He eyed the man cautiously as he appeared in the doorway.
“You rang for me, My Lord?”
Patrick hesitated. After a moment, he handed him the messages. “For Lord Featherstone and Lord Ayton. Please see they get these as soon as possible.”
His footman gave a short bob of the head. “Of course, sir.”
Patrick watched him through the window as he left.
What if he reads the messages?
There was nothing incriminating in them, but the footman would know Patrick was planning to meet with his friends. What if there were men at the Grand Hotel waiting for them?
Patrick shook the thought away.
I can’t live like this. Am I to be wary each time the cooks set food in front of me? Am I to fear I’ll be poisoned each time Mrs. Morgan brings me tea?
He rubbed his eyes. He needed answers as quickly as possible.
Chapter 24
Perhaps it was his absence from the Viscount’s ball, or perhaps Patrick’s urgency had somehow been evident in his messages, but when he arrived at the Grand Hotel, both Edmund and Simon were there waiting for them.
Patrick gave a short, humorless laugh. “You fellows have never been on time for anything.” He slumped into a chair at their table.
Simon eyed him, wrinkling his nose. “You look dreadful, Ramshay. Has something happened?”
And so, armed with a glass of brandy to soften the edges, Patrick launched into the sorry tale of George Thorne and the Red Queen, careful to omit any mention of Catherine.
“I wish you’d told me this before, Ramshay,” said Edmund, his eyes dark with concern.
Patrick said nothing. He had wanted to. But who was he to tarnish Edmund and Simon’s lives by dragging them into this mess?
Things had gone too far now though. He could not do this alone. He gulped back his brandy.
“I need your help,” he said. “I need to know who these men are and why they’re doing what they’re doing.”
Edmund nodded. “Of course. You know we’ll do whatever we can to put an end to this.” He turned to Simon. “Isn’t that right, Ayton?”
Simon gulped his brandy. “Of course. Whatever you need.” He stood. “Another glass, gentlemen?”
Edmund watched Simon disappear to the bar. He turned back to Patrick. “This is why you’ve not called on Catherine?”
Patrick nodded. “How could I with such a thing hanging over me?”
He could never tell Edmund that his cousin had arrived at his door the night of the ball. Could never tell him she had been witness to the sorry episode that had played out. But he couldn’t bear the thought of Catherine believing him a criminal. Couldn’t bear the thought of her believing him a liar.
“I’m afraid she’ll draw the wrong conclusions,” he told Edmund. “I’m afraid she’ll come to see me for something I’m not.”
And I’m afraid that even if I get to the bottom of this, it will be too late.
He swallowed. “I care for her very much, Featherstone. I want to make a good life for her.”
Edmund pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course.” He took the fresh glass of brandy from Simon’s hand as he returned to the table. Gulped down an enormous mouthful. “Where do we begin?”
Patrick met his friend’s eye and gave him a thin, apologetic smile. “The Red Queen,” he told Edmund. “In Seven Dials.”
* * *
Catherine stared out of her bedroom window. Rain was splattering the glass, the day bleak and colorless.
Perfect.
Bleak and colorless was exactly how she felt.
Her disappearance from the Viscount’s ball had not been noted by gossip-hungry socialites. But it had been noted by Aunt Cornelia.
Catherine had slunk back into the ballroom to find the place half empty. Aunt Cornelia was sitting at the table with her hands clasped in front of her and an expression on her face that could have soured milk. At the sight of Catherine, she leaped to her feet and charged across the ballroom. She snatched her niece’s arm with iron fingers. This, Catherine imagined, was how Robert felt in the grip of the guards at Newgate.
Aunt Cornelia marched her toward the terrace where Edmund was milling about among people waiting for their carriages. At the sight of Catherine, his face sagged in momentary relief, before giving way to anger.
“Where have you been?” he hissed.
“I…” Catherine had no idea where to begin. She felt certain her aunt and cousin would see through her lies. But she couldn’t bring herself to even speak Lord Ramshay’s name.
“We shall discuss this at home,” Aunt Cornelia cut in, giving Catherine a momentary stay of execution.
When they had arrived home, Catherine’s hopes of disappearing to bed were quashed by the fiery look in Aunt Cornelia’s eyes.
She grabbed Catherine’s arm in her claw-like grip again and led her into the parlor. Sat her on the chaise and pinned her with furious eyes.
“An explanation? And I suggest it be a good one.”
Catherine looked at her hands. The events of the night had left an ache deep inside her. She felt hollow, cold. She felt betrayed and foolish and tired, so achingly tired…
But of course, she could tell Aunt Cornelia none of this. Instead, she knotted her hands together and said “I thought I was ready to attend the ball. But I was wrong.”
How utterly miserable I sound…
“Yes,” Aunt Cornelia said icily. “It seems you most certainly were wrong. Just as I was wrong to bring you.” She loomed over her niece, the curls hanging about her forehead did little to soften her furious frown. “Where did you disappear to? And who saw you?”
Catherine sighed inwardly. “I just had to get out of the ballroom, Aunt. I didn’t go anywhere.” The untruth felt bitter on her tongue. After all Aunt Cornelia had done for her, Catherine knew she deserved more than cobbled-together lies. “And no one saw me leave,” she said. “Except the footmen on the gates. And…” She faded out.
“And?” Aunt Cornelia pushed.
“And Lord Ayton. But he promised he’d not tell a soul.”
“Lord Ayton?” Aunt Cornelia repeated, her cheeks the color of beetroot. She exhaled sharply. “You’re lucky he’s a gentleman. Lucky he has no time for sordid gossip.”
Catherine nodded. Yes, she was lucky. She knew it well.
Aunt Cornelia began to pace, her heels beating a rhythm across the polished floorboards. “Oh Catherine,” she sighed. “I just don’t know what to do with you. Your brother has already made it damnably difficult for you to find a husband. And you make the situation a thousand times harder for yourself by creeping about in the night when you ought to be socializing.” She stopped pacing and pinned her niece with flashing eyes. “You owed the Viscount much more than that. There are many people who would have seen fit not to invite you, given your family’s reputation.”
Catherine said nothing. Aunt Cornelia’s harsh words brought a fresh ache to her chest.
Harsh words, but true…
“And who knows what kind of unsavory creatures you could have come across on the street. Did you have no thought for your safety?”
Catherine held back a bitter laugh. The unsavory creatures had not been roaming the streets. They had been prancing around the parlor at Patrick Connolly’s townhouse. She realized, oddly, that she had felt no fear when the three men had charged into Lord Ramshay’s home. They had been brutal-looking men with mean eyes and skinned fists—she had even seen a tattoo on one man’s neck—but she had not felt fear. There had been no room for it. Just anger. The sting of his lies.
“I’m sorry, Aunt,” she managed. And she truly was sorry. Sorry for all of it. Sorry she had risked her safety and her reputation by creeping out of the ballroom. Sorry she had lied about it. Most of all, she was sorry she had lost her head over Patrick Connolly.
She wished she could push away the lingering pangs of desire. Wished she could push away the memories of his hands sliding over her s
tockings and up her bare thighs. Wished she could forget how dizzyingly good it had felt.
She didn’t care about finding a husband. Caring for a man had only brought her heartbreak. Surely it was safer to be alone. Or at least, it was safer to marry the way her friends had, to men who were just a means to a luxurious life and a father for their children.
“May I go to bed, Aunt?” she asked finally. Her legs were aching and she was craving the bliss of unconsciousness. Craving a pillow beneath her head and a few hours of not being forced to think of Lord Ramshay and the men who had appeared at his door.
Aunt Cornelia huffed. She sat on the armchair opposite Catherine and stared wistfully at the window. The curtains were closed and there was nothing to see. Catherine could tell the gesture was just for dramatic effect.
“I ought to punish you like a child,” Aunt Cornelia said. “Lock you in your room and force you to go without your breakfast. Although I suspect you would probably enjoy that. You seem to prefer your own company to anyone else’s these days.” Her eyes were large and mournful.
Catherine said nothing.
“Go to bed,” Aunt Cornelia said finally, dismissing her with a wave of her hand.
Catherine slunk upstairs. The moment Ellen released her from the confines of the peach-colored dress, she dived into bed and pulled the blankets up over her head.
But in spite of her exhaustion, she had slept little. Her thoughts had been running far too quickly for that.
And so now, this bleak and colorless afternoon.
She had stayed in her room for much of the day, unable to face Aunt Cornelia. A part of her had thought to write in her diary, to pour the chaos of emotions in her head onto the page and hope it might ease the ache of them. But the moment she had glanced at the notebook, she had remembered that shy look in Lord Ramshay’s eyes as he had offered it to her.
“I thought that if you ever felt the desire to begin diarizing again, it would help if you had something to write in…”
She threw the book to the bottom of her wardrobe. The sight of it stung too much.
Later in the afternoon, she had watched out the window as her cousin climbed into a coach and left the manor. She had spoken little to Edmund since the ball. A part of her couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps he knew where she had been the night before. Did he know about Lord Ramshay’s underworld connections, she wondered. Could that have been the reason behind his reluctance to let his friend court her? How she longed to ask him.
No, she told herself, what she longed to do was forget this whole sorry mess. She longed to forget Patrick Connolly even existed.
* * *
Edmund Spicer did not like the sound of the Red Queen one bit. An illegal gambling den in Seven Dials? There were few places in the world he wanted to visit less.
He pulled on his dark greatcoat and buttoned it to his chin to hide his silk shirt and waistcoat.
The Red Queen. The name had stirred some faint memory within him.
Where have I heard mention of such a place before?
No doubt in drunken tales told around the bar tables back in his university days.
There were few people in the world Edmund would venture into such a place for. Patrick Connolly was damn lucky he happened to be one of them.
The two men had taken their philosophy class together in the first year of their studies. Edmund had taken a firm liking to Patrick from the beginning and had enjoyed their insightful and quick-witted conversations. He had not enjoyed the regular thrashings in the boxing ring so much.
Edmund had always known that Patrick had not had the easiest of upbringings. Most of the details of his childhood he kept to himself, but over the ten years they had known each other, there had been snippets of information, scraps of stories thrown out, each time Patrick had seemingly felt unable to keep them inside. Edmund knew he kept things to himself until they threatened to bubble over and destroy him. He had not told his friends about his father’s debts until months after the men had begun collecting money at his door.
Edmund had never asked questions. He had never sought more information.
Why not?
He had told himself it was to respect a friend’s privacy. If Patrick had wanted his friends to know more about his messy relationship with his father, Edmund had reasoned, he would have told them. But beneath the excuses, he knew the uncomfortable truth. He had not sought to know more, not sought to offer more support, because the subject was just too difficult to broach.
And now look where Ramshay has ended up.
Patrick had been a great support when Edmund had lost his father. He had called on him regularly, been a willing ear when Edmund had felt the need to talk. But Edmund had been unable to offer the same support when the roles had been reversed. Patrick and his father had had a troubled relationship. Edmund had no idea how one went about offering sympathy to a man mourning a father who had been little more than estranged. In the end, he had simply whisked Patrick off to the Grand Hotel and plied him with liquor until he’d fallen asleep on the table.
Perhaps I didn’t help Ramshay as much as I might have done. But I’m determined to change that now.
Patrick had claimed he doubted whether the incidents with George Thorne were related to his father. But Edmund knew it would be remiss of them not to entertain the possibility. There had to be a reason these money-hungry fiends were circling around Patrick instead of other, wealthier noblemen. Simon Moore, for example, had bank accounts close to overflowing. If these men were purely after money, surely they would have found themselves a more lucrative target.
Edmund peered at his reflection in the mirror. He had dressed in a long black greatcoat and his butler’s gray scarf, in an attempt to blend in with the degenerates he was sure populated the streets of Seven Dials. The attempt was a bad one. His trousers were far too silky, his hair smooth and neatly trimmed. He didn’t look like a degenerate from Seven Dials. He looked like a viscount wearing his butler’s scarf.
Still, there was nothing to be done for it. He had promised Patrick he would help him get to the bottom of this. And that was exactly what he intended to do.
Chapter 25
The streets of Seven Dials were just as dark and noisy as they had been the night of the Viscount’s ball. Peals of laughter spilled from the taverns and bounced between the stone walls. The crowd was thick; it was a chaos of unwashed men and heavily made-up women. Billows of pipe smoke floated upwards, disappearing into the cloudy night sky.
Patrick eyed his friends as they made their way into the narrow streets. Edmund’s eyes were darting as he walked, while Simon kept his gaze on the ground, his collar pulled up high around his face. Patrick was quite sure neither of them had ever been in a place like this.
When they reached the sundial pillar, he stopped walking and looked about him. The streets veered off in every direction, each a warren of noise and shadows.
“Why have we stopped?” asked Edmund.
“The Red Queen,” Patrick told him. “I’ve no clue of how to find it.”
Edmund gave a wry smile, nodding to a cluster of tattily-dressed men sprawled against the other side of the pillar. “I’m sure one of these fine specimens will be able to point you in the right direction.”
Patrick steeled himself as he approached the gang. The men stank fiercely of sweat and liquor. “The Red Queen,” he said brusquely. “How do I find it?”
One of the men looked him up and down. “Don’t think you got it in you to visit the Red Queen, my friend. You ain’t the sort.”
Patrick grit his teeth. “Just tell me how to find it.”
The man gave him a toothless smile and pointed. “Behind the gin shop on the corner. Through the red door.” He grinned. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Patrick gave a short nod of thanks. He hurried down the street.
Did my father do exactly this once? Ask directions to this gambling den, then slink through these filthy streets like a criminal?
“Gin shop?” repeated Simon, his eyes darting. “Which one, exactly? Every second building here is gin shop.”
“On the corner,” said Edmund. He pointed to a small shop window. “That one, I’ll warrant.”
Though the shop was closed and dark, Patrick could see a faint glow of light coming from somewhere at the back of the building. He peered down the narrow alleyway beside the shop. “This is it, I suppose,” he said, making his way down the lane.
Rescued By A Wicked Baron (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 15
