The Promise (23 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Crawford waited for Aggie, a plump little orange girl who regularly serviced the earl, to emerge before knocking. Clovershire was always at his best after a good toss.

“Enter!” Tom’s muffled voice called out.

The earl’s valet was wrestling him into a waistcoat that would have been a challenging fit two stone past. He looked like a giant stuffed sausage.

Crawford cleared his throat. “A Mr. Hamlyn is in the study waiting to see you, my lord. I turned him away twice already this morning, but he is most insistent.”

“Bill collector?” Tom grimaced.

“Solicitor.”

“Even worse!” Tom grimaced. “Find out what he wants.”

“Did that on his first visit. He claims to have important papers that must be served by his hand. I’d send him away again, but I expect he’ll only come back in an hour or two.”

“Very well. Tell him I’ll join him in twenty minutes.”

Nearly an hour later, Clovershire entered the room to find his guest waiting with a packet of documents.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” Mr. Hamlyn sketched a shallow bow. “It has been many years since last we met. As the late earl’s solicitor, I presided over the reading of his will.”

“Ah, yes. I remember. What is this about?”

Mr. Hamlyn stepped forward to extend the papers. “From your cousin Jane.”

“Pardon? Who?” The earl frowned.

“Lady Jane Gray, now Lady Jane Wallace. Your cousin…
your former ward
,” Mr. Hamlyn said with supreme satisfaction.

The earl blanched and dropped into the nearest chair. He riffled through the papers, but the words swam across the page. “My good man, what is this about?”

“Lady Jane and her husband wish to assume tenancy of this house and her Middlesex property, The Willows.”

The earl’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.

Mr. Hamlyn allowed himself to enjoy the younger man’s befuddlement for several moments before delivering the
coup de grâce
.
“The papers are effective immediately, however, Lady Jane has generously extended the period to two weeks. I trust that will be sufficient?” he asked with great relish.

“Two weeks?” the earl bleated. “Two weeks is unreasonable!”

Tom’s rather prominent eyes bulged even further as he read through the documents. His only option was to go on the offensive.

“This amounts to an eviction letter!”

“Yes. It does.”

“Outrageous! I’ll pursue an injunction, by God, see if I don’t! It takes longer than two weeks to pack one’s possessions and move an entire household, let alone lease a new residence.”

“Lady Jane has chosen not to press charges against you for fraud, it is only reasonable that you show your gratitude by removing yourself forthwith.”

“Fraud! What are you talking about?”

He knew quite well what the solicitor was talking about, of course. Tom had been dreading this reckoning for an age.

“I am talking about your habit of siphoning off your cousin’s funds. My office can produce countless fraudulent expense sheets totaling many thousands of pounds.”

“Vile slander!” Clovershire sputtered.

“Lady Jane never lived with you, did she? Can you produce even one person who will testify under oath that she was safe and well cared for as your ward? There were no governesses, sir. No finishing schools. No trips to the continent. No gowns, pianoforte lessons, or ladies maids. You’re a thief and we can prove it.”

“Get out!” Clovershire surged to his feet. “Get out of
my home
or I shall be within my rights to shoot you.”

“Very well, my lord. I will leave, but you should be aware that detailed household inventories exist. Every painting, every candlestick, every piece of furniture and scrap of linen, has been meticulously catalogued. When you are gone, clerks from my firm will descend on this house and the one in Middlesex to review the condition and contents of both dwellings. Any missing items will be noted, valued, and reimbursement will be sought in the courts.”

At the front door Mr. Hamlyn accepted his hat and cane from Crawford then turned to face the earl with an affable grin.

“Good day, my lord. I cannot remember when I have enjoyed a conversation more.”

TOM GRAY SAT ALONE in the corner of a gritty dockside tavern on High Street stewing over the catastrophes that had befallen him, foremost of which being cut off from his usual source of funds at Glyn’s Bank. Jane’s wily solicitor had seen to
that
prior to serving him with eviction papers that morning. Mr. Hamlyn had barely departed before Tom charged down to Lombard Street intent on making his last withdrawal.

He arrived two days too late.

When he reached the bank, a clerk led Tom to a glass enclosed office that overlooked the mezzanine rather than one of the teller’s cubbies on the main level where he usually transacted business. After leaving him to wait for what Tom considered an unpardonably rude interval, Mr. Tolliver bustled in and exchanged pleasantries. Then, with a hint of a smirk and an anticipatory gleam in his eyes, the bank manager told Tom his access to Jane’s accounts had been rescinded. Tom had butted heads with Tolliver many times over the years and it seemed to him the banker took an inordinate amount of pleasure in his task.

He tamped down his rage and frustration.

“We lament the loss of your business, Clovershire,” the manager said with pretended sincerity. “Of course, if you choose to transfer your personal accounts, we would be more than pleased to serve you. No bank in London can offer higher rates than Glyn’s.”

“My funds are currently invested at Barclay’s,” Tom said in an attempt to save face. He had no funds to speak of and suspected Tolliver knew it.

The banker called Tom’s bluff. “Then it won’t have far to travel, m’lord. Barclay’s is right down the block and by coincidence my cousin is comptroller. I’ll warn him we’re nipping at his heels. Who knows, he just might sweeten terms to keep your funds on deposit.”

Tom made one last bid for cash. Holding up a fistful of bogus receipts, he asserted, “Glyn’s has an obligation to cover these expenses. They were incurred while the previous arrangement was in place. They total…” Tom made an exaggerated show of riffling through the slips of paper and totaling the numbers, “…four-hundred quid.”

The manager frowned. “Hmmm. That is a prodigious sum for one little woman to squander in a month. Let us hope for her sake that her husband is as generous as her guardian has been,” he said innocently.

“But…” Tom crushed the papers in his fist.

“I would like nothing better than to accommodate you, but Mr. Hamlyn was very clear about restricting access to your cousin’s accounts. It would be a breach of fiduciary trust to withdraw funds without the account holder’s approval. However, I’m confident if you appeal to Lady Wallace’s charity, she’ll condescend to oblige you. It is simply a matter of verifying the legitimacy of your,” he made a gesture at the counterfeit receipts, “…documents.”

Tolliver’s words had been carefully chosen for maximum irritation value. The banker had always doubted the earl’s “expenses” and had once sent an investigator to the shops where most of the outrageous bills were generated. The dressmakers, milliners, and cobblers had all claimed to have produced goods for Lady Jane Gray, but Tolliver suspected the only thing they had ever produced were receipts in return for a cut of the reimbursements. Money didn’t come any cheaper than that.

In the normal course of things, Tom would have proposed a bribe, but one glance at the banker’s face convinced him it would be a waste of breath. Frustrated by Tolliver’s intransigence, Tom took a menacing step forward. A burly security guard immediately appeared to stand sentinel just inside the door. Wrapping one beefy hand in the other, he flexed his fingers until his knuckles popped, duplicating the sound of fragile bones breaking.

“Ah, Otis, there
you are!” Tolliver turned back to his erstwhile client and said in a conspiratorial tone, “Otis is an amateur prizefighter… I’m told he does quite well. He once killed an opponent in the ring. It was an accident, of course. Can’t prosecute a man for that.”

Tom glanced nervously at the Slavic man mountain and decided retribution could wait. Revenge was a dish best served cold. One foggy night in the not-too-distant future, a certain banker would regret his presumption.

“Otis, you’re just in time to escort our friend to…” he tilted his head, “…Barclay’s, was it?”

TOM CLENCHED HIS TEETH as he recalled the humiliating scene.

He pulled a marlinspike from his waistcoat and absently drove it into a pitted oak table. The divot he chipped away was lost in whittled graffiti. He sucked down a deep draft of ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

As if summoned by his frenzied thoughts, waves of rain lashed the windows. Sailors and stevedores caught in the sudden downpour leaned into the wind, struggling past the stone warehouses that crowded the water’s edge. Some trudged homeward, others toward taverns or one of the countless whores who offered two-penny stand ups near the river steps at Wapping.

The White Horse Tavern was a den of iniquity where murderers, thieves, pimps, smugglers, and opium dealers could share a bottle of whiskey and brag about their exploits to a mutually appreciative audience. That’s not to say they were at ease among friends; every customer wisely concealed at least two weapons on his person. When a fight broke out… a not infrequent occurrence… the loser’s body was promptly disposed of in the muddy waters of the Thames at Execution Dock where thousands had met grim deaths to satisfy the Crown’s demand for justice and the public’s need for entertainment.

Tom felt at home in this violent milieu. Although he enjoyed playing the aristocrat from time to time, it had never been more than a game to him… a means to an end. East End or West, a man needed money to survive in London, and a lot of it to truly enjoy himself.

Jane and her husband were nothing more than obstacles, annoying little problems that needed to be solved. Tom planned to deal with them precisely as he had everyone else who had ever gotten between him and what he wanted. The newlyweds would die in some sort of tragic accident. A ship might sink. A fire might break out. A carriage might overturn, crushing their miserable skulls. Perhaps a highwayman would blow their brains out on a deserted country lane. There was no end to the possibilities. Tom had a very creative mind.

But first he had to gather information. The provisions in Lord Wallace’s will were important. Jane’s too. It was a simple matter to bribe a low-paid law clerk to provide him with copies so that a duplicate could be made — with a few important changes, of course. The duke was already obscenely rich, so Jane’s husband would undoubtedly leave his estate to her. After his death, Jane’s would soon follow and Tom would become beneficiary of
both
their estates. Ironic that Jane’s mulishness all those years ago would ultimately double his fortune… Lord Wallace was known to be a very wealthy man in his own right.

With a little ingenuity, careful planning, and a well-forged will, he would soon be back in clover and his wretched, interfering cousin would be gone for good. Thunderclaps and flashes of lightning animated his murderous thoughts. A gust of cold, wind-tossed rain slashed through the room as a squat, barrel-chested man stomped through the door. An outcry of curses erupted from those seated nearby. The newcomer peeled off his hooded oilskin jacket and dropped it onto a peg before turning slowly. His black eyes were close-set and glossy, like wet obsidian. Oaths froze in mid-air and a nervous silence fell over the crowd as they recognized the bloodthirsty menace known as Isaac Dekker.

Despite being relatively short, his presence was threatening as he prowled across the floorboards. The powerful muscles of his arms and chest bunched beneath his stained broadcloth tunic. A knife flashed in his wide leather belt. His gaze swept the room and settled on Tom. They acknowledged each other with faint nods.

“Tom,” Dekker said in a voice like rusty nails. He spoke without expression, like a ventriloquist. He dropped onto a bench and leaned his back against the wall.

“Just the man I wanted to see.”

Dekker glanced at the marlinspike embedded in the table. His eyes narrowed. He didn’t like Tom, poncey little fop that he was. He made a low sound deep in his throat then fingered the hilt of his knife to let Tom know he shouldn’t overstep. They weren’t friends and never would be.

Tom swallowed.

“Whiskey? Ale? Whate’er you want, ’tis on me.”

“Mother’s Ruin.” It was a fairly long sentence for Dekker.

Tom caught Maggie’s eye and pointed at Dekker. A minute later she thumped a tumbler of gin and bitters down on the sticky table. Tom dropped a coin in her outstretched hand. He lifted his drink and tilted the rim in salute. Both men drank deeply.

“Aye?” Dekker prompted.

“I’ve a job what needs doing yesterday,” Tom said, tailoring his speech to his audience. When speaking to another gentleman, he employed the Queen’s English, but he could rattle off Cockney and thieves cant just as handily.