B006O3T9DG EBOK (62 page)

“Ho, Darcy!” said Sir Henry Howgrave. “I say, have you come to count your money? You must hurry lest they close the doors on you ere you are but half-way done with it!”

With great reluctance, Darcy spoke to Howgrave. He did not, however, inquire after the health of Howgrave’s wife.

Howgrave gushed, “You must come with me tonight. I am to give a talk at Marylebone at half-past seven. I shall speak to the latest outrages in the countryside. I shall have my lovely wife by my side. She makes quite a fuss when she has to forgo one of my speeches. Alistair, that is my secretary, Alistair Reed Thomas, is very good with her for she can be a bit testy. I cannot say enough good about him. He was Wellington’s attaché during the wars.”

Darcy demurred, but did not suggest they meet another time.

Finding no offence at his refusal, Howgrave began upon his way. Abruptly, he stopped and turned about.

Said he, “By the by, did you hear? A man’s murdered body was found behind White’s at first light today. Likely throttled. Are we safe nowhere? Will these rioters not leave gentlemen one inviolable House wherein to be entertained? We shall not be denied. Boodle’s will do. Perhaps you will join us there tonight? No? I understand.”

Darcy bid him good day and did not think again of their conversation. After his business had been concluded, he obtained a newspaper from a street vender. He folded it, placed it under his arm, and did not read it until he reached the solitude of his coach. When he opened it, bold headlines heralded the heinous murder behind White’s. The story related every grisly detail. He did not read it in its entirety. As he began to turn the page, he happened to catch sight of the victim’s name.

It read, “Cyril Smeads.”

That Cyril Smeads had come to an unceremonious end was unsettling. But then, Darcy knew that Smeads was the untrustworthy sort. Perhaps he had betrayed a man of a volatile nature, for the description of the crime suggested it was one of unusual ferocity. Somehow, the matter left him exceedingly uneasy. As he bethought the subject, bit by bit, he was further troubled.

Dead Cyril Smeads, Juliette and her new escort, the illustrious Alistair Reed Thomas.... When it came to him, those revolving thoughts coalesced as it lit by gunpowder.

Reed Thomas. Thomas Reed. The name Wickham had signed to the vellum....

Wickham.

Chapter 82

The Devil & Cyril Smeads

Before the dust had settled upon their arrival in town, Lady Millhouse had Sally perusing Rowlandson’s latest drawings as they were pasted onto the window of the print shop. This proclivity was due less to possible parsimony (they did not come cheap) than her ladyship’s desire to be the first to see his next masterpiece. Sally did not read all that well, it was easy enough to decipher the cartoon’s social comment without making out the captions.

After a good laugh they stopped at the confectioner’s, then on to Berkeley Square. Just that bit of walking on the cobbles made Sally’s feet hurt and she had begun to admire the thought of her ugly, but comfortable boots. Lady Millhouse urged her on, for she had a whim.

“Tomorrow we shall see ‘Gentleman’ Jackson’s boxing saloon. Now, let us stroll down St. James Street. It is the home of a number of men’s clubs and is therefore forbidden to ladies of condition.”

It was as just as her ladyship promised. The windows of White’s bowed outward. The chairs there were filled with snide-looking young bucks, brushed and shined like they were gentlemen. All of them had quizzing glasses and openly salivated at any young lady daring to pass nearby. As Sally and Lady Millhouse passed under their scrutiny, the ribbon of Sally’s new bonnet chafed her and she ran her finger around it to loosen it a bit. Being eyed by young men of the ton (with clean fingernails and dandified airs) made her colour heighten. Lady Millhouse’s contrariness was aroused at the sight of them. She hesitated only in deciding how best to upbraid them. In the end, she let them be, possibly of the belief that she had abused her good name quite enough just being there.

“I would take you inside, but his lordship fears for my safety, the dear man. I do adore him and, upon occasion, abide by his wishes. He belongs to all the clubs. As a man of the hunt, he prefers Boodle’s. Serious gamblers favour White’s. Indeed, they say White’s has never known to blackball anyone.”

Before Sally could protest, her ladyship had a change of heart. She caught Sally’s hand and tugged her towards the door.

She said, “Let’s have a peek. That could do no harm. I care little who mocks me behind my back, do you?”

Giddy by the adventure, they burst through the doors arm in arm—and much to the horror of the troglodytes of the beau monde. Sally knew she looked like what she was—a fancied-up malkin from over the way—and endeavoured not to care about their stares. Lady Millhouse flitted by the young nobs, uninterested in their attention or their opinions. Gaining a seat against the wall, she called out an order of lemonade for them both and looked about the place with great enthusiasm.

She said, “I have no idea why gentlemen enjoy such places. The ornaments are a bit dreary.”

From the window seats came a cacophony of laughter. Amidst the subtle sound of dice, someone made reference to a “horse’s godmother” which begat more giggles. There was little doubt of whom they spoke. Sally was indignant at such effrontery. Her ladyship could be accused of being a bit strong-featured, but for one who enjoyed the outdoors, her skin was unweathered. Indeed, she bore a healthy glow and a firm figure from her time on horseback.

“A bunch of over-bred twiddle-poops,” Sally opined.

“Fops one and all,” agreed Lady Millhouse.

Impatient and thirsty, Sally went to get their drinks for them. This was most likely ill-mannered, but as a servant girl, she felt it well within her domain to do so. As she passed by a man with a tray of drinks, she looked at him twice. His countenance looked quite familiar. When she returned with their lemonades, Sally sat silently sipping the refreshment. As she did, she continued to eye the server.

“Does that man look familiar?” she asked, flicking her head in his direction.

Rather than take a subtle glance, her ladyship turned compleatly about in her chair and pointed, “That one there, dear?”

The man was busy handing out drinks and did not see her. She knew him, however, and had a name for him too.

“He was cast out of Pemberley for gross misbehaviour. Smeads, I believe is his name.”

It was. It
was
Smeads. Sally Frances recalled the first time she spied him. It had been upon her first foray into the land of the gentry. Looking to learn what befell her brother, she had gone to the Darcys’ house in Mayfair and mistook Smeads, a man of considerable pomposity, as the master of the house. He was an oddly constructed little man, nothing less than a lascivious fusspot. Watching him take money from beneath the tables, Sally concluded that he did more than draw drinks for the gentlemen. She could not decide whether to make herself known to him or not.

That decision was made for her as he recognised the lady she accompanied. He gave her ladyship a tight little bow, but nary a peep came from his lips.

———

Indeed, Smeads had nothing to say to Lady Millhouse as she was quite witting of the particular nature of his dismissal. The old boot had some gall to come inside like that. It was obvious the lady did not care if she was deemed a lady or not. She and her little servant girl went on their way directly. She left a penny on the table just to vex him. He tucked it into his waistcoat all the same.

Another table tucked in a corner was filled with men in urgent conversation. From the ribbons pinned to their lapels, some had to be politicians. (When women and politicians came in a place at will, that club was clearly losing its cachet.) Although that sort was a bit niggardly in doling out gratuities, Smeads hurried to them anyway. They were good patrons of the other services he arranged (that of the company of women of the loose-legged variety).

Clean white cloth over his arm, he offered them his ear. In murmuring voices, specific orders were given. With great efficiency, he wrote down the details of the particular trysts he was to arrange. Within moments, Smeads recognised another personage from Derbyshire in White’s. This one he had not seen in years, but as a servant he had kept close tabs on his various (and nefarious) doings.

Indeed, he had been presumed dead.

Always with a
nose-open for a chance of money, Smeads took heed. Any man who was thought to be dead and was not, was begging to be extorted. (Smeads did not make the rules, he merely observed them.) The group was deep with back-slapping members of Parliament. Indeed, Sir Howgrave was a patron of all the clubs. Howgrave called George Wickham, “Alistair.” Smeads was well aware of Howgrave’s questionable lineage. Politics was a filthy business, the perfect place for men of compromised breeding. It was little wonder that Howgrave and Wickham were thick as thieves. Their ilk found their own level.

Smeads waited until their little conclave broke up before daring to speak to George Wickham candidly.

When he first addressed him, Wickham bore that slightly abused expression often employed by the aristocratic when their person was contaminated by lessers. As few gentlemen bothered to look at who served them, he did not immediately recognise Cyril Smeads. With the added bother of having to place a face out of its usual context, Smeads’s identity came to Wickham with surprising rapidity.

“Why, Smeads good man. I thought you were still slaving under the whip of the Darcy family. Did you steal a spoon?” he laughed.

As Wickham spoke to him in a jovial manner, and Smeads responded in a servile fashion, most would not detect the machinations whirling behind each man’s eyes. It would have been a test whose brain had the upper hand.

“Your hair is quite handsome, sir,” Smeads dared to say.

As the son of Mr. Darcy’s steward, Wickham was not Smeads better—at least not originally. Now that Wickham was skulking about with men of station, he had leapt a level or two. Hence, it was a precarious job employing just the correct amount of subservience. But he did. Wickham remained quite friendly until one of his companions called to him to follow them on to their next watering hole. It was Howgrave.

“Alistair,” he called, impatience straining his joviality. “Shall you come with us, or do you prefer your present company?”

“In a moment,” Wickham said.

As everyone knew Smeads arranged womanly favours, their discourse was not suspect. When Wickham was called by another name, the expression upon Smeads face barely altered. (Inscrutability was his particular talent.) The small alteration that did attend his features gave Wickham (who spent his life gauging such variations) a clear edge. Of this, Smeads was unwitting.

He knew only that for whatever reason George Wickham wanted these men (a man of Parliament, two lords, a judge, and a diarist) to believe him to be someone else. To Smeads’s mind, that smelled of money. (Indeed, that which was obtained by exaction was the very sweetest kind.) Smeads, quite obsequiously, bid to speak to Wickham in confidence.

“Let us meet at ten,” Wickham said agreeably.

Wickham’s smile was brilliant. He even twirled his walking stick as he took his leave.

Preparing for battle, Smeads went over what he knew. Wickham was thought to be dead. If he was not, he was to be tried in court for desertion and murder. He was thick with men of means and well-imbedded into a scheme of national importance. Silence would be crucial to him. The only thing left was for Smeads to determine—what price did Wickham fancy his freedom was worth? It would be a matter of successive payments, of course. Blackmail is never a one-time expense.

Smeads retrieved a cigar from his waistband and lit it. Puffing away, he marvelled. What a treat! Two persons of his past acquaintance in one day.
One was just a nothing country lady. The second was to be the plunderer of a thousand pirates. Smeads went out the back, tore off his apron and cast it aside. If he played his hand correctly, he would not be in need that again—ever.