Chapter 4
Although he was happy enough to avoid Lord Corey, Snowy’s main motive for retiring early was to rise early the following morning and ride to Brighton. Which, rather to his own surprise, he achieved in very good time.
He discovered the Honorable Arthur Raymond more or less exactly where he expected him to be. The rakehell had clearly been up all night and, about to retire to the cozy armful of femininity in the bedchamber beyond, he was not at his most welcoming.
“Snowy? What the devil are you doing here?”
“Got a message from your sister,” Snowy said, brushing past him. “It’s something to do with the Young Devil and she says it’s urgent.”
“I don’t care about bloody Nicholas,” Art said wrathfully.
“Neither do I, but I’ve done my duty by bringing you this. Read it and do what you like. I’ll need to let my horse rest before I go back. I’ve got my own fish to fry.”
Art snatched the tiny, folded note from him, but retained enough civility to ask how Snowy’s suit flourished with Lady Winmore.
“She’s a magnificent woman,” Snowy said appreciatively. “And I think she likes me. Trouble is, I suspect she likes Corey more. She might be keeping me on a string just to make him jealous.”
Art, unfolding the paper with some difficulty since he was not exactly sober, paused in his efforts to scowl at Snowy. “I thought they’d parted. I told Gaby they had.”
“Oh, I think they did. Only she might not be averse to starting it up again. And I’m pretty sure Corey don’t like me.”
“Oh, that’s probably just because you’re a friend of mine.” Art finally managed to spread out the note and peered at it owlishly.
“Damn it, if that doesn’t take the cake,” he exploded. “Bloody Nicholas! What the devil did she leave it there for? And where in hell is Nicholas? I’m damned sure those snooty servants of Corey’s won’t let him stay there in their master’s absence.”
“Might have gone home to Brockton,” Snowy suggested. “Not so far from Sanford, and I expect he needs to rusticate.”
“Not with the Corey rubies in his hands, he doesn’t.”
Snowy blinked. “Well, he can’t sell those anywhere in the country. They’re bound to be recognized, and he’ll be arrested.”
“I don’t think that’s exactly what Gaby needs, do you? The arrest of her brother for stealing from her husband? She’s bound to be caught in the crossfire. Between you and me, things are a little tricky with that pair, and if you repeat that, I’ll—”
“When have I ever blabbed your family’s damned secrets?” Snowy demanded in outrage.
“Of course you haven’t,” Art muttered. “Sorry, Snow. Not exactly sober, you know, and now I’ll have to waste my damned time tracking the Young Devil down.”
“How will you make him give you the rubies?” Snowy asked curiously, for though Art was quicker with his fists than he was, Nicholas had always seemed a nasty piece of work.
“Give him a choice between a broken nose and what’s left of the monkey I won at the races.”
“Sorry, Art,” Snowy said sincerely.
“Don’t be. He might take the broken nose. Either way, I’ll get Gaby’s damned necklace, but she won’t get it back without a severe lecture on responsibility.”
Snowy goggled at him in disbelief, and Art had the grace to grin. “I know, but it’s for her own good.”
* * *
Art’s head was pounding by the time he reached London. He had just been in time to catch the mail coach, having used yet more of his winnings to vastly overpay a very large woman for the use of her ticket. It was still the cheapest and quickest way to get back to London.
The rooms where Nicholas once resided had been relet, and Art began to suspect his brother might try to leave the country and sell the rubies abroad.
However, a few inquiries in low places eventually led Art to other rooms occupied by the Young Devil’s mistress, an aging but tolerant actress who let him in with a hopeful smile.
Nicholas, in his shirt sleeves and looking somewhat squalid, glared at him from a table in the middle of the room’s faded splendor and swore. “What in hell do you want?”
“Gaby’s rubies,” Art said, getting straight to the point. “Hand them over.”
“Think they’ll go with your eyes?” Nicholas sneered.
“Probably, but they’ll match your bloody nose a damned sight better.”
“Go to hell,” Nicholas said, sitting down and helping himself to a cup of tea from the pot on the table. He didn’t offer Art one.
It was the actress, Margy, who brought him a fresh cup and then departed tactfully into the other room while the brothers glared at each other.
Eventually, Nicholas’s curiosity got the better of him. “What do you want with the rubies? You can’t sell them, you know. Can’t even pawn them.”
Art pounced. “How do you know? Did you try?”
Nicholas laughed. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Look, Nick, I’m in a hurry, so I’ll give you a choice. I’ll give you a hundred for them. Or I’ll knock you down—which we both know I can do—and take the damned baubles anyway.”
Nicholas’s lips curled. “Where would you get a spare hundred?”
“Races.”
Perhaps the rumor of Art’s unprecedented good luck had reached his elder brother, for Nick did not immediately dismiss the idea. Instead, a thoughtful, almost cunning look entered his expression.
“Guineas?” he asked.
“Pounds,” Art said firmly.
Nicholas looked around the room with distaste. “Very well. Hand ’em over.”
Art threw the roll of banknotes onto the table. He had already counted them out and separated them from the pitifully few notes remaining. Oh well, no doubt Gaby would reimburse him. Eventually.
“The rubies.”
Nicholas stood to snatch up the notes. “Do you take me for an imbecile? They’re at Sanford Park, where the silly chit abandoned them.
Of course I didn’t take them! I’m not so stupid as to get on the wrong side of Corey, who’s a lot harder than he looks.
Mind you, I did pocket a gold paper knife and a purse full of coins she’d left lying in a drawer.
How flash has our little sister become?”
Furious to be cheated and outraged on Gaby’s behalf, Art sprang to his feet, fists clenched.
But Nick, wise to his little brother’s temper, was already bolting for the other room.
Art pursued, but when the door slammed in his face, he realized his heart was not in it.
He had to get to Sanford, now. And persuade the damned butler to give him the rubies to take to Gaby.
If Art bribed him, would the man blab to Corey?
He would have to risk it.
Since there were no stage or mail coaches to anywhere near Sanford scheduled until the morning, and it was already dark, he threw his last caution to the wind and hired a post-chaise, where at least he could sprawl and sleep until morning.
* * *
One of the postilions shook Art awake when it was only just light. The good thing was, his head no longer ached. The bad part was, everything else did, since the damned yellow bounder had lived up to its nickname and rattled all his bones.
He alighted stiffly, stretched, and walked to the front steps of the imposing house.
“Payment, sir?” the postilion reminded him politely.
“Hold on, will you? I might need you again.”
“Costs extra,” the postilion warned.
Ignoring him, Art smiled at the maidservant scrubbing the steps.
She sprang up and curtseyed. “Good morning, sir. Neither his lordship nor his ladyship are at home.”
“Oh, I know that. I’m on an errand for her ladyship.
” He regarded it as luck that she was not the Friday-faced butler.
In fact, Art had flirted with her the last time he was here, so she definitely knew him, and she was not immune to his charm.
He decided to risk his good fortune one further step.
It was just possible that no one had been in Gaby’s rooms since she’d left.
Her personal maid was with her, and she was not expected back for a fortnight.
Conceivably, the jewels were still exactly where he had seen them on his last visit.
He smiled winningly and produced one of his last remaining gold coins. “Be a good girl and run up to her ladyship’s private sitting room. She wants the jewel case that’s sitting on the table just inside the door. Square leather case with pretty gold tooling.”
The girl looked scared. “I think you’d better speak to Mr. Scrivens, sir. I don’t go into her ladyship’s rooms.”
“Neither does Scrivens, I hope! I know my sister would far rather you went in than he did. I’ll tell her ladyship—and Hawkins,” he added, as the abigail’s name came to him in a moment of inspiration, “that you were extremely helpful. No need to mention the guinea.”
While he walked along the drive a little to deflect any officious grooms coming to deal with the horses, he felt the postilions watching him, as though they suspected him of attempting not to pay.
However, the graciousness of Corey’s home seemed to reassure them to some degree, for they said nothing.
Even so, he was highly relieved when the pretty maid reappeared in the doorway. She carried the ruby case in both hands, looking petrified.
“Bless you,” he said, kissing her cheek.
She blushed beetroot red, but her eyes were still large and frightened. “You will tell her ladyship? Wouldn’t you please speak to Mr. Scrivens?”
“Her ladyship’s orders definitely trump the butler’s,” Art said cheerfully. “Her ladyship will be really pleased with you. Best carry on with those steps before you get in trouble. I’ll look out for you next time I call.”
With that, he dropped the case into the large pocket of his great coat and swaggered back to the post chaise. “On to Normanton House, just on the edge of the South Downs,” he told them. “I’ll show you on the map, if you like.”
“You can show us the money first, if you please,” the postilion said insolently.
Clearly, they knew exactly who he was and what his circumstances were.
“Now, look here,” Art began, glaring at him.
But since he really didn’t want a squabble here where it would attract attention from the house, he bit back his temper.
With as much hauteur as he could muster, he threw his purse to the postilion, who, after the briefest inspection, condescended to get back on his horse.
Art climbed back into the chaise, and off they went.
Only then did he think to check that the jewels were, in fact, in their case.
If Nick had lied to him… Or Gaby had stashed the baubles somewhere without the case…
But. No, there they lay in their velvet nest, glittering and breathtakingly lovely.
No wonder Gaby wanted them back so urgently.
She would dazzle all eyes in this collection.
And in the circumstances of their somewhat frail marriage, he could quite see that keeping her carelessness from Corey was essential.
The real mystery was how Nicholas had managed to keep his hands off them. Even if he’d known he couldn’t sell them, it would be just like him to hang them on Margy to show off. No, there was something else at work here, and he began to think it was his “soft touch” brother-in-law.
He had never seen Corey lose his temper, let alone strike someone.
And although the Old Devil had been mighty pleased with himself over the marriage settlements, no one had screwed as much as a shilling out of him since.
He would never let the Raymonds ravage his estates as they had done their own.
Art’s attempt to borrow money from Corey had been met with a polite refusal which he had cheerfully accepted, and yet he had never tried again.
There was something about Corey, some inner strength of character, a fearlessness even in the face of the combined Raymond rabble, that intimidated the likes of Nicholas and the Old Devil himself. Art did not care to go up against him either, though he could not put his finger on why.
Perhaps he just liked the man. Gaby clearly did—so why the devil was she keeping things from him? Why was she so tense and un-Gaby-like around him?
Not one of life’s great ponderers, Art soon gave up solving the puzzle and closed his eyes.
He only opened them again when the chaise door opened to reveal the insolent postilion.
“Here we are, sir.”
Art peered past him. They were in an inn yard.
“This is not Normanton House. Is it the village inn?” Actually, that would be more sensible, because he needn’t then encounter Corey or their hosts, who might ask awkward questions about his sudden, uninvited appearance.
He could easily send a messenger from the inn to Gaby, to get her to come down and take the rubies off his hands.
And lend him enough blunt to see him back to Brighton and the delectable Bettina.
“It’s a village inn,” the postilion replied. “The Red Lion at Little Plunkett.”
“Where the devil is Little Plunkett?”
“On the Chichester to Brighton road.”
“Then it’s not where you’re instructed to take me. I want to be in Normanton.”
“Not without more money.”
“Now, look here, you damned thieves—”
“No need for insults, sir,” said the postilion with dignity. “You must feel free to take grievances up with the office. For our part, we’ve already done you the favor of taking you further than you were booked for. And Little Plunkett’s as far as your money goes.”
“Damn it, you’ll get paid at Normanton!”
“No, sir. We’re bound for London.”
And that appeared to be that.