Chapter Seven #2
PART OF JACK’S MAJOR decision was the acknowledgement that he was quite out of his depth with the Smith business, and it was too important, too dangerous to the country, for him to blunder about with it any further.
He had resolved to lay the whole matter before a magistrate and let the law investigate and involve any government departments it needed to.
On his way to Bow Street, however, he called in at several shops, and then the offices of Langham, Fortnum and Dabbs, the De’Ath solicitors, where he had a long discussion with Mr. Langham.
The elderly lawyer clarified exactly where Jack stood in terms of the trust, his guardians, and the betrothal agreement between his father and the late Lord Sark.
In fact, Mr. Langham showed him the original document signed by the two men.
“In my opinion, it is unenforceable, nothing more than a fond parental wish. Whether your grace considers it a matter of private honour, is not for me to say.” He set the document aside.
“Now, as to funds while you are in London, I shall give you a letter of introduction to the manager of the bank, since you have not previously met.”
This was something of a relief to Jack, who had begun to run short of money.
“Isbourne House is shut up, as you know, but it can be made comfortable for you within a few days.”
“Ah, that won’t be necessary on this occasion, since I aim to leave London tomorrow.”
“Very well. Um...” For the first time, Langham looked awkward, shuffling documents on his desk and shifting in his chair. He pulled his lower lip between his teeth. “Perhaps you are not aware that Lord Hazlett wrote to me, asking if you had visited me. He seemed genuinely anxious for your welfare.”
“I have written to him, so feel free to disclose my visit.”
Langham’s gaze, over the top of his half-spectacles, was perceptive. “Sometimes one needs to escape in order to appreciate home. Will you be seeing your physician while you are in town?”
Jack smiled. “No. I appear to have no need of him.” He rose to his feet and offered his hand. “Thank you for all your help, Mr. Langham.”
The lawyer shook hands with surprising warmth. “My pleasure, your grace.”
His head spinning, Jack stepped out into the street and halted to adjust his mind to the next matter.
The street was busy with scurrying, respectably dressed men, a few passing carriages, and a crossing sweeper.
A hackney had stopped at the side of the road, and its horse pawed the ground impatiently, while it’s driver, down from his box, was patting the animal’s neck in sympathy. It was too hot.
Smith. Bow Street.
Jack’s neck prickled. He turned to the right and looked straight into the eyes of Smith himself.
The man must have just emerged from his own solicitor’s office and was striding straight toward him.
In the same instant, Smith clearly recognized Jack, for his eyes widened in surprise and he came to a sudden halt a couple of feet away. “Mr. Johns!”
“Mr. Smith. What a small -”
A sudden loud crack broke through the buzz of the bustling street, making several people start and even cry out, looking wildly around. Mr. Smith, in the midst of a hasty step closer to Jack, jerked his arm as though surprised.
At the side window of the hackney, a curtain swished, catching Jack’s eye. He glanced back at Smith, a question ready on his lips. He never spoke it, for a dark, red stain was blooming on the sleeve of Smith’s coat.
“Dear God.” Jack took the man by the good arm. “You’ve been—”
“Don’t make a fuss,” Smith said. “I suspect it’s a mere graze.”
Quite suddenly, Jack grasped several things, the most important of which was that Smith had been shot from the window of the waiting hackney. And it could happen again. Instinctively, Jack stepped between Smith and the carriage.
“He’s leaving,” Smith said, “by the other door... I don’t feel in a position to chase him right now. I wouldn’t mind so much, but that’s my blessed hackney.”
Supporting Smith toward it, Jack wrenched open the door and, finding it empty, helped the now white-faced injured man inside.
“Grillon’s,” Jack snapped at the jarvey, who left off gawping at the passers-by now gathered in huddles to discuss what on earth had happened, and lumbered hastily toward his box.
Jack leapt inside the carriage and closed the door, searching out of all the windows for any threats, before dropping onto the bench beside Smith.
He helped him off with his coat, and Smith slashed the sleeve of his shirt with his own pocket knife, then used the hacked-off material to wipe the blood from his arm.
“Yes, it just grazed me,” Smith said with some satisfaction. “I must have moved just at the wrong moment for him. Or you did and distracted his aim.”
“But who would be shooting at you in such a way?” Jack asked grimly. “In the middle of the city! This makes no sense.” Unless it was some secret British attempt at assassinating a spy... Was he na?ve to imagine his country would not behave in such an underhand manner? Only, how would they know?
“You think I have not been in England long enough to make enemies?” Smith asked sardonically.
“Allow me,” Jack said, taking the torn sleeve from him and making a proper pad which he tied over the wound using his own handkerchief.
“How did you know I was staying at Grillon’s?” Smith asked.
Jack glanced at him. He showed no sign of pain. His eyes were hard, but direct, curiously honest.
“I followed you there yesterday,” Jack said evenly. “Considering how you arrived in this country and the fluency of your French, I was suspicious.”
Smith’s lips quirked. “Many people in Canada speak French, you know. After thirty years there, I should be fluent.”
Jack helped him back into his coat. “Yes, but should your ship be blown so badly off course that it was wrecked off Brittany?”
“No. That was damnable luck, and I confess I thought we were done for. But our—er...fluency got us out of that scrape and into another with my friends the smugglers.”
Jack frowned. “Then your ridiculous story is actually true?”
“Sadly, yes. An adventure to entertain my grandchildren, should I ever have any.”
Jack was slowly adjusting. “Why do I believe you now when I could swear you were lying at the Headless Horseman?”
“I was lying at the Headless Horseman. Not about my journey, but about my name, which is not Smith. In retrospect, that was a poor lie, but I didn’t expect to be asked by anyone who cared about the answer.
I own my name is not Smith. It is Lisle.
Hunter Lisle, and I am the true Earl of Sark. I trust that does not make us enemies?”
“Not without some considerable hypocrisy on my part,” Jack said. “For my name isn’t Johns either. It’s Rudolph John De’Ath, and I am the Duke of Isbourne.”
Smith stared at him, and then slowly, his eyes began to laugh. “I like you, Rudolph John De’Ath! Come and meet my son, and together we shall form our own Society of the Noble Incogniti.”
***
HALF AN HOUR LATER, with Lisle’s wound properly tended by his silent servant, and over a pleasant luncheon with the father and son, Jack heard the whole tale.
“My father, Carrington Lisle, never expected to be earl.
In fact, he quarrelled with his whole family and hated both his brothers, so he went adventuring on his own account, and ended up in Canada, where I was born.
My mother was a Frenchwoman, which is another reason the language comes easily to both my son Edward and me.
We had cut all ties with the other Lisles long ago, but we still received occasional letters from solicitors in England, informing us of various deaths, including that of my uncle Althorpe, Earl of Sark.
“Oddly enough, I didn’t think anything of it until my wife died a month later, and I began to question everything.
I was restless. And it suddenly struck me that if Sark had no direct heirs, as the solicitor had informed me, then I was the next in line for the earldom.
It made me laugh, until I realized I had no right to keep such an opportunity from Edward.
Then another letter from the solicitor informed me inquiries were being made by the Lord Chancelor’s office into the issue of Carrington Lisle, my father.
Edward and I talked about it and decided to go to England and see how we liked it.
“Perhaps it was a poor decision, considering the wide range of the war with France, and then the outbreak of another with the United States, but as I say, it was an adventure...”
He reached for the wine bottle and refilled Jack’s glass.
“My father spoke of the old country sometimes. About growing up at Sark Park. But I hadn’t expected to feel anything for it.
I never feel for places, only people. Yet there was something about landing in England, even in such a way. And Sark...”
He cast an apologetic smile at Jack. “I liked it. Edward liked it. Even so, we would have simply vanished again, gone back to Canada or somewhere entirely new, but I went to talk to my cousin who is installed there and calling himself earl. The house is frankly tatty. The servants, the tenants, and labourers are all poor. The place is run into the ground. And according to the solicitor, Ralph, like old Sark, is ignoring all advice in favour of short-term gain. He is a terrible steward of the land, and I could do better for everyone. Actually, my dog could.”
He twisted the stem of his glass and set it down on the table.
“So I presented the solicitor with proof of my identity and explained my somewhat unconventional entry into the country. He is sorting it all out and will pass my documents along to the Lord Chancelor. Although, of course, you are welcome to make your own inquiries. I’ll even give you a letter. ”
Jack felt his face heat. “I’m afraid I was living my own version of a school boy’s tale of spies and traitors. You have nothing to prove to me. Are you aware there is a plan afoot to marry old Sark’s youngest daughter to me?”
“Is there? I suppose you are rich? Then you are to supply the money to keep Ralph’s creditors at bay and allow his family to live in luxury—less tatty luxury than now. Do you want the marriage?”
“That is for the future,” Jack said evasively, “but I don’t know where Ralph got the idea that either my uncles or I are quite so easy to touch.”
“I expect he has not met you,” Lisle said wryly.
“I’m not sure anyone has.” Except Tabitha... He blinked suddenly. “Ralph is your enemy... Ralph tried to shoot you?”
“Or he sent someone. No one else has a cause to, and Ralph is a desperate man. I could see he liked his dignity and it is, frankly, easier to live on tick with a title. I am endangering everything by disputing the title, including this marriage contract. Are you likely to withdraw from the offer?”
“I haven’t made any offer, but I take your point. If you had left it another month, he thinks he would have tricked a fortune out of me. But here you are threatening to kick him out of both the earldom and the fortune.”
“Will he try again, Papa?” Edward asked, looking rather pale.
“Actually, I’m not sure he will,” Jack said, thinking about it.
“He took an awful risk. Don’t you think it was sheer impulse?
I expect he was merely visiting his solicitor and saw you going in ahead of him.
So he waited. And when the jarvey climbed down, he took the opportunity to slip into the hackney. ”
Jack threw down his fork and sat back, frowning. “Except he already had the gun with him. Who carries a firearm to call on their lawyer?”
“You’d be surprised,” Lisle said ruefully. “In fact, I suspect the pistol was mine. Old habits die hard. I took it out of my document case and left it in the hackney, since it was ordered to wait for me. He must have found it there. It was certainly gone when I returned with your help.”
“So, the chances are, he doesn’t know you’re at Grillon’s,” Jack said uneasily.
“Is that good enough? He has to be warned off—and the only way to do that is to publicize your claim to the earldom immediately. Then any attack on you will be laid at his door. Write him a formal letter, copied to your solicitor. Talk about it loudly in public and slip a word to the press. Start calling yourself Lord Sark while the lawyers fight it out.”
Smith grinned and raised his glass to him. “You are very wise for one so young.”
***
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, to the blare of news sheet sellers and running patterers shouting about the new earl back from the dead, Jack packed his new coats, shirts, and undergarments in his new bags and supervised their bestowal in his hired post-chaise.
He paid his shot, tipped the staff, and climbed into the chaise like the Duke of Isbourne, not the Duke of Death.
He was smiling, his heart beating with excitement as he laid his new, curly-brimmed beaver hat on the seat beside him and watched the grimy, vital streets of London slip past. He was the duke, and he was going home. Just not yet.