Barbara Metzger (3 page)

“What, you think the truth of this morning’s events can topple the government? If Prinny would spend the country’s wealth feeding the poor instead of making a glutton of himself he could be a hero to the common man.”

“We both know that is not going to happen. But think of what a scandal would do for the bill you are sponsoring next month in Parliament, if you are seen as considering yourself above the law. Think of your mother and sister. They will be devastated.”

Ian was thinking of young Renslow’s sisters, and his mother, if he had one. “Yes, I understand. Renslow knows the truth, of course. I shall wait to find out what he wishes said.”

“Your butler told me he is just a boy. How can he understand the ramifications?”

“He is the one teetering at death’s door, the only one who is totally innocent. How can I not respect his wishes?”

Carswell kicked at a footstool. “What a muddle.”

Ian seconded that, but turned for the door. “I have to go, to tell his family.”

Carswell’s already pale face whitened to the shade of his waterfall-tied neckcloth. He swallowed hard, but still offered to go in Ian’s stead.

Ian clasped his old schoolmate’s shoulder. “You are a true friend, but this is something I have to do myself.”

“I understand,” Carswell said, unable to disguise the relief he felt. “I’ll look in at White’s to make sure Philpott gets the story straight, but I’ll stop by later, to see how the boy does. Renslow, you say? Someone at White’s will know who his people are, I am sure.”

“I have an address.”

“Yes, well, I will leave you to it, then. Oh, I did bring back your coat and your Mantons. I left them with your man.”

“You can have the pistols. Take them with you when you go.”

“Really?” Carswell’s eagerness was obvious, though he did say, “I cannot accept them. Much too valuable, of course.”

“They are trash to me. I do not want them in my house.”

“Well, if you are only going to toss them out, I will be delighted to own the things. A prize pair, of course.”

Ian would not have purchased the deadly accurate set otherwise. He would never touch them again, never wanted to see them again. “Enjoy them. I will see you later.”

Carswell walked Ian out the door and to the carriageway under the portico, where Ian’s horse was waiting, along with a coach in case he had to carry the Renslow ladies back to Maddox House.

Carswell shook his hand and wished him luck, then pretended to polish his quizzing glass. “One more thing, old chap. My yacht is in the harbor, ready to sail, if…if the worst happens and you need to leave the country for a bit.”

“You mean if the boy dies and I am charged with his murder and decide to flee rather than face the courts? I pray it will not come to that.”

“Perhaps I’ll stop by St. George’s on my way to White’s, what? Say a prayer and all that. Can’t hurt, I always say.”

“Say two, won’t you? One for Renslow, one for me. Lord knows we both need it.”

*

The Renslows’ house was what Ian had expected: neat but not ostentatious, in a neighborhood whose residences were closer together, far less imposing than those nearer the fashionable districts. The carriages he passed were less highly polished, the horses less well bred.

The first passerby he asked had never heard of the Renslows. The second, an elderly nursemaid with two children in tow, directed him to a place a few doors away. “They’ll be the captain’s kin come to stay. And with himself out at sea.” She clucked her tongue in disapproval. “Not that it is any of my affair, I am sure.”

Ian was sure it was not, but he thanked her and made his way to the modest house she had pointed out. He waited for his carriage to pull up and one of his grooms to jump down to hold his horse before walking up the short path to the door. Yes, a brass plate read: BARNABY BEECHAM, CAPTAIN, HIS MAJESTY’S NAVY. Ian took a deep breath and rapped on the door. Then he rapped again when no one came.

“Hold on there, y’lubberkin, you know I can’t do no jig to the door,” he heard from within just as he was about to knock louder, or knock the door down altogether. “And it’s about time you got back afore I had to tell—”

The door opened. So did a short old man’s nearly toothless jaw. “You ain’t young Renslow.”

Ian surveyed the sorry excuse for a butler. The grizzled relic had a patch over one eye and a hook instead of a hand. Captain Beecham might be with the Navy, but this old salt looked like he’d been a pirate, pure and simple. All he lacked was a peg leg and a parrot on his shoulder. “No, I am most definitely not Mr. Renslow. I am here on his behalf, however.”

“I told them he hadn’t ought to be on a horse. Dangerous beasts, they are.” The old sailor was eyeing the carriage in the nearby roadway. “Brung him home, did you? That Alfie Brown said he must’ve been fine, to walk away. Damn fool thing to do, if you ask me. Should of knowed Alfie’d come back for him with the horses. The nipper’s all right, then?”

“He’ll do.” Ian was not about to discuss the situation with a toothless old tar, and certainly not out on the street where some raggedy mongrel was sniffing at his boots with who knew what intentions. “If you would take my card to the Misses Renslow, I will explain.”

The seaman scratched his head. “Ain’t no Mrs. Renslow. S’pose you ought to talk to Miss Attie, though.”

“Or Miss Roma.”

“You want to talk to Roma?”

“Whichever woman is in charge of the boy.” He frowned and ordered, “Now. She will be worrying.”

The sailor heard that tone of authority, and looked at the card in his hand. “Aye, milord. But she don’t know the boy’s gone missing. Seemed better that way.”

And worse for Ian. What if she were the nervous kind? If there was no mother, the sister might have taken over the role—become doting or domineering, keeping the boy wrapped in cotton wool. After all, young Troy was here in London, tied to her leading strings, not away at school as a boy his age should have been. How could the earl tell a mother hen that her chick was pecking at death’s door? Now Ian was glad for the battered old sailor, who gave his name as Macelmore, or Mack Elmore, and his slow gait down a narrow hall.

The earl would have been happier if the dog hadn’t followed them, still snuffling at his boots and gnarling, making halfhearted attempts at the tassels dangling from Ian’s Hessian boots—or Ian’s legs. The ugly, un-mannered beast must live here, then, which did not speak well for the place being a well-ordered gentleman’s residence. Of course, no gentleman hired a one-eyed sea dog as his major domo, either. When the animal did not obey Ian’s command to stop, to stay, to sit, or to go to the devil, Ian decided to ignore it, concentrating on what to say to Renslow’s sister. “I am sorry” seemed pitifully, painfully inadequate.

He was rehearsing some way of gently informing the poor woman of her brother’s plight, deciding to spare her the worst of it until she had seen the boy herself.
If the servants had not told her about the duel—he would have to speak to that groom, Alfie Brown, and likely pay for his retirement to the West Indies—he would not mention anything but an accident. The longer he could put off telling a loving relation about her kin’s condition, the better.

When they reached a door at the end of the corridor, Macelmore pushed it open without knocking.

The fair-haired woman seated at the narrow dining room table did not raise her head from the newspaper she was reading over her morning tea. “It is about time you returned home, Troy. Breakfast is cold and Mr. Wiggs will be here for lessons soon. Mac, will you bring a fresh pot of hot water?”

Macelmore said, “Don’t need it. The boy ain’t home. This here swell’s come to tell you he’s been shot off his horse. I told you no good would come of letting the sprat ride. Broke his neck asides, for all I know. That fishbait Alfie Brown left him.”

So much for breaking the news gently.

The seafaring butler was going on: “The governor here came to bring the news. Earl of Marden, he calls hisself. Fancy coach outside. And he don’t like dogs.”

Ian liked dogs well enough, hounds and retrievers at the hunt, herders in the shepherds’ fields. He did not like ugly, untrained mongrels of indeterminate ancestry who guarded their houses against gentlemen’s footwear. At least the dog had stopped harrying Ian’s boots to search for crumbs under the table. Macelmore did not stop his introduction, such as it was.

“His lordship ain’t saying much about the nipper, which don’t sound good to my ears.”

Ian glared at the man to be quiet, but since Macelmore was headed toward the teapot on the sideboard, he could not see. The woman gasped and lowered her newspaper, half jumping to her feet, sending her chair clattering back. The dog growled at her, too.

She was small and slight, in a simple round gown, with blond hair trailing down her back. Good grief, Ian thought, clutching his hat and gloves, which Macelmore had never taken from him, the sister was no more than a little girl! Why, she had not yet put her hair up! No mother, an uncle at sea, her brother shot. No wonder young Renslow said she could not stay here by herself, not if Macelmore was any indication of the caliber of servants. But what the deuce was he going to do with a child? How much help or comfort could she be to the wounded boy, besides? And what if she became distraught or hysterical? Ian ran his hand through his dark curls, wondering how much worse this nightmare could get.

He grasped at straws. “Perhaps your other sister ought to be here?”

The young miss shook her head, sending long blond tresses flying, making her seem younger still. “I have no sister. Perhaps you have come to the wrong house,” she said, sounding hopeful.

Her lips were white and her eyes were damp. They were that same turquoise you could see sometimes at the horizon over the ocean on a clear day, the same as Renslow’s, so there was no mistake. Still, Ian asked, “Troy Renslow is your brother? You are Miss Attie?”

She nodded and gave a slight curtsy. “I am Troy’s sister, Athena Renslow. Please forgive my manners, my lord. Won’t you be seated and tell me about my brother. Mac, please bring coffee, and something stronger for his lordship.”

Ian had to admire her fortitude. The chit had bottom, not flying into a pelter or collapsing into a swoon, thank goodness. Once the servant had left the room, she sat back in her chair and waited for him to be seated.

“Please, he is all right?” she asked.

“He is fine,” he lied. “The surgeon has every expectation of a full recovery.”

“Then why is he not here, where we can look after him?”

She was a clever little puss besides, Ian thought, going straight to the heart of the matter. “Why, we did not know his direction at first, you see.”

“He could not tell you?”

Too clever by half, Ian decided, wishing the uncle were home. “There was too much confusion at first, with his groom riding off and all, so it seemed wiser to bring him to my home. He did ask for you there, however, and I came as soon as I could.”

“But you did not bring him home. Why?”

Ian recalled his cousin Nigel’s two children from last Christmas. “Why can’t we swim in the fountain? How come the munitions room is kept locked? Why? Why? Why?” He wanted to strangle Miss Athena Renslow as much now as he’d wanted to strangle the brats then. Why could children not simply accept his word without question? His servants did—his fellow members of Parliament did, by Zeus. He was not about to tell this half-grown female that her brother might die—not until he could place her in the capable hands of his housekeeper. Nor would he let the boy come here to be nursed by a mere slip of a girl and a hook-handed old man. He had not seen any other servants, although he still had hopes for Roma, whomever she might be, perhaps a cousin or a companion. He could only hope. He would get to that in a minute. For now he told Miss Renslow, “We decided that his rest should not be disturbed, once the surgeon cleaned the wound. At least five members of my staff are watching over him. And I brought a carriage to take you to him.”

“I…see,” she said, and Ian was afraid she did. She was making no move to hurry to her brother’s bedside, though, so maybe his reassurances were adequate. She was too busy crumbling toast and tossing the pieces to the dog under the table, another sign of this household’s lax standards. Nor had Ian been offered the dry, stale toast, which would have tasted like manna to his empty stomach. At least she was not asking about the duel.

His relief was short-lived. “Tell me,” she ordered, as if he were not her elder, not a titled gentleman, not in a hurry to get home to the boy and his own breakfast. It would be nuncheon, by now, he supposed.

“He will be fine.”

“No, tell me about how my brother came to be shot.”

Lud, he could use that coffee. Or the something stronger Macelmore had gone to fetch. He owed her an explanation, though. Hell, he owed these children everything he owned and then some. So he began. “Some gentlemen were having a marksmanship contest out at Hampstead.”

“No, my brother is not permitted to ride so far.”

“I tell you, Miss Renslow, we were at Hampstead. How old is your brother, anyway?”

“Fifteen.”

“That explains it. No lad of fifteen years is going to obey petticoat tyranny.” Especially not when the petticoat wearer was hardly older than himself.

She frowned. “Go on.”

“As I said, the gentlemen were firing their pistols and—”

“You were there?”

The chit definitely needed schooling in manners. Ian drummed his fingers on the table. “Yes. The grounds were very foggy.”

“Not too foggy to shoot a target?”

He took a deep breath. “Not that foggy, no. But one of the shots went wide, into some trees. No one knew your brother was riding there. Perhaps he had halted to watch. I did not ask. The first we knew of his presence was when we heard him cry out.”

“Someone shot him?”

“No! We think a ball ricocheted off one of the trees. No one shot him on purpose, you have to believe me.”

“Of course I do. Why would anyone shoot a young boy?”

“Exactly. Anyway, his horse bolted at the sound and tossed him.” Ian was not going to mention the rock that cracked the boy’s skull, or the fall that might have left him paralyzed. Miss Renslow was holding up well for a girl. He would not press his luck. “The groom—Alfie, Macelmore called him—rode after the horse. We had coaches there, however, and a surgeon, so did not wait for his return.”