A Wicked Gentleman (11 page)

“It might if I believed it was sincerely offered,” she said.

“Oh, come, Nell.” He took her shoulders suddenly, and his eyes were alight with laughter. “Don't be so niggardly. You know that we were both at fault. I suspect we both have a hair trigger in certain circumstances. Now, cry truce.”

“Let go of me.” She twitched her shoulders to free herself, but his hold merely tightened.

“No, not until you cry truce.”

He watched the annoyance warring with reluctant laughter in her eyes until slowly her mouth curved in a smile even as she twitched her shoulders again beneath his hands. The smile was irresistible. He lifted his hands from her and fleetingly touched the curve of her mouth with a fingertip, a gesture so light it could almost have been an accident. But he saw in the sudden flash of her eyes that she knew it was not.

She spun away from him. “If you'll excuse me, I have matters to attend to in the house.” She began to walk back towards the gate.

“Allow me to escort you.” He stepped up beside her.

“I have no need of your escort, sir.”

“No, but it pleases me to provide it,” he said with an amiable smile. “A pleasant day, don't you think, ma'am? For the time of year, of course. I daresay the daffodils will be out in Hyde Park in a few weeks. Always a magnificent display. Do you intend to stay in town to see them?”

It was so absurdly inconsequential in the light of the last few minutes that Cornelia couldn't help a little bubble of laughter. “I can't imagine an existence so frivolous that watching daffodils bloom could provide the motivation for an extended stay anywhere, Lord Bonham,” she said, trying to suppress the chuckle in her voice.

“So you have no time for frivolity, Lady Dagenham,” he responded, raising a quizzical eyebrow. “Is there no opportunity in the country life for play?”

She looked at him startled. “What makes you assume I live solely in the country, sir?”

He shrugged. “I know through my dealings with Masters that Lady Livia lives in the New Forest. You're her friend…I drew a conclusion. Is it incorrect?”

“As it happens, no,” she conceded. “This is my first visit to town for ten years.” She continued with a sad little sigh, “I fear I live the life of a reclusive widow, Lord Bonham, concentrating on my children and my needlework. We're all three of us country mice. It's to be hoped the diversions of the town don't quite overset us…turn our heads…so unaccustomed as we are to anything beyond the diversions of our rural firesides.”

He looked down at her, and she offered him a demure smile that made him laugh. “Fustian,” he stated. “Utter nonsense. You and your friends are quite clearly more than capable of handling anything that comes your way, as I've already learned to my cost. And while you may well devote yourself to your children, ma'am, I'll lay odds you have a lot more interests than needlework.”

“Perhaps so,” she responded noncommittally, deciding the banter had gone on long enough.

He opened the gate onto the street and stood aside for her to precede him. “Do you and your friends intend to make your mark upon society, once you've established yourselves?”

“We haven't really given it much thought.” She stepped past him, for some reason drawing her shawl more tightly arond her as she did so.

“Then I hope that you do. I hope that we will be able to further our acquaintance.” Solicitously, he took her elbow to escort her across the street.

“The eternal optimist, my lord?” She raised her eyebrows in faint incredulity. “I fear your disappointment.”

“Oh, do you? Pray don't put yourself to the trouble, ma'am. I am rarely disappointed,” he said, delivering her to her doorstep.

“Don't be so sure,” she said softly.

He cast her a quick sideways glance that held amusement and something else…something much more unsettling in its depths. “We shall see.” He raised the knocker and let it fall, before lifting his hat and saying, “I won't trespass upon your time any further this morning, Lady Dagenham.”

He bowed and turned to walk down the steps. At the bottom, he tossed over his shoulder, “Oh, by the way, Nell, my friends call me
Harry.
”

Cornelia entered the house, drawing off her gloves, aware that her hands were shaking a little. Probably the cold, she decided, rubbing them vigorously as she turned towards the parlor. Then she changed her mind and made her way upstairs to her own bedchamber. She caught herself thinking about Stephen, about the morning he left to join Admiral Nelson on the HMS
Victory.
He'd kissed her and held her, and she remembered how she'd clung to him. Had she known then that he wouldn't return?

Was it really three years ago?
Sometimes it seemed much longer, and sometimes as if it was yesterday. But Stephen had never known Susannah. Cornelia thought it likely the child had been conceived the night before Stephen's embarkation.

She went into her bedchamber and closed the door. A fire burned sullenly in the grate, and she bent to warm her hands.
Does Viscount Bonham have a wife?

I
DON'T UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU MEAN
.” The desiccated man behind the desk in the tall house on Gray's Inn Road tapped a paper knife on the scratched desk and fixed a cold-eyed stare on his visitor. “How was it not there, Victor? The English have not had a chance to search for it since you hid it there. We've been watching them as they've been watching us. We know the viscount has tried to get in, and once was admitted for a short time, but not long enough to search for something unless he knew where it was hidden. Besides, they are still watching the house. They wouldn't do that if they had already retrieved it.”

“No, milord. Indeed,” Victor said. “I do not know why it was not where I put it.” He was small, thin, wiry, a man adept at inching through apertures in barely opened basement windows. He twisted his cap in his hand. The gentleman he was facing, one of Fouchet's most trusted lieutenants, was not one to understand, let alone forgive, failure. Victor had failed. The initial theft had been successful, but he had lamentably failed to bring the enterprise to its intended conclusion. His second attempt, which should have been effortlessly accomplished, had ended in a debacle of blunderbusses and chaos.

“Then think,” his interlocutor invited, folding his hands over the paper knife. “It was not where you put it. Why not?”

“Someone must have moved it, milord,” the unhappy Victor said, gazing at the dingy rug at his feet.

“Oh, get out. You're no further use to me.” Milord waved a hand towards the door, and Victor scuttled out of the gloomy chamber, unable to believe his luck. Fouchet, the head of the French secret police, expected his lieutenants to be as ruthless in the pursuit of French interests as he was himself.

Victor's luck was short-lived. He didn't reach the street. The knife found his throat on the dark half-landing leading down to the narrow hall. He felt little, only a fleeting sense of loss before he slid to his knees against the banister.

The man in the gloomy chamber carefully set down his paper knife at the moment the agent paid for his failure. Someone in the house on Cavendish Square had found the tool. The good thing, the only good thing, was that they wouldn't know what it really was. Nighttime raids would no longer work, so he needed a new approach. A way into the house that would seem innocuous.

He reached for a small handbell on the desk and rang it, then reached sideways to fill a goblet from the flask that stood beside it. The scent of cognac perfumed the air as he swirled the contents of the glass, gazing reflectively into the amber depths.

“You rang, milord.” A man slid into the room. Hatched-faced, he was thin enough to throw barely a shadow in the lamplight.

“Yes, Jean.” Milord took an appreciative sip from his goblet before setting it down. “What do we know of the women who've taken up residence in Cavendish Square?”

“We have assembled a dossier, milord, but there's little of interest in it. They appear to have no secrets. If you'll pardon me…?” Jean slipped from the room and was back in seconds with a sheaf of papers. “Will you read them, milord, or shall I give you the information?”

“Give it to me.” Milord waved a hand towards him and picked up his goblet. He listened in silence as Jean described the quiet, uneventful histories of the three women from Ringwood in Hampshire who at present resided in Cavendish Square.

“There must be something…some leverage…someone…” he said as Jean fell silent. He snapped his fingers as he held out his hand for the papers. “No three people have no secrets.” He scanned the top sheet. “Or no three people have no one in their family circle without secrets.” He glanced over the top of the sheet. “Find me something, Jean. Something or somebody.”

“Oui, milord.”
Jean backed towards the door.

“And quickly, Jean.”

“Oui, milord.”
The door closed softly behind him.

The man behind the desk took another sip of cognac, then pulled the lamp closer to him and began to read the papers, a frown of concentration drawing his scant eyebrows together.

 

Harry strolled into Brookes's the following morning. He stopped to exchange pleasantries with a few friends, wandered around the cardrooms, and when he failed to locate his quarry, took his leave. He was taking his hat and gloves from the steward at the door when the duke of Grafton entered from the street.

Hat in hand, Harry bowed to the father of his late wife. “Your Grace.”

The duke's nostrils flared. Deliberately, he turned his back.

Harry looked at the turned back for a second, then put on his hat and strode down the steps to the street. As always in the face of Grafton's cuts, his expression was unreadable. He had cultivated dispassion from the moment of his wife's death as the only way to maintain his honor. Four years ago, after the inquest into Anne's death, which had exonerated him, he had behaved as if the matter was behind him. Grafton's persistent refusal to accept the court's judgment merely made the duke look foolish, to all but the old guard who made up the duke's own family circle. For the rest it suited society to have a short memory, even when a man had lost his only child in somewhat dubious circumstances. There were too many fresh scandals to be played with. Society had lost interest, and the duke was left holding a card that had been long since played.

Except, of course, when it came to the mothers of society's eligible young maidens. The matrons were all smiles to his face but kept their daughters well behind their skirts. Viscount Bonham, wealthy widower in his prime though he was, would never again be an eligible suitor.

Not that he had interest in being so, which was fortunate, he reflected with a grim smile as he turned his steps up St. James's.

He ran his quarry to earth in White's. Nigel Dagenham was with a group of young bucks loudly disputing the results of a cockfight they had seen the previous evening.

“Bonham…come and take a hand.” A voice from a whist table hailed him. “Alistair has deserted the four.”

Harry shook hands around the table but declined the offer. He didn't want to be in the middle of a rubber when Nigel Dagenham left. He strolled around the rooms, greeting acquaintances, drinking a glass or two of claret, and waiting for the party of youngsters to break up.

Nigel was making his farewells to his companions before he became aware of Viscount Bonham. The viscount was standing casually by the sideboard, glass in hand, for the moment alone.

Nigel, on the strength of the viscount's warmth on their last meeting, went over to him. He held out his hand. “Dagenham, sir. I don't know if you remember…”

“Of course I do.” Harry took the hand and shook it heartily. “You're making your way around, I see. Brookes's…White's. Watier's too?”

Nigel flushed with pleasure. “Oh, yes, indeed, Lord Bonham. Lord Coltrain…I'm his guest, y'know…put me up.”

Harry smiled pleasantly even as he thought unpleasantly that Coltrain, when it came to gaming, was a notorious encourager, if not corrupter, of the young, not excluding his own son. But that family could afford it. Could young Dagenham?

“Do you leave now?” he asked with a distinct note of invitation.

Nigel couldn't help but be flattered. Established club members didn't ordinarily pay much attention to novitiates. “Well, yes, indeed, my lord.”

“Then perhaps you'll give me the pleasure of your company.” Harry's benign smile spilled sunshine over the youth. “I'm walking today.”

“Oh, I also, Lord Bonham.” Nigel followed his lordship out onto the street, grateful that he didn't have to explain that he had neither riding horse nor carriage in town. He could have brought his horse from home, but the stabling in London was prohibitive, and he could not expect his host to bear the cost.

“Just Bonham will do,” Harry said casually as they set off down St. James's towards Piccadilly. “So where are you heading, Dagenham?”

Nigel had had no destination in mind, but he was so flustered by the intimacy bestowed upon him that he blurted, “Oh, to visit my cousin, Lady Dagenham. She's in Cavendish Square.”

Harry nodded and cast aside his convoluted plan for oblique suggestions that would eventually have led them to that destination. Dagenham had made it so much simpler. “I believe I made her ladyship's acquaintance yesterday. She was with two delightful children.”

“Oh, Stevie and Susannah,” Nigel said. “Yes, they've all come to town, together with Nell's sister-in-law, Lady Farnham, and their friend, Lady Livia Lacey. They're setting up house together.” Odd that such a nonpareil as Lord Bonham should be acquainted with them though. He asked rather tentatively, “How did you meet my cousin, sir?”

“Oh, by accident,” Harry said carelessly. “I happened to be passing when Lady Farnham's little girl ran from the square garden into the street in front of a dray. I was able to help, and met Lady Dagenham, who was with them at the time.” He shrugged. “I'll accompany you, if you have no objection. I'd like to reassure myself that the child has suffered no ill effects from her adventure.”

“Oh, not Franny, sir,” Nigel said with a laugh. “Nothing upsets that one. A regular scrapper, she is.” Then he recollected himself. “But I'd be delighted if you'd bear me company, sir. I'm sure Ellie would be very happy to give you news of Franny.”

Ellie would provide the entrée perfectly well.
Harry murmured a platitude, then asked what the odds had been on the cockfight Nigel and his friends had been so heatedly discussing.

It was sufficient distraction, and they had reached Cavendish Square before Nigel had completed his bloody description of the battle.

“I own I'm interested to see the house, sir,” Nigel confided as he banged the knocker. “Liv suspected that her Aunt Sophia had been a penny-pinching hermit.”

Harry made no comment but took a step backwards so that he was not immediately visible to whoever opened the door. He intended to ride in on Nigel Dagenham's coattails.

As it happened, it was the rusty butler who stuck his head through the aperture and demanded, “Yes?”

Nigel, not having his companion's previous experience with the retainers, was taken aback. “Lady Dagenham?” he said haughtily. “Is she in?”

“Aye, reckon so.” The man continued to peer through the crack he'd opened.

Nigel was aware of the viscount at his back and wondered what the devil the sophisticated man of the town could be making of this rough reception. He squared his shoulders and said in the same lofty tones, “Inform her, if you please, that her cousin, the Honorable Nigel Dagenham, has come to call.”

The man made no response, merely shut the door.

“What the…?” Nigel reached for the knocker again.

“Oh, he'll come back,” Harry said cheerfully. “He lacks the niceties, I'm afraid, but he does what's necessary in his own good time and in his own inimitable style.”

“Oh. I daresay you encountered him yesterday then?”

That was certainly true, and Harry agreed with a clear conscience. Despite his opinion, however, Nigel loudly plied the knocker once again.

This effort was rewarded in minutes. The door was opened wide and Aurelia stood smiling in the doorway. “Nigel, come in…Nell's upstairs with Stevie, he's just lost his first tooth, would you believe, and he's rather upset…oh…” She noticed Nigel's companion for the first time. The smile that came naturally to her wavered a little with her uncertainty as to how Cornelia would view this visitation. “Viscount Bonham.”

“The very same, ma'am.” He doffed his hat and bowed. “I came to inquire about your daughter. I trust she suffered no ill effects from her adventure with the dray.”

Aurelia, on familiar territory now, laughed. “I don't even think she knew it was there,” she said with a frank smile. “But you're very kind to ask.” She could not possibly invite Nigel in and leave Lord Bonham standing on the doorstep, particularly when his errand was such an impeccably courteous one. Cornelia would just have to put up with it.

“Do come in,” she said, opening the door wider. “Our accommodations are a little primitive, I'm afraid, but we are already making improvements.”

“Good God, Ellie,” Nigel exclaimed as he stepped into the hall and took in the general air of neglect. “What was the old lady doing in a place like this?”

“We don't think she lived in much of it,” Aurelia said, leading the way to the parlor. “Just in here, and her bedchamber. Liv has that now, but it's not really much of an improvement on any of the others.”

The men followed her into the parlor. Harry was familiar with the shabby room. His eyes darted towards the secretaire where he'd disturbed Lady Dagenham at her counterfeit composition. There was no sign today of assiduous correspondence.

“Please, gentlemen, sit down.” Aurelia indicated the only sofa that had relatively intact springs. “May I offer you sherry or Madeira? Nell…” She cast a glance towards the viscount, and continued, “Lady Dagenham…found some forgotten treasures in the cellar.”