The Smithfield Bargain (28 page)

“James, be careful.”

“I make this vow on my life, dearie, and I intend that neither you nor I lose our lives before that blackguard pays.” His lips stretched in a fearsome grin. “And pays with his life.”

Chapter Sixteen

Cameron grumbled, “Not a dashed stick in the place that's worth anything.”

James smiled as his sergeant paced the narrow stable behind the duke's house. Cameron picked up a length of wood and snapped it in two before tossing it aside. After nearly a week, the inactivity was maddening for both of them. More so for Cameron, because James had been able to sit by Romayne's bedside while she recovered and chat with her to help ease his
ennui
and frustration at being bested by their quarry yet again.

“The French spy has been detained in Brighton, but the man refuses to name his contact here in London.” He opened a slip of paper and held it out to Cameron. “This is what Whalen gave me at The Three Stags.”

His sergeant squinted at it and frowned. “You know I can't read Frenchie talk, Major.”

“Let me.” He took the page. “
Ma chère amie, je suis arrivé. Attendez-moi
à—”

“In English!” groaned Cameron.

James chuckled and said, “It says only that the spy has arrived and intends to wait as planned for our traitor on Thursday at a stall in Covent Garden. The information shall be passed there.”

“Thursday?” He swore under his breath. “That was the day the carriage was upset.”

“Aye, we missed another opportunity to snare the blackguard.”

“But there's nothing in the note to identify the traitor?”

“Whalen told me it was to be delivered to Brooks's. We cannot accuse each of the members of the club of treason. After all, the person receiving it at Brooks's might have been no more than a courier—an unknowing one, mayhap. That clue tells us nothing that we already did not know. Our quarry is here among the
ton
.”

Cameron cursed as he flipped his knife into the stable wall. “We will not have long before another Frog spy is sent to arrange another meeting. If we do not get wind of that meeting, everything could be lost.”

“You need not remind me of that.”

“So what do we do now, Major?”

James sighed. “I wish I had an answer to that, Cameron. I truly do.”

“Come in, my boy, come in!”

James chuckled under his breath at the hearty greeting, but walked into the small parlor where the Duke of Westhampton was sitting in a chair by the window overlooking the square. “Good afternoon, Your Grace.”

He liked the comfortable room, which was not as grand as the rest of the town house. The pale blue walls were the perfect foil for the dark furniture. He guessed the pieces had been brought from Westhampton Hall to allow the duke to feel at home.

“What are you about, MacKinnon?”

“I thought to check on Romayne to see how she does.”

Rising, the old man frowned. “Give the girl a chance to recover from that horror.” His eyes focused on the sling James still wore. “I do own she looks better for the experience than you. I have seen toms after a night of cat-fighting look better than you.”

“I guess I've got as many lives as that old tom, although I used one up that day.”

“As long as having nine lives is the only thing you share with an old tom. I do not wish this family shamed by your amorous antics, MacKinnon.”

With a laugh, James asked, “Do I look able to participate in such adventures with my arm held close to my body like a trussed grouse?”

A knock on the door forestalled the duke's answer, disappointing James, because he had been anxious to hear how the old man would answer. When he turned to see who stood in the door, his breath caught.

Romayne's golden hair lay loose about her shoulders. Her wine red wrapper, which was nearly the shade of her tempting lips, was cinched to accent the narrow line of her waist and the curves above it. As she walked toward them, the scent of her favorite perfume billowed around him, a muted invitation to delights he dreamed of during those few hours he could find sleep.

“What are you doing out of bed?” the duke asked sharply.

“I feel well enough to be up.” She answered her grandfather, but her eyes still held his, sending him back in time to the moment when he had been about to bring her into his arms in the carriage.

“You bumped your head hard, child. Clearly you cannot see the sense of staying in your room unless you are properly clothed.”

“Grandfather, you and James are family.”

“You need not remind me of that,” he grumbled. “You may as well return to your rest. MacKinnon and I are on our way to the club.”

James hid his surprise better than Romayne at the unforeseen statement. His first suspicions were confirmed. The duke had something he wanted to discuss with him. Something important, something His Grace did not wish his granddaughter to hear.

“Coming, MacKinnon?” the duke asked. He stamped to the door, pausing only long enough to kiss his granddaughter's cheek.

“Aye, Your Grace.”

As he walked past Romayne, James slid his unhurt arm around her waist. The taste of her lips was even more luscious than he recalled.

“Be careful,” she whispered as she had the day of the accident.

“I shall, dearie.
I
know an enemy when I see one.”

“Coming, MacKinnon?” bellowed the duke. “Or do I need to wait on you all day?”

James chuckled as he hurried down the stairs in the duke's wake. This discussion might not be an easy one, but it was sure to be interesting and loud.

The black carriage stopped before a building made of pale yellow brick. A row of pilasters marched along the upper floors, their bases surrounded by an iron railing. James did not need to see an address to know that they had arrived at 60 St. James and Brooks's Club. The building was familiar even to those beyond the
ton
.

Following the duke through the door into the entry hall on the ground floor, he noted the obsequious welcome afforded Westhampton. The duke stopped at the bottom of the leisurely curving staircase with its elaborate railing and accepted the admiration that he saw as befitting his title. Looking at the arches on the upper floor where busts of prestigious members were arrayed to impress the uninitiated, James hid his smile. He was as out of place in this club as a fox among the chickens. If he was so self-deluded as to apply for membership, he would be blackballed with alacrity—with the first black ball being dropped into the voting box, he collected, by the duke himself.

James bowed his head in a greeting to the members who were curious about him. When he saw their eyes widen as his Scottish accent betrayed his origins, he smiled. Westhampton had not brought him to Brooks's to shock the members. James waited with rare patience to determine what the old man planned. Whatever the duke plotted was sure to bring more despair to Romayne, and James intended to provide a bulwark to her grandfather's good intentions. She had suffered enough already.

As aimless conversations wandered about him, he thought of Romayne's sorrowful face when she saw him leaving with her grandfather. It was the first time he had spoken with her today. He had risen to have breakfast while she was still in her bed. Not asleep, he was certain. After he had retired to the dressing room and his uncomfortable pallet last night, he had listened to her tossing in her bed for more than an hour.

He sighed. He had been a fool not to accept her offer of a separate bedchamber. There was no sense in keeping up pretenses when Ellen might be the only one in the household who was unaware of the fact that Mr. and Mrs. MacKinnon did not share the same bed. With his own room, he would be able to resist the temptation of Romayne's sweet charms as he recalled the reasons why he had entered into this marriage.

Then he might be able to think more clearly and find some answers to his quandaries before both the traitor and Romayne's life were gone.

“Come with me, MacKinnon,” the duke ordered, interrupting one of the other men in mid-sentence. “We can have a pleasant chat in the candidate's waiting room. As I am sure you know, because you are not a member, the Great Subscription room is closed to you.”

“That is no quare gunk, Your Grace.” He smiled when the old man regarded him with bafflement, but offered no explanation. Let the duke think what he wished. James doubted if he would guess that the words meant he was not disappointed to be denied entrance to the club. He had never aspired to becoming a member of this priggish association, although he had heard others speak of what they would do if they were fortunate enough to gain entrance to its private rooms.

The chamber they entered was cozy by the standards of the grand club. Past the chairs, which had been arranged for conversation on the sedate rug, the duke walked toward the far side of the room. He chose one which allowed him a view of the foyer.

As James selected another of the padded chairs, a waiter appeared with a tray topped by a bottle of brandy and two glasses. The man silently served them, then disappeared. The duke paid him no more attention than he did the paintings on the wall or the elegant chandelier in the center of the ceiling.

“
This
is where a gentleman comes to drink,” the duke said as he raised his glass.

James sipped the brandy, which was far smoother than the cheap liquor he had swallowed at The Three Stags. “Your words suggest that you were privy to the conversation Romayne and I had before we left on our ride.”

“Conversation?” The old man snorted. “Do you usually speak to my granddaughter at such a volume?”

James chuckled as he relaxed against the back of the leather chair which squeaked beneath him. “Your Grace, I recall my discussion with your granddaughter that day very well. To own the truth, I spoke lower than usual through most of what I was want-witted enough to think was a private conversation. I shall not ask why Grange told you that I raised my voice to Romayne.”

“Grange has a propensity for exaggerating.”

“So I have seen.” James was not astonished that the duke did not deny that he had set the abigail to eavesdropping. “Her concern for Romayne's reputation led, in part, to our wedding.”

The duke sat forward, his eyes narrowing. “What are your plans? Do you intend to take Romayne back to that heathen land with you?”

“We have made no plans to return to Scotland.” He chose his words warily, for the duke's changed posture told him that the old man was about to discuss the true purpose of James's invitation to Brooks's.

Resting his elbow on his chair, the duke smiled. “So you anticipate finding a home at Westhampton Hall? Mayhap Romayne has failed to tell you that the Hall goes upon my passing to her aunt.”

“I had no idea Romayne had any living relatives other than you.”

“I doubt if Romayne recalls that her father had a sister, for her aunt was gone from Westhampton Hall before Romayne was born. My daughter Stella is an unfortunate blight on my past.” He shrugged as if the matter was of the least concern, but sorrow tainted his voice. “She married foolishly, and I disowned both her and her rakehell husband. However, she remains my daughter, and she and her daughter are heir to the Hall. A distant cousin of Romayne's will be given the title when I do them all a favor and snuff and toddle off to my grave. If you had hoped to marry an heiress, you miscalculated. She receives nothing from my estate.”

James smiled. “She has her share in that investment scheme you made in her name.”

“Yes.” The duke pyramided his fingers in front of his nose. “However, that is not what I wished to speak to you of today.”

“What topic concerns you, Your Grace?”

“My granddaughter, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And you, MacKinnon.”

“Of course,” he said again.

Footsteps sounded behind him. James scowled when he saw Montcrief swaggering toward them as if he was the master of the club. He heard the duke curse under his breath and knew that whatever Westhampton had been about to say would be forgotten until Montcrief left.

“Ah, Montcrief, what an unexpected surprise!” The duke's delight was so obviously feigned that James was startled that Montcrief did not take offense.

Montcrief smiled as he shook the white-haired man's hand. That expression wavered when he turned to James. “I had not guessed that you had decided to alter your habits from your low haunts to Brooks's.”

“It was my intention from the onset of my sojourn to see as much of London as possible,” James replied smoothly.

“And which do you find more to your liking? I suppose a lush ken with its shabbaroons lolling in every corner is more to your liking than this place.”

“You seem to have quite the intimate knowledge of such low taverns.”

Bristling, Montcrief flushed. “I repeat only what I have heard.”

“The fate of a gabble-monger.” He signaled to the waiter. As the man compliantly refilled his glass, James added, “I have learned through experience that it is better to sample the pleasures of life than to be satisfied with the mere telling of another's life.”

When Montcrief's hands fisted at his sides, James smiled with satisfaction. The young fool had comprehended the meaning of his words.

Bradley Montcrief was no gentleman. Although he played his part in the social whirl of the Season, he had sought financial assistance from the moneylenders in the seedy sections of London when he had depleted the generosity of his friends along St. James's Street. That was not a crime, but Montcrief's pleasure in playing the lord among the conveyancers and swindlers of London's dreariest streets had been related over and over by the patrons of the tumbledown taverns that Cameron had visited.

“Are you a member of Brooks's, Montcrief?” he continued.

Again the blond man colored. “I have not had the honor of being offered membership.”