A wave of bitterness swept through her at the sight of Tony's friend. Dear Patrick Blackburne, she thought viciously. The same dear Patrick who had made that infamous wager with Tony in the first place. The wager that had caused her so much pain.
There was no chance of avoiding a meeting. The men had spied them, and with varying degrees of displeasure, astonishment, and plain curiosity on their faces, they were already bringing their horses alongside the cart. Regretfully, Arabella pulled her horse to a stop.
Alfred Daggett did not even try to be polite. He gave a brief acknowledgment of Arabella's presence, and then muttered, "If you will excuse me, I'll wait for the rest of you down the road." And promptly put a discreet distance between himself and the others.
Richard Kingsley, as blond and blue-eyed as his sister, Mary, made little effort to hide his displeasure. His fair, attractive features stiff, he nodded curtly to Tony, and said to Arabella, "I had not expected you to be in town today." Left unsaid was the statement "with him."
"Nor had I," Arabella answered easily. "But there was something that I wanted to see at Mr. Haight's office."
Looking across at the other gentlemen now gathered around the cart, she smiled, and said, "Good afternoon to you all."
There were polite murmurs and greetings, and doffing of their low-crowned hats. Conversation was stilted, and it was clear that everyone was a constrained by the situation.
Patrick was the most at ease, and with a mocking smile on his strikingly handsome face, he murmured, "It is good to see you going out into society again, Tony. I worried that you would molder away at Sweet Acres."
"Yes, indeed," drawled Franklin Daggett, his indigo blue eyes, so like Tony's, full of sardonic humor, "you have been acting most reclusive since your return from England." He smiled unkindly. "You would not have it said that you were hiding out, now would you?"
Tony smiled grimly. He was not particularly fond of his cousin, Franklin, and he held only contemptuous affection for Franklin's brother, Burgess. At thirty-seven, Franklin was only a year younger than Tony. Burgess was thirty-five, and since they were all three close in age, and had grown up together, they should have had much in common. Unfortunately, they did not. Most of the time, Tony found Burgess, with his dandified ways, tolerable and frequently amusing, but Franklin's gibes and blatant envy did not endear him to Tony.
The discord between Tony and Franklin extended further back than the current generation. Alfred was not by any means considered poor, but from an early age he had harbored the feeling that Ramsey had cheated him. He had bitterly resented Ramsey's position as firstborn, and had always felt that it was palpably unfair that Ramsey, simply because he had emerged from the womb first, and by mere minutes at that! should have been blessed with the position, wealth, and power that were the entitlement of the heir to Sweet Acres. Regrettably, he had also passed on much of this attitude to his own son, Franklin.
Nor had it helped the situation that the tragically orphaned Tony had been the delight of his Daggett grandparents. Alfred had burned with jealousy at their doting on Tony, feeling that their affection for Tony was a slight against his own two sons. It was not surprising, having grown up hearing these oft-repeated sentiments from his father, that Franklin had taken this view, too.
Burgess remained indifferent to the fray. As Alfred's younger son, none of it made any difference to him. It might have if, like Franklin, he'd had to depend upon his father for his lifestyle. But as it was, Burgess was happy with the tidy little fortune he had inherited several years earlier from a great-aunt on his mother's side. He was much too involved in fashion and his own handsome self to be concerned about something that wouldn't have benefited him anyway.
It was Burgess, eyeing with admiration the cut of Tony's bottle green jacket, who said, "I say, Tony, is your coat by Weston? I hear he is all the rage in London these days."
Tony nodded, amusement in his dark face. "You may be a fool, cousin, but you have a good eye. The coat is indeed by Weston."
Much pleased by his own perspicacity, Burgess beamed at him. "I thought I recognized his work. But considering the skill of our provincial tailors, it is not so surprising—the work of a master is unmistakable."
Franklin sent his brother a disgusted look, and muttered, "Sapskull."
Walcott, who had remained on the outer edge of the group, and who was a bit of a macaroni himself, remarked, "We hear that some army fellow, Brummell by name, is making quite a name for himself on the fashion scene."
Tony shrugged. "That may be. I wouldn't know. Fashion has never interested me overmuch."
"Not interest you!" exclaimed Burgess, scandalized by such an admission. His blue eyes earnest, he added, "My dear fellow, I must take you in hand. Why fashion is everything!"
Viewing Burgess's garb, the green-figured waistcoat of fine India dimity and the plum-colored jacket and pale yellow breeches, Tony shook his head. "Not to me, cousin," he said with a laugh. "Not to me."
"No," purred Richard, "your cousin prefers something a bit more challenging. Something such as murdering and seducing innocent—"
"I do not," interrupted Tony mildly, "think you want to finish that statement." He smiled charmingly. "I have not forgotten, even if you have, that there is a lady present."
Two angry spots of color burning high on his cheeks, Richard snapped, "And you would have done better to have had such concern for her five years ago."
"That's enough!" Arabella said sharply, worried that in another moment challenges would be thrown. Heedless of the others, she fixed Kingsley with an angry look. "I am quite capable of taking care of myself, Uncle, and of making decisions for myself. I do not appreciate it, nor do I need you taking up the cudgels in defense of what you perceive as past wrongs."
She gave a curt nod, and, picking up the reins, said regally, "Good day to you, gentlemen. I would like to say that it has been pleasant, but I am afraid that I cannot."
A slap of the reins, and the brown gelding leaped forward, leaving a red puff of dust in its wake.
As they drove smartly away, a muffled sound had her glancing at Tony, and she was astonished to see that he was laughing.
Frostily, she said, "I see nothing amusing about the situation. Richard's actions were deplorable."
"But then you were not the one being so valiantly defended by a red-haired elf, sweetheart."
"I was not defending you!"
"No? Then with your brave words, you were not trying to prevent Richard and me from hurling challenges at each other?"
"What if I was?" she muttered, a flush staining her cheeks as she kept her eyes firmly on the road in front of her.
"Bella, Richard holds no love for me," Tony began softly, "He never has, not since I—" Tony stopped, realizing that revealing the start of the animosity between himself and her uncle would not reflect well on him—or Richard. Hastily, he said, "Never mind the reasons why—we simply do not like each other. I have endured his baiting for almost as long as I have Franklin's, and if I haven't allowed him to goad me into a duel before now, it isn't likely that I will."
Arabella sent him a thoughtful look. "Do you know I hadn't realized that before—despite what I am sure has been great provocation, you never did fight that many duels. Unless," she added curiously, "you have done so in England?"
Tony shook his head, a whimsical smile on his handsome face. "No, I am afraid not. Does that fact lessen my allure?"
Finding herself responding to that smile and the teasing note in his voice, Arabella looked once more at the road. "Naturally not!"
"Ah, but you do find me alluring?"
"Tony—" she warned.
He laughed. "Very well, sweet, I shall stop teasing you. For now."
* * *
Tony might have been laughing, but the gentleman he and Arabella had dubbed "Boots" was not. He watched the cart pull away with a narrow-eyed gaze. Seeing the two of them together had been unpleasant—and a shock. He had hoped that Tony's intervention i
n Leyton's robbery attempt on Tuesday night had been an isolated event, but if today was anything to go by, it was not.
Tony and Arabella had looked too cozy as they had sat together in the cart, and he didn't like it one bit. Individually they didn't alarm him, but together... He grimaced. Their engagement five years previously had only been brought to an end after a great deal of maneuvering on his part, and he didn't discount the notion that the pair of them were still as deeply in love as they had been in the first place. If that were the case, and he suspected it was, propinquity would swiftly undo all his hard work.
Thoughtfully he joined the others for the rest of the ride into Natchez. I should have, he decided calmly, killed her the other night when I had the chance.
Unobtrusively his fingers rose to touch his temple. He winced, but was grateful that the worst of the wound Arabella had given him with the glass pitcher was hidden beneath his hair and that there was only a little bruising that showed on his temple. A judicious use of rice powder had neatly concealed all outward signs of the attack.
One part of him was smiling and jesting with everyone else as they all dismounted in front of one of the hotels, while the other was busily considering the situation. Obviously, Arabella had not yet found the letter. And it didn't take a brilliant mind to deduce that the reason for her visit to Mr. Haight was probably to see if there was anything concealed within her deeds. Since neither she nor Tony had looked at him suspiciously, he had to assume that they had found nothing.
He frowned. But if they had found nothing, then where was the letter? He had been certain that the letter had been mixed in amongst her deeds, but it seemed he was wrong. Yet Arabella had to have it. Why else would Leyton have tried to rob her, if not to get the letter back?
Disturbed more than he cared to admit, he followed the others inside to the welcoming shadows of the lobby of the hotel. Their plan was to drink Madeira and play cards in the cool interior of the hotel until the heat of day dissipated. Once darkness fell, they were "going down the line," intending to spend the evening gaming and whoring in "Natchez-under-the-hill."
That plan no longer appealed to him, not since the meeting with Arabella and Tony. He wanted, needed, time alone to consider his next move.
Another attack on Arabella did not seem propitious at the moment. Besides, in retrospect, he had begun to think he had been incredibly foolish to have sought her out in the first place. If she had been ignorant about the letter, she certainly wasn't any longer—and he had only himself to blame for that. His lips thinned. Of course, she didn't know precisely what it was that he had wanted, but he had obviously set her to thinking. And Tony. Blast it!
Tony's presence at Arabella's side worried him a great deal. Tony was too damned quick and clever for his own good, and the last thing he wanted, at least at the moment, was to have to kill Tony. Arabella was another story, however.
Absently, he picked up the glass of Madeira before him and took a sip. Under the cover of the conversation swirling around him, as cards were cut and dealt, he brooded about the situation.
Perhaps it was not as bad as he feared. Perhaps Arabella had never had the letter. Perhaps he was merely chasing after will-o'-the-wisps.
Briefly he considered the possibility that Leyton had been bluffing about having the letter. It was a pleasant notion, but he knew that he was only deluding himself. Leyton had to have had the letter—he would never have tried to blackmail him without it. Besides, Leyton had been frightened witless when he had arrived unexpectedly to visit him on Tuesday afternoon. And from the way Leyton's gaze had constantly drifted to his desk and the restless movements of his hands, he was convinced that the bloody letter had been right there, right within his reach. If that stupid chit Arabella had not interrupted them, he'd have the letter; he was positive of it. Now he was left to wonder who had the blasted thing, and where.
A frustrated expression crossed his face. He had, he admitted bitterly, mishandled this entire affair from the very beginning. He should have gotten the letter and then killed Leyton. He had behaved arrogantly and let his temper rule him, and he was paying the price. Daniel Leyton was dead, the letter had disappeared, and he couldn't even be certain that Arabella had it.
It was the mention of Leyton's name that brought him back to the present.
"Shame about Daniel," someone said.
"Could have knocked me over with a feather when I heard about it," exclaimed someone else.
"We all knew he was going to come to a bad end," said Patrick, as he picked up his cards and glanced at them.
"Well, yes," agreed Burgess, sipping his Madeira. "But murdered, my dear fellow! And in his own home. Doesn't happen to our kind."
Franklin snorted. "It could happen to anyone. Leyton knew the risks—I've heard that he has been rather friendly of late with a decidedly lawless crew."
"Which," Alfred Daggett said with a stern look at his two sons, "shows you what can happen when you consort with scoundrels and blackguards."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," said Walcott, nervously tugging at his softly tied stock. "I know several of the same fellows, and while they are not, er, respectable, they are not quite as black as one would think listening to gossip."
"And isn't that what we are doing?" inquired Richard Kingsley dryly. "Gossiping?"
Patrick laughed, his gray eyes gleaming. "Indeed not, my friend. When gentlemen gossip, is it called social commentary."
The table burst into laughter, and they settled themselves comfortably and began to play cards in earnest. The remainder of the afternoon and evening passed predictably.
It was nearly two o'clock the next morning before Boots could detach himself from the others without comment. Leaving them all at a whorehouse on Silver Street, he had swiftly made his way to his home.
Once there he had settled himself in his study and was able finally to put his full attention on the nagging problem of the letter. It was possible, and Arabella's reaction to his attack and her visit to Haight's that morning rather confirmed it, that she did not have it or know precisely what he had been after. His mouth curved sardonically. She was looking for something now though, thanks to him. He cursed his folly.
At least, he reminded himself, she did not know that it was a letter for which she searched. But that was small comfort. If it surfaced and she read the letter, she would know it was what he had been after—and that Molly's presence that fateful night had been arranged—by someone other than Tony.
He brooded over that for a while, but eventually he turned his thoughts to another more promising tack: Where had Daniel gotten the letter in the first place?
He sat up, damning himself for being so dense. Of course! There was only one person Daniel could have gotten the letter from, Molly Dobson.
Smiling now, he sat back in his chair. Dear sluttish Molly. Now that he thought of it, hadn't he heard something a few months ago about her being under Leyton's care?
Seeing Molly would answer one question for him. He'd know for certain whether Leyton had actually had the letter. Another even more pleasing thought occurred to him. It was possible that Molly still had the letter. That Leyton had left it with her for safekeeping.
That didn't explain Leyton's nervousness when he had come to call, but then Leyton had never struck him as a particularly pluck-hearted man. It was possible that Leyton had merely been reacting to his own guilty conscience about blackmailing him.
A visit to Molly is definitely called for, he thought happily. A few slaps and a little silver, and she would tell him whatever he wanted to know.
It occurred to him that it was rather clever of him to have remembered Molly. He might, he decided maliciously, as he stood up and prepared to walk to his bedchamber, be able to use her to once and for all destroy the budding intimacy between Tony and Arabella. Oh, not in exactly the same way as five years ago, but in some new fresh way. A notion came to him and he smiled widely. Of course. It would be perfect and would forever kill whatever tender emo
tions Arabella felt for Tony. His smile took on a vicious twist. And would naturally cause as much embarrassment as possible to Tony. Delightful.
Satisfied with himself, he made his way upstairs. Having disposed of his clothing, he climbed into bed. He would be busy on the morrow, but seeing Molly Dobson was his first task of the day. And making it painfully clear why it was to her advantage to do precisely as he said. He sighed. It was a pity, but of course, after she served her purpose this time, he would have to kill her.
Then he smiled. Perhaps, he could arrange it so that suspicion fell upon Tony once again. Only suspicion. He didn't want Tony to hang. Yet.
Chapter 11
Tony and Arabella spent most of the journey back to Greenleigh speculating on the connection between the attempted robbery, Leyton's murder, and the attack on her. They put forth various ideas about what her intruder had been after, both of them agreeing that it was probably a letter, a note, or something of that ilk.
A frown on his face, Tony said, "It almost has to be something written—because an object, even if readily identified as belonging to your assailant, would not, in and of itself, be incriminating—unless it was found next to a body."
"But we found nothing in my papers at Mr. Haight's. And if I came into possession of it at Leyton's, that's where it would have been."
Tony scowled. "Since we didn't find anything useful at your attorney's, I suppose the next thing for us to consider is the identity of Boots—assuming he is the person behind all of this." Tony's eyes grew hard. "I'd like to know," he said grimly, "who it was that paid you a visit."
For the remainder of the journey they considered the problem, but neither could come up with the name of a person who would have killed Leyton and then brazenly attacked Arabella.
"There are any number of people," Tony finally said, "who, no doubt, disliked Leyton—perhaps, even enough to murder him. Jeremy is not the first young man who has suffered at his hands—and no one has ever been able to recover the fortunes they lost to Leyton. He has ruined more than one family." He shot Arabella a wry look. "If I didn't know for a fact that Jeremy had no reason to kill Leyton, he would be my most likely choice."
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