The Last Earl Standing

by Blackwood, Gemma

  Neither George nor Wetherton knew what they were dealing with. She was a lady, yes, but first and foremost a journalist. And the sort of adventure she had in mind would not be her first foray into the world of undercover investigations.

  9

  If Sir Julian Stuart possessed a particular talent, it was the art of fussing like an old woman.

  “Perhaps we should go over the plan once more,” he suggested, for the third time, as they approached the unassuming black door of Wetherton’s gaming hell. “Just for luck.”

  “We don’t need luck,” George answered airily. “We are well-prepared.” He paused with his hand raised and ready to knock on the door, seeing the nerves on Julian’s face. “Very well. It’s simple enough. You are to speak with any gentlemen of note that we find in the club and discover which of them are slaves to Wetherton’s pocket. I will let Wetherton draw me into whatever game he has planned, and thereby discover the means by which he lures gentlemen into ruin. If I can pose as one of his bought men, I may be able to discover what exactly it is that he wants from them.”

  “I still think we ought to swap roles,” said Julian. “I am the quicker hand at the card table.”

  “That is precisely why I need you to keep a close eye on Wetherton. You will be able to catch him at any underhand schemes, while I focus my efforts on losing the game.” George knocked on the door before Julian could object further. After a pause, a small panel slid aside, revealing a hostile pair of eyes.

  “Lord Streatham here for Lord Wetherton,” said George. “I have brought a friend – Sir Julian Stuart. I hope Wetherton does not mind. He has a fat pocketbook!”

  The panel slid closed and, after a pause, the door opened. To George’s surprise, a woman was standing behind it, dressed in a rather exotic gown decorated with black lace and feathers. She wore a silver silk half-mask tied about her face with a black silk ribbon.

  “You are most welcome, gentlemen,” she purred, dipping a curtsey. “Follow me.”

  A narrow staircase led them up to a room so lavishly decorated that nobody would ever have guessed it lay behind the shabby little door. Deep crimson carpets covered the floor. A polished mahogany bar stood in one corner, lined with bottles of dark amber liquid in a variety of expensive-looking shades. Crystal chandeliers spilled pools of candlelight over the various tables, where different games were being hosted by women in black dresses and masks. George immediately recognised several important members of the House of Lords scattered about the room.

  He gave Julian a brisk nod and strode off in search of Wetherton, leaving Julian to embark on his own mission among the gamblers. George’s circuit of the room was interrupted by a shout of recognition and a glass raised to him so enthusiastically that the whisky threatened to spill from it.

  “Lord Streatham! I didn’t know you frequented this place.” The young man standing in his path was Viscount Rotherham, the young friend of Lady Edith Balfour. George bowed, inwardly disappointed to see the affable Rotherham in a place like this. He would make a sorry addition to Wetherton’s collection of debtors.

  Rotherham was in a fine mood, cheeks pinkened by strong drink and the excitement of his first winnings. “Edith tells me you are well on your way to becoming a regular guest of the Balfours.” He winked in a manner he must have thought was roguish. George laid a hand on his shoulder and pulled him away from the gaming tables.

  “Don’t sully Lady Edith’s name by mentioning it in a place like this,” he said. “What are you doing here? Your uncle would hardly approve.” Until very recently, Rotherham had been a minor under the guardianship of his uncle, the famously strait-laced Mr. Adolphus Townsend.

  Rotherham shrugged him off, a frown drawing his brows together. “What my uncle doesn’t know won’t hurt him. This place isn’t as bad as you’d like me to think, Lord Streatham. You’re here yourself, after all!”

  “I know what I am doing,” said George, taking the glass of whisky from Rotherham’s hand. “I very much doubt the same can be said of you.” He sniffed the glass, confirming its contents. Scotch whisky, no doubt about it. “Trust me, any establishment that serves illegal liquor to its customers is not one you ought to make a habit of visiting.”

  Rotherham made a grab for the glass, but George held it out of his reach. The younger man’s cheeks flared a hotter pink. “See here! What gives you the right to tell me what to do?”

  “I don’t say I have the right. What I do say is that you would be better off leaving off the hard liquor and calling it an early night.” He passed the whisky back to Rotherham. “I won’t tell you what to do. The choice is yours.”

  Rotherham swirled his whisky uncertainly. “You won’t tell my uncle you saw me here?”

  “No. Nor will I mention it to Lady Edith. Though you would deserve it if I did.”

  Rotherham set his glass on a nearby table. “Very well, Streatham. I’ve won a few hands of whist, and I know when to stop pushing my luck.” He touched his hat to straighten it and bowed. “I will return the favour by not mentioning your presence to Lady Anthea.”

  “Much obliged.” Rotherham did not need to know that Anthea was perfectly aware of where George was spending the evening. George took an exploratory sip of the whisky the young man had left behind. It burned his mouth in the pleasantest way imaginable. George immediately resolved to vote in favour of the Excise Act legalising the sale of Scotch whisky when it worked its way through to the House of Lords. He had never been in favour of denying himself any of life’s pleasures, after all.

  “I don’t appreciate you running off my guests, Streatham.”

  George turned to find Lord Wetherton watching him narrowly over the top of his own tumbler of illicit whisky. George clinked glasses with him, pleased when the other earl flinched. “Rotherham’s a puppy. I’d hate to see him lose his fortune for your amusement, Wetherton.” He drew out a heavy purse from his pocket and weighed it invitingly. “Leave the reckless betting to the men, and let the boy go.”

  Wetherton nodded curtly and snapped his fingers. Two of the black-clad women sprang to his side, cleared a space at a nearby table and laid out a stack of cards.

  “A little sport will make up for the loss of Rotherham,” he said, taking his seat and shuffling the cards without once taking his eyes off George. “Sit. Let’s play.”

  George took his seat opposite Wetherton. He had a delicate game to play. He was no fool, and he would not convince Wetherton that he was one. He needed to lose by just the right amount.

  It was moments like these that he lived for. His quarry in sight, his nerves crackling with energy, his wits sharp and ready.

  He was enormously disappointed, then, when Wetherton set the cards down abruptly and got up from the table.

  “Do excuse me, Streatham,” he said, his attention caught on something at the far end of the room. “There is some business I must attend to.” He waved peremptorily to one of the serving girls. “This young lady will take care of you.”

  George nodded politely, hiding his chagrin as Wetherton left the table. The girl Wetherton had left him with was unusually shy for one of faro’s daughters. She held her black feathered fan close to her face and stared after Wetherton as he departed.

  “A brandy would go down nicely,” George suggested. The girl dipped a curtsey, fluttering her fan, and gave him a flash of her dark eyes before she hurried off, not in the direction of the bar, but after Lord Wetherton.

  George froze in place, watching the girl pick her way through the gaming hell, neatly avoiding the clutches of an overexcited young player as she went.

  Those eyes…

  Had he imagined it?

  He rubbed a hand across his forehead, trying to scrub the image of Lady Anthea Balfour’s dark gaze from his mind. That girl had really found her way under his skin. He was seeing her everywhere.

  * * *

  Anthea slipped behind the curtain which obscured the serving girls’ dressing room, her hands trembling.


  She was beginning to think that of all the foolish schemes she had embarked upon in the name of Lady X’s column, this was the worst.

  “It’s not so bad, sweetheart,” said one of the other girls, brushing past her on her way back out to the gaming room. “First night’s always bad. Did someone try and have a go with you?”

  “Certainly not!”

  The other girls stared. Anthea remembered the part she was playing.

  “I mean… yes. Yes, he tried. But I didn’t let him get anywhere.” She clasped her shaking hands together. “I think I should rest for a moment.”

  Two of the other masked ladies made space for her to sit down. One poured her a glass of something Anthea did not recognise until she held it to her lips and the unmistakable scent hit her in the back of the throat.

  “Whisky!” she said. She’d had it once before, when one of Edith’s friends had raided his father’s liquor cabinet.

  The other girls laughed and nudged each other. “I’ll say one thing for Lord Wetherton, he keeps our glasses well filled.”

  Anthea took a sip, letting the warmth of it add fire to her failing courage. “Where is Lord Wetherton? He left the gaming room in rather a hurry.”

  The girl to her left tutted. “Best not to think about it, love.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “His lordship’s private business isn’t for the likes of us.”

  The back of Anthea’s neck prickled the way it always did when she happened upon a fresh subject for a column. Lord Wetherton’s private business was precisely what had drawn her to call at the back entrance of the Curlew Street club, masquerading as a servant desperate for a new position.

  She took another sip of whisky, decided on balance that it was better not to finish the glass, and set it down. “Excuse me, ladies,” she said, drawing titters from the girls, none of whom would describe themselves as a lady of any kind.

  She slipped back through the curtain into the noise and bustle of the gaming hell, careful to keep her distance from George. The air was thick with cigar smoke and pungent perfume. She was glad of the silk mask covering her nose.

  Lord Wetherton had disappeared in the direction of the entryway. Looking around to check that she was not noticed, Anthea backed up until she was standing beside the doorway.

  Over the hum of conversation, the cheers of the winners and groans of the losers, a hysterical sobbing sounded through the wall.

  “Please, my lord – please, I beg you –”

  “Now, now, Lord Christopher.” That was Wetherton’s voice, but not as she had ever known it. The cruelty in it, the sneering superiority, sent cold fingers creeping up Anthea’s spine. “You have brought this on yourself, you know.”

  “But my lord, my father –”

  “Does your father wish to see you ruined?”

  “No, no!”

  “Then I’m sure he will be happy to vote my way.”

  “Lord Wetherton, have pity!”

  “My pity is reserved for men who deserve it, Lord Christopher. You lost your money in a fair wager. Now you must pay your debt in any way you can.” Wetherton’s voice grew fainter, as though he had turned away from the sobbing young man. “And I am not asking much. One vote in my favour, that’s all.”

  “My father’s honour –”

  Wetherton’s voice lashed like a whip. “If you cannot pay your debt, your family’s honour will be in the dirt. Are you a fool, that you do not understand?”

  Lord Christopher let out an animal mewling sound. Anthea’s lips tightened against her clenching teeth. She was glad that her mask hid most of her expression. The rage broiling on her face hardly suited her disguise.

  If she would not have risked exposure and ruin by doing so, she would have marched through the door and given Lord Wetherton a ringing slap.

  “My time is precious, Lord Christopher.” Wetherton’s voice grew louder again. Anthea moved prudently away from the door, pretending to watch a nearby game of piquet. As the door opened behind her, she heard Wetherton’s parting words to his victim. “I have given you my instructions. See that they are carried out.”

  She cheered along with the other girls standing around the table as a fat old baron won a point. To her horror, the warmth of an unwanted body pressed against her from behind.

  Lord Wetherton’s breath tickled her ear. “You must be our new arrival.”

  Anthea closed her eyes and told herself sternly not to scream. “I am, my lord.” She turned away from him, stepping backwards to put some distance between them, and curtseyed, keeping her eyes low.

  Wetherton tossed his cane lightly from hand to hand. “Have the other girls informed you of tonight’s special entertainment?”

  “No, my lord.”

  He leaned closer, breathing stale liquor into her face. “We are expecting a visit from the Bow Street Runners at half past one. It is up to you to make your exit before they arrive. I will not be held accountable for anyone caught up in this nasty business.” He ran his finger up the side of her neck, making her shudder, and lifted her chin.

  It was useless to resist. She was playing the part of the desperate servant, and abandoning the pretence would ruin her.

  Anthea looked into Lord Wetherton’s eyes and prayed that her mask was enough to conceal her.

  He raised an eyebrow, letting his gaze run slowly over her body. “Unless you choose to come with me now.”

  “Never.” Anthea batted his hand away, unable to hide her disgust any longer.

  Lord Wetherton’s eyes widened. “Now, wait a minute.” He lunged forward and caught her by the arm.

  Anthea kicked him in the shin as hard as she could, then turned and ran.

  Shouts erupted behind her – the jeers of leering gentlemen and the crows of amused onlookers. Wetherton’s snarl chased her onward. She barrelled into a group of carousing gentlemen, thrust them out of her way, and careened forwards into the only safe place she could see.

  George’s arms.

  George staggered backwards as Anthea crashed into him, but he recovered in time to hold her steady. Their eyes locked, and his mouth dropped open.

  “My word,” he said, staring at her in frozen astonishment.

  “Streatham!” growled Wetherton, marching towards them. George took Anthea by the shoulders and thrust her behind him.

  “Good evening, Wetherton. I must say, I’m having a marvellous –”

  “That girl is my employee.” Wetherton extended a wiry finger and crooked it. “Return her to me, if you will.”

  George did not move an inch. “Pardon me, Wetherton, but I am not inclined to obey you.”

  “You are in my establishment.”

  “The lady is not your possession.”

  A pair of burly men with menacing faces appeared at Wetherton’s side. He held up a hand to stop them. “I don’t want any unpleasantness, Streatham.” His eyes darted to the clock on the wall, and a smile oozed back across his face. “Forgive me. Keep the girl for your amusement, if you will. Let it not be said that I am an ungenerous host.” He bowed. “Enjoy your evening.” He snapped his fingers at one of the broad-shouldered men. “A glass of whatever Lord Streatham prefers to drink, on the house.”

  He turned on his heel and stalked away.

  Anthea glanced over George’s shoulder to see what the other ladies of the gaming hell made of her flight from Wetherton. There were not many of them to be seen. The girl who had comforted her in the dressing room was slipping out through the curtain again.

  The ladies were leaving.

  The clock on the wall showed twenty-five past one.

  “I don’t know what you think you’re up to,” George began, turning to her. Anthea grasped his arm and pulled him aside.

  “We have to leave.”

  He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Yes. I suppose I ought to take you home –”

  “Not out of the front door. We can’t be seen. Quickly!” Anthea tugged at his arm and attempted to drag him towards the back entrance.
George remained where he was, his jaw tight with annoyance but his eyes amused at her attempts to cajole him.

  “Hold on a minute. I haven’t got my hat –”

  “Never mind the hat!” Anthea hissed. “The Bow Street Runners will be here at any moment!”

  George frowned. “Surely Wetherton isn’t fool enough –”

  “Wetherton has arranged it! Hurry, George!”

  He let her lead him through the crowd of gentlemen and behind the curtain concealing the ladies’ dressing room.

  The room was empty. Open pots of rouge lay beside dusty mirrors. A few black feathers were scattered on the floor.

  “My word, you’re right,” said George, looking about. “The girls have scarpered. Wait one moment –”

  He was about to thrust the curtain aside when a series of strident shouts erupted in the gaming room.

  “Stop where you are, gentlemen! Hands in the air!”

  “Blast.” George dropped the curtain and looked about for an escape. There was a wooden door in the far wall, but he rattled the handle without result. “Locked!”

  Panic quivered in Anthea’s throat. “They’re going to find me here!” She turned this way and that, searching desperately for some form of salvation. Images of Selina’s disappointment, her brother’s anger, her sisters’ ruination flashed before her eyes. “I’ll be ruined!”

  “Ruined?” George stared at her in astonishment. “Did that thought not occur to you before you dressed as a serving girl and defrauded your way into an illegal gaming hell?”

  “This is no time to poke fun at me!”

  “I am not poking fun. I am posing a question which seems to have a blindingly obvious answer.” He dragged one of the chairs into the centre of the room and stood on it. Anthea blinked at him, too frightened to understand.

  “Do you intend to intimidate the Bow Street Runners with your height?”

  “I don’t intend to be caught by them at all.” George craned his head upwards and pressed his hands against the ceiling. Anthea finally noticed the square wooden panel which covered the entrance to an attic space above them.