised his voice. “I need to speak with you.”
“Can’t.” Bill dropped the hammer a second time. He watched and smiled grimly as Lord Granwich grimaced again. “Hot metal doesn’t wait for anyone.”
“But surely you have apprentices who can do this sort of thing for you?” Lord Granwich took out a large handkerchief and held it to his nose. Smoke whirled in the forge as a burly lad pumped a pair of large bellows, forcing the flames to burn brighter.
Bill dropped the hammer to the floor and pointed the long iron bar around the forge. Lord Granwich danced backwards as the burning tip slid in front of his pointed nose. “Apprentices? Do you see any apprentices?” He picked up his hammer and started pounding at the iron harder than before.
Bill did not want to disclose to Lord Granwich that most of his apprentices were playing at the roles of butler and footmen in Bill’s newly inherited estate, Brambridge Manor. They had jumped at the chance to leave the hot and sweaty forge for the slow pace of a country house.
That was precisely the reason why Bill was back in his forge. He was no country gentleman despite recently finding out that he was the half-brother of Lord Stanton. When Bill played croquet, he smashed the ball with such force it splintered. When he wrote his correspondence, the paper ended up torn and ripped where the quill had broken through.
At least cold hard metal didn’t expect him to bow to the ladies, and make small talk with the vicar.
“We need to speak about Pedro Moreno.” Lord Granwich tapped his booted foot against an old anvil.
With a sigh, Bill dropped his hammer for a second time and thrust the iron bar back into the furnace. He jerked his head at his one remaining apprentice. “Stop the bellows, Jim. Go and get a drink of water. That was good work.”
With a pleased smile, Jim lowered the arms of the bellows and wiped his hands on his leather apron. Bill folded his arms as Jim closed the door to the forge behind him. He leaned back against a worktop.
“Why didn’t you come and see me at the house?”
“I did, but you were not there.” Lord Granwich pursed his lips. “You were,” he searched for the words, “how can I put this delicately… ‘chasing a high end bit of skirt from over Seaton way’, according to your butler.”
“Oh.” Heat began at the base of Bill’s neck and rose slowly across his already hot face.
“Yes. Apparently, ‘them highborn ladies love a bit of rough although the peacocks on their estates are always a bit of a bugger’.”
Good God. He now knew why Lord Granwich was the arch spymaster, even ahead of Henry Anglethorpe. His hapless butler, George, was no match for the man. Bill chewed at his bottom lip. Perhaps he needed to hire a real butler. One who didn’t know so much about making gate posts and specialized in the more discreet style of service.
“Pedro Moreno,” Lord Granwich repeated impatiently. “You need to find Pedro Moreno.”
Bill folded his massive arms and stopped chewing at his bottom lip. “Can’t.”
“Whyever not? Let me remind you, he still has that list of spies that the Viper stole from the Government. Earl Harding may have killed that villain, but Pedro escaped with the information. We need to get it back before he sells it.”
“Why can’t Harding do it? He was the one tasked with getting back the information.”
“He has just got married, and secondly, you are the one who lost Pedro in the first place.”
Bill nodded. It was all too true. Despite Bill’s massive strength, Pedro, assistant to the dead Viper, and trained acrobat had slipped his chains and back-flipped out of Lord Lassiter’s house before Bill could recover. But still...
“I’m not like Anglethorpe or Harding. I don’t know the slightest about tracking down a villain. I’m a smith. Never mind my activities sailing on the Rocket for you. That’s more like smuggling than spying.”
“What about your brother, Lord Stanton? He was a renowned war scout. Surely something must have rubbed off?”
Bill glared at Lord Granwich. He really was grinding it in. “I only found out that he was my brother recently,” he said quietly. “Growing up in an orphanage tends to make you believe that is what you are… an orphan. As it is, I’m only his bastard brother.”
“A bastard brother with a country estate to his name and a long tenure as part of my group.�
�� Lord Granwich’s usually stone like face grew a heated red. “Let me remind you, Bill. We do not invite any old person to be part of our ring. Each person has been carefully selected for their talents. At least, most have. I am beginning to wonder about Lord Lassiter.”
Bill snorted. Freddie, Lord Lassiter had been there when Pedro escaped. Bill couldn’t help but feel that he had played up how much his leg hurt him when they had had to report Pedro’s loss to the others. Bill had seen the empty whisky bottles in Freddie’s room and smelled it on his breath. But it was no use trying to blame Freddie. Bill had been the one in the room with Pedro. He had been brought in with specific instructions to guard the slippery young man. And he had failed.
Bill unfolded his hands and stretched them out, looking at his slender fingers that contrasted with the large muscles of his forearms. “Alright. Tell me about Pedro Moreno.”
“If I might just have a chair. A comfortable one please.” Lord Granwich closed his eyes at what was obviously a painful memory. “At my age one needs to sit down occasionally.”
Bill pulled out a low chair from the corner of the forge and dabbed ineffectually at its dirty seams with a rag.
“Let me.” Granwich pulled out a large handkerchief, and, spreading it on the base of the chair, sat primly into its cushions. Bill settled back on the countertop. Chairs were a difficult thing for him. They often broke under his weight.
“Pedro Moreno is the son of Pablo Moreno, the owner of something he calls a ‘travelling museum’ that specializes in oddities.”
“Pablo Moreno? Isn’t he the one who forced Lady Anglethorpe into becoming the Grand Salvatore?”
Lord Granwich nodded. “Quite.” He flicked fastidiously at a series of short hairs that had rubbed off from the chair onto his coat. He frowned. “She had a lucky escape. Pablo Moreno has a rather unsavory reputation. There is always some trouble in the towns that he visits with his acts, but nothing concrete enough to point at him.”
“So do you think Pedro has gone back to dear old pater?”
“We are not sure. Early indications say no, that there was some kind of rift between the two men in the years after the Grand Salvatore incident. Pedro became apprenticed to the Viper and went abroad on many of the expeditions that Bertrand Lisle, the Viper, made. He has not made contact with his father since.”
“So what you are saying is that you don’t know where Pedro has gone, or what he is doing?”
Lord Granwich colored slightly and removed yet another short hair from his coat. He raised his eyebrows slightly and thrust the hair in Bill’s direction. Bill pointed at the large rug in front of the forge.
“Brutus,” he said simply. A part of the rug moved and swept the floor as two eyes revealed the rug to be a large dog of indeterminate breed.
“Er, no need…” But Lord Granwich was too late. The dog stood up, unfurling muscular legs that pushed the canine’s height to a man’s waist. His powerful jaws opened and a drop of saliva fell to the floor as two chestnut brown eyes blinked sleepily at Lord Granwich. The dog pattered over softly to the chair and leaned against Lord Granwich’s legs.
“It’s his favorite chair,” Bill said apologetically, as yet more hairs transferred themselves to Lord Granwich’s breeches. He swallowed a laugh as Brutus put two great paws on the man’s lap, and with a long tongue licked his nose.
“If you don’t get him off me, Bill, I will find something worse than Pedro for you to do.” Lord Granwich’s voice disappeared in a squawk as Brutus leaned in again.
“Down, Brutus,” Bill said quietly. The large dog gave him a mournful look and, flopping back onto the ground, folded himself over Lord Granwich’s boots and closed his eyes.
“I suppose a large hound for a large man is what I should have expected. Earl Harding’s dog is much more manageable, however.”
Bill nodded. Earl Harding’s dog Arturo was the size of a small pelisse and was the brother of Lady Colchester’s dog Ponzi. Earl Harding had apparently taken the dog one day; for a reason Victoria had never explained to anyone. Ah, Victoria. His stomach clenched. Now there was some more unfinished business.
Lord Granwich shuffled his feet underneath Brutus’ head. “I am afraid it is up to you to find Pedro. I’m sure the rest of our acquaintances would be very glad to help you, that is, if they aren’t too busy in nuptial bliss.”
Bill grimaced. Nuptial bliss. That wasn’t something that he had ever experienced. Nor had the women who he—spent time with. Otherwise why would they be dallying with him? His mother had died early and his father, Lord Stanton, had never acknowledged his birth. The present Lord Stanton, his brother, had been a broken man from his parents’ dysfunctional marriage before he had met Harriet Beauregard, Agatha’s niece. Now he— they—were all quite sickening with their billing and cooing. Lord Lassiter and Anthony Lovall were the only single men left.
“I would be grateful if you could get this great brute off my legs. Oh no!” Lord Granwich disappeared backwards in his chair as Brutus, thinking he had been called, reared up again and proceeded to wash Lord Granwich’s face with a rough, sandpapery tongue. “Bill! Get him off me.”
Bill took hold of Brutus’ leather collar and gently hauled the affectionate dog off the hapless man. Brutus gave him a melting look and slunk out of the half-open forge door. Bill turned round to find Lord Granwich on his feet, frantically brushing at his clothes.
“My valet is going to kill me, Bill. He will have to pick Br... that dog’s hairs off one by one. I am not amused.”
“I wish I could say send it to my valet, but I’m afraid I don’t have one.”
Lord Granwich glowered and stalked towards the door of the forge. “Do not forget that finding Pedro is of prime importance. We have already received intelligence that he has tried to sell the information.”
“He has?” Why hadn’t Granwich told him that? “When were you going to tell me?”
“All I’ve heard is that buyers of the information were told to go to some sort of itinerant fair in a town in the west country. It’s not very accurate. I was in the middle of telling you when you purposefully woke up your nightmare of a dog and set him on me.”
“I didn’t… mean —”
“Yes, you did. You’ve all done something similar to me. Earl Harding made me sit in a torturous library chair for what seemed like hours. I know you want to get rid of me, but the job I do is an important one. You are important men. You should act like it.”
Bill swallowed and turned his face back to the furnace. Lord Granwich was right. He had acted like a green youth, wanting to get rid of the older man. It didn’t help that Earl Harding had done something similar. That man was notoriously bad tempered.
Lord Granwich had left the forge and already swung up into his carriage before Bill realized that he had one last question to ask the spymaster. He burst through the doors of the forge, but the carriage was away, the horses thundering up the hill. Bill took a breath and leaned heavily against the small garden gate to the forge as the coach disappeared from view. He couldn’t bring himself to run after the carriage. After all he would be even more of a laughing stock than he already was if anyone in the village heard him asking the question that he most needed to know the answer to.
Granwich had said that all the members of their ring had been chosen for their talents.
But just what were Bill’s talents?
CHAPTER 3
Hanover Square Rooms was packed to the rafters with the cream of the ton. Couples danced gaily in the middle of the largest recital room, whilst gaggles of debutantes and their mothers sat primly on the arranged chairs around the outside. Groups of young men drifted in and out between the gambling rooms and the dance hall.
Lady Victoria Colchester smiled primly at her partner and executed yet another perfect step in the fast-paced waltz.
“Still a diamond of the first water, I see.” Mr. Cryne clutched nervously at Victoria with sweaty hands. “You are as beautiful as when you met Lord
Colchester, may he rest in peace.”
Victoria nodded and pointed her toe. “Quite,” she said.
“I say, about that note I sent Lady Anglethorpe when she was Miss Agatha Beauregard…”
“The one where you envisaged certain lewd scenarios, Mr. Cryne?” Victoria leaned back and executed a twirl.
“Quite. Err, I was wondering that as my sister has now left the seminary that you are patron of and I... err… did not pursue my youthful folly, whether you might give me back the note?”
Victoria resisted the small twitch that threatened to pull her lips into a most unladylike grin. “Yes, I quite think that Rosa Fanthorpe would not view that note in the same light.”
Mr. Cryne started and his foot collided with Victoria’s shin. “Oh, Lady Colchester, I’m terribly sorry, I must have slipped…”
“Just carry on dancing.” Victoria gritted her teeth. Really, did the fool not know the fourth rule? If discovered, act like nothing has happened. It always worked. No one could believe the audacity.
“I’m not quite sure what you are talking about.” Mr. Cryne bit at his lip, a bead of sweat running down his cheek and falling onto his exceptionally tall cravat that had come slightly askew.
“Rosa Fanthorpe, industrial heiress and magnet for all fortune hunters whose pockets are to let. Rumored to have settled on a handsome and honest young man.”
“You wouldn’t tell her?”
“Tell her what?” Victoria arched her eyebrows. Any minute now he was going to spill everything. Rule number two, do the minimal work and allow them to tell you themselves.
Mr. Cryne seemed to have forgotten his initial request for gaining his card back from Agatha Beauregard. “It was only twenty thousand pounds. I’ll get it back again. Grandmama has left me some money and she is bound to die soon.” Mr. Cryne stared into the distance. “Of course Grandmama’s money should have gone to Aunt Claire but after that debacle with her son Peter and anyway, she’s dead now…”
Reckless Rules (Brambridge Novel 4) Page 2
