If Wishes Were Earls (12 page)

“Housebreakers,” Lord Whenby said mournfully. “A sad tale. They make London a dangerous place for delicate ladies of quality.”

Good God, he hoped the man wasn’t counting Lady Essex in that lot—had he missed the part about Harry and Aunt Essex chasing the fellows out of the house like a pair of furious Valkryies?

But Aunt Essex was taking up the man’s words like warm cat-lap. “Indeed, Lord Whenby. I feel most overwrought by all this.”

Having had enough of Aunt Essex’s dramatics and Whenby’s fawning, Roxley turned his back to both of them. “What was taken?” he asked Fiske.

His butler was a model of discretion. He leaned closer and said in a voice that would not carry, at least not to the audience in the foyer, “Nothing much that we can discern, my lord. I believe they were caught early in their venture.”

“Early? Why, my things were mauled!” Lady Essex looked around the foyer until she found her hired companion. “Miss Manx, make a note: I want all my belongings removed immediately. Burned! Then I’ll need an entirely new wardrobe.”

“Aunt Essex—” Roxley began, then gave up, for his aunt was making a long and detailed list of all the items she would need to replace.

When she got to her unmentionables, the fellow from Bow Street nearly choked, and immediately and as diplomatically as he could began to question Harriet. “Did you lose anything, miss?”

“I have nothing worth stealing that wasn’t lost before,” she told him, chin chucked up with determination, the infamous Hathaway pride.

Roxley did his best not to flinch at her double entendre. Yes. Guilty as charged.

Mingo nudged the earl. “Oh, and we searched the house to make sure there’s no snudges about.”

Roxley looked to the Runner for a translation.

“Thieves hiding under the beds,” he supplied.

Roxley shuddered, wondering who in London would be foolhardy enough to come out from under Aunt Essex’s bed. The thief’s ears would never stop ringing.

Speaking of Aunt Essex, she’d gotten to the end of her list and was proceeding on a new tack. “Of course, you are correct. Returning to Foxgrove as quickly as arrangements can be made is the wisest course. You will see to it, won’t you, dear Whenby?”

“I would carry you myself if it would give you comfort in this time of trial,” the old gallant declared.

“Return to Kempton?” Harriet and Roxley said at the same time.

They glanced at the other, Harry glowering.

Moving out? And with the Season only half finished? If Roxley had known his aunt could be so easily persuaded to leave London, he would have hired a pack of cracksmen years ago, if only to make an annual appearance which coincided with Aunt Essex’s yearly migration.

“So soon?” he added, trying to sound a bit distraught by the idea.

“Ah, a return to the comforts of home will endow your nerves with just the right amount of balm,” Whenby replied.

Roxley wished he could return Whenby from wherever he’d come and said as much. “My lord, you’ve been overly attentive tonight, but I know my aunt, and in her current state, she may not realize how we are imposing on you.”

“Never!” the man declared, planting himself squarely at Aunt Essex’s side. “I am merely honored to be here so I can be of assistance in this time of trial.”

“If that’s all, my lord?” the Runner was saying, beating a none-too-hasty retreat.

Roxley followed him. “Sir, may I ask you something?” he said quietly when they got to the bottom of the front steps.

“Certainly, my lord—”

“Have you ever heard of a trio of thieves breaking into a house to tramp through an elderly lady’s possessions?”

The man shrugged. “You wouldn’t believe the half of what I see and what gets nicked. But it does seem a rather odd one all the way around.”

“Odd? How?” Roxley suddenly needed confirmation that his instincts weren’t entirely gone awry.

“If you pardon me for saying it, my lord,” the man began, “it seems as if they had something in mind they were looking for. And they had a good notion where it might be.”

R
oxley arrived at White’s with trepidation in his heart. He was broke. In debt. About to be ruined. And now, the danger he’d sensed dogging his every move the past few months had come directly to his doorstep.

Worst of all, now there was Harry to consider.

Not for anything would he have her in the middle of this. What he truly needed was Chaunce’s help to ensure Harriet was in that carriage tomorrow with his Aunt Essex, headed back to Kempton.

He took a deep breath and went into the private room the waiter had directed him toward, only to find that Chaunce hadn’t come alone.

Seated in the various chairs were the friends he trusted the most: Chaunce. Mr. Hotchkin, Chaunce’s assistant at the Home Office. The Duke of Preston. The duke’s uncle, Lord Henry Seldon. Lord Howers, the head of the Home Office—the same man who tossed him out of the service not a month earlier stating he was unfit for duty, what with all his troubles hanging around his neck.

Howers deplored the least bit of indiscretion and had been more than willing to cut off Roxley at the first hint of trouble.

Old Iron Drawers, Chaunce liked to call him.

Behind his back, of course.

Still it was a bit of a shock to see them all assembled. To have to confess to them all that he’d failed.

“Ah,” he drawled as he entered the room and took center stage. “How kind of you all to remember my birthday.”

Preston snorted at this. “Do you always make a joke of everything?”

“Better than wrenching off my cravat and wailing,” he replied. He glanced down at the disheveled mess of lace. “Though I will have to talk to Mingo about using more starch.”

Lord Henry was a more practical sort. He got to the point. “About time you asked for help.”

The earl raked his hand through his hair. “You all know I’m not good about asking for assistance.”

“Might have kept your house from being ransacked . . .” Chaunce pointed out. But his dark glance added more.
And putting my sister in danger.

“Which is exactly why Howers pulled you from service,” Preston told him.

At this Roxley gaped. He had never told his old friend about his work for the Home Office. The only people who had ever known of his connection were Chaunce, Howers, Hotchkin, and the man who recruited him, Lord Mereworth.

Or at least, so he’d thought.

“Didn’t think I knew, did you?” Preston said, smiling slightly. “You were far too clever last spring in helping me win Tabby.”

“And I with winning Daphne.” Lord Henry smiled. “Got that Special License and the business with the archbishop settled rather too fast for such a heathen and a gadabout. And why someone as intelligent and perceptive as Mr. Hathaway would put up with you only added to our suspicions.”

“So you have found me out,” Roxley said, nodding to them. He might have minded a year ago, but right now, having fallen to the very bottom, he realized the only way out of all this was to ask for help. “It’s just that I’ve gone it alone for most of my life.”

“No more,” Preston told him. “Now let’s get on with this.” He nodded for Mr. Hotchkin to begin.

But before Chaunce’s assistant did, he glanced at his true superior, Lord Howers, who also nodded his assent. The young man swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously as he launched into his report, meticulous to a fault. “I started by compiling a list of your previous work, connections you might have had. Then moved on to your gambling associations. Large wagers. Peers you might have offended—”

“Which turned out to be an entire bloody volume of
Debrett’s
,” Preston added. “Demmit, Roxley, you aren’t very popular.”

Roxley ignored this and turned to Chaunce. “You’ve been investigating me?”

Never mind that he’d dug into the private lives of others in his work, having his own life turned inside out and examined by his friends had him suddenly furious.

Chaunce bristled with indignation. “What else was I supposed to do? I thought you intended to marry—”

Marry my sister.

There it was. Harriet. This was about Harriet.

Here was another secret he’d thought was all his own, and now even that—his true weakness, his only love, his heart—was laid bare for all to see.

“Someone has it out for you, Roxley,” Lord Henry said out, quietly, firmly. “We couldn’t stand by any longer. You’ve helped all of us with—” Well, it was too devilishly personal to admit, so the duke’s uncle continued on with his previous course. “We are merely repaying the debt.”

Roxley turned from one man to the other, not wanting to admit how much he needed their assistance. How much tonight had brought home how close he was to losing everything he loved—and not just Harriet. There were his aunts to consider as well.

“Besides, when you turned up with Miss Murray,” Preston said, “we knew this was something more than just a string of bad luck.”

“Whatever is wrong with Miss Murray?” Roxley said. “She’s a pretty thing. Immense dowry. Whatever would be suspicious about that?”

“It’s blackmail, isn’t it?” Chaunce asked. Then he looked up and directly at Roxley. “This potential betrothal—her father has some leverage on you, doesn’t he?”

Roxley shifted. Demmit. Then he thought of Harriet standing on the stairs, glowering at him.

To see forgiveness in her gaze, well, he’d do anything. Even this.

“He bought out all my vowels,” Roxley admitted. “Told me he’d take everything that wasn’t entailed and leave me in debtor’s prison if I didn’t marry the chit.”

“Oh, good God!” Preston managed. “The man should be horsewhipped!”

“Hardly seems the fatherly thing to do,” Roxley admitted. “But he’s one of those newly minted fellows. Thinks he can buy the world.”

“Appears he might be right,” Lord Henry muttered.

Meanwhile, Hotchkin was busily taking notes. “Haven’t gotten far with Mr. Murray, but will continue my inquiries.”

Preston rose to his feet. “Who the devil hates you so much?” he asked. “Surely you’ve got some idea?”

Then the door opened. “Am I late?” a deep, familiar voice inquired. “Demmed difficult to get a carriage this time of night.”

“Mereworth,” Roxley exclaimed. He hadn’t seen his mentor in months. Not since last summer. And here he thought the man had gone off on assignment to the Continent.

“Came as soon as I heard,” the man said, nodding to the others. “Now what is all this about some devil ruining your life?”

“We were just going over that,” Lord Howers said. While he and Mereworth had joined the Home Office at the same time, it had been Howers who had advanced through the ranks and finally taken command.

But no one could deny that Mereworth’s talents lay in the field, and Roxley was demmed glad to have him here.

Roxley shook his head. “I’ve been going over and over in my head who it might be.”

He could hardly tell them his string of bad luck had begun the moment he’d taken Harriet Hathaway into his heart. Stolen those kisses from her lips, taken her to his . . .

Well, this was neither the time nor the place to admit that.

Especially with her brother seated just across the room.

Had he mentioned what a good shot Chaunce was?

Then, out of nowhere, Lord Howers spoke up. His deep voice commandeered everyone’s attention. “Perhaps this has to do with the diamonds, my good man.”

All eyes turned toward Roxley with the same question:
What diamonds?

“Do you know what he’s talking about?” Chaunce asked him.

The earl nodded. “Foolish rumors. That my father won half the stones from Marie Antoinette’s doomed necklace in a card game.”

“The Queen’s Necklace,” Hotchkin enthused, flipping through the pages tucked into a well-used portfolio.

Roxley shook his head. Here he’d always thought Hotchkin a sensible sort. But the Queen’s Necklace? Ridiculous.

Not that it was the first time he’d heard of his father’s sketchy connection to those cursed stones. While at Oxford, a run-down old gambler at an inn, having heard someone call him by his title, had caught hold of Roxley and begged to know if the story was true.

That his father had played in the most infamous card game ever.

From the corner of the room came another note of skepticism. “The Queen’s Necklace?” Mereworth shook his head. “Utter rot.” He turned to his contemporary. “Howers, you know it as well as I.”

“I agree,” Roxley said. For after the incident in Oxford, he’d nosed around a bit, searched what was left of his parents’ possessions and found . . . well, found nothing—nothing but a story that was legend among the gambling set but had little in the way of evidence . . .

“Not rot. Not in the least, my lord,” Hotchkin asserted. “Your father did indeed win half the diamonds from that necklace.” And though he was speaking out of turn, and before Chaunce or Lord Howers could give him a quelling glance, he dove into the story he’d obviously spent so much time researching.

But to Roxley, it was more than just a recitation of facts and half truths. It was the story of his family. His parents. His inheritance.

And like seeing Harriet again today, he wondered what might have been if his father hadn’t sat down to that tempting game.

Calais, 1785

T
he Rocaberti was, even for Calais, a shady sort of inn.

Certainly not an establishment for one of the more affluent travelers who swanned back and forth between the glittering worlds of Paris and London.

Yes, the patrons of Berti’s, as it was known, moved between those cities, and quite often, but their means . . . well, they weren’t always so predictable that one could count on having a roof over one’s head the next day or the coins to pay for a good meal.

Or even a bad one.

So it was one dark and dreary night that an odd collection of travelers found themselves in the common room, and of course, someone had a deck of cards. The seas and tides had been against anyone seeking to cross the Channel that day—at least that was what this motley assortment had agreed among themselves.

Better that than confessing the true reason they were stuck in Berti’s on this wretched night: they hadn’t the blunt for the passage.