by Lee Rowan
“Don’t worry, Mama. At worst, I can take a room at an hotel.”
“Thank you, dear. I was thinking perhaps you might possibly stop for a few nights with that friend of yours, the one you were staying with when you first came to town.”
The thought of Tony curdled all his comfort. Brendan knew he would have to talk to him again. He felt no pleasure in the idea. Far from asking to share lodgings—and intimacy—he might be perfectly happy if he never again saw that young man. “I don’t think so,” he temporized. “I believe he may be out of town. But never fear, I shall find a place to lay my head.”
He excused himself, but was still unable to deliver his intelligence to his sister; she was dressing for dinner, and this was not news that should be shared in the presence of her maid.
At loose ends, Brendan sat down and dashed off a quick note to Major Carlisle, explaining that he might not be resident at the family home for a few days. He sent a footman off with the message and thought no more about it until the man returned with an unexpected answer.
“Come and stay with me while you are dispossessed,” the Major’s note suggested. “This inconvenience may serve our purpose better, as you will have neither family nor servants wondering where you may be at odd hours.” He invited Brendan to call the following day, thus relieving the footsore footman of another journey.
So that was one dilemma resolved.
It was not until later that evening at the theatre, when his mother and her friends had gone off at intermission to visit some acquaintances in their box, that Brendan finally had the chance to speak to Elspeth without the danger of interruption.
“Well?” his sister demanded, as soon as the door to their box had closed behind the wanderers.
“Harry is a veritable paragon of masculine virtue,” Brendan said. “I don’t know how you managed to lure him in, Ellie.” He paused, as though considering. “I know you are far too fair-minded to object to his few peccadillos: the glass eye, false teeth, and the ghost that wanders his home with its head tucked under its arm.”
“I believe the law may allow me to plead extenuating circumstances for fratricide,” she said in an equally agreeable tone. “In your case, I might even win a verdict of self-defense!”
“You really are deadlier than the male,” he said in admiration. “If I handed James such a hum, he would do no worse than offer to thrash me.”
She smiled. “Thrashing one’s brother is unladylike, sir. We of the weaker sex must be courteous until we run mad from frustration, and then it’s ‘cry havoc.’” She seized him by the arms and gave him a shake. “Brendan, will you stop playing the fool? Though I can’t help feeling reassured—I know you are not cruel enough to tease if you had learned something dreadful.”
“Of course not. As to whether it’s dreadful, I can only say I was relieved to learn that the Honorable Harry has one human weakness, however minor. What do you think of poodles?”
She blinked. “I cannot say I ever do think of poodles—Oh, Brendan, he doesn’t!”
“He does. And he has the creature shorn so that it resembles a sheep, which I gather is his idea of a joke. But to give the dog its due, it is apparently very amiable and well-behaved. His servants are generally fond of the animal.”
“Well, I’m fond enough of animals myself, so if it can refrain from chewing my slippers, we should deal well enough. How in the world do you suppose he settled on a poodle?”
“The story,” Brendan said, “is that Edrington happened to see Poodle Byng driving along in the Park with his namesake beside him in the carriage, and made a humorous remark. A friend of his, who happened to be a friend of Byng’s as well, challenged him to live with a poodle for six months and see if he still thought Byng so foolish. So he did.”
“And he took a fancy to the creature,” Elspeth finished.
“Apparently so. And it’s just the one dog, not a pack of the beasts, so you must make its acquaintance and make up your own mind.”
His sister smiled, her eyes sparkling. “If keeping a poodle is his worst peccadillo—I think I already have.”
“You were not considering buying any of these properties, I hope.” Ellis Stanford, Philip Carlisle’s man of business, handed back the list Carlisle had given him the day before, and offered his guest a chair.
Carlisle sat and glanced at the paper. “Not I, no. A young acquaintance of mine, an Army connection who’s come into a bit of money, asked my opinion. I’ve never heard of any of these establishments, so I told him I would ask someone who had a better basis for making a judgment. Personally, I would not wish to invest in a tavern.”
“Oh, it’s not a bad notion, on principle. There are worse investments.” Stanford opened a decanter on the sideboard in his office and poured deep amber liquid into a crystal glass. “Sherry?”
“Yes, thank you. If the principle is sound, what makes these shady propositions?”
“It’s exactly that. Those four inns all have something a bit unsavory about them. I showed that to a friend of mine, a barrister, and two of the establishments are suspected of being meeting-places for buying and selling stolen goods. One is nothing more than the front for a brothel, and the last… I’m not certain what goes on there, but it has a peculiar reputation.”
“Hm.” Carlisle privately congratulated himself on his ability to spot a wrong ‘un. Three of the taverns on his list were ones he had selected based on his own estimate of their quality; the fourth, of course, was the Cock and Bottle. “I suspect some Captain Sharp must have thought my acquaintance a Johnny Raw. I wonder if any of these places are really for sale at all.”
“Oh, I suppose any of them might be—if a buyer had enough of the ready and didn’t look too closely at the books! But I’m glad to know you’re not the pigeon about to be plucked. I felt sure you had more sense.”
“Indeed, I do. And I must thank you again for this quick work. If my acquaintance is still considering the investment after what you have told me, I shall suggest he ask his man of business to look up the owners before signing any papers.”
“Tell him to have his man of business give the information to a solicitor, and look into the legal history of the place. Better yet, tell him to steer well clear of the lot of ‘em!”
“I’ll do that, Stanford. Thank you.”
They spent a half-hour or so reviewing Carlisle’s various investments and considering possible alterations, and then the Major took his leave. He had established one fact: Richard Dobson was sole owner of the Cock and Bottle, making the situation slightly simpler but at the same time more of a challenge. There’d be no reporting an extortionate employee to the owner; this villain was on his own turf and entrenched.
By the time he reached his home, Carlisle had decided on his plan of attack. He sat down to list what he knew of the situation and make a basic sketch of the club—Brendan could help him adjust that, when he arrived—and write down the details he needed to learn before they set a time to make their move.
Carlisle knew that he ought to meet with Brendan’s friend Tony Hillyard. Who sounds like a complete loose-screw. He was not looking forward to the occasion, but Hillyard knew Dobson by sight and could describe the man’s inner office, the lines of approach and retreat. Since Brendan had never even met Dobson, Hillyard was the only source of this vital information.
He was also, unfortunately, their weak link, and, from all Carlisle had heard about him, the only one of the party inclined to panic. For all that he seemed a quiet, gentle youth, Carlisle was sure Brendan Townsend could be counted on to stand fast in a crisis.
And his talent! Carlisle had no artistic ability whatsoever, but he did have a deep appreciation of good art, and he was amazed that Brendan had been able to remember so many details about a pair of horses he had known for little more than a day.
It would be interesting to see whether Brendan chose to pursue the idea of art as a serious career. At two-and-twenty, he was badly in need of some direction. Carlisle ha
d seen enough young men that age, casting about for their life’s purpose in the Army. For some, that was the proper career; others stayed for a year or two, then sold out as soon as they could without creating an embarrassment.
Brendan Townsend would have been one of those who left. A decade ago, Carlisle would have considered that a regrettable circumstance, but the mortar and pestle of war had ground away some of his prejudices. It took a certain kind of man to throw himself into battle and come out with his humanity intact—there were certainly men who did one and not the other, who either crumbled and went home branded as cowards, or lost their humanity and became pitiless and cruel. It was said that war made men, and that was true enough, but it also might break them.
Carlisle was old enough now to know that there was more than one kind of courage. He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of men he knew who would stay and help, rather than make themselves scarce, when a foaling mare was in distress.
He could count on that same hand the number of men with whom he felt truly comfortable. An only child, he had wondered what it would be like to have brothers; by the time he went to school, he had learned that a man measured himself by competition with other men. He had found a certain comfort in the Army, a sense of being part of something important, and occasionally a real friendship. He had found men he could admire, and a commanding officer that inspired him to something close to worship. He could…almost…understand how an emotional young man like Brendan might, in the all-male world of University life, form an attachment….
Carlisle caught himself, shocked at the direction in which his thoughts were tending. He had no evidence at all that young Townsend’s romantic life was anything other than conventional. Just because Tony Hillyard had spent his time at a tarted-up molly house did not mean that he had seduced Brendan Townsend.
It did not mean that.
But the circumstances did suggest it, quite strongly. No man who valued his reputation—or, indeed, his life—would take another gentleman with him to a molly house unless he was reasonably certain that the other man was at the very least tolerant of such activity. And was it not much more likely that a molly would visit such a place with his lover—or at the very least, someone he was trying to seduce?
Well, what of it? What business is it of yours if Brendan Townsend was misbehaving with young Hillyard, or, indeed, half the members of that Godforsaken club?
Or, conversely, what was wrong with hoping that such an agreeable young man was not, in fact, engaging in activity that was roundly condemned by the Churches of both England and Rome, behavior that could destroy his reputation and life if he were to be caught at it? Was it not perfectly understandable that any man who considered himself his brother’s keeper would hold an earnest hope that this was not the case?
Carlisle wished that James Townsend had sent Brendan to someone else for advice. And yet… at the same time he was glad that he had not sent him elsewhere. There were too many others who would have the same suspicions and act on them, bringing down the scandal and danger that Brendan was trying to avert. There was not likely to be anyone else who would see the rare combination of sweetness and talent in the boy’s character, who would want to help and protect him.
With a deep sigh, almost a groan, Carlisle abandoned the list on the desk before him and buried his face in his hands. He could not let go of the tiger’s tail, but it was foolish and dangerous to involve himself any further.
Well, he had been foolish before, and at least no one was shooting at him.
Not yet, anyway.
CHAPTER 10
Brendan woke with a ridiculous thrill of anticipation. The knowledge that he would be spending the next few days at Major Carlisle’s home should not have filled him with the same excitement as Christmas morning had inspired when he was a child, but try as he might, he could not entirely suppress the feeling. He had not looked forward to anything so much in ages.
Mindful of his duties, he made certain that his social calendar was clear for the day. At the breakfast table his mother informed him that the nonpariel Mr. Edrington—he really had to stop thinking of the poor chap as the Honorable Harry, if he was going to become a member of the family—was invited for luncheon and might reasonably be expected to take advantage of the opportunity to make an offer for Elspeth.
“Your sister means to go walking with him in the park afterwards,” his mother said, “and if they are engaged at that point, your presence would be somewhat superfluous.”
“What if he loses his nerve?”
“Then she will probably find she has the headache and does not care to go out in the bright sunshine,” his mother said. “But I had a note from him this morning asking what color dress she meant to wear, so that he might bring her a posy to match.”
Brendan was impressed. “Thorough, is he not? What did you tell him?”
His mother laughed. “Oh, bless the boy—I told him to choose something white, with fragrance, and she would be happy. I don’t know what my girl means to wear to receive his proposal, and at this moment, neither does she. She had a muffin and a cup of tea and ran back upstairs to consider her momentous decision. I believe she has scattered every dress she owns about her room. I think she should wear her pink promenade ensemble with the matching pelisse.”
“But, Mama—what difference does it make what dress she wears?”
“To Harry, not a whit. To Elspeth…” His mother bestowed upon him that fond smile that meant she thought the had the perspicacity of a pilchard. “Son, when a young lady receives an offer that she means to accept, every detail of the event is important. It is her first truly adult decision, and it will change her life forever. To have everything just so…” She sighed. “Your father made a sad botch of the matter, you know. We had just returned from a lovely stroll, and he said, out of the blue, ‘I wish you will marry me so I do not have to go home all alone.’”
“That does not sound objectionable at all!”
“Yes, but he said it as though he meant to wed me on the spot. Besides that, I had a pebble in my shoe and it was such a warm day. I was exceedingly uncomfortable! Oh, you laugh, but it would have been so lovely if I had been cool, and sitting gracefully in the shade.”
“Oh, poor Mama,” he said, stifling his laughter.
“Off with you, you unsympathetic rascal! I’ll finish my tea and go see if I cannot help Elspeth come to a decision.”
“Give my sister my love, and wish her luck.” Brendan made his escape, happy for Ellie but feeling a sad, wistful twinge as his earlier anticipation dissolved into melancholy. He would never have that sort of good fortune. He could neither make an offer for the object of his affection, nor ever hope to receive one.
The situation was hopeless, really. He should not have had his portmanteau sent to Major Carlisle’s home. He should be seeking a set of chambers in Albany or one of the other fashionable districts, establishing himself as a gentleman on the town, an independent young man.
And he would do that soon, but with his grandmother’s arrival imminent, a speedy removal was the better part of valor. Grandmama—his father’s mother—was always inclined to treat her family in much the same way Queen Elizabeth had treated those subjects who were honored by her royal visitations. Having lived through two such ancestral visitations, Brendan could only be deeply grateful to Major Carlisle for sparing him the opportunity to experience another.
The Major was out when Brendan arrived, but the butler, whose name he had never learned, showed him to a handsome chamber where his case had already been unpacked, and offered him refreshments, which he declined, and the freedom of the library, which he accepted with alacrity. Before he could take advantage of that offer, however, Carlisle returned home, entering through the front door just as Brendan was following the butler down the front stairway.
“Good morning, Mr. Townsend!” Carlisle said, handing his hat and stick to the butler. “Are the accommodations to your liking?”
�
�Very comfortable, thank you.” Brendan felt anything but comfortable, suddenly conscious once more of how very attractive the older man was. “I must thank you again for your hospitality.”
“Oh, think nothing of it. I enjoy your company. I do not often have house guests, and in any case, this arrangement should facilitate our endeavor.”
“I hope it does. You spoke of a …fishing expedition, on the way back to town. Has it met with any success?”
“Yes, a little. Come into my study, there are some matters we need to discuss.” Carlisle led the way back to the room where they had first conferred only a few days earlier, and, once again inviting Brendan to have a chair, sat behind the desk. He offered refreshment, but Brendan declined, eager to learn what he had to say. “I have the name of the owner of that building,” the Major said. “The man your friend has run afoul of is, in fact, the owner.”
“This will be more difficult, then,” Brendan said.
“Perhaps—but as I’ve said, that does mean he cannot easily retreat. I have drawn a sort of map of the place, and hope you’ll correct any errors I have made.”
He laid two sheets of foolscap on the desk between them. “This is the interior as you described it, and this is of the streets surrounding the building. I drove past there this morning. Are they accurate?”
“The street is, of course. This interior…” Brendan took pencil in hand and made a few trifling corrections—adding a vestibule, lengthening a hallway, noting where a doorman stood on duty at all times. “But I know nothing of what lies beyond the front rooms, sir. Tony Hillyard may know; he’s been through that curtain and even in Dobson’s office, I believe. Would you like me to ask him for that information?”
“If you wish. I had planned to ask him myself, but I would not object if you prefer to attend to that chore.”
He seemed puzzled. Brendan toyed with the pencil, not certain whether he should express his concern, whether Carlisle might be offended. “Major, I have given this matter a good deal of thought, and as much as it pains me to say it, I fear we cannot rely on Mr. Hillyard’s discretion. He is … what did you call him, feckless? You are exactly right. And worse than that, he is selfish and irresponsible.”
