Chapter 5
Five
“… It is most unsettling to see a jaded buck of the ton such as the Earl of Dunham make sport with a cause that both of us take so seriously. No doubt it is some mere whim or wager, something akin to betting on which fly shall land in the claret or which raindrop shall reach the bottom of the pane first, that has set his attention in that direction, and in another week or so we will find that he has tired of it and moved on to something else. I should like to know, however, who drafted his speech, for there were many sensible observations contained within it. Now, if only there were truly a gentleman of his stature who felt as we do, and was willing to stand up and speak out in good faith …”
The earl finished reading, then laid aside the latest letter with a snort of frustration.
“The Devil take it,” he muttered under his breath.
Had he really such a rackety reputation that everyone—from an ill-mannered chit to a venerable scholar like his new friend—thought him incapable of aught but frivolous thought?
His hand came up to loosen the carefully knotted cravat at his throat.
The damnable thing suddenly felt as constricting as his own former habits.
He yanked it off with another oath, this one a trifle louder than before.
The fact that a person holding a low opinion of him was not entirely unjustified was still rather hard to swallow, but what bothered him most was what one certain individual thought.
His mouth pursed in irritation, for he wanted Firebrand to respect him in person as well as on paper.
To hell with what Edwin Peabody’s sister thought.
Well, his own private concerns could wait for later.
Right now, he was determined to be of whatever help he could to his friend.
He reached for a sheaf of scribbled notes and leafed through them slowly.
It had taken over a week, using every resource—reputable and otherwise—to gather such a wealth of interesting information on the six men mentioned in his friend’s letter.
Why, he never would have guessed that the staid Beckenham would have a stout mistress tucked away in a little cottage in Chiswick, along with a brood of three children born on the wrong side of the blanket.
Or that the hulking Kendall, who could flatten most any man who stepped into the ring at Gentleman Jackson’s, raised delicate orchids.
Both of them had been eliminated in his mind as being capable of any sort of nefarious deed—along with Biddlesworth, who seemed only slightly less vacuous than the pack of slobbering hounds who had run of the once-elegant family townhouse.
The earl had to shake his head at that name appearing on the list. It wouldn’t be at all surprising to find the fellow gnawing bones if one called on him at supper time.
Even now, he fairly barked when nervous or taken by surprise.
That left three possibilities. Marcus ran his hand over his jaw as he contemplated them.
It would help considerably if he knew exactly what wrongdoing they were suspected of.
Firebrand had been deliberately vague, hinting only that one of the men was, in all likelihood, guilty of a most dastardly deed.
He knew none of them well enough to make a judgment as to whether that was possible, but there were several odd things that had popped up in regard to the second name on the list. To his mind, that was the gentleman who appeared the most likely candidate.
Taking up a thin cheroot from his desk drawer, the earl lit it and slowly blew out a series of swirling rings that floated up toward the carved acanthus leaf molding.
There were other ways to delve into the fellow’s life—and that of the other two men—that he hadn’t yet tried.
However, for now he would simply send on to Firebrand what information he had gathered and wait for more specific word on what he was looking for.
However, the reply that arrived the next afternoon was not at all what he expected. Once again, Marcus was moved to profane language on scanning the contents of the letter.
“So I have done quite enough and am to back off and not get any more involved!” he muttered.
The paper was balled up and tossed on the carpet, where his polished Hessian gave it a swift boot for good measure.
“It might be dangerous, Firebrand says,” continued the earl through gritted teeth.
“Well, what does the old fellow think he is going to do about it? Dangerous, indeed! I imagine I have a great deal more experience in this sort of thing than he has.”
Now that his sense of justice had been piqued, he’d be damned if he would abandon something that obviously meant so much to his friend.
Still fuming, he crossed to his desk and took a seat.
But instead of giving rein to a flare of emotion and penning a heated answer, he caught himself and let his temper cool down to a low simmer.
Perhaps it would be best not to alert Firebrand to the fact that he had no intention of abandoning the matter.
No, rather than give away any inkling of what he intended to do, he would simply continue the investigations on his own.
Firebrand may have no small skill with books and words, but Marcus was sure that he would have a great deal more success in sussing out what needed to be known than his learned friend.
A grim smile spread across Marcus’s face. Whether Firebrand liked it or not, he was going to help him right whatever wrong had been done.
“Are ye sure, Missy?” Jamison ran his hand through his carrot-colored hair, leaving it standing in spiky disarray. “I cannot say that I like the idea above half.”
Augusta slowed her mount to a walk so that his horse could draw abreast of hers.
It was still rather early and the park was nearly deserted, save for a few gentlemen letting loose with a good gallop on the other side of the Serpentine.
“Well, I don’t like it above three quarters, but I see no other way to proceed,” she answered.
“I could go by meself,” ventured the big footman, who had replaced her usual groom this morning to ensure the opportunity for a most private conversation.
She eyed his broad shoulders and thick chest. “You would never fit through the opening I have in mind.”
Jamison could think of no argument to that. “Ye heaven, if Mister Edwin were here, he would like as tan my hide fer allowing ye to think of—”
“Well, he isn’t and he can’t,” snapped Augusta. They rode on in silence for a few awkward moments. “Are you going to help me or not?”
His injured expression only deepened. “As if ye have to ask, Missy. Think I’d let ye hare off on this by yerself? Not bloody likely!”
“I knew I could count on you.”
“Aye, ‘cause I’m the only one as daft as ye,” he grumbled. “What ye need, young lady, is a husband to—”
“Oh, don’t you start on that, too!” Under her breath she added, “The way everyone goes on about it, one would think a female simply can’t live without one. If they are so important, then why doesn’t the good Lord just pop us out with one already leg-shackled on?”
Jamison ducked his head so she couldn’t see the laughter creasing his leathered face.
She gave a sigh, then returned to the matter at hand. “It may take several days to discover what evening the gentleman is planning to be away from home. Then, we shall—”
The sound of an approaching rider caused her to fall silent. A large black stallion, his coat glistening from exertion, tossed his head in the air, clearly unhappy at being reined to a sedate pace.
“Good morning Lady Augusta.” The earl tipped his curly brimmed beaver hat in greeting.
“Good morning, Lord Dunham,” replied Augusta politely, determined for once not to be uncivil. “It is a pleasant morning for a ride, is it not?”
“Indeed.”
“However, it looks as though we might get a spot of rain in the afternoon.”
He slanted a sideways look at her and chuckled. “It’s devilish work, isn’t it, trying to be polite on an empty stomach.”
Augusta fought to control the twitch of her lips.
“You have an excellent seat,” he said after a moment, taking obvious care to follow her lead in mouthing the standard platitudes, though there was a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “I take it you enjoy riding?”
She nodded as she watched him control his high strung mount with casual ease. “You appear to be quite at home in the saddle as well, milord, though it looks as if your horse is not best pleased at having his exercise curtailed.”
A dark brow arched up. “Ah, a subtle hint that I have overstayed my welcome?”
Actually, it hadn’t been. Augusta looked a bit startled. “I—”
“A shame. We still haven’t gotten around to discussing those books yet. But then again, perhaps we should actually get through one encounter without facing off with, say, lemonade at ten paces.” He tipped his hat and gave the stallion his head.
Jamison eyed the bruising rider fast disappearing around a bend, then the young lady’s face, where a stain of color was fast rising to her cheeks.
His own brow arched ever so slightly, for in all his years with the family, he had never seen Augusta affected in the least by any male presence. “Hmmm.”
Augusta jerked her head around. “What?”
The big footman quickly schooled his features into a bland expression. “Why, nothing.” He cleared his throat. “And who might that gentleman be?”
There was a moment of ominous silence. “That, Jamison, is the Earl of Dunham—a gentleman more irritating and insufferable than most.” With that, she urged her mount into a rousing gallop, making certain to head in the opposite direction of the black stallion.