Lord Scoundrel Dies (8 page)

At least, she could pretend to. The previous
night aside, Harry was finding London dreadfully dull.

Charlie woke at eleven-thirty and with
reluctance, for he had rather a head and it hurt to open his eyes.
He and Monty had celebrated the evening before with several very
good bottles of claret when Charlie had put in an appearance at
last. The card party was well underway and he had discovered quite
a few happily inebriated young gentlemen enjoying themselves. He
had joined in, happy to put the night behind him and celebrate his
success. Somewhere around four he had stumbled home to bed and now…
now came the reckoning for it felt as if a herd of damned horses
was galloping around behind his eyes.

‘More sleep,’ he mumbled, turning his face
into the pillow. ‘Just for an hour or two…’

He didn’t achieve an hour or two for twenty
minutes later his valet, Peters, soft-footed into the room and
shook him gently.

‘Mr. Lampforth.’

Charlie, shaken out of a less than pleasant
dream, opened one eye and stared at his man blearily. ‘Go
‘way.’

‘But you have a visitor, sir. Your uncle,
Sir Henry Lampforth.’

If Charlie’s tongue hadn’t felt as if it had
been buried in the feathers in his pillow, he would have cursed
this news out loud. His uncle was a windbag of the first order.
Unfortunately, he was also a very rich man and Charlie was his
heir. Trying to swallow the thick coating of fur that had somehow
transformed the inside of his mouth, he cleared his throat. ‘What
the devil does he want?’

‘A word, sir. He is waiting in the breakfast
room.’

‘Ugh!’ Damn his uncle to hell. He was a nice
enough old soul in the usual course of events but his appearances
were often ill-timed, in that they interfered with Charlie’s easy
going social life. ‘I ‘spose I’d better get up.’

‘Yes, sir. I have hot water waiting.’

His valet may have had hot water waiting but
it took more than a wash behind the ears to clear the fog from
Charlie’s eyes. After twenty minutes he rolled into the breakfast
room to find his uncle, a portly fellow with the ruddy countenance
of a summer sunset, tucking into a hearty breakfast. He paused,
laden fork half way to his lips to look Charlie over for a moment,
then shook his head.

‘Late night, my boy?’

Charlie seized the coffee pot and poured
himself a cup. It was his only consolation. ‘Indeed, Uncle. So
very, very late. What brings you round at this unsavory hour?’

‘It’s approaching twelve,’ Sir Henry pointed
out mildly.

‘Exactly. Ghastly time.’

‘I was at my club and decided to call round.
Heard a nasty piece of news. Sutton is dead.’

Charlie paused while he recalled the events
of the evening before. He knew perfectly well that Sutton was dead
but he had no intention of letting his uncle know that. ‘Arthur
Sutton? How did he die?’

‘Somebody smacked him on the head,’ Sir
Henry’s tone held a certain relish. The death of a peer would be
all over London in no time but Arthur Sutton had not been a popular
man with a great many people and few people would grieve his
passing. The manner of his death might shock, but it probably
wouldn’t surprise.

‘So murder, then.’ Charlie took a sustaining
sip of coffee. ‘Any idea who it was that did him in?’

‘None whatsoever, but everybody knew that
the man was a loose screw. Could have been any number of
acquaintances.’

‘Perhaps a thief? Sutton might have caught
him in the act?’

Henry Lampforth snorted at this. ‘Far more
likely to be somebody he knows. A perfect stranger wouldn’t be
inclined to club the man to death but his friends are a different
matter entirely.’

‘You’re in a damned bloodthirsty mood,
Uncle. Have some more beef.’

‘Don’t mind if I do.’

Charlie’s uncle stayed for another twenty
minutes; clearly he had come with the grisly news – breakfast, his
second for the morning, had merely been a fortuitous event – and
was now eager to go and spread the word about Sutton’s sudden
demise elsewhere. Charlie bade him a half-hearted adieu, reflecting
that the subject of Lord Sutton’s murder was going to get mighty
tiresome before he had finished hearing the end of it. He was as
fond of a good bit of gossip as the next man, but his intimate
involvement with the situation lent the entire affair an unpleasant
odor. He decided that he would keep a low profile for a few days;
hang about with Monty, perhaps. Certainly he intended to avoid his
club for several days for gossip would be rife. Perhaps a sojourn
to the country? Normally bucolic delights were of no real appeal –
as far as Charlie could tell there was no joy to be found in the
scent of cow manure – but he could probably find something to
entertain him at Tattersall’s. Horseracing wasn’t of any real
interest to him either, that was more Monty’s thing. But it would
get him out of town and away from the inevitable speculation about
Sutton’s demise.

Having made up his mind on a course of
action, he felt a little more cheerful. He was going to have a
quiet afternoon at home and then he would call on Mr. Truelove and
ask if he wanted to accompany him on the morrow to some equine
related diversions. When the mail arrived, however, he was forced
to reconsider this excellent plan for it contained a brief letter
from his new acquaintance, Miss Harriet Honeywood.

Dear Mr. Lampforth, Esq.,

I am desirous of consulting with you on a
matter that is familiar to us both. I trust you take my meaning. If
it is not inconvenient, can you please meet me tonight at the
Bradshaw dance. Perhaps around ten o’clock?

Yours truly,

Miss Harriet Honeywood

Charlie regarded the
missive with dismay. It was
damned
inconvenient. He hated dances for he had two left
feet. And, while he had enjoyed Miss Honeywood’s refreshingly
practical company on their unusual nocturnal adventure, her request
put paid to his thoughts of escape. He was reasonably sure he could
forget the previous evening without too much effort but clearly,
that did not seem destined for success if he now had to meet up
with Miss Honeywood. He could ignore the request, of course.
Pretend it never reached him and disappear out of town. Perhaps she
would forget that she wished to speak to him? But then he
recollected the steady green eyes from the evening before, along
with that stubborn chin and he sighed.

Miss Honeywood was not the kind of young
lady who forgot things. She was a female with Purpose, that most
dreaded thing for those that were perfectly happy to have no
purpose at all.

He read the note once again and sighed.
Better to go to the damn dance and get it over with. God only knew
what she wanted to discuss, but there was no point in putting off
the inevitable. And Miss Honeywood, he sensed, was as inevitable as
the turning of the seasons.

Perhaps he could leave town tomorrow? He was
unsure what the lady wanted but he was certain he could convince
her that he was probably not the man to supply it. She just didn’t
know him well enough to realise what an awkward fellow he was.

Clearly, it was up to him to convince
her.

Aubrey was vexed. He had returned home in a
state of mixed emotion the evening before. On one hand, he was
mildly satisfied that Sutton, an out and out scoundrel, had met
with such an unpleasant end. It might be a callous attitude on his
part but, the more he learned about the man, the less he liked him.
A world without Arthur Sutton in it seemed like a good thing and it
was inevitable that somebody had put paid to the man.

But while he might feel a
mild sense of satisfaction that the unlovely fellow was dead, he
continued to be irked by Harriet Honeywood and her refusal to take
the slightest heed of anything he had said. True, she was newly
arrived in town and might be a little green around the edges, but
she had displayed the kind of managing, heedless behavior that was
extremely unappealing in a female. Could she not see that it was
far better to leave the situation alone? Somebody had
murdered
Sutton, which
seemed to imply that somebody had very strong feelings about his
actions. That person had been desperate enough to silence the man.
Desperate people could not be relied upon to behave with rational
good sense. He had no problem seeing that this was the case so why
the devil couldn’t Miss Honeywood?

He was glad that his acquaintance with the
girl had been brief for such headstrong behavior was irksome and
Aubrey had no desire to be irked.

Just the same, he had awakened that morning
with a pair of enquiring green eyes in his head. It had not
improved his disposition. Once again, it occurred to him that, in
handing back Sutton’s treasure trove, Harriet Honeywood was
exposing herself to a certain amount of danger.

Not that that was any concern of his. Damn
it.

He returned home after a brief outing to his
club – where news had got out about the peer’s abrupt demise and
was all anybody cared to discuss – to take refuge in his study,
which could be depended on to offer a certain amount of quiet.
Unfortunately, it did not last. He was flipping through estate
business that his admirably efficient secretary, Penny, had placed
in front of him when the door burst open and Celeste erupted into
the room in a flurry of lace and cambric. She came to a stop
several feet in, hands clasping before her heaving bosom, blue eyes
shining with happiness to announce in tremulous accents. ‘He is
dead!’

‘For the Lord’s sake Celeste, do close the
door,’ he begged. ‘Do you want the entire household to hear your
business?’

Absently, she turned and swung the door
shut. ‘Yes, but you don’t understand, Aubrey. I have nothing more
to worry about for I just heard that Lord Sutton is dead.’

‘I know that,’ he sighed. He had been
meaning to tell her that she could forget about Sutton but had yet
to get to it. He should have known she would hear from other
sources.

‘You heard, then? Isn’t it marvelous?’

‘Yes, but perhaps you could keep that
sentiment to yourself. It doesn’t do to look too overjoyed about
the sudden and – theoretically, at least – tragic end of one’s
contemporary.’

‘Yes, but did you hear that
he has been murdered?’ There was an unmistakable throb of thrilled
delight in his sister-in-law’s voice. He had encountered much the
same thing, in masculine form at White’s. Dramas worthy of a
theatrical performance did not come all that frequently in the
sheltered world of the
ton
and everybody was determined to make the most of
this one.

‘I do know. Most… unfortunate.’

‘Well yes, but he was quite an unpleasant
man,’ Celeste said with her usual candor, ‘so while it is quite
shocking, I really cannot regret his death and it does get me out
of an awful pickle. Now I’m sorry I told you about him threatening
me. I feel quite silly about it.’

‘You were justifiably concerned,’ he said
glumly. He, too, wished that his sister-in-law had not confided in
him. He would never have turned up at Sutton’s if she hadn’t. ‘You
weren’t to know the scoundrel would die.’

‘Exactly right,’ she agreed. Yesterday’s
clouds had quite blown away, allowing Celeste to default back to
her usual position of sunny good humor. ‘I confess, I thought you
were going to do something drastic to his lordship, you looked so
angry. I’m dreadfully sorry I bothered you with my troubles.
Honestly Aubrey, you are very good to me.’

As Celeste regularly
bothered him with her troubles – he being rather less judgmental
than his younger brother – this didn’t really merit a response. He
had no doubt that, when the next crisis loomed, he would be the
first to hear of it. He had reflected more than once that it was a
pity that Edward was not a little more easygoing, or that he
himself was a little
less
easygoing. It would make his life so much more
trouble free.

‘Just promise me that you won’t return to
the card tables,’ he begged. ‘You’ve no head for it and have the
most abysmal luck.’

‘Oh I do promise,’ she assured him
earnestly, coming around to give him a quick peck on the cheek. ‘I
have been a ninny but I assure you, I have mended my ways.’

He patted her shoulder and watched her head
towards the door, not entirely reassured. His sister-in-law liked
card games, that was the problem. She did not mean to gamble
excessively, she just became carried away, too caught up in the
moment to realise that the time had come to walk away. He had seen
it all before, of course. The problem was by no means exclusively a
female one as just as many men were addicted to the sport of
gambling. He himself wagered occasionally but he had no real
interest in it and neither did his brother. Actually, that was part
of the problem. Edward had so few vices that he could not
understand the occasional one in others. It would be better when
Celeste started breeding for it would give her something else to
think about.

Celeste was half way out the door when she
stopped, turning back to face him. ‘You haven’t forgotten about
that dance tonight, have you?’

‘What dance?’ he repeated blankly.

‘At the Bradshaw’s. Remember, you promised
Felicity.’ This was uttered with an arched eyebrow and Aubrey
groaned inwardly. Felicity Beauchamp was Celeste’s great good
friend. She was also aspiring to the role of his wife as both
females had decided it would be an excellent idea if Aubrey married
the lady. He liked Miss Beauchamp well enough; she was beautiful,
refined, witty and charming. Many men courted Miss Beauchamp’s
affections and she was generally considered to be quite the catch
for, added to her other manifest virtues, she had a fortune of her
own. While Aubrey was sensible to all the lady’s qualities he
didn’t actually want to marry her – or anybody else, for that
matter – which was unfortunate as she had indicated that she might
wish to marry him. And there was nothing more dangerous, in
Aubrey’s opinion, than a female who had decided she wished to marry
you.