Discreet Young Gentleman (27 page)

He trudged over to the Essex to leave the message, then found Erich at the stable and told him they were going to London. His coachman looked curious at the change of plan, but just nodded, telling Dean he would come by shortly for him and Mr.

Black.

Dean shook his head. "Nein. Wir gehen ohne Herrn Black."

"Ohne Herrn Black?" Erich studied his employer's face. "Ich mochte ihn."

"I liked him, too," Dean muttered. "But he's gone. Er ist weggegangen."

By the time everything was packed and loaded onto the carriage, it was already midday. Dean scowled at the sun, high in the sky. They wouldn't make London tonight, nor probably even tomorrow. Not in this lumbering old coach, with a single pair of horses. If it weren't for Erich, he should purchase a seat on the Royal Mail coach and be in the city in less than a day. The Mail was an uncomfortable means of travel, but it was damned fast.

Not that his own carriage was all that fine a ride, he thought later, jouncing over the cobbled streets of Bath. Rob's company had made the long journey bearable, even amusing. Being rattled about was no hardship, when one had someone so easy to talk to. So pleasant to listen to, so fine to look at... Dean stared out at the perfectly adequate scenery passing slowly before his gaze, despising the view because it wasn't what he longed to see.

Thanks to the return of torrential rains that night, it took more than three weary days for Erich to drive the borrowed nags to London. Three sleepless nights in modern, ghost-free coaching inns, noisy with non-stop arrivals and departures at all hours, many heralded by the blowing of tin horns. Unappetizing meals picked at in the company of strangers, chattering tiresomely about the latest on-dits:

"Did you hear about Lady Willsborough's little problem?"

"Of course, since Beau shaved his, no one's sporting mustaches anymore, my dear..."

"Cases and cases of the finest porcelain, and not a plate broken!"

"Divorce is in the air, and if it isn't a crim-con matter I'll eat my bonnet."

"Can you imagine being shipwrecked for three years?"

Dean nodded over his plate, all the gossip fusing together into a half-dream in which a mustachioed Lady W. ended up castaway on an island with Beau Brummell, hurling porcelain plates at his head.

They arrived in the metropolis on Sunday evening, he and Erich nearly as exhausted as the overstressed pair of horses. The city was uncharacteristically quiet this time of year. The social whirl of the Season had ended two weeks ago with the opening of grouse hunting, the ton retiring to their country estates to shoot, or repairing to the resort towns of Brighton and Bath for recuperation. In their absence, many of the tradesmen who depended on the upper classes for custom were also on holiday. Dean scowled to himself, hoping at least some of the wealthy Cits were still in residence. He might have had a better chance, in late August, of finding a middle-class heiress in Bath.

With London so depopulated, it wasn't difficult to find a room in a satisfactory hotel. Dean unpacked enough items to see him through the night, then went to check to see that Erich was comfortably lodged. Tonight, there were no other grooms, coachmen or valets sharing the servants' quarters of the hotel. Erich had chosen the best bed in the dormitory, and assured his employer that he was quite contented.

"Gute Nacht," Dean said, turning to go.

"Herr Graf?" Erich sounded hesitant, and when Dean looked at him, the coachman was staring at the floor. "Herr Black—sein Bruder."

Rob's brother. Dean took a cautious breath. "Ja?" "Es ist traurig, jemanden zu verlieren."

God, help him follow this. 'Traurig' was sad, he knew that. 'Verlieren,' to lose? Sad to lose someone. Dean felt at a loss, conscious that whatever he said in response might prove to be very, very important. It should be Rob here, with his verbal facility and sense for the right thing to say. If he bungled it...

Dean swallowed. "Ja, Erich. Es ist traurig." He flipped through the pages of the dictionary, seeking the right word. "Fast unertraglich." Almost unbearable.

Erich looked up, touched the scar at the corner of his mouth. "Manchmal passieren einfach schlimme Dinge." Bad things happen. He smiled sadly. "Gute Nacht, Herr Graf."

"Gute Nacht." Dean second-guessed himself all the way back to his room. Had he been too cautious, or did he say the right thing? Should he have pushed a little further, asked Erich if he'd ever had a brother himself? Once again, he longed for Rob, to talk this over with him. Despite the relative quiet of the hotel, compared with the cacophonous posting houses he'd spent the past few nights in, Dean couldn't sleep.

Worrying about the future. Wondering where Rob was that night. Wishing that gorgeous, compassionate man were here, curled up in bed next to him.

It was a long night.

In the morning, Dean rose from his inadequately-populated bed to face the dawn.

He bathed fastidiously and shaved meticulously, grimacing at the bruise around his left eye, which had mellowed from its original glaring purple to a ghastly yellowish-green.

Not a face to inspire passion in sweet young heiresses, nor compassion in bank managers. His first stop, he'd decided around three a.m., would be to throw himself on the mercy of the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street, the venerable Bank of England. It had looked after his family's interests for over a hundred years, which had to count for something.

Still, Dean was not confident of his chances of success, facing a stern-faced guardian of the bank's assets less than an hour later. Out of respect for his title, he had secured an appointment at once, and with an upper-level employee. The bank officer was not forbidding, but his visage spoke of years of shrewd dealing and hard decisions.

Dean took a swallow from his tea, provided by an efficient and silent underling, then set the cup aside. "The truth is, Mr. Tyler, I'm in need of a great deal of money.

Quickly. I was hoping some sort of mortgage arrangement might be possible."

The bank manager steepled his fingers, not quite frowning. "More funds than you have on account with us at present?"

Dean took a breath, hands gripping the smooth polished arms of his chair. "A great deal more, I'm afraid."

"I see." Mr. Tyler looked like he did, too. "May I require as to the necessity for such funding?"

A slow flush suffused his face. "I owe a gentleman a gambling debt."

"In the amount of...?"

"Ten thousand pounds."

Mr. Tyler remained still, regarding Dean thoughtfully. At last, he reached out for a small silver bell that was sitting on the corner of his desk. Its tones rang clear, soft and true, and within seconds the same young assistant who had brought the tea was standing by his side. "Wilmington, bring me the most recent correspondence concerning Lord Carwick's account."

The young man bowed and withdrew, reappearing nearly at once with the desired object.

"That will be all, Wilmington." Mr. Tyler placed the folder neatly in front of him on the richly-colored cherrywood desk, but didn't open it. "My lord," he said when they were once again alone, "for future reference, the Bank rarely covers gambling debts. Payment is too uncertain, and the risk of reoccurrence far too high."

"Of course, Mr. Tyler." Dean rose, trying to keep dejection from his voice. "I'm sorry to have taken your time."

The banker raised his hand. "Wait, my lord. I may not be able to grant you a mortgage, but I can set you straight as to a certain misapprehension you seem to be holding. Please sit."

Dean resumed his seat.

"Our records show that one week ago, you had funds deposited with us in the amount of two hundred and thirty pounds, give or take a shilling or two." Mr. Tyler displayed no need of verifying this information by looking within the folder.

"Yes, I know, I..." Dean trailed off, and Mr. Tyler politely gave him a moment to resume the thought before speaking again.

"Today, however, your available funds amount to some thirteen thousand, seven hundred and ten pounds. You have no need to borrow to cover the sum you mentioned."

"Thirteen—but that's impossible!" Dean shook his head. "There's some sort of mistake, Mr. Tyler."

At last the banker deigned to retrieve a sheet of paper from the Carwick records, handing it across the desk. "A gentleman who owed you some money deposited ten thousand pounds on your behalf on Friday afternoon."

Dean, his hand shaking, scanned the paper quickly, recognizing the carefully-calligraphed script. Friday. He and Rob had parted on Thursday morning: Rob must have taken the Mail to have arrived in London so quickly. Except, of course, the name on the document was something very different. "Adalbert," he said, mouth curling in a reluctant smile. "Well, I'll be damned." His eyes widened at the last name. "You'd recognize it," Rob had said, apparently not in jest. Then the uncle who had taken him in must have been... Dean pursed his lips in a silent whistle, then shook himself back to the problem before him. "I can't accept this, Mr. Tyler."

The bank manager raised his brows slightly. "There's no way to return it. The gentleman left no means of reaching him, and in fact indicated that he would be traveling for some time."

Dean winced. "To Italy. I know." Damn Rob, for striking a foul bargain with Parker, tying himself to that odious man for God-knew-how-long. How had he accomplished it so quickly?

"No, I'm quite certain he said the Lake District. I believe he's looking to purchase a house in that area."

"Purchase a..." Dean shook his head again, confused. "If he's not—then where did he get the money?"

At last, a smile softened Mr. Tyler's august features. "I take it you haven't read a newspaper in several days, my lord. The whole of England has been buzzing with the tale."

"Tale?"

"Your friend's ship came in, quite literally. He had been a major underwriter for a shipment of Chinese porcelain that was believed lost some three years ago. Two weeks ago, the news came out that the ship had instead run aground on a small island in the South Seas. There have been notices in all the papers, looking for the original shareholders in the endeavor." He paused, allowing Dean the opportunity to admit that he had heard something about that in the endless gossip on the road, then continued.

"Yes, indeed. The Ellyn Fair didn't break up instantly. She was caught fast on a reef and remained afloat for several weeks, allowing the sailors to salvage everything from the ship, including the cargo."

Now Dean remembered. "Not a plate was broken," he quoted, running a hand through his ginger curls.

"Indeed, my lord. The shipment was still fully intact when the sailors were discovered. It's very high-quality merchandise, and would have fetched a fortune even without all the attendant clamor."

"But surely this type of case would take months to sort through the various claims?"

"And so it will. Your friend saw the notice in the newspaper and came to us, seeking a buyer for his shares. I tried to persuade him that it would be in his best interest to wait until the porcelain can be auctioned off—half of England is in a frenzy to secure a souvenir piece—but he was insistent that he needed money right away, and as long as the amount was at least ten thousand pounds, he would be well satisfied."

Mr. Tyler permitted himself a small smile. "I was able to do somewhat better than that for him, thanks to an elderly lady I know with a shrewd head for bargains."

"Good." Dean leaned back against the soft cushion of his chair, something else making sense to him: Rob's instant of bewilderment when Dean had assumed it was the news of Minerva's wedding that had shocked him. He must have just seen the notice about the Ellyn Fair instead. "Oh, good indeed." Rob was free of Parker and his ilk. Rob was free, and Carwick was saved. He was barely able to digest either piece of news. "Thank you for that information, Mr. Tyler. You have no idea how much it means to me."

"Happy to be of assistance, my lord."

There was now just one thing left unexplained. "You said my friend deposited ten thousand pounds, yet my account contains something over thirteen thousand. Where did the rest come from?"

"Ah." Mr. Tyler nodded. "The probate from your uncle's will was settled late last week as well. It was a simple transfer from one account to another, but I do need your signature here." He proffered another sheet of paper.

Dean was still confused. "But I'm certain everything from Uncle Parmenius's estate was already disbursed."

"Parmenius, yes. But Silas—"

"Silas?" Dean had been brought up with strict instructions never to interrupt a man in mid-sentence, but his shock got the better of his training now. "There's some mistake. Silas Smith isn't dead."

"Oh, dear." Consternation creased Mr. Tyler's features. "Had you not been informed? I'm truly sorry to break it to you so precipitously."

"It must have just happened, then. Quick of the executor to get it through probate so fast." The banker consulted the folder, a confused frown of his own troubling his face. "The executor was Silenus Smith. According to this, your uncle died on June twelfth, and the will was presented on June seventeenth."

"June twelfth." Dean blinked. This was August, and he'd seen Silas not a week ago.

"That's not possible." Unless one really did believe in ghosts... For a moment, the hair at the back of his neck stood up straight, then the obvious solution presented itself.

Dean laughed. "Uncle Silenus. Of course. He and Silas were twins. He must have been at the house to close it up."

Mr. Tyler looked faintly puzzled. "My lord?"

"I apologize, Mr. Tyler. The family sense of humor is very strange. I believed I had seen my Uncle Silas recently, but it was certainly Uncle Silenus, who thought it a joke to let me think he was his brother." Something nagged at the edge of his consciousness, but he pushed it firmly away.

"Strange indeed," the banker said, gathering the papers back into the folder. His tone implied that there was nothing in the behavior of aristocrats that could possibly surprise him. "Is there any other way in which I can assist you today, my Lord Carwick?"