Barbara Metzger (13 page)

“The country?”

“Why, yes, for if every other young man in your position were as noble and as brave, the world would be a far different place.”

Less populated, at least. “Then you don’t think I’m dicked in the nob?”

“Not at all. Other men in your situation would have retreated from society, grown bitter—”

“And blind.”

“Blind? Your eyesight was affected, too? You poor, poor man.” This time Kathlyn walked into his embrace, and this time Courtney made sure she figured out the proper responses, even if her conversation was as queer as Dick’s hatband.

* * * *

“Are we going in?” Ripken wanted to know.

“What, interrupt a toff in his tupping? The swell’s a viscount, you noddy; he’d be waiting on the governor’s doorstep tomorrow morning, demanding our heads. You’d be searching for stolen cows out to Cornwall, and it wouldn’t matter that you are ‘is nibs’s nevvy.”

The two were in the hired hackney, a few doors from where Miss Partland and her paramour had left their carriage. They also happened to be a few blocks from Dimm’s own house, so he was in an expansive mood, having ridden home at the government’s expense.

“I say we go roust them out and search for the jewels.”

“She weren’t wearing them, that was for sure. And any thief as clever as Miss Partland would be too downy to stash the goods in her own mattress. ‘Sides, we ain’t got a warrant, or did you forget about the law already?”

“So we’re going to let her get away?”

“Our kitty ain’t going nowhere, not with the bed of catnip she’s found for herself. She’ll be here in the morning, after you get us a writ to search the premises. You go along now, take the hackney out of here. I’ll bide over to the corner a spell just to make sure, then walk on home. Won’t get her spooked or nothing, iffen she notices, which I doubt, Miss Partland being otherwise occupied.”

Ripken watched the silhouetted couple kiss in the sheer-curtained window. He grinned. “Turning into a Peeping Tom in your dotage, eh, old man?”

“Refreshing my memory, is all. Now get on with you afore someone in the neighborhood looks out to see why our cab is still here.”

After Ripken left, Inspector Dimm crossed the street and lit his pipe. He stood in the shadows puffing, thinking, maybe even remembering nights when he had more to go home to than his cat. So he saw that second, longer, embrace, when a pigeon feather couldn’t have slipped between the two lovers. And then he saw his lordship leave, limping down the street.

“Gorblimey, the bloke’s attics are to let.” Dimm didn’t think any red-blooded—or blue-blooded—gent would let a sore leg keep him from that beauty’s bed. He scratched his head.

There’d been odd stories about this lordling circulating around Bow Street once Chase was identified as the chit’s protector, but no one put much stock in the prattle. The viscount was a decorated hero, with no other hint of scandal except a broken engagement. ‘Sides, Dimm had seen that kiss. Lord Chase’s limp hadn’t shown there, nor any limp wrist. No, the Runner’d go bail his lordship’s leg was the only thing not working properly. And maybe his brain box.

* * * *

He was a Bedlamite. He had to be, to walk away like that. Blast it, though, Courtney thought, he wouldn’t patronize the boudoirs and bordellos; he sure as hell wasn’t going to start debauching innocents. He hadn’t even made love to his own fiancée, for which he daily gave thanks since he’d have found himself honor-bound to marry the jade willy-nilly. Miss Partland couldn’t drag him to the altar, didn’t have a papa with a pistol, but she was a decent girl who deserved better.

She was also upstairs in her bed, crying her eyes out over what could never be. Being thrust out into the world hadn’t disconcerted her, sharing a coach seat with a dead man hadn’t discomposed her, but yearning for the unattainable just might destroy her.

Courtney couldn’t sleep either. He got out of bed and read a journal. Then he poured himself a drink. Then he wrote some notes for his estate manager. Then he decided that celibacy was for saints. If God had wanted Courtney Choate to be chaste, He wouldn’t have put creatures like Kathlyn Partland in his path. So Courtney set out, at two in the morning, to end a lifetime’s loyalty to the woman who would someday become his wife, whoever she might be.

The hired coach was halfway to an elegant establishment that catered to the most discriminating clientele when Lord Chase rapped on the roof with his cane and directed the jarvey to deliver him to White’s. One more day. He’d try to get through one more night. To do it, he didn’t want to see a woman, hear a woman, or smell a woman. Lily of the valley, he thought Kathlyn used. Damn.

White’s wasn’t very crowded, not on the night of the Paphians’ party. Every member so inclined was somewhere enjoying the tidbit he’d selected from the bachelor fare on display in the Argyle Rooms. Half might still be in the Argyle Rooms, for all Courtney knew, passed out under the punch tables or coupling in dark corners. Happily, he’d taken Kitty out of there on the stroke of midnight, before the serious business of pleasure began.

Courtney was surprised to see his friends Woodbury and Lowe playing dice at White’s, but not as surprised as they were to see him.

“Devil a bit, old man, how could you part from that angel so soon?” Algie wanted to know, and Woody fervently declared, “Miss Kitty couldn’t need her beauty rest. She’s already got every other female beat to flinders. Algie’s been buying the rounds on his winnings.”

“You mean you put money on Miss—on Kitty? Blast, she’s a woman, not a racehorse! Just because she showed up at the Argyle Rooms doesn’t mean she’s a commodity.”

“No reason to get in a snit, old man, no disrespect intended. I was betting on you, your taste, anyway, not the lady. You didn’t let me down Court, knew you wouldn’t. Have a drink on me.”

Another man at the table snickered. “Perhaps the viscount let the doxy down. He couldn’t have tired her out already.”

Lord Chase took his quizzing glass from his pocket and polished it carefully before holding it to his eye to inspect the insect who’d spoken. “Jepperson, is it? I suggest you crawl back under your rock. I can ignore your slurs on my manhood because I don’t have to prove anything to the likes of you. I didn’t notice you leading any charges at Coruna or Oporto.”

An officer in scarlet uniform had also been casting the ivories. He stood and shouted, “Hear, hear! Honor of the regiment.”

Courtney shoved the lieutenant back in his seat before he fell down. “As I said, Jepperson, your opinion of me matters less than nothing. I shall not, however, tolerate your aspersions on Miss Parke. The lady”—he emphasized
lady—
”is a very good friend of mine.”

Woody jumped up. “And mine.”

“And mine,” Algie chimed in. “Kitty’s a right ‘un, with more sense than my own sisters.”

Lieutenant Hydock stood up again. “Any friend of Captain Choate’s is a friend of mine,” he said, one hand on his dress sword, the other on a bottle of port. “Best damned officer in the cavalry.”

Not yet recognizing his imminent demise, Jepperson took another mouthful of brandy and sneered. “What kind of lady goes to the Cyprians’ Ball?”

A friend of Jepperson’s added, “What kind of man turns his back on a prime article who does?”

They were all thrown out of the venerable club for brawling, which at least released some of Courtney’s pent-up energies and emotions. The three friends, along with the lieutenant, stood on the walkway trying to decide which less reputable gaming establishment to patronize next. None of them was ready for home and bed, not with victory—and brandy—coursing through their blood. While Woody and Hydock argued the merits of the Coco Tree or McAlpin’s, Courtney asked Algie what he’d been doing at White’s. “I thought you were leaving the ball with that blonde.”

Algie shrugged. “She didn’t look so pretty in better light. And she didn’t seem so attractive after seeing your, ah, lady friend, either.”

So Woody pulled out a flask and they all drank a toast to Kitty, who was safe in her virginal bed, crying her eyes out.

Chapter Fourteen

At least there was ice. The damned winter weather was good for something. As they walked, the four men gathered up handfuls of slush and broke off icicles from the eaves and fence grilles where the melting snow had refrozen. They wrapped the stuff in lace-edged, monogrammed handkerchiefs, and applied it to Woody’s swelling eye, Algie’s split lip, Courtney’s bloody knuckles, and the lieutenant’s nose, which they did not think was broken. The other patrons of Hamlet’s gave the quartet a wide berth except for a red-haired serving girl with half-unlaced bodice who came to ask their pleasure. She addressed all of them, but looked only at Courtney.

“He’s already had his fill for the night,” the lieutenant slurred. “Broke m’beak provin’ it. My turn.” So the wench took Hydock upstairs, to tend to his poor nose and his purse.

The viscount was aggravated. He’d wanted male companionship, not reminders of male concupiscence. He hadn’t wanted to come to any place so inauspiciously named as Hamlet’s anyway, having had quite enough of that to-be-or-not-to-be folderol.

  “It ain’t that kind of Hamlet,” Woody urged. “Used to be called the Pigsty, but no one wanted to eat in such a place. You’ll see.”

What the viscount saw was a narrow corridor with a long wooden bar to one side, low-ceilinged and smoke-filled. What he heard were squeals and grunts from the room beyond. Wallowing indeed. Still, he followed his friends through the curtained door.

It really was a pigsty. There were tables and chairs where customers ate and drank, but there was also a pen full of piglets to one side, and a large barricaded dirt oval in the middle.

They took a table and gave their orders to a big, cauliflower-eared man in a dirty apron, who glared suspiciously at their bruises.

“No trouble,” he warned, “no credit, and no one messes with the pigs. We run an honest track here.”

“Never tell me they race the creatures,” Courtney said when the fellow left after seeing their blunt. “Pigs?”

Algie was enthusiastic. “Why not? They give them names, dress them in coats with numbers on them, take bets, and send them ‘round. There’s a bucket of mash at the other end, so the little porkers are eager to run. The winners get better odds the next heat, and the losers—” He picked up a pork chop from his plate and shrugged. “Not much different from horse racing.”

“Of course it is! The sport of kings has decades of breeding going into each horse, track records, practice times. Why, picking a winner is a regular science.”

“Not the way we manage to lose. If it weren’t for the pater being so generous, my pockets would be permanently to let. Woody’s got his aunt Aurelia to keep him out of River Tick.”

Courtney shook his head. “It’s no wonder you’re always dipped, the way you two nodcocks will bet on anything. But this, this is picking a pig in a poke. Literally.”

Woody was staring at the chalkboard, his mouth hanging open. “They’ve got names, Court.” He fished in his pockets, pulling out his watch, a snuffbox, a bit of broken harness, coins, and calling cards. “I know I wrote it down, damn it. What did she say?”

“Are you sure you don’t need a physician, Woody? Maybe that blow to your head ... ? Only a blackguard like Jepperson would have picked up the chair that way.”

“Your lady friend, you dolt! Madame Katerina picked the winners for me.”

“You really are delirious, you know. Kitty can’t tell the future any more than these pigs can fly.”

But Woody’d found his note. “The fastest, the luckiest, gold and scarlet.” He scrutinized the entry board even harder. The piglets for the first race were Sir Roger, Skytrotter, Pinky, and Master Speed. Master Speed won, of course, as did Lucky Bedeviled in the next race. Brass Knuckles won his heat, in his gold silks, and Sower Cherry hers, in red. Woody had a pile of coins and bills in front of him, and a fervid gleam in his one open eye.

“Epsom, Court. You’ve got to bring Kitty to Epsom. She’ll make our fortunes, I know it.”

“Don’t be a clunch. It was sheer coincidence. I swear to you, Kitty can’t pick winners.”

“Picked you, didn’t she?”

Which left Courtney with nothing to say but that ladies didn’t go to Epsom.

“No offense, old man,” Algie put in, ready to duck under the table if Courtney came up swinging, “but ladies like m’sisters don’t go to the track. Ladies like Miss Kitty do. ‘Struth.”

Blast! Courtney couldn’t claim that Kitty was as pure as the driven snow, not after dragging her through the mud of London’s demimonde, and not after using her to establish his reputation as a premier rake.

“If you want, I’ll invite that blonde along so Miss Kitty won’t feel so alone.”

Miss Partland sharing a carriage seat with a two-bit Haymarket whore? Courtney choked on his sliced ham. “Sorry, we have other plans.”

“Well, change ‘em.” Algie slapped him on the back, a trifle harder than necessary. “It ain’t as if you’re taking her to meet your mother or anything. We need her, Court. Quarter day’s a long time off.”

“No, I’m sorry to disoblige, especially after you took on half of White’s for me, but it’s just not possible. I, uh, have commitments with my man of business. Investments, don’t you know. Interviewing a new steward for the property in Derby, and, yes, an appointment at the War Office. Can’t miss that, or they’ll take back my medals. Mean to put in a good word for Hydock while I’m there, too.” He wiped his brow.

Algie and Woody were convinced—that the viscount couldn’t go to Epsom with them. “We’ll take Miss Kitty ourselves, then. Only be gone a few days and you’ll hardly notice, you’re so busy. Wouldn’t want her to sit around Town by herself, would you?”

“I swear to take as good care as if she were one of m’sisters, so you don’t have to worry she’ll take up with some other chap.”

The viscount was so outraged, he was sputtering: “You ... you henwits are suggesting taking Miss ... my mistress away with you?”

“Devil a bit, old man, no need to get in a pucker. We only want to borrow the chit for a few days. Bring her right back, all safe and sound, ‘pon rep.”