The Necklace

by Corwin, Amy

  “Indeed. I shall certainly receive payment. However, it will not be your money. I want Violet’s note,” his father said.

  “Her note? How do you suggest I get her vowel back?”

  Lord Chichester shrugged with apparent unconcern, although his nervous hands nearly knocked over a crystal bottle of ink. “She lost it to a trickster calling himself John Archer. I want you to acquaint yourself with him. He is a member of several clubs in London. Your foul reputation as a drunkard and womanizer ought to make it easy enough to gain his interest.”

  “What the devil was Violet doing with a man like that?”

  Although his face flushed red with rage, Lord Chichester swallowed and managed to keep his voice level. “Violet made a foolish bet on the outcome of a boxing match. John Archer was managing one of the pugilists—a man with the ridiculous moniker of ‘The Red Death.’ The devil threw the fight—I am sure of it. And she foolishly covered the debt with the farm. If it had been honorable, I would have let it go, but this was nothing but blatant fraud. I want her vowel back.”

  “If he’s a Major Sharp, he’s hardly waiting for the law to catch him. You’ve seen the last of the farm.” Despite his words, his mind flashed over various alternatives.

  Once he was paid, he could find Archer and make an offer on the farm. Archer wouldn’t want to keep it—he’d only want the money it represented.

  However, he was damned if he’d explain the obvious to his father. Especially since he wasn’t at liberty to talk about his other source of income.

  “Nonsense,” Lord Chichester said. “These men never give up a lucrative game. If he has done it once, he will do it again. So, I leave it to you to get the note. And Chilton, in case you have any second thoughts, you have two weeks. Then you will find your funds cut off until you are safely wed. I have already talked to Lord Burlington. He is willing to discuss your marriage to his daughter, Hortense, if we forgo the dowry. A wife should slow you down some and make you see sense. You have a duty to your family—you cannot continue to ignore it.”

  “I am not going to marry that Burlington brat, or anyone else for that matter. Certainly not for duty. I don’t need a pack of puling infants wrapped around my ankles and a wife harping at me. But, I’ll get the vowel for you.” He grew restive.

  Between the sun gilding the top of his father’s head and the headache throbbing behind his eyes, he was ready to agree to anything. Except marriage. He didn’t need any more emotional ropes knotted about his neck.

  “See that you do. I mean it, Chilton. I shall cut off your income if necessary.”

  “Then I’ll live on my half-pay from the Rifle Corps. It’s a matter of indifference to me.” Chilton moved uncomfortably in his seat, wishing he could simply tell his father the truth. “I’ve a few investments,” he added to provide a cover and some sort of excuse for his additional income in case he should need it.

  His father laughed. “Investments? They can’t amount to much. No, you will find quickly enough that you cannot abandon us.” He ran a hand through his thick, silvery hair. “And try to keep our name out of it. No scandal. Remember, you have two weeks.”

  Chilton stood and moved across the room. At the doorway, he paused and eyed his father’s face one last time. However, Lord Chichester had already forgotten him and was preoccupied with dipping his pen in the inkwell. Chilton turned away and gently closed the library door behind him.

  Someday, he was going to have to tell both his father and Castlereagh that he was through with orders.

  If for no other reason than he’d like at least one night’s rest in his own bed.

  Chapter Two

  The Joker’s Wild

  Just as Chilton supposed, it proved easy enough to find John Archer. He was at the third gambling hell Chilton visited, playing fast-and-loose with a roulette table.

  Easily done, Chilton thought, believing he would soon be in possession of his stepmother’s vowel.

  However, due in large part to Archer’s roguish charm and abysmal lack of luck, Chilton found himself acting the part of assistant to John’s impersonation of a highwayman that same night.

  Then, to Chilton’s everlasting dismay, the man Archer chose to rob was Chilton’s oldest friend, nicknamed ‘Squidgy’ in school, and an earl, to boot.

  Thankfully, due to the heavy cloaks both Archer and Chilton wore, they remained incognito. And while this provided a certain solace to him, it nonetheless meant Squidgy felt free to discharge his weapon into Chilton’s thigh.

  And an hour later, Chilton, still deep in a state of disbelief, ended up in a dilapidated inn with Archer acting as his field doctor.

  Chilton awoke the next morning alone, thirsty and streaming with sweat. He turned over in bed, searching for a cool spot, but the twisted, coarse sheets clung to him damply. Unable to sleep any longer, he sat up and unwound the sheet from his waist. His muscles trembled with weakness as he flexed his arms, trying to awaken the life and strength in his body.

  The sun shone with intense brilliance through the single dormer window. It cast the attic beams in sharp relief and filled the room with the scent of hot, raw wood. The very air glittered with heat as sparkling motes drifted through the shaft of light playing over the bare floor and his bed.

  The chamber was already stifling. No cooling breeze passed through the open window to blow away the musty scent of disuse and dust.

  The bed creaked as he shifted his weight, seeking a comfortable spot. He felt suffocated, and even the furniture seemed to crack and splinter in the dry heat. Rubbing his hand over the gritty roughness of his unshaven face, he slumped back against the pillow.

  What was he going to do if Archer decided to leave him to fry like a limp slice of bacon in this barren little room?

  In the last twenty-four hours, he had faced more danger and uncertainty than in his entire career as one of Lord Castlereagh’s special agents. At this rate, he might not live long enough to find Archer again, or retrieve the blasted vowel.

  Shifting on the hard bed, he finally flung the sheets onto the floor. Drops of perspiration stung as they ran down his chest and over his thighs, saturating the lumpy, straw-filled mattress beneath him.

  A hot, languid breeze brushed his cheek as it floated through the dormer window. He stilled and lifted his head, breathing in the fresher scents of sweet hay and pungent horse manure, laced with the scent of overheated horses. Even that slight flick of air brought a small measure of relief.

  He stretched and reached out to grab the pitcher of water left by his bed, drinking deeply. The water was warm and stale, but he emptied it without thought. Even after the last drop splashed over his lips, he still felt thirsty and weak.

  Where was Archer? Would he have to start all over again to find him?

  No matter. He wasn’t going to give up, not if he had to chase Archer the entire length and breadth of England.

  As the morning progressed, he realized something. The vowel might serve as a possible bridge across the chasm dividing him from the rest of the Chichester family. Perhaps it was worth one more effort to try to make peace with his father.

  Then, the soft scrape of a step outside his door made him stiffen.

  Where was his pistol? He glanced around the room before groping along the floor next to his bed. Nothing. His blood-soaked breeches and weapon were gone. Archer had left him virtually naked and unarmed.

  “Chil, my boy!” Archer called as he entered the room.

  Chilton sagged back in relief, catching Archer’s gaze. “Thank God.”

  A wide grin creased Archer’s face the instant before a female’s lilting voice drifted through the doorway behind him. Archer frowned and glanced over his shoulder.

  Chilton grabbed the damp sheet off the floor and pulled it over his chest.

  “Wait there, my dear,” Archer said, blocking the entrance. “I shan’t be a moment. If you would be so good as to return to the parlor and order a luncheon basket to accompany us, I would be profoundly
grateful.”

  “But, who is he? Why must we go? I want to stay in London—” The woman’s voice spiraled upward in pitch as she spoke.

  “Now, Helen, my dear, I shall explain everything. Simply wait for me below.”

  There was a swish of skirts and patter of light feet. Archer waited until the footsteps faded before turning his attention again to him.

  He studied him with uncomfortably sharp brown eyes and smiled.

  “Ah, it is good to see you awake, my boy. We mustn’t tarry.” He held out a fistful of clothes. “My niece, Helen, has found us. I’m afraid my wife has the idea I may get into trouble if left to my own devices in London, so she sends my nieces after me. Be thankful she chose Helen this time. She is as trusting as a newborn pup. She’ll believe nearly anything we tell her.”

  He eyed the clothes Archer held out with disgust. The breeches he wore the previous evening were stained with blood, but at least they were of decent quality. The rough-spun navy trousers and jacket Archer offered him looked like something a common laborer would wear.

  He sighed. What could he reasonably expect? Archer had probably just grabbed whatever garments he could find. And he couldn’t complain when he had already “confided” to Archer that he was down on his luck and anxious to make a bit of the ready.

  As far as Archer knew, he was just a poor soldier, addicted to gambling and not too finicky about where he earned his next guinea.

  Well, impersonating a stable boy couldn’t be any worse than robbing an earl who was one of Chilton’s few remaining friends.

  Gritting his teeth at the pain, he got up with difficulty. Archer offered to assist him, but Chilton waved him off. He moved slowly and carefully, but putting on the loose trousers left him sweating and twitching with agony.

  After fastening the last button, he eased himself down on the hard chair next to the bed. He gripped his wounded thigh and took short, shallow breaths, waiting for the throbbing to subside.

  Archer studied him and pulled a flask out of his breast pocket. “Just a nip, now, before my niece returns.”

  “Thank you.” Chilton took a long pull, concentrating on the sharp bite of alcohol instead of the searing fire in his leg.

  Archer sighed heavily. “These females are a plague upon a decent man’s life, but quite unavoidable. I should warn you to have a care when we arrive in the country, however. My other niece, Oriana, is already at The Orchards.

  “Unlike her sister, Helen, Oriana has an annoying habit of knowing far too much. I’m attempting to break her of this, so don’t encourage her. Never encourage a female. Never.” He shook his head, distracted by his difficulties with his nieces.

  “We’re going to the country?” Chilton asked, trying not to sound like it was entirely the worst idea he had ever heard.

  “Indeed, yes. Since our little adventure injured you, it’s only right to give you a comfortable berth until you heal. The only difficulty shall be to convince Oriana that you are not a rapscallion bent on taking advantage of the family.” He laughed. “You aren’t, are you?”

  “Of course not.” Nonetheless, he felt a small twinge of discomfort. The veracity of his statement rested entirely on the interpretation of “taking advantage.” If that included stealing a falsely obtained voucher, then he had definite plans of a rapscallion nature.

  Therefore, the unknown Oriana might be right about him, and they hadn’t even met yet.

  “I shouldn’t impose.” He fidgeted at the thought of dealing with another member of the Archer family. Miss Oriana Archer sounded a right terror.

  He stood up, and his hands twitched and smoothed the rough folds of the clothes. Then his fingers jerked the lapels of the wrinkled jacket in a useless effort to smooth out the worst of the creases.

  He was dressed like a common criminal.

  Certainly, Miss Archer would see his apparel and any misgivings she had about her uncle’s companion would immediately blossom into full-blown suspicions. And just last night, Lord Horner had twitted Archer about the perspicacious, brown-eyed Oriana. A woman like that would know.

  Chilton could never pull off his mission. He was probably foolish to try at this stage. And he hated lying to a woman. He couldn’t even justify his actions with his usual balm of acting on behalf of his nation.

  To be honest, he wasn’t even sure he trusted his father’s conclusion that Archer had cheated when he got Violet's vowel.

  What if Chilton was, in fact, attempting to steal something Archer had won fairly?

  “It’s not an imposition,” Archer said.

  Chilton grunted and took a wavering step forward, suppressing his doubts.

  “I dreaded spending the next few weeks at The Orchards with no one reasonable to talk to except a brood of chattering females. Your company shall make it tolerable. Now, brace up—there’s a good lad. The stairs are rather steep, but I’ll be right behind you.” He waved at the flask of brandy in Chilton’s hand.

  He studied the doorway, remembering the steep, narrow staircase. The thought of Archer descending behind him didn’t significantly lessen his concern.

  With a fatalistic shrug, he took two more, good swallows. At least the alcohol would dull the pain if he fell. He handed the empty flask back to Archer.

  Archer rattled the container before gazing up at him with a sad expression. “That was the last acceptable brandy I had. I’m afraid the trip may seem rather long without it.” He sighed. “Well, never mind. The gig is waiting in the courtyard. We really mustn’t tarry.”

  “We’re going in a gig?” He couldn’t imagine riding in an open gig when his leg ached with every move.

  “Yes, a gig. I’m afraid that shot going off in such close quarters has damaged your hearing.” He raised his voice and gestured toward the door. “If you would just finish dressing so we may go . . .”

  Wincing, Chilton complied. Then, after a tentative step, he halted. Nausea rose in his gullet as pain shot up his leg.

  Archer, noting his expression, handed him a cane topped with a silver horse’s head. It looked suspiciously similar to the one Squidgy had brandished the previous night, right after Archer had relieved him of his pistol.

  Despite the immediate and uncomfortable sensation of guilt, Chilton took the stick. With a massive effort, he suppressed his physical discomfort and prepared to descend. The silver head of the cane felt cold and slick in his palm, with a handle obviously meant to be more decorative than useful. The horse’s ears stabbed his hand whenever he tried to put his weight on it.

  He shifted his grip on the stolen cane and tried to forget about Squidgy. The next time he saw the earl, he’d hand the stick back with some sort of an excuse. For now, he needed the support—comfortable or not.

  He limped through the door and stopped at the top of the stairs. The narrow stairway looked every bit as steep and treacherous as he remembered. Sunlight streamed over his shoulder, creating sharp, golden edges on the top steps and gradually dimming as the light dwindled into fuzzy gray shadows at the bottom.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” Archer said.

  A petite, fair-haired woman appeared on the landing below. “Uncle John?” she asked, peering up at them.

  “Coming, my dear,” Archer replied. He gave Chilton an encouraging shove. The gesture nearly toppled him down the stairs.

  “Give me a moment,” he replied harshly. He turned sideways and leaned against the wall. Gingerly using the cane to support him, he stepped down with his good leg.

  The blonde woman climbed one step, her face ghostly pale in the shadows below. “Are you coming?”

  “Evidently.” A bead of icy sweat dripped down the side of his face. He wondered if the blonde would be soft enough to break his fall. She looked horribly thin and bony to him and not in the least comforting.

  “Sorry, but we can’t stand here all day,” Archer said.

  “I’m going.”

  He took a deep breath and another step. It wasn’t much easier. He clenched h
is jaw and balanced his weight between the wall and the cane. With intense concentration, he eased down the stairs.

  By the time he reached the bottom, his muscles shook with exhaustion and pain.

  “Excuse me.” Archer brushed past him and edged toward the side door.

  When he reached his niece, he took her elbow and thrust her out the doorway despite her voluble protests. The reason for his quick exit soon became apparent.

  A greasy-faced fat man wearing a stained apron hurried around the corner. Chilton took one look at his coarse face and wished he had managed to escape as quickly as the Archers.

  “Sir!” the innkeeper called, sweating and wiping a grimy hand on his tunic. “The bill, sir, if you please!” He caught up with Chilton and moved swiftly enough to block the door.

  “I—”

  Archer’s head popped through the door. “Come along, Chil.”

  “Not until the bill’s been paid, sir.” The bullnecked innkeeper crossed his thick arms and eyed Chilton with grim determination. “I’ll not wait for six months like the last time you was here, Mr. Archer. Not with the, ah, private-like considerations of last night.”

  Archer made a show of patting his pockets. Then, displaying his empty hands, he smiled at Chilton. “My niece must have my wallet. Chil, my boy, if you would be so good?”

  Fumbling with a leather pouch he’d secured around his waist, he extracted a few coins. As he stretched out his hand toward the inn’s proprietor, Archer reached over and grabbed the money.

  “Thank you, my boy, now kindly join my niece while I pay my good friend, Mr. Wicklow,” Archer said.

  Before he could protest, Archer pushed him through the doorway. Chilton glanced over his shoulder, trying to watch the transaction, but Archer adroitly shut the door in his face.

  Outmaneuvered, he chuckled and tottered toward the gig in the center of the courtyard. He could afford to lose a few coins after winning nearly a thousand pounds the previous night.

  A few yards from the gig, he stopped to catch his breath and rub a sleeve over his eyes. Archer ambled past and climbed into a small vehicle, seating himself on the far side. His fair-haired niece picked up the reins. After whispering to her uncle, she turned to stare at Chilton with a limpid blue gaze that made him wonder if she was quite as hen-witted as she looked.