Chapter Fifteen
“MY HOUSEGUEST AND I had…ah…a little falling out over breakfast.”
Whilst Pritchard laid out his evening attire, Lando stretched the length of the tub, luxuriating in the exotic scents of citrus and bergamot.
“Bound to happen sooner or later,” Pritchard commented. “Mr Angel’s a poor young hothead, and you’re a cold-hearted devil of an aristocrat. I’m not surprised.”
Lando swivelled to stare at him, trying to keep a straight face. No man was a hero to his valet, thank heavens. A spoiled, wealthy one such as himself needed at least one person in his pay keeping him honest. “Just so you know, I don’t care for that explanation, Pritchard.”
Quick to temper, Kit had been mulish over breakfast, and nothing Lando had said managed to placate him. The meal had ended coolly; the young man had taken what he needed from the library up to his bedchamber and had not been sighted by Lando since.
“He’s suspicious of my motives.”
“Of course he is,” answered Pritchard. “You’ve only given him half the plan.”
“That’s because I only have half the plan. I even admitted that to him.” Raising it beyond the water level, Lando soaped his long, pale calf. “Which, in retrospect, did not provide the reassurance I hoped it might.”
On the contrary, it served to make his young friend even angrier. He gave a frustrated hum.
“He’s very different to…to Charles. He’s fiery; he rails against the injustice of everything. And he’s a thief, of course, which makes his belief that I’m the untrustworthy one even more laughable.”
“But?” queried Pritchard.
“But…” Lando sighed. “I’m finding that I like him very much.”
Wisely, the valet stayed silent as Lando voiced the words again in his head, testing the veracity of them. That he’d even compared his frivolous desire for young, pretty Kit to his deep, overarching love for Charles was astonishing.
“Unfortunately, Mr Angel is becoming less fond of me by the hour,” he added, not allowing himself any more pause for thought. “He thinks I’m leading him to the slaughter to further my own gains, namely to obtain Gartside’s estate for myself.”
“How can you convince him otherwise?”
By getting him into my bed . Getting my need for him out of my system.
“By coming up with a suitable denouement to this wretched scheme. I have a couple of ideas, but I’m still not convinced they are the right ones. If I wasn’t developing such a tendre for the fellow, I could have Kit arrested for accepting bribes. Publicly—or in front of Gartside, Cobham, and Sir Richard at least. As long as no one ever found out that he wasn’t a true custom’s official, then Gartside’s humiliation would be complete.”
“Tommy Squire should have plenty of friends who could dress up and play the part of a lawman,” Pritchard observed.
“Mmm.”
Paying one of Tommy’s actor pals to take on the role of a Bow Street runner was the obvious solution. He could spring an arrest on Kit, arranged to occur in front of the others. Though the simplicity held appeal, it relied heavily on Kit’s hitherto untested dramatic flair. More importantly, it relied on the individual to never tell. Which they would, naturally, because actors and scuttlebutt went hand in hand.
A much more definite conclusion, and one Lando dismissed on the spot, would be if someone let slip to the real customs officials that an imposter was trying to extort London gentlemen—Lando included. Then let Kit take the fall and subsequently persuade the magistrates to go gently on him. Gartside would still be humiliated, but it was a horrible plan with far too many ifs and buts for Lando’s liking, and the chances of magistrates dismissing Kit, already wanted for a different set of crimes, was highly improbable.
He sighed, sinking lower in the tub. “Any news from Jasper?”
“Yes, my lord,” Pritchard answered sourly. “Plenty. Starting with a declaration that the joys of valeting are not to his liking. And he’s making certain that everybody below stairs is aware of it.”
Lando laughed. “Surely dressing a man as comely as Mr Angel isn’t that tiresome, is it?”
“Heavens, no. I’d give my eyeteeth to have at him.”
As Lando twisted in his bath to stare him down, Pritchard added, “Obviously being your personal valet is a far superior and elevated position.”
“Far superior.”
“Though he is a fine figure of a man.”
“He is that,” agreed Lando. “In fact, I’m particularly taken by his broad shoulders. Though it sounds as if they are not sufficient to sway Jasper’s low opinion.”
Pritchard peered at Lando’s midnight black evening dress, smoothing out an imaginary wrinkle. “No. Mr Angel’s presence unfortunately serves to remind Jasper that the man has insulted you more than once. And Jasper’s presence reminds Mr Angel of his lingering bruises. They are struggling to see eye to eye. Literally. Especially after today’s run around.”
Lando reached for a washcloth. “Do tell?”
Pritchard moistened his lips before launching into his tale. “Well, having spent much of the morning reading through that dull pile of books you left for him, Mr Angel tried to give Jasper the slip by sneaking out of a side entrance unobserved.” Pritchard shook out a silk stocking. “He failed, naturally. Jasper followed him at a discreet distance, though God knows how that great one-eyed lump manages to blend into the background. Regardless, Mr Angel didn’t spot him.”
“Where did he go?”
“Vauxhall Gardens, my lord. Whereupon he strolled, aimlessly. Jasper had the impression he was spying out all the other young, well-dressed gentlemen with nothing better to do. And then deliberately contriving to walk alongside them and occasionally stopping to pass the time of day.”
Annoyance bit at Lando’s insides, and he scowled.
“But not walking with them,” added Pritchard after a delicate pause. “If you catch my drift.”
Lando breathed a sigh of relief. “I do, but the suspense you add to a tale is quite vexatious. And after Mr Angel’s social meanderings?”
Pritchard’s brow furrowed. “Jasper said it was most curious. After setting a painfully slow pace along the main avenue, as soon as he left the gardens, Mr Angel marched to Vauxhall Bridge like his arse was on fire, if you’ll pardon the expression. Dived into one of the less salubrious goldsmiths, was back outside five minutes later, then headed here. Thankfully, Hargreaves made his usual song and dance over relieving him of his hat and coat at the front door, giving Jasper time to hotfoot it around the back and pretend he’d been loitering in the scullery polishing boots all along. Upon which Mr Angel inspected the boots and remarked that considering he’d been at it all afternoon, they weren’t especially shined. Which put Jasper’s nose out of joint something rotten.”
“I imagine it did,” replied Lando slowly, aware of a growing sense of unease. Perhaps his relief that Kit wasn’t searching for male entertainment had been premature. Wandering around throngs of strangers then visiting a pawn shop? He knew precisely what Kit was up to, namely his light-fingered old tricks. For everyone’s sake, Lando hoped the runner, Clark, was less observant than Jasper. Suddenly, his bathing was less sweet. “My towel please, Pritchard, and my robe.”
*
WITH THEIR DISAGREEMENT and his worries still fresh in Kit’s mind—judging from his expressive, downturned mouth—they dined in near silence. Lando’s London dining table comprised fewer leaves than the expansive ocean at his country estate, necessitating Kit to be seated only a few feet away from him. Nonetheless, the distance may well have been the body of water separating England from France. How different this was to the atmosphere of their supper together at Rossingley, Lando reflected. And how well crisp evening attire suited his darkly handsome guest. Even if he was sulking. The man had quite a talent for it.
Whilst Kit chomped steadily through cook’s excellent loin of pork with stewed apples, Lando only picked. For the first time since arriving in London and having Kit in his home, his thoughts turned towards Charles. At best, since losing his lover, his appetite had never been strong, but when faced with a stony companion, it was positively kittenish.
If such a wooden atmosphere hadn’t prevailed, Lando might have been tempted to warn Kit that his modest home on Sindell Street was being watched, that perhaps even his pilfering at Vauxhall might be under scrutiny. Even Jasper wasn’t infallible, for all that his one eye was surprisingly sharp. But if Lando did that, if he confessed to having Kit followed for no other reason than Lando’s own naturally untrusting nature, then Kit would despise him even more.
“Tell me, Kit,” he said, disturbing the empty stretch of time between clinks of silverware. “How did you come about your light-fingered skills?”
“Through necessity.”
Lando waited for more. It was not forthcoming. He toyed with a morsel of pork.
“Whilst I appreciate your candidness, necessity does not enable a person to wake one morning with the required skills. Otherwise, every man down on his luck would be chancing his arm.”
Kit speared a carrot, making Lando wait. “I’m not at liberty to divulge,” he said after swallowing. “Isn’t that your preferred expression? You’re not the only one with secrets.”
“I am, however, the only one of us behaving in an adult fashion.” Lando’s tone was sharp. “If you’re having second thoughts regarding the whole scheme, now is the time to declare them. Before we wade out of our depth.”
Kit laughed mirthlessly. “Wade out of our depth? It’s a little too late for that, don’t you think?” He waved his fork around as if searching for something to stab. “I want Gartside ruined. I may ruin my neck in the process. We’ve already established what’s the worst that can happen.” He thrust the fork into an unsuspecting roast potato. “So, for want of a better alternative, I’m going to have to go along with it, aren’t I?”
*
“HENRY DUCHAMPS-AVERY , Eleventh Earl of Rossingley, and Mr Christopher Angel.”
To describe a hush as settling across the room would not be an exaggeration. Followed by a noise akin to a swarm of a thousand bees as mouths whispered in ears and ladies murmured behind fans. At his shoulder, as erect and haughty as Kit had ever seen him, and utterly ravishing with it, Lando accepted the stares as his God-given due. Tonight, under his severe evening coat, the earl had selected a delicately embroidered sky-blue waistcoat. Though Kit had had opportunity at dinner to drink his fill, he still found himself sneaking admiring glances.
Once introduced to the matronly Lady Chalfont—from whom Kit only warranted the tiniest acknowledgment, given that his elusive aristocratic companion was far more interesting—a glass of punch found its way to his hand, and he was free to wander and act as if he belonged.
Even though he didn’t, he found his evening entertainment fascinating and hideous in equal parts.
The ballroom and its occupants were a far cry from the country dances he’d endured growing up in the Kentish countryside. According to Lando, as they’d made their way across Mayfair in his crested landau, this wasn’t a ball but a soirée , thus less grand and less formal. As Kit supped his weak fruit punch, lamenting a lack of fortification, his mind boggled as to how a ball could possibly be any grander. At least twenty servers waited on no fewer than sixty guests, entertained by a string quartet and a rather large gentleman belting out popular tunes on an overdecorated harpsichord. Assisted by garlands of flowers strewn across every surface and a cornucopia of lavish evening wear, the whole event was a dazzling riot of noise and colour, making Kit quite nauseous.
But no matter how many ladies in their flouncing finery wafted past on the arms of eligible young gentlemen, no matter how many mamas and timid second daughters engaged him in curious discourse, only the earl’s slight figure ever caught his eye. Doomed , Kit thought miserably, sinking a second glass of oversweet punch. Doomed to be infatuated by a man possibly plotting his downfall.
If Kit had hoped his lowly status as a provincial gentleman required to work for a living excused him from partnering ladies in dance, he was very much mistaken. No sooner had ten minutes elapsed before he was accosted by two young females of the plainer variety, both insisting he take to the floor. With Lando deep in conversation with a wizened patriarch, he had no alternative but to smile brightly and then stumble his way through a stately polonaise. Faring better in the quadrille, he manoeuvred the ladies back to their chaperone and then escaped the waltz by hiding behind an enormous potted plant bursting with flowers, which made him sneeze.
Lando, he observed, did not take to the dance floor once. In fact, as the dancing began in earnest, he hardly caught sight of his strikingly fair head at all. Sir Richard was not in attendance, nor Lord Cobham as far as Kit could tell, but he spotted Gartside during the second quadrille, surrounded by a rowdy group of young bucks already deep in their cups.
He heard him before he saw him, braying with a sneering kind of laughter, and for a second, Kit pictured the man leering over his poor sister, mocking as she cowered in fear. Flames of anger, still blazing away as though Gartside had assaulted Anne only yesterday, licked at his self-control. If it wasn’t for a blushing young debutante and her sponsor attempting to ascertain his annual income through the medium of polite commentary, Kit would have marched over and socked Gartside on the jaw. Once he concurred with his female companions that the room was gay as a spring day and that Lady Chalfont did indeed gather the most delightful of crowds, Kit did the next best thing and took himself in search of a drink much stronger than bloody fruit punch.
*
HE MET UP with Lando in the card room, the earl’s cool countenance and frosty hauteur as immaculate as on arrival. In contrast, Kit was sure he looked as hot and het up as he felt.
“People do this for fun?” he exclaimed as Lando cast an appraising eye over his appearance. “I’ve had three mothers ask me whether I’m a first or second son, and two daughters interrogate me on the number of bedchambers in my country home.”
Lando’s mouth quirked. “On a cooler evening such as this, I advise loitering on the upper balconies. It’s an excellent deterrent. And if you select a windowed balcony with a long sash leading out to it, one can observe the vigorous goings-on inside without ever having to exert oneself.”
“Did it not occur to you I might have appreciated those sage words in the carriage on the way here?”
Lando’s pale blue eyes fluttered, full of mischief. “You were sulking. Magnificently.”
He had a point.
“And,” Lando continued, his delectable lips still twitching, “then I would have denied myself the pleasure of watching you dance.”
Kit made a harrumphing sound. “Watch me long enough, and I’ll be dancing on the end of a rope.”
“Ah.”
“ Ah is not reassuring.”
Kit’s annoyance with Lando almost rivalled his desire. Which was a lot. Half of him wanted to strangle the man and the other half wanted to do something equally improper whilst a guest in another person’s house. Instead, he had to satisfy himself with a further grunt and flopped into an empty chair.
“Do swallow your spleen, Kit, darling,” Lando murmured. “There’s a time and a place for anger, and it isn’t now. All you’re achieving with that thunderous face is a sore jaw from clenching your teeth.”
“Gartside is despicable,” Kit groused, ticking off the other reason for his poor temper. “I can barely manage to be in the same room as the man. Maybe I should lead him out onto one of those upper balconies, plant him a facer, then push him over it.”
“Why don’t you distract yourself with joining the next game of loo, instead.” Lando’s gaze flicked around the room. “You can take my position. It’s Gartside’s favourite, probably because it’s one of the few games in which his small intellect grasps the rules. And at least then, you can mollify yourself with taking a few guineas from him while chumming up. Look, he’s here to play now.”
Having thrust him into the card game, Lando annoyingly vanished, leaving Kit once more having to control an urge to string Gartside up by his cravat. To make matters worse, he couldn’t even temper his hunger for revenge by thrashing the man at loo. Which was damned infuriating as loo was one of the easiest games to manipulate ever invented. Tonight’s game would have been child’s play, seeing as every man around the table was already three sheets to the wind. All of them were determined to show off their purses too. Kit could have won every trick and every chip in his sleep.
Except he couldn’t because a corruptible, gullible customs official—open to bribery—would be useless at cards. Why would he need to be corruptible if he won regularly at the gaming tables? So, if Kit wanted Gartside to think him a person keen to accept backhanders, he’d have to stew in his own miserable juices and lose his pennies hand over fist.
Which Kit did with remarkably good grace, putting up with the jeering, the sneering, the drunken braggadocio, and every other snide insult Gartside and his pals threw his way. When Kit could so easily have fleeced the lot of them.
As he congratulated Gartside on his meagre winnings, with a slightly too firm pat on the back, Kit retaliated in the only way he knew how—by dipping his nimble fingers inside Gartside’s waistcoat pocket.