by Suzi Love
“Whittaker, we’re chasing our tails here. Getting nowhere. Round up as many likely lads as you can from the East End, who will welcome a bit of coin in their pockets in exchange for some decent information. Go to the kitchen and ask Saunders to help. Tell him he’s relieved of duties here today. He has plenty of mates who are looters or lubbers, or some form of criminal. Between the two of you, throw a bit of money around and see if we can loosen some lips. We need to know where Lady Hetherington is hiding. Which taverns her thugs drink in.
“If Lady Hetherington is resurrecting her organization,” Whittaker said, “she’d have needed money to bribe her goalers to turn a blind eye when she escaped. And she’d need a bucketful of the ready to coax her previous gang to trust her again after the fiasco last time.”
“You’re right. I’m a blind fool. Chasing down a shooter in London is like looking for one worm in a tubful. Someone must have been backing the lady. How else would she have enough blunt to escape? And that someone has a vested interest in seeing our old enemy rise up from the almost dead and shake up the City.” Richard banged the desk and made the normally-unflappable Whittaker jump three inches out of his chair. “We need to look at those above ground now. Not the low-lives under it. Who do we know with pockets to let at the moment? Peers who are believed to be flush, but have managed to get into hot water financially?”
Whittaker shifted in his chair, sitting up straighter, and leaning forward with an eager look to his eyes. “My lord, you’re brilliant. Without having a large lump of money to dangle before the noses of the greedy ton—” Whittaker’s eyes went round with horror. “No offense meant to yourself, of course.”
Richard laughed and waved a hand. “Get on with it, Whittaker. You know I won’t take offense at anything you say. And we both know the majority of my peers are inbred lunatics, or are so busy praising their own greatness that they never have a thought in their heads. I only expect you to inform me, well ahead of time, if I’m also heading down the path to stupidity and ruin.”
“You, my lord? Never,” his man assured him with a grin. And, thankfully, Whittaker had more brains in his little finger than most peers had in their heads and was a man to be counted on to always tell the truth.
Richard tapped his mouth as he considered. “Knowing how many members of the ton are either tight-fisted or have empty pockets, Lady Hetherington is as likely to convince them to part with more money, as to persuade a flea to leave a dog’s back. No, someone with a lot of influence is behind this and using the lady, her name and connections as a shield. If anything goes wrong, like last time, she’ll be left to take the fall.”
“I’ll start checking into the stability of the usual top performers in the share trading market straight away.” Whittaker was jotting down a series of notes down his foolscap page. “Put together a list of men who have over-stretched their finances and need a way to recoup their losses in a hurry. Try to work out who has most to gain from advancing the lady working capital to get another syndicate running.” Whittaker stopped writing and looked across the desk, a serious expression on his otherwise complacent face. “And which of your enemies, my lord, would like to see you dead.”
“Good Lord, Whittaker. You sound like Lady Jamison. Laura is convinced those bullets were aimed at what she calls my thick skull.”
Whittaker chuckled, but covered his mouth when Richard scowled at him. “Wonderful. Now I have two of you imagining I was the target at the wedding.”
“I think it would be a mistake to rule out any possibilities. Both you and Lady Jamison were nearly killed. Until we know more, my lord, I implore you to be careful. You’ve set guards outside Jamison House. You have someone following the ladies. You even have watchmen here, at Martin Minor, to safeguard your sisters. Yet you’ve taken no precautions for your own safety.”
“Hmm. Point taken, Whittaker. Get Saunders to hire an extra man, one who can be very discreet. Because if I notice him following me about, he’s fired.”
“I shall inform Saunders of your requirements. And I shall concentrate my efforts on discovering the current financial status of anyone you have dealings with. This may not be a reincarnation of the Hetheringtons’ empire at all. It might be someone trying to knock your own financial legs out from under you.”
“You’re suggesting a competitor with a grudge?”
Whittaker nodded. “Whoever it is, he or she must feel confident they are going to succeed. Perhaps you and your investments are all that is standing in their way.”
“You’re correct. Word around my clubs last night, was that rather forceful approaches have been made to several of my acquaintances. Therefore, one must assume she, or he if it isn’t the lady herself, has been planning this for quite a while. Someone is providing the power, and possibly a large amount of money. If not, publicizing the scheme would be too risky.”
“Interesting, my lord, but fortunes aren’t so thick on the ground these days. Inheritances are much depleted. Therefore, the families who are still comfortably situated are not nearly so naïve about whom to entrust with their funds.”
Richard laughed. “Are you including me? Because I trust you with the management of my family’s funds. I also like to think I’m not naive.”
“Yes. Now we simply need to narrow the list of possibilities by eliminating those of your acquaintance who are like you, my lord, in control of their own destinies. And then investigating the ones who are left. With roughly ten thousand possibilities, I should only take a day or two.”
Richard came around his desk and slapped his man, his most trusted friend really, on the shoulder. He laughed again. “Whittaker, do I detect a note of sarcasm?”
Richard and Whittaker set out together for Threadneedle Street to attend one of the stock auctions, although Richard never bid for himself. He preferred to let a money man stand in his place, so he could blend into the background and watch the proceedings.
It amazed him how much could be learned by studying the facial expressions and the body movements of men when their fortunes were at stake. In the gambling dens, lives were dealt with on the throw of a dice or the turn of a card. But here, lives and futures depended on men trusting other men. Trusting that when they bought shares in their ventures, be they railways or mines or factories, that the men who owned and ran them were honest.
It proved to be a long morning and, after another three hours spent prowling the clubs over luncheon seeking information on Longman, or any snippets about the new consortium, Richard was exhausted. Therefore, it was late afternoon when he finally rode his horse into the mews behind his house and handed over his stallion to the stable boy. He yearned for the peace and quiet of his library where he could do some serious thinking, mulling over all the small pieces of information he’d gleaned during the tedious day.
As per his normal practice, he entered the house by the kitchen door. Cook always had something tempting on the table for the footmen’s tea-time about now, and Richard often detoured here to pilfer two or three of her tiny lemon tarts. Perhaps a scone laden with jam and cream. He sniffed, then grinned. Ah, yes. Today was tart-baking day. His favorite. Her back was turned to the trestle table running down the center of the room, as she instructed a very young maid on how to stir the enormous pot on the stove. A pot that seemed twice the child’s size.
“Mrs. Baker, am I employing children to stir the soup nowadays?”
At the sound of his voice, both females jumped slightly and Cook twirled to face him, a hand to her heart.
“Oh, Master Richard! You scared me half to death. And Meg here’s no child, as well you know.”
She waved a negligent hand towards the girl who now faced him, and he realized his mistake. She might be small in stature, but the look in her eye proved that little of the child remained in her. She assessed him. Blatantly. Far more assuredly than any of his other maids did. He frowned; something tugged at his consciousness and told him things were not quite as they seemed.
“… A
nd remember you said to employ her, my lord,” he heard Cook saying, “as she’s the daughter of the cousin of Jemmy, our own second footman, and from the family who comes from near your estate, so that’s why you said she’d be fine as the extra maid we needed–”
“Yes,” he interrupted quickly when Cook took a breath, knowing from experience that Mrs. Baker in full sail was impossible to halt. “Of course, I remember now. Meg, delighted to have you on our staff.”
He dipped his head in her direction in a quick acknowledgement, as he reached for another lemon tart to add to the three he held in his left hand. Mrs. Baker tut-tutted at him, then handed him a warm apple puff to add to his feast.
“Oh, Master Richard, some things never change. You’ve had such a taste for my tarts since you were a boy. And I never can scold that you’ll spoil your dinner, because you’ve the appetite of three men. Yet you’ve not an ounce of spare flesh on your form, and that’s the truth.”
He laughed. “Mrs. Baker, you’ll bring me to the blush.” He glanced at the new maid. “And embarrass our newest member of staff.”
Again that nagging feeling of something… something he didn’t know what. Strange though, the new maid from the quiet country village near his reasonably distant estate, whom one would assume would be fairly shy, demure, perhaps even unworldly, appeared not the remotest bit embarrassed.
Rather, he felt her gaze assessing him in the same way he assessed as prime piece of horse flesh he considered purchasing at Tattersall’s. What was also strange was that it was normally he, as the predator, doing this sort of assessment of females he’d just met. He had the distinct feeling the shoe was on the other foot. It left him uncomfortable, and not just in a sexual way. More a disturbing way. He shook his head. Ridiculous. She was simply a woman in a smallish body.
“Thank you, Mrs. Baker. Delicious as usual,” he muttered, around a mouthful of lemony syrup. He turned to walk to the door, just as Jemmy came bursting through from the other side.
“My lord, a message,” he gasped. “An urgent message has come from Jamison House.”
Richard stiffened. Oh, God save him. Laura! His gut clenched. In three quick strides he stood before Jemmy, firing questions. “What’s happened? Is Lady Laura harmed?”
Jemmy shook his head, although that wasn’t enough to relax the tension in Richard’s body. If anything happened to Laura and he’d failed to protect her, he’d never forgive himself.
“′Twas Lady Laura what sent the message asking Your Lordship to hasten around to Jamison House. It’s the elderly Lady Jamison. And the younger one.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
“The message said ruffians set upon them outside the park this afternoon. Somethin’ ′bout tryin′ to abduct them. And they was hurt, tryin′ to fight the men off.”
“Bloody hell. I hope they’re not too badly harmed!” He was already racing to the door as he called, “Pardon my language, Mrs. Baker.”
“Tis of no matter, milord, when you’re so upset.” She clasped her hands to her bosom.
“I’ll pray for the ladies’ health.”
Chapter Nine
When the Earl arrived at Jamison House ten minutes later, it was a close contest who carried the bigger lather of sweat, he or his horse. Tossing his reins to a waiting footman, he took the stairs three at a time, barely waiting at the entrance to speak a word to the clustered servants.
He rushed past the butler and strode into the first room, loud voices announcing clearly where the ladies were gathered. Noise always foretold of a Jamison gathering, and this was certainly no exception.
“Winchester,” their Aunt Agatha called, the moment she spotted him in the doorway. “Oh, thank the heavens we have a wonderful man with us now. I pray you’ve come to protect us, three women at the mercy of cut-throats.”
He swung his glance across the three women, once, twice, three times, assuring himself they were, all three, conscious and alert, though not all upright. Only then could he manage to dip a quick nod towards where Aunt Aggie made an elegant picture of dishabille, sprawled across a sofa and with her feet propped high on a tasseled ottoman.
However, for the life of him, he couldn’t force a single word from his throat without stepping first towards Laura, reaching out a shaking hand and touching her. Ridiculous, when she was the only one of the three Jamison women who was on her feet, as Charlotte was propped on the sofa opposite her aunt with her feet elevated as well, one wrapped in a sodden cloth that dripped water into a basin placed on the carpet below.
One moment to reassure himself that Laura lived and breathed, that blood still flowed warmly through her veins, and then he would be able to deal with all the other traumas in the room. First though, he needed that one soothing moment, as a baby needs rocking to sleep in its mother’s arms. To feel the beat of a heart beneath your touch, and to know they are safe, is sometimes all one’s mind can contemplate.
He swallowed past the lump in his throat as he saw the tentative smile she gave him, a smile freely given and warmly welcomed. A moment of truce in their ongoing war. At the same time, they reached for each other’s hand. Fingers touched, clasped and held.
He swallowed again. “Laura, are you well?”
“Yes. I wasn’t with them when it happened. Two ruffians attempted to kidnap my aunt and Lottie, though, thank the Lord, they fought them off long enough for help to arrive.”
He squeezed her fingers, showing his relief to find her bodily intact. For once, he didn’t care his affection was openly displayed, before her, before her family. Normally, he’d rather be hung and quartered than allow her even a hint of his inner emotions, fearful she’d use it against him. Not cruelly, for she hadn’t a mean bone in her beautiful body. But he feared she’d read far more into his affection than he wanted declared publicly; far more fondness for their sister than he dared allow her brothers to witness.
Regaining power over his turbulent emotions, he turned to Lottie, to where she watched with her shrewd eyes. Eyes far too penetrating for his comfort, and far more knowing than a mere knowledge of phrenology would give her. Her reputed ability to see inside people’s minds, to understand their thinking, appeared entirely too true for his comfort. Resisting the urge to drop his eyes, to shield his thoughts from her inquisitiveness, he stood his ground and attempted to appear unfazed.
He pulled up a light chair to the side of the divan. “Lottie, were you injured?”
“It’s such a dreadful nuisance, and right at the vital time in our investigations, but it seems I’ve sprained my ankle. And so badly, the doctor will not allow any weight on it for at least a week. I’m furious with myself for letting this happen.”
He reached over and grasped her hand, at the same moment their aunt declared, “Lottie, I have already assured you, it wasn’t of your doing.”
“But it was. Normally, I’d have seen those men hovering around the tree. Two men not dressed or carrying themselves as ones who belong in our square are usually very easy to pinpoint. For some unknown reason, today–” She broke off with a frown. “I cannot think why I was so distracted. Why I failed to see them until they were within smelling distance. And, even then, I’m positive that, had Laura been with us, their stench would have alerted her to their presence far earlier. Yet I remained oblivious. Something unheard of for me.”
“Yes, we know, dear. It’s why you and I are sent on errands to ferret out information from the park strollers each day. I distract them, while you extract the information.”
Laura flashed him a small smile. “Michael equates Lottie’s ability to one of those insects who entices their prey with their beauty. When she has sucked them dry of information, she supposedly devours them whole.”
Aunt Aggie groaned. “And I’ve asked you to cease portraying such a revolting image. It never fails to ruin my appetite.”
When Laura and Lottie shared an amused glance, he covered his mouth and feigned a cough, smothering his own laughter. It was a Jamison f
amily joke that even if the sky was falling to earth, Aunt Aggie would still manage to ring the bell for tea and cakes.
He cleared his throat. “So, ladies, please tell me everything you can remember. Every detail about the men you can recall.”
Aunt Aggie drew in an enormous breath and launched into the tale, expanding each detail with gusto. “Lottie and I were walking along the pebbled path that runs around the outskirts of the main strolling area of the grasslands… you know the path I mean?”
She stopped and raised a brow, and waited until he and Laura nodded.
“We were walking ever so carefully, so we didn’t tread in a very large patch of wet grass right in the center of our favorite strolling spot. Most inconsiderate to put it there when Lottie was wearing her lovely new butter-yellow half-boots, and naturally, we didn’t want to take our normal direct path, and chance walking through anything dubious, which might leave a stain on the leather–”
“Auntie,” Lottie said, but soothed over her abrupt interruption with an apologetic smile, “Winchester doesn’t have time to listen to a recital of our outer accoutrements. He simply needs the facts.”
Aunt Aggie stared straight at him, fixed him with a beatific smile, and he pictured her charming hordes of men in her younger days. Having every rogue in the ton eating from her hand.
Though, had anything really changed since those days?
He could easily see her taking those daily strolls in the park with Lottie, under the guise of stretching her aging legs, but with the explicit intention of manipulating men of all ages directly into Lottie's path. Or snapping the more elderly ones up herself, and draining them of information.
The so-called enticing insect who lured her prey and then sucked them dry. The two of them would prove a lethal combination in gambling halls.
