Lord Scoundrel Dies (11 page)

So it was he retired from
the Bradshaw dance in good humor and took himself off to the
Pharaoh Club, a new place that was proving very popular with
the
ton
thanks to
its exotic gaming rooms and somewhat mysterious lighting. It was
located near Covent Gardens in a large townhouse that offered
discretion right along with an excellent selection of wine and
enough games of chance to entertain even the most jaded palette.
Unlike his friend Mr. Truelove, Charlie wasn’t particularly
enamored with gaming, but he had enjoyed the ambience of the place
on his last visit and thought it an excellent way to round off the
night.

As he had discovered last time, the place
was very popular and most of the tables were full when he arrived,
ladies and gentlemen both playing dice or cards, faces absorbed as
they tried their luck. It was amazing just how unlucky people could
be, he reflected, pausing to watch one particularly intense game of
loo. Really, people did take their vices so seriously.

He was hovering in a corner, trying to
decide if he should try a game of faro or if he would prefer Piquet
when a sliver of conversation caught his attention.

‘…
don’t know who! If I
knew, I would not have asked you to meet me.’ A female, clearly in
a state about something. But that was females for you; twitchy
things, most of ‘em.

‘And they just appeared in your reticule?’ A
man’s voice, deep and quiet. Charlie realised that they must be
sitting on the other side of the small oriental screen he was
lounging behind.

‘Yes, I tell you. What do you think it
means? I mean, he is dead after all…’

‘I know that. Dear God, all of London knows
it. Not that I’m not delighted about it. The man was an utter
snake.’

It occurred to Charlie that he was hearing
something of actual interest to him. That light, musical voice… did
it belong to Lady Astor? He couldn’t say that he knew her well but
she possessed a distinctive, breathy tone that, once heard, was
hard to forget. It seemed entirely likely that the couple was
talking about Sutton’s death and he found he was suddenly all
attention, ears straining to hear what was being said.

‘But… but whoever it was
returned my chits.
All
of them.’

‘Well I just hope to hell they return mine,’
the man muttered.

‘I simply can’t understand it. I almost died
when I opened my reticule.’

‘And you have no idea how they got there?
Honestly Avis, somebody must have put it in the reticule you were
carrying. How could you not notice?’

‘I don’t know! I have thought about it and I
simply have no idea.’ There was a pause and then she said, so
quietly that Charlie was forced to apply his ear to the fold in the
screen to hear her. ‘What do you think they want?’

‘I don’t believe they want anything,’ the
man said reasonably. ‘I mean, they returned your debts to you, my
dear. Whoever murdered that swine must have decided to do the right
thing.’

‘Do you really think so?’
There was no mistaking the profound yearning in Lady Astor’s voice.
She was desperately hoping that it was indeed the case. ‘Even so,
it makes me go cold to think that I must have been so close to
a
murderer
.’

‘Never mind that. If you
ask me, whoever killed Sutton did Society a public service. Should
be given a medal. I have to say, I’ve thought of murdering the man
on more than one occasion and don’t pretend to me you have not
wished him dead. And if it
is
the case that the scoundrel’s loot is being
returned to its rightful owners then perhaps the beggar might take
pity on the rest of us. I’d give a lot to breathe easy again. Come
on; I’ll find you a glass of champagne. God knows, you should be
celebrating. You’re free, my dear. Your reputation is
secure.’

The eager eavesdropper heard the rustle of
material and the faint squeak of furniture that indicated the
speaker was matching deed to word, rising to his feet to go in
search of liquid sustenance. Charlie immediately ambled away,
heading into a different room.

The conversation had given him something to
think about. Miss Honeywood must have slipped the debts back into
Lady Astor’s bag where they had been discovered later on. A bold
move, he acknowledged. The girl had a good deal of pluck; there was
no doubt about it even if her actions had made Lady Astor and her
companion labor under the unfortunate misapprehension that their
savior was a murderer. It was understandable, under the
circumstances, because who else would they expect to have laid
their hands on Sutton’s stuff?

There was one other thing that had been
perfectly obvious. Lady Astor, for all her tremulous uncertainty,
was vastly relieved to have her chits returned. It seemed that Miss
Honeywood had been right after all. It was downright criminal to
make the poor creatures who had been victims of Lord Sutton’s
cruelty suffer any longer.

Suddenly, he felt a good deal better about
his early morning rendezvous. He had thought his new acquaintance
quite mad to go to such extraordinary efforts but it seemed she had
the right of it all along. If he, Charles Lampforth, could render
any small service to assist, then so he would.

As far as he was concerned, Harriet
Honeywood was doing a splendid job.

It was extraordinary, Aubrey reflected, how
one inconsequential female could make him feel as if he wanted to
take her by the shoulders and shake her until her teeth rattled. He
had met Miss Harriet Honeywood exactly twice and each time she had
precisely the same effect on him, so much so that his hands were
actually twitching in anticipation.

After judicious
consideration, he had not been going to speak to Miss Honeywood if
he happened to encounter her while out and about. In fact, he had
been determined to ignore her, as they had not been introduced and
he would hardly be breaching any rules of etiquette in pretending
ignorance. But the sight of her – clad in a dress, which somehow
seemed to make her appear far more vulnerable and considerably more
attractive than she had in the ridiculous garb she had worn the
night before – had shaken his resolve. After brooding about how
absurd her actions were, he had felt he really should say
something. For all the good it had done him. The girl was as
intractable, as stubborn, as
infuriating
as ever. She had
dismissed his concern and any help he might have to offer – not
that he had been planning on helping her – with a careless wave of
the hand and had sailed off with that obstinate tilt to her chin he
was coming to be all too familiar with, despite their exceedingly
brief acquaintance.

Well, to hell with it. She could land
herself in whatever trouble she cared to and he would not lift a
finger to help her. Not. A. Finger.

‘My, my,’ a familiar female voice purred,
‘aren’t you looking fierce tonight.’

Shaken out of his
abstraction, he found himself face to face with the reason he was
at this hellish dance in the first place; Miss Felicity Beauchamp.
Miss Beauchamp was looking charming in pink satin; it reflected the
delicate color in her cheeks. While not
the
Season’s Beauty she certainly
rivaled the girl who held the title for Miss Beauchamp was very
good looking. Dark blonde, eyes the color of summer skies, small,
straight nose. Odes were written to the perfection of her rosebud
mouth but then poets were daft fellows who wrote all manner of
drivel. Not that he did not find Felicity Beauchamp as appealing as
the next fellow, but he would have found her a great deal more
appealing if she had not wished to marry him.

That was enough to make any man wall himself
up in his castle.

‘Miss Beauchamp,’ he returned, with every
semblance of pleasure. ‘Here I am, as promised.’

‘I knew you were not a man to break your
word.’

He was fairly sure he had not gone so far as
to give his word but he let it pass. ‘I have come to beg a dance of
you.’

‘Why, I would be delighted, kind sir.’ And
she held out her hand, which he took with alacrity. He danced with
Felicity, then with Celeste who approved of his arrival and then
with Lady Finch, an older woman who at least could be relied on to
be entertaining. If he had to dance, he was determined to make a
display of it. With any luck this outing would get him out of
others like it for the next week or so. It wasn’t that Aubrey did
not like Society; how could he not, for it was perfectly agreeable
and treated him very well. It was just that he had always found
this type of entertainment to be nothing more than a parade of
hopeful women trying to catch the eye of eligible men. Its main
function was to pin a man down for if there was one thing Society
yearned for above all others, it was conformity in such matters. A
man who was leg-shackled was so much more agreeable than one who
was still enjoying his freedom.

At his fourth – and he fervently hoped, last
– go round on the dance floor, a country reel that saw one change
partners frequently, he found himself twirling Miss Honeywood
around. She gave him a look when they found themselves facing each
other, a rather mischievous one accompanied by a wicked smile.

‘My lord,’ she murmured.

‘Miss Honeywood,’ he returned stiffly.

‘You’re very sociable tonight.’

‘I am always sociable.’

‘Oh no… many people comment on the fact that
you are not.’

‘Do they indeed?’

‘So I understand. My aunt has lamented on
your elusive nature on many occasions.’

‘I find that hard to believe.’

‘Oh come now,’ she dimpled up at him. ‘I
think we both know your value in Society, my lord.’

He was prevented from replying to this
provocative utterance as they changed partners, which was
unfortunate, as he wished to give her a set down. By the time they
came back together again, she had moved on to another topic.

‘Mr. Lampforth also danced with me. He did
not do a very good job. You are a far better dancer.’

‘Thank you. I am surprised you got him to
come. I would not have thought this kind of thing was his style at
all.’

‘So he said.’

‘Why did you ask him to come?’ he demanded
suspiciously.

‘I need help identifying those items I have
acquired. He very generously offered to help me.’

‘Then he’s even more of a fool than I
thought he was,’ Aubrey said dampeningly. ‘Why can’t you see how
dangerous this is?’

‘Because I don’t believe it is. There is no
reason for anybody to do me any harm. I am helping those poor
unfortunates, after all.’

He stared down at her in frustration. ‘Are
you always this difficult?’

This prompted a tilt of the head, as if she
were actually giving the question some consideration. ‘You would
have to ask my parents,’ she said, after a moment. ‘I doubt I am a
good judge of the matter.’

Partners were exchanged
once more and Aubrey was forced to move on to less challenging
topics of conversation with the next female he found himself faced
with.
Miss Honeywood is an original, I’ll
give her that
, he reflected wryly. He
certainly had not met anybody like her before. Just the
same…

On their final go round together, he tried
one more time. ‘At the very least, have the items in your
possession mailed so there is no physical contact.’

‘I’ve thought of that,’ she allowed. ‘Mr.
Lampforth said that it might be traced but I doubt that is
possible. I was more concerned about them falling into the hands of
the wrong person. These items are very… sensitive. I would hate to
be responsible for being the cause of unhappiness because
somebody’s secret had been discovered.’

‘Dear heavens, you are the most –’

‘You’ve already said,’ she interrupted, tone
infuriatingly soothing. ‘I quite understand. You disapprove. I have
elected to believe it is because you are concerned for my welfare,
as opposed to just the managing type. And I appreciate the
sentiment, I truly do Lord Talisker. But there is no need to
concern yourself.’

He stared down at her wrathfully. Appreciate
the sentiment? The hell she did. ‘Miss Honeywood –’

But he was too late, for they were separated
again and he was returned to his original partner for the final
steps of the reel. All in all, it had typified his brief
relationship with Harriet Honeywood; brief, irksome and immensely
frustrating. He would have pursued it further if she had not
immediately returned to her aunt.

Once again – although possibly not for the
last time, he had to allow – Aubrey washed his hands of the
matter.

Chapter Five

If Harry was surprised to see that, not only
was Mr. Lampforth on time the next morning, but that he had reached
their rendezvous point before her, she did her best not to show it.
She had been expecting to have an extended wait but was delighted
to see him leaning up against the base of the statue, hands thrust
deep into the pockets of his coat as he looked around amiably. It
had been warm for the past few days but a change had come and the
morning air was chilly.

‘And here I thought you were not partial to
the mornings. Unless you have not been to bed?’ she said
cheerfully, by way of greeting.

‘I had an early night,’ he returned, while
attempting to suppress a jaw cracking yawn. ‘Well… early for me,
anyway.’

As Harry had predicted, neither her aunt nor
her cousin had been out of bed when she left the house so she had
brought her maid, Hyacinth, along for the sake of propriety.
Hyacinth was a massively incurious country girl who had been with
her forever and was well used to her mistress’s vagaries. She
hovered obligingly in the background when Harry found a bench and
begged Mr. Lampforth to join her. She had brought all of the things
they had taken from Lord Sutton’s house; jewelry, letters and
debts, having sorted them into neat bundles. She took several out
at a time, handing them to Mr. Lampforth who pondered them for a
time, either giving a definite yes or a vague no after a period of
earnest study. Unfortunately, there were far more no’s than she had
been hoping for and at the end of it all they had only identified
three more things. Several letters had been signed with a flourish
and Mr. Lampforth had no trouble identifying them as belonging to
Lady Vickers, the Countess of Casterton. There were several
extremely lurid love letters in all and he blushed a rosy pink when
he read them.