Chapter Three
A week had passed since the ugly incident with Henry Sutton. The bruising around Roland’s eye had gone down, and he now felt fit to be seen . . . more or less. His face no longer hurt, but his pride was still damaged, and knowledge of the wager about him at White’s was a festering wound.
Having tightened his resolve to be more like his brother Leo and resolve problems with guile and wisdom rather than by any other means, he had decided it was time to return to normal.
But what, exactly, was he going to do with himself?
He certainly wasn’t going to White’s—he wasn’t yet ready to face them and laugh off the wager as if he didn’t give a damn about it.
Downstairs, somebody knocked at the tradesman’s entrance. Roland heard the door open and close, and shortly thereafter, his footman trotted up the stairs bearing a missive.
Intrigued, Roland carried the letter across to the window to take advantage of the better light. The shutters were open, admitting the coppery sunlight of the autumn day, a great improvement on the previous week’s downpours. He unfolded the paper, then grinned from ear to ear.
The seal was that of the Lyon’s Den. This must mean another commission from Bessie Dove-Lyon—something to provide him with a distraction from his gloomy thoughts. She wished to see him in person as soon as possible. Splendid!
Rather than take the carriage, he decided to walk—it was far too easy not to exercise enough whilst sojourning in London.
Although there were plenty of sports available to well-bred young gentlemen, such as fencing and pugilism, none of them presented the additional delights of a walk through the more genteel districts of Town, with their smart cobbled streets, shining lampposts, and colonnaded front doors.
Even without his lion-headed cane to swish around—he hadn’t yet got around to having it mended—he managed a jaunty walk and even broke into a whistle as a light breeze whisked the multicolored plane leaves around his feet.
Shuffling through the yellows, greens, and reds, he made his way to Cleveland Row and approached the main entrance.
As usual, his arrival was noted by someone discreetly watching from behind a curtain, and Theseus was there to open the door to him before he’d even reached the top step.
“Good afternoon, Theseus.” Roland removed his hat and started unbuttoning his coat. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s expecting me.”
The taciturn giant was a veteran of the Napoleonic wars, one of the many taken under the wing of Mrs. Dove-Lyon. He inclined his head. “This way, Mr. Chetwynd.”
Roland was ushered through the familiar warren of corridors.
At this early hour, the place was comparatively quiet, lacking the usual hum from the gaming rooms and the good-natured bickering over the card tables.
However, as he passed the gentlemen’s lounge, Roland spotted a familiar figure in an armchair near the fire.
Excellent! He hadn’t seen Melhuish for weeks—if Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s commission wasn’t urgent, they could discuss all the latest racing news over a fine wine.
The proprietress awaited him in her private parlor at the top of the stairs.
He would like to think she smiled at him as he gave her his bow, but since her face was always hidden by a dark veil, one could only imagine what expression she wore, or even what the woman looked like.
Dressed always in black, she had acquired the epithet “The Black Widow of Whitehall.” He had always thought this an unkind way of referring to a woman of such obvious intelligence and great business acumen.
She had created a high-class gambling hell, one of the most popular establishments in London.
It accommodated ladies as well as gentlemen, provided some unusual entertainments, and offered an exceedingly discreet—and very expensive—matchmaking service.
Indeed, it was Mrs. Dove-Lyon who was to be credited with bringing together his brother Leo, the Earl of Aylsham, and his new wife, the former Lady Lamb, against what appeared to be insurmountable odds.
Roland prided himself on having played a small role in facilitating what had proven a most fortuitous marriage.
“Mr. Chetwynd, please sit down—I have a proposition for you.”
Roland sat. He felt her steely gaze boring into him but merely smiled—he was used to her perusals by now. Mrs. Dove-Lyon never missed a thing.
“I see your eye is much better. I’m very sorry that we haven’t yet managed to solve the problem of Mr. Henry Sutton, but I hope one day to banish him from London.
His former partner, Miss Lavoisier, has settled in exceedingly well here, and although we both know she’s well protected by my crew of veterans, it would be better for everyone if Henry Sutton were behind bars, where we both know he belongs. ”
“I couldn’t agree more.” Roland’s heart was beating fast in anticipation of whatever commission the lady had for him. If it involved putting Henry Sutton in prison, he’d do it for free.
“The task I have for you needs to be performed with the utmost delicacy and discretion. You are to avoid brawls, verbal disagreements, and duels—do not even raise your voice. I need you to attract no attention whatsoever. This will, I accept, be difficult in view of your height and your appearance, but I’m sure you can come up with something that will make you look like a rundown lawyer’s clerk rather than a well-heeled gentleman of the ton in the pink of fashion. ”
Roland tilted his head. A disguise, eh? How very novel.
“I’m certain I can manage that.”
“I’m sending you up to Mundlingham Castle in Suffolk, to apply for the position of Lady Beatrice Ashby’s secretary.
You’ll be given false papers and letters of recommendation to ensure that she will employ you, and no other.
You are to perform your duties to the best of your ability and gain her trust and that of everyone else in the household.
I’m sure that with your ability to make and retain friends, this will offer you no difficulty.
Just remember, however, that you are supposed to be a mere clerk, not a gentleman, so be unctuous more than charming, sycophantic rather than flattering. ”
Roland chuckled. “Fortunately, I’ve learned a bit about acting. After last year’s escapade with Piers Darvill, I have free admission to every play at the Old Forum Theater and regularly attend backstage gatherings. Actors and actresses love talking about themselves, as you know.”
“We’re not speaking about a theatrical performance, Mr. Chetwynd. We are speaking about damping down your personality somewhat so that you’re welcome at Mundlingham but don’t attract any notice. You’re going to be sleuthing whilst in Suffolk—there’s something I need you to find for me.”
Roland straightened, his heartbeat accelerating. “I’m entirely at your disposal.”
“You’ll be rewarded appropriately,” she continued. “But in addition, this assignment may help restore your reputation.”
He frowned. “Then you know about the infernal book at White’s.”
“I know everything worth knowing that happens in London, including the wagers of foolish men.”
“I rather thought you did. I await your orders.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon withdrew some papers from her desk. “This concerns an old matter. Many years ago, before my marriage, I had a friend, a charming creature named Beatrice.”
“Lady Beatrice Ashby, I assume?”
“Exactly. Lady Beatrice and I were once as close as sisters. Until, that is, a sapphire-and-diamond necklace of mine disappeared from my dressing table after one of her visits. At that time, I could not accuse a person whose family was so powerful. I haven’t seen her in years, and I have no idea if she has ever worn the jewels in public, or even if she still has them—she may have sold them to get her out of a temporary difficulty—but that is of no great matter. ”
“You want me to retrieve the jewels for you?”
“In essence, yes. You will travel to Mundlingham Castle, the Ashby family seat in Suffolk. You’ll obtain the post of secretary—I assume that your writing and arithmetic are sound, since you have some experience in estate management.
I wish you to find that necklace and return it, as it’s of great sentimental value to me. ”
“Forgive me, but if this happened years ago, why do you want it back now?”
The veiled head lifted, and he was aware that his question was not welcome. “That is something that concerns only myself. Will you take my commission?”
Of course he was going to undertake her commission!
It would get him out of Town, put that nasty wager at White’s behind him, and ensure he could avoid Henry Sutton while he plotted the villain’s downfall.
It would also make him feel more like a useful member of society and less like the kind of wastrel younger son the young lady who’d invaded his carriage considered him to be.
“I most certainly will, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. I am yours to command.”
“Good. My manager, Titan, will arrange your conveyance. You must travel under an assumed name. And take care—Lady Beatrice is not without intelligence.”
“Neither am I, I hope!” Roland rose and bowed. “You have my word, Mrs. Dove-Lyon—I shall return your stolen sapphire necklace.”
She handed in the papers. “Thank you. I knew you would.”
It wasn’t until he’d made his way to the gentlemen’s lounge to join his friend that he realized no precise payment had been settled on.
Well, that was Mrs. Dove-Lyon all over—one might almost think she enjoyed being mysterious.
One thing he could be certain of, though, was that she generally did the right thing and that she was—almost always—to be trusted.
“Greetings!” Melhuish exclaimed. “You look positively purposeful. Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s doing? Let me fill a glass for you.”
“I’ve received a commission. A bit of light subterfuge—a missing trinket and a score to settle. Precisely the thing to occupy a man of my unique talents.”
“Your unique talents?” Melhuish grinned. “You mean your ability to land yourself in scrapes and somehow emerge with your Hessians still shining, your dignity intact, and a bevy of admiring women by your side?”
Roland raised his glass in salute. Not even Melhuish’s teasing could destroy his good mood. “Exactly so.”
Melhuish chuckled. “Oh, to be you, Chetwynd. Handsome, reckless, and incurably romantic in your pursuit of adventure. Perhaps it’s time for you to take a wife and calm down before you get yourself into serious trouble.”
Roland winced. “A wife? Certainly not. Not until the gentlemen of White’s rescind their wager.”
“Then you’d better find a lady to make them eat their words, one with both spirit and sense.”
And one who has never courted any scandal. Roland thought of Lissy, the flash of her blue eyes, the sting of her tongue, and an unexpected heat crawled up his neck. Why had that accursed woman lingered in his mind? It was most inconvenient.
“Spirit is quite common amongst women. Sense, I find, is rather rarer.”
“I hear you got into an altercation with some lowlife fellow—was he not formerly married to one of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s kitchen staff, or something?”
News got around frighteningly quickly. It was for the best that Roland was leaving London. And he was going to have to be quick and subtle about it, or word would get around about that too, and his foray into espionage up in Suffolk would be common knowledge before he could achieve a thing.
“Henry Sutton is a thorn in my side. I don’t know why he blames me for everything—Darvill had just as much a hand in separating him from his actress friend as I did.
I don’t know why he can’t just go off and do something useful—he’s wasting his time threatening us.
I’m not sure he understands the power wielded by the nobility. ”
Melhuish ran a finger around the edge of his glass.
“Perhaps you don’t understand the power wielded by London’s underclass—they have an ability to get everywhere and know everything.
The best way to deal with men like Mr. Sutton is to send them off to the colonies where they can start afresh.
But unfortunately, many of them seem unwilling to go. ”
“Sutton’s been warned away from this place, and with an army of veterans and likely fellows like ourselves to eject him, he won’t chance it again.”
“But you can’t keep him away from George Street, can you? And what if he were to make his way to Brampton Hall?”
“If you are attempting to cheer me up, Melhuish, my friend, let me assure you that you are not succeeding.” Roland gave his friend a hard look.
“No need to get sticky with me, Chetters. I’m just saying—that’s all.”
Roland threw back his wine. “I suppose you’re correct. I do need a permanent solution to the issue of Mr. Sutton.”
He would have plenty of time to come up with a plan on the journey up to Suffolk.
It would be good to spend some time totally incognito, not looking over his shoulder for danger, burying himself in an adventure of his own.
Even if it did involve the rather dubious activity of theft.
He would have to make certain that he didn’t find himself behind bars, or on a convict boat headed for America.