A Perfect Gentleman (10 page)

Two conversations with the baron and one with her aunt had convinced Ellianne she was better off home. They were intending to see her wed to his lordship, no matter her own wishes. Aunt Augusta was determined to see her niece marry into the aristocracy, with the least expense to her. Lord Strickland wanted to get back the estate he had forfeited years earlier to Kane Bank, lands that now belonged to Ellianne and her sister. Marrying the heiress seemed the quickest, easiest, cheapest way to redeem his property. He seemed to think that slobbering on her would hasten the engagement. Ellianne thought differently, and thought she would be happier at home in Devon, single.

Of course, she was a great deal less experienced then or else she might have been able to discourage the baron's attentions without kicking him in the groin, but so she had. Which was no reason, she felt now, for him to refuse to see her.

She knew he was home that first day. The insolent servant who answered her knock had almost slammed the door in her black-veiled face.

“But I am an acquaintance of his lordship's. He will wish to see me.”

An old hag, accompanied by an older one and a stooped chap who was older than the two of them added together? Country relatives or collectors for charity, he decided on the spot. No, Lord Strickland would not want them in his house, not by half. Kimble's job did not pay much, or often, but he wanted to keep it. “'Is lordship ain't to home.”

Ellianne had seen draperies on the upper level pulled aside when her hired coach pulled up. Someone was there. She took a coin out of her reticule. She almost took the small pistol out, to wipe the grin from the servant's face, but thought that might be premature. She was right. For the glint of gold, Kimble agreed to take her card up to his master.

Lord Strickland could not see her, the man said with real regret, seeing the gold turn to copper. “He is, ah, indisposed.”

“But he is home? We shall wait.” Ellianne handed him two coins, one to tell his master that he had guests, the other to bring refreshments, for her man Timmy needed a restorative.

“Wine will do, my good man,” the old chap said, “and God bless you for the effort and a good year.”

Ellianne sighed and handed over another coin.

Wine and some slivers of toast arrived, but not Strickland. They could hear feet hurrying down the stairs, some muffled shouts, and a rear door slamming.

“I am that sorry, ma'am,” the servant reported, not looking at her, “but 'is lordship was called away on business.”

“I see.”

So did Aunt Lally, whose vow of silence lapsed. “Ran off, did the old bugger? You should have kicked him in the brainbox, Ellianne. Bigger target than his b— Ooph.” Aunt Lally rubbed at her side, where her niece's elbow had connected.

Ellianne held out yet another coin. “What about the lady of the house?”

“There's never been a lady in this house, not since I came, ma'am. Some of the other sort, but none you'd be a-wishing to meet.”

“Now? Is Lord Strickland entertaining any female company? Did anyone leave with him, or is there a woman still upstairs?”

The baron's man eyed the coin. Lud, the master would have his hide for sure. Kimble was torn between fealty to the gent who paid his pitiful pittance of a wage, or another coin to join its jingling fellows in his pocket until he could get to Sukey Johnson's rooms. Loyalty might have stood up to greed, but not when lust entered the lists. “No, he ain't brought no fancy piece here in an age. Why sup at home when the menu somewheres else is bigger, better, and changes every night?” He licked his lips, thinking of Sukey Johnson's tender morsels.

Ellianne was really tempted to use that pistol—on Strickland or his man, she did not care which. She handed over a last coin instead. “This is to see that your employer gets my message. I would like him to call on me in Sloane Street. At his earliest convenience, is that clear?”

It could not be clearer, nor could Strickland's guilty conscience. He had not called. Nor had he answered the notes she sent 'round. Why would the man refuse to see her if he had nothing to hide? He could not still be angry over that kick, could he? After all, if he were still visiting houses of accommodation, he could not have been permanently discommoded.

This time Ellianne and her aunt took two footmen, determined to gain entry by bribes or by brawn. The knocker was off the door, however, signaling that Lord Strickland was out of town, out of range of her questions. No one answered the door, no servant to bribe, not even a caretaker.

“Limp-rod loped off,” Aunt Lally said, and Ellianne did not have the heart to chide her for the language.

She went home and sent for Mr. Lattimer, the Bow Street man she'd hired to find Isabelle. Now she wanted him to locate the baron too.

He was not encouraging. With no crime committed, he could not get warrants and such. Not to investigate a titled gentleman. Everyone knew Bow Street's funding depended on the votes in Parliament, votes by other gentlemen who considered themselves and their cronies above the law.

“But he is guilty of something. I know it,” Ellianne insisted.

Lattimer would ask around. That was all he could do, no matter how much of a reward Miss Kane promised. As a young, ambitious man, there was nothing Lattimer wanted more than to please his employer. Finding a lost heiress would be a feather in his cap and a promotion in his career, to say nothing of the blunt in his pocket.

He was not quite ambitious enough to think that Miss Kane's gratitude, if he found her missing sister, would extend to more than pay and praise. But he could hope. For now he was nothing more than a hired investigator, paid to make inquiries without making a byword of Miss Isabelle Kane's name. Why, he was not even supposed to tell anyone the identity of his employer. His superiors knew, of course, but they did not want her presence in London spread through the newspapers, either, for fear they'd have another abduction on their hands. Bad business, they said, when rich young women were not safe in the streets. Another kidnaping would prove their uselessness.

Of course, none of his superiors believed the girl was stolen from her home. A ransom note would have been received long ago, or a tearful bride would have been returned from Gretna Green, with a new husband ready to claim her dowry. They did not believe she was dead, either, or they'd have found a body.

No, what Lattimer's bosses thought, and what he was tending to believe, was that the young woman, barely nineteen, had run off with a gentleman of whom her aunt disapproved. They'd fought, the aunt died, the girl ran into the arms of her lover. Now she was hiding, and would not be found until she was deuced well ready—or until a bright, talented investigator outsmarted her.

The problem was that Lattimer could not get to speak with the young ladies Miss Isabelle might have confided in. He could not question the matrons who might have noted her dance partners. He could not ask the gentlemen at White's if one of them had an heiress stashed in his attics. Hell, without the proper papers, he could not get past the door of White's or into a lady's drawing room. Without a body, or evidence of a crime, he could not get those papers.

Stymied, that was what Lattimer was, and more disappointed at disappointing Miss Kane than anything.

“I am sure you are doing your best,” Ellianne told the earnest young man who was flipping the pages of his daybook over and over, as if he could find answers at the next shuffle. He was near her age, with thick brown hair and ears that only protruded a bit more than they should. He was polite and intelligent, neatly dressed and hardworking, the kind of man she would have welcomed at the bank. The problem was that Lattimer's best was not good enough.

Isabelle could be held captive somewhere. She could be stranded in Scotland. She could be on a ship bound for the white slave trade! Ellianne had to find her. She'd promised her dying mother to look after the baby, and she had promised her dying father to keep his beloved little girl safe. She had worked so hard to keep Isabelle's fortune protected from unscrupulous trustees, to keep Isabelle herself protected from unworthy suitors. The nine years between them might have been nineteen, so careful was Ellianne of Isabelle's health and happiness. Why, she had even urged the girl to accept Aunt Augusta's invitation, so that Isabelle might see more of society, in case her future lay in that direction.

Ellianne herself was nearly as disdainful of the idle upper class as Aunt Lally was, but she would not have discouraged Isabelle from marrying a title, not if the man was a true good and gentle man and their affections were truly engaged. The fellow would be the father of the nieces and nephews Ellianne was eager to dote upon, so she would come to love him too, for her sister's sake.

That man, whoever he was, would not have been cad enough to run away to Scotland with Isabelle. No, Ellianne would not believe that her sister was staying away out of choice, not without telling Ellianne. That was too cruel. Isabelle was as selfish and spoiled as any wealthy miss of nineteen years, but she was never mean. She loved her older sister, and knew that Ellianne loved her.

Ellianne would not believe her sister dead, either. After all, Isabelle had sent one water-stained, illegible letter—from who-knew-where. No, something was wrong, terribly wrong, and something had to be done about it. Ellis Kane's daughter had not been raised to sit back and let others take charge, or wait for them to act. Hadn't she dismissed those embezzlers at the bank and increased its holdings threefold herself, until she could hire responsible managers? Hadn't she started that school where poor girls could learn to sew and cook, as well as read and write, so they could make something of their lives? She might not have built the structure with her own hands, by heaven, but she had made sure the thing got done. She'd hired the best architect and the best brickworkers. She'd found the most accomplished, dedicated instructors for the school and the most astute, honest financiers for the bank.

Then as now, if she could not accomplish her goals herself, she would hire the best man for the job.

Chapter Eight

Ellianne decided to sleep on her decision. The problem was, she couldn't sleep. She was in a strange bed in a strange house, and she was about to entrust herself and her sister to a strange gentleman. Not that Lord Wellstone was peculiar; he was simply unknown to her. And she could not help still feeling intimidated by the viscount's physical appearance, his air of assurance, those smiling blue eyes that might be laughing at her, even as he took her money.

On the other hand, he needed her money. Knowing his motives was almost as much protection as the pistol under her pillow. She was paying the piper; therefore she was calling the tunes. She would not be taken in by Wellstone's charm, but she would demand his loyalty. She'd have to make that clear. And the need for discretion. And speed.

She got up to make a new chart. If she was going to deal with Lord Wellstone, it would be on her terms, all business, like at the bank. When entering into a transaction, one listed the clauses and provisions so both parties understood the agreement. Just so would she spell out the conditions of Wellstone's employment. That way, she felt, she would be treading familiar ground, instead of hurtling into the unknown.

On one side of her paper she listed the duties she expected his lordship to perform. On the other side she wrote what seemed fair compensation for his time. Of course, she could not put a monetary value on loyalty, but introducing her to girls of Isabelle's age could not take a great deal of effort on Lord Wellstone's part. Helping her break into Lord Strickland's house might be a bit more difficult.

She tallied the sums instantly in her head, as always, then retotaled the column. Now she was satisfied with her calculations and efficiency, confident that Wellstone would recognize her as a creature of logic and maturity instead of the blithering ninny of their first meeting. Then she reminded herself that she was the one in charge. He would be working for her, not doing her favors. It should not matter what he thought of her.

It did. She climbed back into bed, mentally writing the note asking him to call in the afternoon, so she had time to wash her hair. She planned what she would wear when he arrived, and what to have Cook serve. There. Now she could face Lord Wellstone with poise and dignity.

And shadows under her eyes. Ellianne still could not sleep. She tossed and turned for hours, it seemed. Then she took the pistol from under her pillow and placed it on the night table.

She awoke early, long before Aunt Lally arose, and composed her note, at least five times. She had to admit that she was reconsidering hiring Wellstone, but not that she was desperate for his assistance. When she felt she had the right tone, not too imperious, not too humble, she enclosed the same check, then affixed her seal.

Having inquired when she wrote the first letter, Ellianne knew that Timmy would have to send a footman across the square and over a few streets. The day was too young to have her messenger wait for a reply, though. Goodness, if Wellstone was like other London gentlemen, he would not be out of bed yet. He might not have returned home from his evening's revels until a mere hour or two ago. Ellianne could have to wait for hours for a reply, unless he simply appeared at her doorstep again. Or simply did not answer. After all, she had rescinded her offer of employment. Perhaps he had taken another post.