Reckless Rules (Brambridge Novel 4) (3 page)

Bill unfolded his hands and stretched them out, looking at his slender fingers that contrasted with the large muscles of his forearms. “Alright. Tell me about Pedro Moreno.”

“If I might just have a chair. A comfortable one please.” Lord Granwich closed his eyes at what was obviously a painful memory. “At my age one needs to sit down occasionally.”

Bill pulled out a low chair from the corner of the forge and dabbed ineffectually at its dirty seams with a rag.

“Let me.” Granwich pulled out a large handkerchief, and, spreading it on the base of the chair, sat primly into its cushions. Bill settled back on the countertop. Chairs were a difficult thing for him. They often broke under his weight.

“Pedro Moreno is the son of Pablo Moreno, the owner of something he calls a ‘travelling museum’ that specializes in oddities.”

“Pablo Moreno? Isn’t he the one who forced Lady Anglethorpe into becoming the Grand Salvatore?”

Lord Granwich nodded. “Quite.” He flicked fastidiously at a series of short hairs that had rubbed off from the chair onto his coat. He frowned. “She had a lucky escape. Pablo Moreno has a rather unsavory reputation. There is always some trouble in the towns that he visits with his acts, but nothing concrete enough to point at him.”

“So do you think Pedro has gone back to dear old pater?”

“We are not sure. Early indications say no, that there was some kind of rift between the two men in the years after the Grand Salvatore incident. Pedro became apprenticed to the Viper and went abroad on many of the expeditions that Bertrand Lisle, the Viper, made. He has not made contact with his father since.”

“So what you are saying is that you don’t know where Pedro has gone, or what he is doing?”

Lord Granwich colored slightly and removed yet another short hair from his coat. He raised his eyebrows slightly and thrust the hair in Bill’s direction. Bill pointed at the large rug in front of the forge.

“Brutus,” he said simply. A part of the rug moved and swept the floor as two eyes revealed the rug to be a large dog of indeterminate breed.

“Er, no need…” But Lord Granwich was too late. The dog stood up, unfurling muscular legs that pushed the canine’s height to a man’s waist. His powerful jaws opened and a drop of saliva fell to the floor as two chestnut brown eyes blinked sleepily at Lord Granwich. The dog pattered over softly to the chair and leaned against Lord Granwich’s legs.

“It’s his favorite chair,” Bill said apologetically, as yet more hairs transferred themselves to Lord Granwich’s breeches. He swallowed a laugh as Brutus put two great paws on the man’s lap, and with a long tongue licked his nose.       

“If you don’t get him off me, Bill, I will find something worse than Pedro for you to do.” Lord Granwich’s voice disappeared in a squawk as Brutus leaned in again.

“Down, Brutus,” Bill said quietly. The large dog gave him a mournful look and, flopping back onto the ground, folded himself over Lord Granwich’s boots and closed his eyes.

“I suppose a large hound for a large man is what I should have expected. Earl Harding’s dog is much more manageable, however.”

Bill nodded. Earl Harding’s dog Arturo was the size of a small pelisse and was the brother of Lady Colchester’s dog Ponzi. Earl Harding had apparently taken the dog one day; for a reason Victoria had never explained to anyone.
Ah, Victoria
. His stomach clenched. Now
there
was some more unfinished business.

Lord Granwich shuffled his feet underneath Brutus’ head. “I am afraid it is up to you to find Pedro. I’m sure the rest of our acquaintances would be very glad to help you, that is, if they aren’t too busy in nuptial bliss.”

Bill grimaced. Nuptial bliss. That wasn’t something that he had ever experienced. Nor had the women who he—
spent time
with. Otherwise why would they be dallying with him? His mother had died early and his father, Lord Stanton, had never acknowledged his birth. The present Lord Stanton, his brother, had been a broken man from his parents’ dysfunctional marriage before he had met Harriet Beauregard, Agatha’s niece. Now he—
they
—were all quite sickening with their billing and cooing. Lord Lassiter and Anthony Lovall were the only single men left.

“I would be grateful if you could get this great brute off my legs. Oh no!” Lord Granwich disappeared backwards in his chair as Brutus, thinking he had been called, reared up again and proceeded to wash Lord Granwich’s face with a rough, sandpapery tongue. “Bill! Get him off me.”

Bill took hold of Brutus’ leather collar and gently hauled the affectionate dog off the hapless man. Brutus gave him a melting look and slunk out of the half-open forge door. Bill turned round to find Lord Granwich on his feet, frantically brushing at his clothes.

“My valet is going to kill me, Bill. He will have to pick Br... that dog’s hairs off one by one. I am not amused.”

“I wish I could say send it to my valet, but I’m afraid I don’t have one.”

Lord Granwich glowered and stalked towards the door of the forge. “Do not forget that finding Pedro is of prime importance. We have already received intelligence that he has tried to sell the information.”

“He has?” Why hadn’t Granwich told him that? “When were you going to tell me?”

“All I’ve heard is that buyers of the information were told to go to some sort of itinerant fair in a town in the west country. It’s not very accurate. I was in the middle of telling you when you purposefully woke up your nightmare of a dog and set him on me.”

“I didn’t… mean —”

“Yes, you did. You’ve all done something similar to me. Earl Harding made me sit in a torturous library chair for what seemed like hours. I know you want to get rid of me, but the job I do is an important one. You are important men. You should act like it.”

Bill swallowed and turned his face back to the furnace. Lord Granwich was right. He had acted like a green youth, wanting to get rid of the older man. It didn’t help that Earl Harding had done something similar. That man was notoriously bad tempered.

Lord Granwich had left the forge and already swung up into his carriage before Bill realized that he had one last question to ask the spymaster. He burst through the doors of the forge, but the carriage was away, the horses thundering up the hill. Bill took a breath and leaned heavily against the small garden gate to the forge as the coach disappeared from view. He couldn’t bring himself to run after the carriage. After all he would be even more of a laughing stock than he already was if anyone in the village heard him asking the question that he most needed to know the answer to.

Granwich had said that all the members of their ring had been chosen for their talents.

But just what were
Bill’s
talents?

CHAPTER 3

Hanover Square Rooms was packed to the rafters with the cream of the ton. Couples danced gaily in the middle of the largest recital room, whilst gaggles of debutantes and their mothers sat primly on the arranged chairs around the outside. Groups of young men drifted in and out between the gambling rooms and the dance hall.

Lady Victoria Colchester smiled primly at her partner and executed yet another perfect step in the fast-paced waltz.

“Still a diamond of the first water, I see.” Mr. Cryne clutched nervously at Victoria with sweaty hands. “You are as beautiful as when you met Lord Colchester,
may he rest in peace.”

Victoria nodded and pointed her toe. “Quite,” she said.

“I say, about that note I sent Lady Anglethorpe when she was Miss Agatha Beauregard…”

“The one where you envisaged certain lewd scenarios, Mr. Cryne?” Victoria leaned back and executed a twirl.       

“Quite. Err, I was wondering that as my sister has now left the seminary that you are patron of and I... err… did not pursue my youthful folly, whether you might give me back the note?”

Victoria resisted the small twitch that threatened to pull her lips into a most unladylike grin. “Yes, I quite think that Rosa Fanthorpe would not view that note in the same light.”

Mr. Cryne started and his foot collided with Victoria’s shin. “Oh, Lady Colchester, I’m terribly sorry, I must have slipped…”

“Just carry on dancing.” Victoria gritted her teeth. Really, did the fool not know the fourth rule?
If discovered, act like nothing has happened.
It always worked. No one could believe the audacity.

“I’m not quite sure what you are talking about.” Mr. Cryne bit at his lip, a bead of sweat running down his cheek and falling onto his exceptionally tall cravat that had come slightly askew.

“Rosa Fanthorpe, industrial heiress and magnet for all fortune hunters whose pockets are to let. Rumored to have settled on a handsome and
honest
young man.”

“You wouldn’t tell her?”

“Tell her what?” Victoria arched her eyebrows. Any minute now he was going to spill everything. Rule number two,
do the minimal work and allow them to tell you themselves.

Mr. Cryne seemed to have forgotten his initial request for gaining his card back from Agatha Beauregard. “It was only twenty thousand pounds. I’ll get it back again. Grandmama has left me some money and she is bound to die soon.” Mr. Cryne stared into the distance. “Of course Grandmama’s money should have gone to Aunt Claire but after that debacle with her son Peter and anyway, she’s dead now…”

Victoria was speechless. The gall of some men was shocking. And yet she came up against it time and time again. She stilled her legs as the dance came to a stop. “You may lead me back to my seat now, Mr. Cryne.”

“But what about my card; you won’t tell anyone about the money, will you?” Mr. Cryne’s eyes protruded from his head, giving him an uncanny resemblance to a frog. “Rosa Fanthorpe is my only hope. Papa is going to kill me!”

“That is not my problem, Mr. Cryne. And if you are not going to lead me back to my seat, I will find someone that will.”

“That would be my pleasure,” a deep voice said behind her. Victoria froze.

Mr. Cryne stumbled to a halt, pulling at her arm. “Here, who are you?” His chin rose upwards as he took in the massive form of the interloper over her shoulder.

“Mr. Standish at your service,” the deep
warm
voice replied. “I believe Lady Colchester was asking for a new escort which I would gladly provide.”

“Mr. Standish as in ‘Bill the smith’? Ha!” Mr. Cryne laughed as if forgetting the dire circumstances in which his recent disclosure had left him with Victoria. “You, sir, are no gentleman. You have no breeding and are a bastard at that.”

“Hmm.”

Victoria quivered and turned, as Bill took a step closer. Mr. Cryne released her arm and took a step back, but not far enough to stop Bill’s hand reaching out and grasping him tightly underneath his quivering chin by his intricately tied cravat.

Victoria couldn’t bring herself to look at Bill, her eyes riveted instead on the actions of his surprisingly slender fingers that paused before adjusting Mr. Cryne’s cravat to fall perfectly into a waterfall design.

Bill laughed. “You are quite right, Mr. Cryne. I am a bastard. A bastard that can tie a cravat. But I still think Lady Colchester would prefer to be escorted back to her seat by myself and not you.”

“Who let you in here? I’m going to have words with...” Mr. Cryne shook his head wildly as if his cravat now burned red hot beneath his chin.

“I rather think,” Victoria said quietly, cutting across Mr. Cryne’s bluster, “that on the whole I would like to escort myself.” To the obvious astonishment of both men, Victoria lifted her fan from her wrist and, snapping it open, walked away fanning herself. Rule number eleven,
never let a man tell you what to do ever again
. Who said there only had to be ten rules of investigation? The eleventh was
hers
.

Victoria glided across the emptying dance floor as if leaving men arguing over her was a common occurrence. Indeed, it was in fact a scenario she faced more often than she would have liked. She had more than her fair share of suitors; the immense fortune left to her by Lord Colchester, her porcelain looks, and her perceived vacant indolence were an attractive proposition to most men.

As soon as she reached the doors to the recital room, she dropped the fan so that it hung once more from her wrist and, shortening her strides, hurried down the long corridor towards the powder room, slowing as she reached a couple talking quietly in the corridor. The man was older, with auburn hair. The lady stared menacingly at Victoria.

“Lady Vanderguard, Lord Colthaven.” Victoria added a nod to her greeting and snapped her fan up to disguise the shudder that trembled through her. The couple nodded in reply but did not speak, instead choosing to stare at her intensely until she turned away. Victoria sped up again along the corridor, taking care not to break into a trot in an effort to get away from the couple. Some things she knew just
did not
bear thinking about.

Inside the powder room, a lady sat on one of the velvet chairs arranged at its center, her back straight, her hands clasped by an elder companion. She looked up as Victoria pushed into the room and settled herself straight at the mirror.

Using the powder puff that lay waiting on the small vanity desk in front of her, Victoria dabbed at her already immaculate face, attempting to quell the unsettled feeling that the appearance of Bill always caused in her, whilst taking in the reflection of the occupants of the powder room in the mirror. She made two last dabs of powder over her cheek bones and, feeling more composed, unhurriedly replaced the powder puff back on the desk.

“What news do you have for me?” the straight backed lady asked with no preamble. Her companion clutched more tightly at her hands, causing her to wince audibly. “Martha, please let go. I know you favor Mr. Cryne, but Lady Colchester was recommended to me by Miss Guthrie. I cannot step into marriage without finding out if he is quite the thing.”

Victoria took a deep breath. She hated this part. So often she was asked to investigate because her clients had a sixth sense that something was wrong, and there usually was. “Mr. Cryne is in debt to the amount of twenty thousand, Miss Fanthorpe. He anticipates being able to pay off the gambling debt when his grandmother dies which he says will be within the next two years.”