Counterfeit Countess (26 page)

Frustrated in one ambition, to discover who was bilking the estate, he would not remain bedevilled in the other.

Hovering on the edge of St. Giles, he watched and waited. He wouldn’t go in unescorted, although he’d made a detour to his house to collect the weapons and assistance he required. Pistols and a sword, not usually worn in London these days, but his army sabre not only acted as a deterrent, he felt better with it on. More himself, more the man in control of his own fate. The footman standing in the hall actually widened his eyes when he saw the arsenal his master was arming himself with, but he didn’t comment. By the time he did, if he did, the items would return to their spaces.

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Not that he cared for the opinions of one footman. Except the man was standing behind him now, his fancy livery abandoned in favour of a plain street coat, similar to John’s own.

He reconnoitred the territory, marked it with an eye to retreat and attack and chose a likely spot for his station. The change from respectable to disreputable happened within the space of a few streets, and where they stood wasn’t the most salubrious area. Not the most insalubrious either. But he’d tired of waiting for a result and rather than see Faith threatened again, he’d take the chance.

John had seen the lookouts in the alleys beyond. He waited until someone passed by, clearly headed for the internal part of the rookery. While the man’s coat was torn and filthy, John had still recognised it as army issue. The lower orders tended to wear their uniforms most of the time, as they had little else, and after they left, they kept the habit.

“Soldier!” He rapped out the command, and exactly as he’d expected, the man came to a sudden halt, a movement, he guessed, born of several years in the military.

The man turned, his expression blank. His blackened teeth and face greyed by dust and grime attested to his poverty-stricken situation but he had retained the upright stance of the soldier.

“Sir?”

John had seen worse smiles. Not many, but a few. “I want information. If you can furnish me with it, I can reward you.”

The man remained standing to attention. John recognised the blockish attitude adopted by the serving military man when he didn’t want to answer a question, but didn’t want to be accused of insubordination either.

People stared at them, the woman standing with her back to the monument set at the centre of the road, the one holding seven street signs. She was displaying more of her body than she was hiding. Her sagging bodice failed to cover her equally sagging breasts, her gown torn at the front, open for anyone to view what
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she was selling. Two men stood at the junction of a nearby road, leaning against a house. John wondered if they were holding up the house, if once they moved away, the whole structure would crumble into the street. Someone standing outside a shuttered house in a better state of repair, dressed practically and cleaner than the others present, apart from John and his companion, stared openly. The bully, for so John guessed he was, unfolded his arms and let them hang loosely by his sides in a classic gesture of preparedness.

John forced himself to relax his body and push his head forward.

By his stance he demonstrated he didn’t fear, that anyone coming for him would have to take a beating before he surrendered. Most of these situations were about bravado and facing the opponent down. This was no exception.

He kept his attention on the man three feet away from him, not afraid of the silence, waiting him out. Eventually the soldier cocked his head. “What are you, a recruiting officer?”

John curled his lip in a sneer. “Hardly. In any case I wouldn’t come here for new blood.” He used the word deliberately, saw the man’s eyes register the hint of violence. “I’m looking for a ruffian called Cockfosters.”

“Why not go there, then?” He jerked his head in the direction of the rookery.

“Because I think he’s here.” He didn’t, not for sure, but this den of iniquity was fairly close to the Exchange, where his wife had met his quarry. If he didn’t live here they would know the man well enough to give him shelter. Recognise him as one of their own.

The stink of urine and horseshit rose to cloud his nostrils.

Unlike many gentleman, the odour didn’t bother John overmuch.

He registered it and put it aside as of no interest to him.

“What’s in it for me?” his target demanded.

Tricky. If the men knew how much he had on him, they wouldn’t hesitate to kill him for it. On the other hand, if he stood down, they’d kill him anyway. He’d known worse situations.

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Shrugging his shoulders to loosen them, he took a step forward.

“Five guineas now, another ten on delivery.”

The man snorted. “You want me to deliver Cockfosters to you?

Are you mad or just a fucking idiot?”

An army man for sure from his language. If he’d been more adventurous with his use of curse words, John would have put him down as navy. “I only need to know where he is. You don’t have to tie a bow around his neck.” He paused for effect. “If I want that done I’ll do it myself.”

He felt rather than saw the agitation of the footman at his back.

He’d brought him to run for help if he needed it, not that he’d have much faith in aid coming before they’d killed him. At least his loved ones would know what had happened to him.

This time his subject allowed a smile, one John would try hard to eliminate from his memory. John flipped his coat aside, displayed his sword as if by accident. He kept it in a scarred leather scabbard, one he’d oiled regularly for ease of use. The man glanced at it, then at him. “Don’t matter if you do know. Nothing ‘e can do to me.”

So either Cockfoster’s master or his own would protect him.

John dug in his pocket and produced the money. The gold gleamed, too bright and cheerful for this place. The bully standing in front of the whorehouse took a step forward. John moved to the side slightly, so he had him under observation. “You don’t get it until you’ve told me.”

He didn’t give the man much of a chance, unless he could run fast. The ex-soldier licked his lips, and shot a glance around his field of vision. “’E’s dead.”

John kept his hand open by an effort of will. His mind reeled with the news. He had no reason to doubt this man, because he’d have no reason to lie. Alive, he was worth more. “How?”

“Yesterday. Don’t know what ‘e did, but ‘e upset somebody. Not an accident, not taken. Shot. Found in St. Giles. Probably at the bottom of a night soil cart by now.” He lifted his lip in a dark sneer.

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“Otherwise I’d get ‘im for you and get the rest of the cash.”

Snatching the money out of John’s hand, the man sprinted, the two actions one smooth motion, leaving John stunned in his wake.

But not from the sudden flight.

Dead? He released a long string of curses. The bully, who’d gone back to leaning against the wall, grinned at the language. Probably heard them all and could top them.

Rather than wasting his time swearing, John should get out of here. The others in the area were too far away to have heard everything that passed, but John sensed his time was up. He stopped himself wiping his hand on his breeches. The bystanders might not appreciate the gesture.

The bastard had killed the man he’d paid to attack Faith. Deep down, John knew it. That in his mind skewed the evidence in David Carlisle’s favour, the man, who as part of his job, regularly handled weaponry. John would have loved to know if Cockfosters died from shotgun wounds, the weapon of choice of the hunting set, or a more practical flintlock. Or even one of the new rifles that were becoming so fashionable. As the Earl of Graywood, he owned several sets of exquisite duelling pistols. Not appropriate for serious work, he thought, so he’d left them at home. Pretty enough, but he’d never concerned himself with elegance and prettiness.

Not until he’d met Faith.

He was slowly retreating to the safer areas, although he wouldn’t be out of danger for two or three streets. He had to take the risk of turning his back. He nodded to the bully and glanced at the footman, who for all his size was visibly quaking.

John turned around, waiting for the heavy
thump
in his back that would signify a hit. They felt like that at first, merely a hard push, as if someone had struck him with the flat of his hand. Then the pressure increased and hell happened. For the first second, it felt like nothing at all. He’d only felt that deadly pressure once, but that was one too many times.

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One street, then two. At a measured pace, not looking behind but allowing his man to check. Only when they reached the relative safety of Covent Garden Piazza did he breathe out in relief. “I never want to go there again,” he said, turned around and headed for the West End, quickening his steps to a level that threatened to leave the footman behind. Despite the atmosphere redolent with rotting fruit and vegetables, products of the market that took place here every morning, the air smelled fresh and clean. The faster he walked, the deeper he could breathe, but he’d never get the stink of the gutter out of his nostrils. Like the scent of the battlefield or the aroma of a gentleman’s club after an all-night session, the smell distinctive and memorable. He wished it were not so.

The walk gave him time to think. The man who’d tried to murder his wife was most likely dead, killed by an unknown hand.

It didn’t take a genius to realise that someone didn’t want the man to tell what he knew. Maybe his enemy wanted to remain hidden, and a man as distinctive and with a name like Cockfosters wouldn’t elude someone determined to find him.

It also meant Edward Smith could be in danger. Strange how John didn’t consider Edward a threat, but he did not. His investigations had shown him Smith had nothing to gain from the inheritance except a title, which wouldn’t help him a great deal in his line of business. He owned considerable wealth, his life established and happy. Most of all, the man exuded honesty, and his business dealings were above board and fair.

No, not Edward. He was an ally, if anything. He’d send a message to Edward to lie low until the night of the ball.

John had his proofs, except the attempt on Faith’s life, because he had no doubt now that was what it was. Not an extortion threat, but death, with some greed thrown in. Enslaving her in a brothel would have meant death, by the hand of a violent customer, or disease. If Cockfosters could get something else from her, he would, and greed had proved his downfall, since Faith had got away. It had
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given John, alerted by the footman who’d followed at a distance and kept a discreet eye on her, time to reach her side.

Everything went back to her, to Faith. John took a corner smartly, back to the days when he needed to cover ground quickly.

He wanted to get away from the experience in Seven Dials, preferably change his clothes and wash. Maybe order a bath.

Remove the filth of corruption.

* * * * *

Before dinner, he made a brief announcement to the dowager and her daughters. “We believe we’ve found the heir to the earldom.” He gave a succinct account of the proofs and the history of the man. Faith, standing by his side, as always, greeted the news with a visible sigh of relief. Now the succession didn’t depend on her. John pressed her hand and regarded the dowager with interest.

Her expression didn’t change, but he knew by now the lady was processing what he’d told her. “He’s single, you say?” she demanded.

She’d got that far very fast indeed. Yes, her daughter could do worse. Not that John said it. “He is. He has considerable investments and business interests. In fact, he could give the earldom a run for its money.”

“Is he presentable?” she asked of John.

“He seems a good man, and for better or worse he is the heir to the estate. We have formal applications and confirmations to undertake, but the proofs are so compelling I doubt we’ll have any problems.” By accepting Edward Smith as his heir, he was taking some pressure off her shoulders. The title would live on. “I think it
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best to keep his identity to ourselves for the time being, until we have the proofs legally attested.”

The dowager readily agreed to that.

Edward arrived, dressed impeccably, his manners perfect. The dowager unbent so much as to offer him a gracious smile, before she proceeded to interrogate him on his family and circumstances. She required Edward to take her in to dinner, and he accomplished the feat in stunned silence. By the time they sat at table, his smile resembled a rictus.

One Faith eased by talking to him in a sensible manner, asking about his business and then posing some intelligent but non-interrogatory questions. He answered in such a way as to indicate he had considerable wealth.

“You intend to remain in London, then, sir?”

“Until this matter is cleared up,” Edward answered the dowager, offering a smile. “I have excellent agents and managers, although in the general run of events I prefer to visit my businesses on a regular basis.” He helped himself to the roasted parsnips, which gave him a moment’s respite.

“You do not manage your concerns yourself, then?” The dowager visibly brightened and graciously allowed him to deposit a parsnip on her plate, a sign of respect if ever there was one. A gentleman could have any number of concerns, but it was better if he didn’t have first-hand experience every day. Gentlemen did not get their hands dirty, or ruin the manicures their valets had slaved over.

John suppressed his snort. During the last few weeks he’d met men who answered that description perfectly. He’d soon learned a lack of callouses on the hands didn’t necessarily make a man less able to cope with the more uncomfortable aspects of life.