Chapter 2
Amidst the shouts and tumult of Oxford Street traffic, Hart stepped out of a hackney cabriolet and paused before the offices of Premier Oceangoing Vessels. The building’s sober facade led him to suppose that the company’s founder would be dull as dust.
Consulting his watch, Hart longed to tell the driver to return in a mere half hour. If he achieved his goal quickly, he might continue on to the British Museum for a leisurely afternoon in the Reading Room, but it was impossible to know what lay in store with this legendary Frenchman.
Hart paid the driver and sent him on his way, then entered the building.
A bell jingled to herald his arrival. Beyond the vestibule, he found himself in a large office richly appointed in shades of sapphire blue and burnished gold.
A thin, austere young man glanced up from his desk and blinked a question behind his spectacles.
“Lord Jasper Hartcliffe,” Hart supplied. “I believe I have an appointment.”
“Of course, my lord.” The man rose and nodded his head respectfully. “You are expected.”
A moment later, a paneled inner door swung open and the tall, arresting figure of an older man appeared. In spite of the charcoal-gray silk patch covering his left eye, the man took Hart in with one sweeping glance.
“Do come in, my lord,” he invited in a deep, French-accented voice, adding, “Allow me to make myself known to you. I am Justin St. Briac.”
Hart’s memory flickered. Could this man, the owner of Premier Oceangoing Vessels, also be the French pirate Austell had spoken of at the Spring Ball two years ago?
“I am very pleased to know you, sir,” Hart said. They entered a spacious, handsomely furnished office that felt more like a welcoming study in a manor house. “I have heard about you from my brother, the duke, and I am surprised we have never met.”
“I agree it is odd, but I understand you have been abroad for some time.”
“Yes. I have traveled widely but resided mainly in Florence and Paris these past two years.”
St. Briac poured coffee for them both, gesturing toward a pair of handsome armchairs near the window. When they were seated, he inquired, “Did you come here today simply to make my acquaintance?”
Hart leaned back against the leather upholstery and sipped the excellent coffee.
“I wish that were the only reason.” He met the Frenchman’s gaze.
“After returning to London, I visited my brother and found him in very low spirits. I soon perceived that his problem may stem from an investment he made in your steamship company.”
“I tried to dissuade him,” St. Briac said bluntly. “Last year, His Grace made clear his wish to buy a stake in my new enterprise. He approached me at White’s and declared that he was sailing on the River Tick…if you take my meaning.”
Hart wanted to cringe. “I understand.”
“The duke begged me to advance the funds, convinced that soon enough he would recoup enough to clear the loan and much more. If it had been any other man but the Duke of Caversham, I would have refused outright…” He paused.
“I had to wonder what had become of the old duke’s fortune?
Your father notoriously guarded his purse. ”
“I believe my brother desired to make several improvements to Caversham Castle, and one thing led to another.” Hart lifted his cup, wishing it were filled with cognac instead of coffee, and drew a harsh breath.
“Pray allow me to speak frankly, sir. I arrived from the Continent last week to find Austell in a state of agitation. Although I have not been much of a brother, I could not turn away from the sight of him, pale as death. After a good deal of brandy, he divulged that he had squandered much of Pa’s fortune at the gaming tables…
but he was holding out hope for his investment in your steamship company, sir.
” Hart’s gut twisted. “Now I learn that even that supposed source of income is encumbered by a loan.”
“Worse than that, I fear. Allow me to offer you something stronger.” Justin rose and poured two small portions of cognac.
Standing over Hart, he held out the glass.
“I just had word that our newest ship, the Helena, suffered a fire in the smokestack and sank off the coast of Ireland. The crew survived, but there will be no profit for any of us this year.” He shrugged lightly.
“My past adventures at sea have provided me with enough wealth to weather any setback. However, His Grace’s loan continues to increase, at a time when he expected to have the means to pay it off. ”
“Bloody hell.” Hart closed his eyes to block out reality. His mind raced, recalling Austell’s dark, shaky state during their last meeting. If Hart tried to intercede, his brother would be humiliated. After a long moment, Hart looked at St. Briac. “What do you mean to do?”
The Frenchman prowled over to a tall window and stared out at the crowds and traffic on Oxford Street. “Naturally, I must arrange a meeting and give him the news.”
It felt to Hart like a gut punch, yet what else could the man do? Before he could offer an argument, St. Briac spoke again, his tone thoughtful.
“His Grace doubtless has options. He could sell land or pieces of art from his vast collection—that is if he hasn’t already sold it all.” St. Briac glanced back at Hart. “One thing is clear. The duke is a man of honor. He will insist on doing the right thing.”
“Yes, of course.” Hart was surprised by the depth of his desire to protect Austell from this cruel blow.
“I agree on all counts. However, my brother’s state of mind is…
precarious. He has gotten himself into a very deep hole.
” He stopped himself from revealing more, adding simply, “I would ask that you spare him the blow of this news.”
“Sangdieu.” St. Briac blinked. “What can you possibly mean?”
Hart put up a hand in surrender. “You will be repaid, sir. I shall settle his debts instead.”
“You!” This brought St. Briac back to perch on the edge of his chair, facing Hart.
“Indeed. My brother need never know about this catastrophe. Allow him to go on believing he is getting closer to financial solvency.”
“But how could you have the means to do this? Are you not the second son?”
“I am. Because the dukedom was entailed to Austell, my mother found a way to bequeath her modest private inheritance to me, including Woodcroft Priory, her family estate in Suffolk.” A caustic smile touched his mouth as he continued, “I was wild in my youth—many would say I still am. People assume that I’ve come by my fortune at the gaming tables, but that is only partially true.
Unlike my brother, each year I have made careful investments, and there is also income from tenants at the estate. ”
“Fascinating.” St. Briac sat back in his chair, watchful. “Tell me more about yourself.”
“There is little to tell.” Hart kept his tone offhand. “I am, as you have noted, the second son. Because my brother and I are twins, I escaped the dukedom by mere minutes.”
“Escaped?” The Frenchman cocked his head. “Do you mean to say you wouldn’t choose to be Duke of Caversham if your birth order were reversed?”
“God, no. He is much better suited to the smothering constraints of that title.” Hart hoped St. Briac couldn’t hear the tense undercurrent in his voice.
“Austell was always the good brother, obedient and devoted to our parents, while I was restless. Wayward. Didn’t fit in.
I craved travel, adventure, and knowledge.
I still do. I’m easily bored.” He raked a hand through his silver-flecked hair.
“I have no patience for deuced propriety.”
St. Briac looked thoughtful. “That explains why I have not seen or heard much of you here in London.”
“I might say the same for you, sir.”
“C’est vrai,” he allowed wryly. “It is true, I have other homes, in France and Cornwall. And I find the beau monde a dead bore. Thankfully, their consequence has faded, along with the assemblies at Almack’s.
” St. Briac paused before adding, “However, we do spend a portion of the year in London, and I tolerate some social events because it gratifies my wife. Madame also maintains that our daughter, who is now a young woman, must have the opportunity to meet the…right people.”
“Understandable, I suppose.” Hart’s tone was polite, even as he wondered where the devil this Frenchman meant to take this conversation.
“But we were speaking of you, my lord. You have come here offering to pay the duke’s considerable debt to me, to protect him from a painful financial shock.
” St. Briac paused, as if pondering the situation.
“I had heard that you are a reprobate, enjoying a licentious existence on the Continent, but clearly there is more to your story.”
“If you imagine that I am concealing a devoted wife and family on my estate in Suffolk, you would be quite wrong.” Hart gave a low laugh. “On the contrary, the rumors you have heard are true. I am an unrepentant libertine.”
“Yet you must care a great deal for your brother, the duke.” The Frenchman lifted a brow above his eyepatch.
“I pursue this line of conversation for a reason. Voyons, I will not take your coin, Hartcliffe, but I would strike a bargain with you. I will forgive the duke’s considerable debt in return for your assistance with a… personal matter.”
Hart stiffened. What the devil? He wanted to flatly decline and take his leave, but the memory of Austell’s pale countenance rose up before him.
What was his brother capable of if his transgressions were exposed to all of London society?
Last night, Hart had dreamed that he’d come upon Austell lying in their father’s library, dead, a smoking pistol in one limp hand.
The vision had been too horrifying, too real to now dismiss in the light of day.
“Go on, then. I will hear you out.”
“My daughter is unique. Although she is quite lovely, she would declare that she does not ‘care a button’ for the London ton.” As he spoke, St. Briac crossed to a shelf near his desk, picked up a framed miniature, and returned to show it to Hart.
“Emmie is more interested in cursed fossils than socializing with people her own age. She turned her back on her second London Season and fled to Lyme Regis, where she has been digging for ancient bones with her spinster cousin ever since.”
A young beauty who preferred to hunt for fossils?
Hart wondered where he had heard something of this sort before.
Then he glanced down at the miniature and felt a prickle at the back of his neck.
Memories awoke. Of course! Emeline St. Briac.
He had seen this very woman at the Earl of Riven’s Spring Ball two years ago!
The pieces came together in Hart’s mind then.
Once again, he heard his brother’s voice, explaining that the beauty cared nothing for society, that she was merely pretending to accommodate her father’s wishes so that, at Season’s end, she might escape London and dig for fossils.
Endeavoring to keep the spark of interest from his voice, Hart asked, “I surmise that the personal matter you mentioned has to do with your daughter?”
“Correct.” He coughed. “I managed to persuade Emmie and her older, unmarried cousin, Louise, to return to London. Can you blame me, as a father, for wishing my only daughter to give up the solitary, sterile life of a scientist? No, it could not continue!” St. Briac avoided Hart’s gaze by pouring more cognac into their glasses.
“But my Emmie is very proud. I had to convince the two women that they could live together in this city independently. Of course, they protested that they had no means of support…and so I claimed to know a scholar who wished to employ them to do research.”
Good God, thought Hart, torn between incredulity and amusement. He has deceived his own daughter.
“I can see that you are shocked by this.” St. Briac protested, “Yet, what sort of father would I be to simply leave my beloved Emmie to live out her days digging on the cold, rocky beach of Lyme Regis? She is already dangerously near the verge of spinsterhood, but she cares nothing for that.”
“You surmise that she does not know what is best for her,” Hart said.
“What other conclusion can logically be drawn?” declared the Frenchman. “And if her own papa does not intervene, who will?”
“I see what you mean.” He wanted to laugh aloud at this outrageous man. “What does any of this have to do with me, sir?”
St. Briac paced across the office, then back to the desk. “Emeline and Louise are asking questions. I imagined that I could simply allude to their benefactor and quietly pay their bills, but they demand to know who he is and exactly what work they will do for him.”
“And there is no such person.” Hart had the uneasy suspicion he knew where this was going.
“Until now, perhaps. However, if you help me, I will forgive the Duke of Caversham’s debt to me.” He paused. “All of it… and your brother need never know.”
“This entire scheme sounds quite mad.”
“Oui. Perhaps so!” St. Briac appeared to reconsider all that he had said. “I see your point. What was I thinking? This plan needs a confident person who can easily converse with my daughter and niece on a range of scholarly subjects.” He let out a harsh breath. “I will find someone else.”
Austell’s panicky face swam in front of Hart’s eyes.
It seemed that St. Briac’s absurd plan offered the only escape.
Stifling a groan, he asserted, “No. I can do this. As it happens, I privately hold a ticket to the museum’s Reading Room, where I have lately passed long hours among the rare volumes. ”
“To what purpose?”
It seemed he must divulge more. “Woodcroft Priory, my estate in Suffolk, retains an ancient relic that only recently came to light. To my surprise, I have become very invested in discovering exactly what it means, and how it came to be there.”
St. Briac sat up straighter, his hard countenance alight with interest. “What sort of ancient relic?”
“I would rather not say, sir.” Hart narrowed his eyes. “The point is, I can engage in scholarly conversations as well as any man.”
“Ah, then, very well! You have convinced me, my lord.” The Frenchman’s grin was triumphant. “When you have satisfied our agreement, I will burn all the papers that record your brother’s debt to me. Now then, let us discuss the plan for you to play the role of Emeline’s employer.”
It came to Hart that St. Briac was weaving a web. He meant to entrap not only his daughter, but Hart as well. His mouth hardened as they shook hands to seal their bargain.
Silently, Hart replied, You don’t know it yet, St. Briac, but you have met your match.