Chapter Seven
Baron Lockwood slumped in the crimson velvet chair, swirling amber liquid in a crystal tumbler that had seen better days.
The Golden Pheasant was one of London’s most reputable establishments, but he rarely used its services.
Too vanilla for his tastes. But the proprietress was always a mine of information.
“Another, my lord?” the proprietress, Mrs. Bellamy, asked, her aging but still striking features creasing with practiced concern.
“The whole damn bottle,” Lockwood growled, sliding coins across the polished mahogany table. His usual good humor had abandoned him since that disastrous night at Crockford’s. The memory of Furoe’s cold smile as he’d reclaimed his father’s vowels still burned like acid in Lockwood’s gut.
“Something troubling you?” Mrs. Bellamy settled her considerable frame into the chair opposite, signaling to a serving girl to bring the requested bottle. Despite her questionable profession, Mrs. Bellamy possessed a shrewd intelligence that had kept her establishment thriving for fifteen years.
“Furoe!” He spat the name like a curse. “The damned prodigal viscount returns from the dead.”
“Ah, yes.” Mrs. Bellamy’s painted eyebrows rose. “Word has spread through half of London already. Lord Lucien Furoe, miraculously alive after five years. Quite the sensation. But I have to inform you he has not partaken of the services my house offers.”
“Quite the inconvenience, you mean.” Lockwood tossed back his drink, relishing the burn. “I had plans, Bellamy. Five long years of careful planning, down the privy in a single evening.”
The serving girl, barely more than sixteen, with a face still retaining traces of innocence despite her surroundings, approached with the bottle. Mrs. Bellamy dismissed her with a flick of her bejeweled fingers.
“Plans involving the Danvers residence, I presume?” Mrs. Bellamy inquired, pouring Lockwood another generous measure. Though proprietress of a brothel, she kept abreast of society’s machinations better than most peers’ wives.
“The earl was nearly mine,” Lockwood muttered.
“Another month—two at most—and he’d have lost everything.
The London house is all I want. It used to belong to my grandfather, and the Danvers virtually stole it from him.
” His eyes took on a feverish gleam. “I was to be the savior, you understand. The benevolent creditor, willing to forgive his debts in exchange for certain…considerations.”
“Such as?”
“His eldest daughter’s hand, for starters.
” Lockwood smiled unpleasantly. “Lady Lauren Cavanaugh—beautiful, accomplished, and with no dowry to speak of. A perfect arrangement. I’d gain entrée to the highest circles of society through marriage to an earl’s daughter, and she’d gain financial security that I’d won from her father.
And of course, the town home would be mine, as it always should have been. ”
“How very charitable of you,” Mrs. Bellamy remarked dryly, likely tempted to remind him that it was his grandfather’s gambling that lost it in the first place.
“The London house,” Lockwood continued, ignoring her tone.
“I’ve wanted that property since I was a boy.
My grandfather used to point it out to me when we rode through Mayfair.
Danvers House, used to be Lockwood House, elegant Georgian lines, prime location.
‘That,’ he’d say, ‘was our home. One day you will get it back for us.’ And now, just when it was within my grasp… ”
“The son returns.” Mrs. Bellamy nodded sympathetically.
“Not just returns,” Lockwood snarled. “Returns and humiliates me before half the peerage at Crockford’s. Called me a predator to my face! Me, who was merely pursuing legitimate business interests.”
Mrs. Bellamy’s expression suggested she might have her own opinion on that characterization, but she wisely kept it to herself. “Well, I’m sure a man of your…resourcefulness…will find another path to your ambitions.”
Lockwood stared moodily into his glass. “The son was supposed to be dead. I made inquiries five years ago when rumors first surfaced that he might have survived the Irish Rebellion. My sources assured me he perished in the fighting.”
“Evidently not.”
“No.” Lockwood’s eyes narrowed. “Instead, he’s been living in some Irish backwater all this time, playing at being a farmer while his family slowly disintegrated.
And now he returns like some conquering hero, full of righteous indignation about his father’s gambling debts.
” He drained his glass again. “It’s intolerable. ”
A commotion near the entrance drew their attention. He heard a burst of feminine laughter, followed by the slamming of a door. A stunningly beautiful young woman with flaming red hair and a gorgeous smile, swept into the parlor.
“Kitty!” Mrs. Bellamy called. “What a lovely surprise. I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
“Oh, I didn’t know you were entertaining,” Kitty said. “I just wanted to say goodbye.”
Mrs. Bellamy’s smile lacked substance. “Yes, well, I am unhappy that I’ve lost you, but I suspected that would eventually happen for a young woman with your looks and demeanor.” She turned to the baron. “Kitty has managed to become the mistress of a man of quite significant social standing.”
“Ah, the aspirations of whores.”
Mrs. Bellamy frowned at his rude comment. “Pardon the baron’s demeanor. Baron Lockwood could use some cheering. His lordship’s had a trying week. Lord Furoe returning from Ireland has disrupted his plans.”
Kitty kept her professional smile firmly in place.
Lockwood barely acknowledged her, still lost in his brooding. “The worst of it is, he’s brought a child with him. Thank God it’s not a son and heir to solidify his position.”
Mrs. Bellamy asked, “A daughter is no threat to your plans?”
“Of course not.” He shook his head. “A man wounded in the Irish Rebellion, with no memory of his past life, finds love. How ridiculous. Apparently, he married while in Ireland. The daughter is, what, four years old now? Ava-Marie, I believe they call her.”
Kitty’s eyebrows shot up at the name, and she exchanged a quick glance with Mrs. Bellamy.
“Do you know something, Kitty? Kitty is from Ireland,” Mrs. Bellamy explained.
“Ava-Marie?” Kitty repeated, her voice suddenly devoid of its practiced seduction. “And you say he came from Ireland? Where?”
“How the devil should I know?” Lockwood snapped, irritated by her questions. “Some village or other. What does it matter?”
“Malahide, perhaps?” Kitty persisted, earning a warning look from Mrs. Bellamy.
Lockwood’s attention sharpened. “Yes, I believe that was mentioned. Malahide.” His eyes narrowed. “What do you know of it?”
Kitty hesitated, glancing at Mrs. Bellamy, who gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“I might know something, my lord,” Kitty said carefully. “About an Ava who lived near Malahide.”
Lockwood sat up straighter, suddenly alert. “Go on.”
“She was a friend, you see. Worked with me before I came to London.” Kitty twisted her hands in her lap. “We were close, for a time. She hated the life, always talking about finding a way out, a respectable life.”
“And did she?” Lockwood asked, leaning forward.
“So, the story goes.” Kitty lowered her voice, though there was no one nearby to overhear. “Word came back that she’d found herself a gentleman. Injured, he was, with no memory of who he really was. She nursed him back to health; told him he was her husband.”
Lockwood’s glass froze halfway to his lips. “No memory, you say?”
“None at all, according to what we heard. Head injury from the rebellion, they said. Found him half-dead in the street right outside our place of business.” Kitty shrugged.
“Ava always was clever. She saw her opportunity and took it. Set herself up as his wife, moved them both to a little cottage near Malahide.”
“And the child? This Ava-Marie?”
“Could be hers, I suppose.” Kitty frowned. “You say the girl is four? The timing works.”
Lockwood’s mind raced, calculating possibilities. “Perhaps she was already with child when she found him. Or shortly after.” His lips curled in a predatory smile. “This is…most interesting.”
“Now see here,” Mrs. Bellamy cut in, her tone sharp. “Kitty’s just repeating gossip. We don’t know if it’s the same man or the same Ava.”
“But it could be,” Lockwood insisted. “An amnesiac gentleman, found after the Irish Rebellion, nursed back to health by a woman named Ava, moving to Malahide with a child named Ava-Marie… The coincidence would be extraordinary.”
“Even if it is the same man,” Mrs. Bellamy said carefully, “what of it? He’s returned to his family now.”
“Ah, but under what pretenses?” Lockwood leaned back, a calculating gleam in his eye.
“Society believes he married this Ava legitimately, that his daughter is his lawful issue. What if that’s not the truth?
What if Ava never went through with a wedding?
How could she, when she’d already told him they were married?
Could it be that their precious Viscount Furoe was living in sin with a common whore, that his beloved daughter is a bastard? ”
Kitty paled. “My lord, I never said—”
“You didn’t have to.” Lockwood waved away her protest. “The implications are clear enough. Tell me, this Ava of yours, is she still in Ireland?”
“She’s dead,” Kitty replied flatly. “Consumption took her about two years ago. That’s the last I heard, anyway.”
“Convenient,” Lockwood murmured. “Very convenient indeed. No one to contradict whatever story Furoe has concocted.”
“Except perhaps those who knew Ava,” Mrs. Bellamy pointed out. “Those who might recall her boasts about finding a gentleman with no memory. Surely there must be church records of any marriage.”
“Excellent,” Lockwood said, his smile growing wider. “There should be a record of his marriage.”
Kitty shrank back slightly. “I don’t want trouble, my lord. Ava was my friend.”