Barbara Metzger (5 page)

“Where were we? Oh, yes, terms. You can keep the thousand pounds—it was worth every shilling and your lives. Of course, that’s assuming I never see either of you again or hear my family name mentioned in connection with you or your filth.

“As for you,” he said, fixing Otto Chester in his blue-dagger gaze. Chester cringed back as far as his bonds would permit. “You are finished in London. You’ll never be admitted to the better clubs for being a Captain Sharp, and word will be sent to even the lowest dives that you’re not particularly good at it. I should think that if I passed on my doubts as to your loyalty to the Crown, to say nothing of your manhood, you’d have a hard enough time in this city finding flats to gull. You might do better on the Continent. Am I understood?”

Chester nodded vigorously, which disturbed a small cloud of plaster dust that had fallen from the ceiling into his hair. He looked like one of the tiny showmen in a crystal dome, a child’s plaything.

There was nothing so innocuous about 0. Randall. Venom flowed from him in near-tangible waves.

“I could bring charges against you, you know,” the viscount told him. “Usury, extortion, forgery, paying someone to assault a nobleman, threatening violence to a peer of the realm. I could make the charges stick, even if Uncle Donald weren’t Lord High Magistrate. But trash like you isn’t worth my time or effort. I’d prefer you to slink off to find some other rock to hide behind. Let us just see how many others would miss you if you go.”

He started to go through the drawers, tossing another pistol and a wicked stiletto into the carpetbag near his side of the desk. His eye caught on a tray of calling cards.

“Otto Randall,” he read aloud. “How curious, considering the only other Otto I knew was a Prussian, and now there are two in the same room and almost the same profession.” Forrest looked from Otto Randall to Otto Chester and shrugged, returning to the drawers. When he reached the files with the moneylender’s receipts, he began separating the chits into three piles. One stack was for men who could afford to play deep, or those so bitten by the gambling fever they would only find another source of money to support their habit. One fairly notorious courtesan had a folder of her own. No wonder she’d been sending billets-doux to half the well-heeled coves in town. Let her pay Randall back in trade, he decided grimly; that would be enough of a lesson. The second stack was of names unknown to the viscount, or men whose circumstances were not broadcast in the clubs. Half of these he ripped into shreds, calling it the luck of the draw. The other half he added to the first pile. The third and largest collection of chits belonged to young men like his brother, young scholars and country squires without town bronze to protect them, or other innocents up River Tick. He frowned over four slips with one name, a friend who should have known better. Then again, Manfrey’s wife was a virago; it was no wonder he stayed out late gambling. Lord Mayne added two of Manfrey’s vouchers to the first pile and added the other two to the third stack. These he tucked into a pocket of his coat, now draped across the back of his chair.

“Consider this batch of debts canceled. I’ll see to them.” He straightened the remaining papers and nodded toward Randall. “This is your share. You ought to be able to settle up with these loose screws in a week. After that you are out of business and out of town. There will be a warrant for your arrest and one very conscientious citizen to see that the warrant is served. You don’t want that, do you?”

Before Randall could give answer, grunt, nod, or whatever choice was open to him, a knock sounded on the door. Forrest cursed softly and waited to hear the footsteps recede down the outer stairs. He did not want to be bothered with someone creating a public scene or calling the watch; he still had to interview butlers that afternoon.

He quickly dragged both Ottos into Sam Odum’s cubby and shoved them to the rank palette on the floor. “And Father thought politics made strange bedfellows,” he mused as the tall, pale Englishman sank thankfully into the ticking while the banty, red-faced Irishman still struggled against his ropes. Forrest was trying to close the door around their jutting legs when the knock was repeated with more force.

“Damn. Some poor bastard can’t wait to sell his soul to these two bankers from hell.”

Chapter 5

Hair and There

Cravats were handy items with myriad uses: bandages, gags, nose wipes, napkins, white flags of surrender. And a decorative essential to a gentleman’s haberdashery. Forrest’s once precision-folded Oriental was now a limp, mangled, blood-spattered bit of evidence to recent events. He removed it on his way to the door and dabbed at a cut on his lip. He could only hope the bruise on his jaw, where Odum’s club had connected, was not already discolored. At least no one could tell that his ribs were aching.

He opened the outer door and looked up, and up, then silently groaned. No one else might know, but Forrest’s body was telling him it was in no condition to handle another belligerent behemoth. And this blond fellow in the doorway was big, way taller than the viscount’s own six feet, and broad. And solidly built. And young. If he was in Randall’s employ ... It was too late to run like hell, so Forrest did the next best thing. He smiled.

The caller hesitated, still uncertain of what he
confronted, then nodded. “My employer,” he said, indicating a waiting hackney, “requests an interview with Mr. Otto Randall.” He held out a calling card with the corner turned down to show the visitor had come in person.

Forrest belatedly noted the man’s neat livery uniform, a footman of some sort, then, and glanced quickly at the card. He didn’t recognize the name
Sydney Lattimore,
in fancy script, but he could guess the type. He’d be a nervous, effeminate man-milliner, judging by the curlicues surrounding his name, afraid to venture into a den of iniquity by himself, hence the sturdy bodyguard. He was no man-about-town—Mayne would have made his acquaintance otherwise—nor was he among the other debtors in Randall’s file. Forrest surmised he was a young sprig who’d tipped the dibs and punted on tick. The least Forrest could do for the muttonhead was play Good Samaritan with some good advice.

“Tell your employer that he doesn’t want anything to do with moneylenders. He should stay out of gaming parlors if he can’t make the ante, and away from his tailor if he can’t pay the shot, if that’s his weakness. Tell him that his pride can stand a bout with honest employment better than it can a sentence in the Fleet, which is where he’ll end up, dealing with the sharks.”

The footman nodded sagely, tugged at the tight collar of his uniform, and started back down the stairs. Halfway toward the waiting carriage he remembered he had a job to do. “But, Mr. Randall, sir ...”

Gads, that anyone would think he was one of the Ottos! That’s what came of playing at guardian angel. Damnation, what kind of angel had his shirt half torn and his knuckles scraped and plaster dust trickling down his neck? Angry, Forrest shouted loudly enough to be heard from the carriage: “This establishment is closed, shut down, out of business. Thank your lucky stars and stay away from the bloodsuckers before you get bled dry.”

He slammed the door and went back to get his coat and the satchel.

“Damn.” He couldn’t get his deuced coat on without skewing his ribs—and there was another blasted knock on the door. This benighted place saw as much traffic as Harriet Wilson’s! He threw the door open.

“Double damn.” Just what he needed, a woman. He looked down at the card he still held and noted what he’d missed the first time. Miss Sydney Lattimore. “Bloody hell.” And a lady, judging by the shocked gasp from behind the black veil, the volume of concealing black swathes and shrouds, and the imperious way she brushed past him as if he were an upper servant, despite her small stature. She motioned the blond footman to wait outside.

Now Forrest’s day was complete: a little old spinster lady in mourning—she had enough crepe about her to mourn the entire British losses at Trafalgar—and her lapdog. She walked with teetery, unsure steps and kept trembly, black-gloved hands wrapped round the handle of a basket containing a miserable midget mutt. By Jupiter, Forrest would recognize that brassy Pekingese color in one of his nightmares. Fiend seize it, this
was
one of his nightmares. A friend of his mother’s! The viscount could only wish Sam Odum back from the briny.

“No, ma’am,” he began. “No, no, and no, whatever it is you want. The establishment is closed, the association disbanded. The Ottos are leaving town.” He couldn’t see behind the veil, but the old bat wasn’t moving. “If you’ve swallowed a spider, go pop your ice.”

A thin voice came to him weakly through the black drapery. “Spider? Ice?”

Of course she didn’t understand cant. How could she, when the hag most likely hadn’t been out of the house in ten years? Twenty, from the smell of mothballs about her withered, shrunken person. Lord Mayne took a deep breath, which his battered ribs protested, and started again. It just was not in his makeup to be rude to little old ladies. He’d likely be wasting his time with a rational explanation, but he had to try.

“Madam, if you have outrun the bailiff, you know, spent more than your pin money, I strongly urge you to retrench until your allowance comes due. Throw yourself on your relatives’ mercy or confess to your trustees. You could pawn your valuables if you haven’t already. Anything is preferable to dealing with the cents-per-centers. This office in particular is pulling in its shingle, and the profession in general is no fit association for a lady. It’s a nasty, lowlife business, and borrowing will only bring you more grief than the money is worth. Please, please, ma’am, go home.”

There, he’d tried. The little lady did not reply. Lord Mayne shrugged, turned to retrieve his coat and finally get out of there.

Sydney’s jaws were glued shut in fear. Her legs were cemented to the floor with terror, but her knees wouldn’t support her weight even if she did convince her feet to move. Dear heaven, what had she gotten herself into? This was even worse than her imaginings, which had been bad enough. She had spent a week getting her courage to the sticking point to approach this place, without her thinking she might have to face a half-naked savage shouting rough or incomprehensible language, a sack full of guns and knives, blood everywhere. Now she did not think she had enough courage left to make it down the stairs. On the other, shaking hand was
two
weeks of persuading herself that visiting a moneylender was her only choice. It still was. Sydney was determined to make the general proud. If he did not take another fit at what she was doing.

She swallowed—that was a start—and through sheer determination forced words past her dry lips. In a pitiful little voice she herself hardly recognized, Sydney asked, “Please, sir, could you tell me where else to go?”

She could go to Hades for all he cared! Botheration, hadn’t the woman listened to a word he’d said? He dragged a hand through his hair in exasperation. “Miss L-” He remembered that the door to the anteroom was not quite shut. “Miss, I am trying to help you. Go home.”

Sydney was fascinated by the white particles sifting from his hair, wondering what bizarre activities were conducted in these chambers. At least the humanizing gesture served to reassure her that the ruffian did not mean her bodily harm. She touched the basket’s contents as if for confidence and, in tones more like her own, she informed him, “My need is great, sir, so I would appreciate the direction of one of your colleagues. In the ordinary course of events I wouldn’t think of asking you to divulge a competitor, as it were, but since you seem reluctant to pursue your trade and my business is pressing ...”

Reluctant? He was growing less and less reluctant about shoving the old hen down the stairs. If the witch wasn’t already a friend of his mother’s, she should be. They’d get along like cats and cream with that certainty of getting their own way and the mule-stubborn refusal to listen to logic.

“... And I had a hard enough time getting your name and address.”

“And how did you get, ah, my direction, if I might ask?” The viscount was stalling for time and inspiration, wondering if his conscience would permit him to make his escape and leave her with Chester and Randall. No, they’d had a bad enough day.

Sydney
really
wished he would offer her a seat before her knees gave way altogether, but she answered with still more assurance. “My abigail’s former employer was Lady Motthaven. Her husband was a trifle behindtimes, and he borrowed to settle his debts. My maid recalled where he went for the loan.”

“And did the abigail report that Motthaven repaid the loan easily?” The viscount knew he hadn’t; the chit was on the desk. His words were measured, as if to a child.

Sydney looked down, shifted the basket from hand to hand. “They fled to the Continent. That’s why the maid needed a new position.”

“And did you not consider how Lord Motthaven’s experience might relate to your own situation?” Hardened seamen would have sunk through the fo’castle deck at those silky tones. Sydney’s chin came up.

“Yes, sir, I considered myself fortunate to acquire the services of an experienced lady’s maid.”

Sydney could not like the expression on Mr. Randall’s face. He might have been an uncommonly attractive man but for the disfiguring bruises and the unfortunate continual scowl. Right now his eyes were narrowed and his mouth was pursed and Sydney thought she’d be more comfortable back in her carriage after all.

“Well, sir, I shall be going, then, seeing that you are determined to be unaccommodating. Far be it from me to tell you how to conduct your business, but I should wonder at your making a living at all, turning customers away.”

The moneylender growled. Yes, Sydney was sure that sound came from him. She edged closer to the door. Then she recalled her desperate need and the basket in her hand. She held it out. “Do you think, that is, if you could .. . ?”

Take her dog in pawn? The female must be queer in the attics for sure! The viscount backed away lest she put the plaguey thing in his hands. Only the desk kept him from backing through the wall.