Chapter Eleven
UNSAVOURY DARKNESS LURKED in all corners of Drury Lane, but never more so than during the lull before a matinee performance. The ton would be appalled if they unearthed Lando’s destination at such a God-fearing time of day. Add in the threat of fire, robbery, and the infamous attempted shooting of one of the players several years earlier, and it was no wonder Pritchard was reluctant to venture within a mile of the place. Thus, he was hugely put out when Lando dragged him along to guard the curricle whilst he went inside.
“I’m your indispensable valet, my lord,” he squawked as two urchins immediately closed in on the smart carriage. “I’m hardly going to beat off these ruffians with a pocket square and my clothes brush, am I?”
“Half a crown should do it, though,” answered Lando with a grin. A grin which had hardly left his face since his wonderful journey with Mr Angel. “And tell them there’s another one if they prevent that enormous rat hiding over there from crawling up the rear axle and scurrying across your feet.”
With Pritchard’s squeals ringing in his ears, Lando disappeared through an unobtrusive side door and into the murky depths of the theatre.
Locating his quarry by sound alone, Lando picked his way through a series of dust-sheeted rooms, drawing closer to the source of the godawful racket otherwise known as Tommy Squire’s singing voice. His final obstacle course, a mountain of costumes, hats, props, and other theatrical accoutrements, made up the clutter in the actor’s dressing room.
Applying face paint whilst belting out a bawdy tune, Tommy Squire peered into a gilt mirror perilously balanced on even more colourful garments. A dozen thick candles dotted haphazardly around the room assisted him in his delicate task. The faint odour of greasepaint wafted under Lando’s nose. Goodness knew how the magistrates had never ascertained a cause for the great Drury Lane fire of 1809; the likely reason was staring Lando in the face.
“From a little spark may burst a flame,” he murmured so as not to startle his old friend and set the whole place alight. Sweeping the room with a glance, which was about as close as it would ever come to being tidied up, he braced for Tommy’s reaction. “A quote from Dante Alighieri, darling, circa early fourteenth century, in case you were wondering. Although I don’t believe he meant it literally. More allegoric, really.”
“You’re back! His lordship’s back!”
Tommy leaped across the room, and Lando found himself crushed against a makeshift clothes horse and a wriggling, delighted…Dick Turpin, judging from the jaunty tricorn hat atop Tommy’s head. “The gods be damned! His lordy’s bloody back!”
With a second set of male arms wrapping about his person in as many hours, Lando felt his chest expanding, his heart soaring, his soul singing. He felt alive .
“Yes, I…I do believe I am,” he answered with a little laugh. “And this time, Tommy, I’m…I’m quite recovered. Unless you persist in squeezing the living daylights from me.”
“God, it’s been too long!” Tommy finally put Lando down to look at him properly. “Yes, you are recovered! You look in fine fettle, my lord.”
“Thank you.” Lando had a ridiculous urge to give a little twirl. “So do you. Thespian life must suit you.”
Tommy still drank Lando in. “Yes, but not for much longer. Got my eye on another gaming room. The first one’s started turning more than a few bob.” He tapped his nose mysteriously. “And the betting stands are multiplying. This is my last run treading the boards, I reckon.”
“If anyone could do it, I knew it would be you, Tommy.” Lando beamed with delight.
From the time his path had crossed Lando’s more than fifteen years ago, Tommy had dreamed of owning and running gambling hells. But unlike most folk with big dreams, Tommy also had a strategy, buckets of determination, and a miserly attitude. And, as Lando teased, friends he viewed more as opportunistic acquaintances.
“We’ll be running in the same circles soon, lordy. You mark my words.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Tommy’s keen gaze raked over Lando’s beautifully cut travelling attire, his foxy features turning lascivious. “You look good enough to eat.”
A fortnight earlier, Lando would have been sorely tempted. “At risk of disappointing you, on this occasion you may have to…ah…dine elsewhere. I am here with a very different sort of proposition, I’m afraid. Your purse will approve, even if—” He flicked his eyes down to Tommy’s nether regions. “—other parts of you are chagrined.”
Tommy grinned, uncaring. He was never short on bedfellows. “So you’ve finally taken Robert’s advice and found something to occupy your time?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’ve been worried about you, lordy. You’ve been so lonely.”
Lonely ? How inadequate that one word always sounded. As if Lando didn’t know his own bed.
“Yes, I have.”
“Is the new project a fella? It is, isn’t it?” Tommy’s eyes gleamed. “The lucky bugger. That’s what’s got you looking so well.”
Black curls escaping from a velvet ribbon danced before Lando’s eyes. Curls smelling of country air and sweet caramel. Lando shook the image away. A basic bodily need, that was all Mr Angel was filling. “No, although I have found myself a temporary distraction.”
A language Tommy understood very well.
“More importantly,” Lando continued, “I have a job for you, Tommy. One I think you’re going to enjoy very much, and I’ll pay you handsomely. Ah…how’s your American accent?”
Affecting a slouch, Tommy slapped his thigh and then pulled at the kerchief loosely tied around his neck. “Pretty darned good, Lord Rossingley,” he boomed in the tones of a man thrice his size. Despite the buckle heels, the tricorn, and one cheek thick with rouge and the other as pale as nature intended, the transformation was uncanny. “Pretty darned good.”
*
“I TRUST OUR houseguest is being well looked after by Jasper?”
“They haven’t descended to fisticuffs yet, if that’s what you mean,” answered Pritchard drily.
Seated at his dressing table in the grey banyan so admired by Angel, Lando examined his reflection and found it satisfactory. Fine fettle indeed. Over by the chest, Pritchard laid out his attire for the evening.
“And what does Jasper have to report?” Lando asked.
“That Mr Angel looks very fetching in his new wool tailcoat,” answered Pritchard. “He assures me it will be to your liking. As will the peach figured silk waistcoat.”
“You know that’s not what I mean, though I’m thrilled to hear it.” Idly, Lando riffled through a box of cravat pins. “They were gone for five hours, and Mr Angel is perfectly proportioned. My efficient tailor would have completed the job in under three.”
“They ran another errand afterwards,” admitted Pritchard. “But Jasper didn’t want you to worry yourself, my lord. Not now you are quite well.”
Through the mirror, Lando gave him a look of disdain. “I’m a thirty-four-year-old earl, Pritchard. I do not need coddling.” Sometimes, Lando wondered whether he was actually in charge of anything. “Has it not occurred to Jasper that Mr Angel’s wellbeing might contribute to my own current state of health? What is this terrible thing he thought he might need to hide from me?”
“Mr Angel’s abode,” said Pritchard shortly. “It’s not the most salubrious.”
“Silly me. I’d been assuming he resided in a palace. Where is it?”
“Sindell Street, my lord. But a stone toss from St Giles.” Pritchard’s tone suggested a cave might have been better. Throwing Lando a dark look and pausing for dramatic effect, he lowered his voice. “But there’s more.”
“Out with it then, man. Don’t worry. I shan’t have a fit of the vapours.”
“A boy is watching his lodgings. He’s in the pay of a Bow Street runner to report when Mr Angel is back in town. Jasper wagers there’s a beggar in the runner’s employ too.”
“And may I enquire how Jasper extracted that information from the boy?”
“Painfully, I believe. But, alas, not enough to scare him off. The boy is being rewarded too well. Jasper is of the belief he will continue to report Mr Angel’s comings and goings.”
And could so easily be replaced by another, thought Lando. Regarding his own reflection once more, he fingered the heavy set of pearls draped across his dressing table. They belonged to his late mother, and his hands often strayed to them when he was deep in thought. This Clark fellow clearly hadn’t given up; the dogged Bow Street runner could derail Lando’s scheme in a heartbeat if he located Angel. Even worse, once the scheme was underway, he could unwittingly expose Lando as the orchestrator of it. As he rolled one of the cool pearls between his finger and thumb, Lando’s uneasiness expanded further; he didn’t care for the image of Mr Angel—his temporary distraction —behind bars.
“Jasper must not let Angel out of his sight,” Lando instructed. “When he ventures beyond Grosvenor Street, obviously.” Within, Lando hoped to have him to himself. Lando’s London bedchamber held few melancholic memories; Charles had rarely visited the earl’s townhouse. Their love affair had been much simpler conducted at Rossingley, away from prying eyes.
“And inform Hargreaves that our guest will be best served if his belongings are moved into the rose room. I’ve always found it one of the most comfortable of this house’s bedchambers, don’t you think?”
“Certainly, my lord,” agreed Pritchard as he fussed with the earl’s powder-blue cravat. It was Lando’s favourite. His Mama had once commented that it brought out the colour of his eyes. Given that she rarely commended anything or anybody, he deduced it must be true. “And the door connecting it to your own bedchamber will be an asset, what with all the important business you have to discuss.”
“Exactly my thoughts, Pritchard.”
Having one’s valet so in tune with oneself was a boon. “And as I’m still so weary after such a dreadfully long journey yesterday—” Lando gave a theatrical yawn that wouldn’t have fooled a frightened rabbit and certainly didn’t fool Pritchard. “—I would prefer not to be disturbed in the mornings. It might prove to be the sort of weariness that drags on for days.”
“I expect Mr Angel will also be struck by it,” observed Pritchard. “After all the travelling.”
“Precisely.”