Valentine (15 page)

“Shall I put it up in a knot on your neck?” she asked tentatively. “You know how it suits you.”

“Plait it,” her sister said shortly.

Clarissa sighed and did as she was asked.

“Good … thank you.” Theo thrust her feet into a pair of openwork sandals, more suited to an afternoon’s wandering through the garden than the dinner table. She glanced up at the pretty marquetry clock on the mantelshelf. It was barely six-twenty.

“Come, let’s go downstairs.” She smiled at her sister, hugging her briefly. “You’re an angel, Clarry. I’m sorry if I was snappish.”

“You were,” Clarissa responded with a resigned sigh. Her volatile sister could always dispel lingering resentments with her smile.

They went downstairs and entered the drawing room arm in arm.

It was immediately apparent to both of them that something was afoot. Foster was delicately edging the cork out of a bottle of the late earl’s supply of vintage champagne.

Theo instantly froze. Who had had the gall to instruct Foster to broach such a precious bottle? Not her mother, surely? Her mother didn’t know the first thing about what was in the cellars. Theo’s eyes flickered to the Earl of Stoneridge, who was in his customary position by the empty fireplace, resting his elbow along the mantel shelf. Of course, she thought bitterly, the Earl of Stoneridge had the right to drink any bottle he chose, even though he’d put no effort, knowledge, or funds into its acquisition.

“Come,” he said, extending his hand toward her. “We were waiting for you.”

She looked round the room. Her mother was sitting on the sofa, her embroidery in her lap. Emily held a copy of the
Gazette
in her hand, and it was she who spoke.

“Oh, Theo, love, it’s so exciting. See, here’s the notice of your engagement.”

“What?”
The blood drained from her face and then flooded back in an angry tide. “Show me that.” She almost snatched the paper from Emily.

The simple statement set the fact in stone, rendered indecision merely ashes in the wind.

Clarissa read the announcement over her shoulder. Her sister was quivering, and she laid a steadying hand on Theo’s shoulder. She didn’t know why Theo was having such difficulties, but since she was, she’d offer what silent support she could. Theo would do the same for her, whether she agreed with her or not.

“Pray accept my heartfelt congratulations, Lady Theo,” Foster said. The cork slid out between his finger and thumb with barely a pop, and he poured the straw-colored bubbles without losing a drop.

“Stoneridge, could we—”

“After dinner,” he said smoothly. “If you’d like to walk a little, I’m sure your mama would permit it.”

Manipulative devil!
After what had passed between them, what had her mother’s permission to do with anything? Theo felt like a drowning man clinging to a weed-encrusted rock. Everytime she grasped a tendril, the slimy fronds slithered through her fingers.

Elinor took a glass from the tray Foster presented. “Theo, dear, you and Lord Stoneridge will discuss whatever you feel necessary after dinner. He will listen to you as you will listen to him.”

Theo waited angrily for her mother to offer a toast to the happy couple, but Elinor didn’t abandon her quite so completely. She raised her glass, took a considered sip, and said, “A happy thought, Stoneridge.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgment and sipped his own wine. The girls exchanged comprehending looks and followed suit.

No point wasting vintage champagne, Theo thought, regarding her for-the-present established betrothed over the lip of her glass. He looked remarkably well for a man who’d been indisposed for two days. Had it been a trick? Had he anticipated her morning-after change of mind? Surely not? Not even a Gilbraith could be that devious … or could he?

T
HE
B
LACK
D
OG
in Spitalfields was an unwholesome establishment, generally frequented by cutpurses and villains of various trades. It was well-known to the Bow Street Runners, who, more often than not, were indistinguishable in appearance from their quarry on the other side of the law.

On the evening of the day the
Gazette
carried the news of Sylvester Gilbraith’s engagement to Theodora Belmont, a man stepped out of a hackney carriage outside the tavern and stood on the mired cobbles, his aquiline nose twitching at the stench of rotten garbage and human waste flowing in the open kennels running alongside the filthy lane.

A ragged urchin seemed to stumble against him, but before he could regain his footing, Captain Neil Gerard of His Majesty’s Third Dragoons had collared him. The lad, no more than seven or eight, stared in wild-eyed terror at his captor, who pried open the boy’s clenched fist with fingers of steel.

“Thief!” the captain declared with cold dispassion as he retrieved his watch from the grimy palm. He raised his silver-handled cane as the child screamed. No one took any notice
of the scene or the child’s cries as he fell to his knees beneath the relentless blows. Such violence was relatively mild by the standards of this part of London, and even the urchin knew, as he lay sniveling in the gutter, that he’d escaped lightly. If the gent had handed him over the beadles, he’d have faced the hangman’s noose in Newgate Yard or the transportation hulks lying in the Thames estuary.

Captain Gerard kicked at the skinny huddled body by way of parting and strode into the inn, ducking his head beneath the low lintel.

His eyes streamed from the thick smoke rising from a dozen clay pipes and the noxious stench of the sea coal burning in the great hearth, despite the warm summer evening. Men glanced up from their tankards or their dice and then looked down again. Jud’s tavern was a flash house—a place where a man could do business of a certain kind without drawing attention to himself. A man could find a prizefighter, a murderer, an arsonist, a lock breaker, a highwayman, if he knew who and how to ask and had the right currency.

The man behind the bar counter had the brutally disfigured countenance of one who lived by violence. A scarlet cicatrix slashed his cheek where a French sword had cut to the bone, his nose had been broken in so many fights that he could no longer breathe through it, and his mouth was permanently open, revealing one black front tooth. A stained patch covered the empty socket of his left eye.

“Well, well, if it ain’t the cap’n.” He greeted the newcomer with what might have been a smile but was more of a sneer. “It’s that day agin, is it? Amazin’ ’ow the time passes.” He drew a tankard of ale and drank deeply, wiping the froth off his mouth with the back of a filthy hand.

“What can I offer ye, then, sir?” His sneer broadened. He knew the captain wouldn’t touch anything in this house.

Captain Gerard didn’t deign to reply. This weekly ordeal of humiliation grew harder each occasion, but he had no choice. And most particularly not now. He drew a heavy
leather pouch from his pocket and dropped it onto the counter with a clunk.

“Oh, what ’ave we ’ere, then?” Jud opened the pouch and shook the golden guineas onto the counter, where they gleamed dully against the stained planking.

“Only four, sir?” His voice took on a mocking whine. “An’ there was I thinkin’ we’d agreed on a bit extra now … just ’cause me memory’s gettin’ better by the day…. Unusual that, innit?” He wiped the counter with his sleeve, his one eye glittering with malice. “Most people forgets things as they get on … but not me … not Jud O’Flannery.”

Neil Gerard felt the familiar fury mingling with the humiliation of his helplessness. This man had him. He held in the palm of one massive filthy hand the captain’s reputation, his social standing, possibly even his life—a firing squad was the penalty for cowardice in the face of the enemy.

“That Major Gilbraith, now, ’e was a good sort,” Jud mused. “A brave man … everyone says as ’ow ’e was one o’ the best officers they ’ad in the Peninsula. Even old Nosey thought so.”

The Duke of Wellington, so familiarly referred to, had indeed thought highly of Sylvester Gilbraith. It was that opinion that had saved the major from the conviction for cowardice that as easily as acquittal could have resulted from the hazy facts. But the duke had insisted that his old favorite be given the benefit of the doubt.

And that left Neil Gerard with an insoluble problem that would stay with him for as long as both Sylvester Gilbraith and Jud O’Flannery existed together on earth.

But Jud didn’t know that his old captain’s problem had suddenly worsened. Sylvester was now the Earl of Stoneridge, about to make an excellent marriage. He would be bound to reenter Society. The old story would be resurrected, there would be whispers—but Society forgave quickly, particularly when it was only a rumor and the subject had such impeccable
entrées to the secluded world of privilege inhabited by the ton.

Reopening the story was the last thing Captain Gerard wanted. People would ask questions, maybe increasingly searching questions, and what if Sylvester began to probe? What if his own memory of those moments before the bayonet thrust began to clear? What if he decided to defend himself vigorously in the clubs of St. James’s? Defense of Sylvester Gilbraith would inevitably lead to fingers pointing at Neil Gerard, who should have come up in support of the beleaguered outpost … and unaccountably failed to do so.

Neil reached into his pocket and dropped another guinea on the counter. He stared at his nemesis with loathing, and Jud laughed, sweeping the coins into the palm of one hand.

Sergeant O’Flannery had witnessed the moment when his captain decided to abandon Major Gilbraith’s small force to the enemy. Sergeant O’Flannery had received the order to withdraw the men, while his captain had galloped back behind the safety of the picket line.

Only Sergeant O’Flannery had known what lay behind the order to withdraw, and Sergeant O’Flannery’s grasp grew ever greedier and tighter.

Neil glanced around the taproom, peering through the stinging smoke beneath the blackened beams. Among the drinkers there would be a man who would rid him of Sylvester Gilbraith, for a price. But if word got back to Jud of such a scheme to rob him of his golden goose, then Captain Gerard’s own life wouldn’t be worth a day’s purchase. Jud O’Flannery was the unquestioned king of London’s underworld; there wasn’t a purse fat enough to tempt a thief or a murderer to cross swords with him. And he had his spies in every malodorous hole in the city.

He swung on his heel and strode out of the fetid room without another word. The sergeant spat contemptuously in the sawdust at his feet as the elegant figure stepped out into the street.

Gerard climbed back into the waiting hackney. The removal of the now Earl of Stoneridge would mean he’d never again have to make these mortifying visits to Spitalfields—visits that Jud insisted he make in person. So Gerard had to crawl into that den of thieves to pay his blackmail, and that humiliation seemed to afford the vile Sergeant O’Flannery even greater satisfaction than the money itself.

There were flash houses other than Jud’s tavern where a man could find a hired assassin. Not one who’d be willing to take on Jud O’Flannery, of course, but one who’d see no harm in doing away with some unknown gentleman. One who’d ask no questions if the price was right.

Neil frowned in the dim light of the hackney, hanging on to the strap as the iron-wheeled vehicle rattled over the cobbles, swerving to avoid a mangy mongrel. If he could get rid of Stoneridge while he was still in the country … an accident of some kind … then all his troubles would be over. There was no reason why he’d have to identify himself to a potential murderer, and if he chose his man from a neighborhood away from Jud’s immediate vicinity, it was unlikely Jud would hear of it. It was a risk worth taking.

But if that failed, if Sylvester did reenter Society, what then? They’d been friends before Vimiera. True, he’d been the first to ostracize Gilbraith. Everyone had been watching to see what attitude he would take, and he’d known they would follow his lead. Once he’d cut Gilbraith, it was assumed he’d known the truth but had been unwilling for the sake of old friendship to tell a tale that would condemn the major. Society had turned its shoulder against Sylvester Gilbraith, and he’d slipped out of sight, taking his shame with him. It would take a lot to bring him back to face that mortification again.

Society didn’t know of Jud O’Flannery, who had been required, as the only noncommissioned officer present at the events in question, to attend the court-martial. Jud had threatened to produce his own version of those events if his captain condemned Gilbraith out of hand. And the sergeant
had thus ensured for himself a tidy little income that he could increase at will.

But supposing, if Sylvester did return to London, Gerard was the first to welcome him back into Society’s fold? Supposing he extended the hand of friendship, generously prepared to put suspicion behind him? Society would surely follow his lead, and the old scandal would die. Sylvester would be a fool to reopen it.

But Sylvester was a fiercely proud man, capable of acts of desperate courage if his loyalties or principles were involved. If he believed there was reason to clear his name, he’d do it at whatever personal cost. He’d certainly face Society’s censure to prove his point.