Chapter 26
Socializing at the park had been tedious at best, soul-crushing at its worst. The only thing that had kept Owen somewhat civil with the various lords and ladies of the ton was the fact that he needed to elevate Ivy’s standing.
Thankfully, they had exchanged enough banal pleasantries with enough gossips that confirmation of their courtship would spread across London by morning.
He still intended to visit the houses of those who had snubbed Ivy, however.
That type of behavior would not be tolerated.
Ivy was sunshine and cheer, and he would not stand for anyone to treat her as less.
Owen had just sat behind his desk with a tumbler of brandy when his butler announced the arrival of a guest.
“No,” Owen snapped. “Tell him to bugger off.” He was done playing nice for the day.
Fale’s eyes widened in alarm, but before he could stammer, a gentleman slid past the butler and said, “He will see me.”
Owen stood and assessed Mr. Jasper Jones. Even he had heard of Rockford & Turner’s. It was the most exclusive gambling hell in London, which meant Mr. Jones was wealthy beyond reason and knew everyone’s secrets.
“You may leave,” Owen said to the butler.
Fale sighed with relief, and the door snicked shut behind him.
Owen sat back down and inclined his head to the crystal decanter. “Drink?”
“No.” Mr. Jones stuck his hands in his pockets and assessed the stuffy, dusty décor of Owen’s father’s study. “I should be at Rockford and Turner’s.”
“Then why are you here?” If he sounded ungracious as hell, it was because he was.
Mr. Jones tilted his head. “Because you asked me here.”
Owen’s glass paused halfway to his mouth. “No, I did not.”
Jones pulled a missive from his pocket and tossed it on the desk.
Owen turned it over and read the request written in the neat, loopy handwriting he had seen many times before on the chalkboard.
It appeared Ivy had found a way to make him do her bidding, and heaven knew why it delighted him so much that she had the nerve to stand against him. It was the rare person who did.
“You have a problem, my lord. I assume that is why I am here.” Jones’s eyes traveled over him, taking in every last detail. “However, my information is not free. There is something you have that I desire, and there is something I have that you need.”
“Stop speaking in riddles, or get out.”
Mr. Jones’s smile widened, and he took a seat across from Owen, sinking into the cracked leather with the grace of a panther. “I am married now.”
“My felicitations.”
“My wife is brilliant,” Jones continued matter-of-factly, and with more than a hint of pride. “She is brilliant at many things, and one of them is finding patterns. I, too, have an interest in patterns.”
“I do not.”
“You should.” Jones splayed his fingers on his knee, and Owen spotted the flash of a dark ring on his finger. “I believe someone is impersonating you.”
Owen’s body temperature plunged, freezing him in place. “Who?”
“As I said, my information is not free.”
Owen snarled. “How much do you want?”
“I do not want your money. I have enough of my own. How did you enjoy your re-entrance into society today?”
Owen’s temper, already frayed by hours of socializing, unraveled further with the digression. “I did not.”
Jones smirked. “I could tell. My wife is one of the kindest, most intelligent people I know, and yet she does not have many society friends.”
“Probably because she is kind and intelligent. Those vipers care for little more than appearances and frivolity.”
For some reason, Owen’s ire seemed to please Jones. “If you will have the lady you are courting, Miss Bennett, extend an invitation to my wife for tea, I will tell you all I know and suspect.”
“That is your price? An invitation for your wife to attend tea?”
“That is my price.”
Jones had to know he could ask Owen for almost anything, and yet all he desired was a kindness toward his wife? Was it possible the devil of London’s underbelly had come under thrall of his own partner? Owen nearly shuddered at the thought of a woman having that much power over him.
“I will ask Miss Bennett, but I shall not force her.”
“I respect you more for that. Then we have a bargain. I have been keeping an eye on your business dealings over the past year.”
Owen’s jaw worked, but he remained quiet.
This dangerous man had an ear to the underground, and Owen wanted information more than he wanted to howl at the fact that anyone was keeping tabs on him.
He thought of the side-eyed looks and insinuations during the evening promenade, and realized Ivy’s instincts about the situation were right.
He had brushed off the odd interactions, but perhaps there was more to it.
I believe someone is impersonating you.
“My horse breeding business,” Owen confirmed.
“No.”
“What business could you mean, then?”
“Exactly. You are an anomaly, Lord Brackley. You left England, and the only time anyone heard from you was when you returned to strike a deal with this duke or that marquess. Then a year ago, men began talking in my gambling hell. They were investing in the Lord Brackley’s newest business venture, and if it were half as good as his horse breeding business, they were soon to be flush with money. ”
Owen’s skin prickled as the comments about his “other” business began to make a little more sense. “I have no other business, and I sure as hell would not ask any of those layabouts to invest in one if I did.”
“And yet your business has been profiting in spades. Men who owed me money have paid their debts, and the ton considers you a new-age Midas. The ton, your lordship.”
The emphasis halted Owen’s next comment. “Speak plainly.”
“I do not hear gossip only pertaining to the ton. Did you know that I once was a fishmonger’s son?”
“I have heard.”
“I have not forgotten how it felt to starve and be taken advantage of by money-hungry men who cared nothing for the well-being of those more vulnerable, so long as their pockets were lined.” He stared hard at Owen, and a frisson of danger raced down Owen’s back.
He sized up the man in front of him. He was a physical match for Jasper, but he did not think he could fight as dirty as the gambling hell owner. He did not think he would know how.
“Your point?”
“Your profitable business venture is a factory. It has failed to meet every minimum safety standard there is. Lord Brackley overpromises and underpays his employees, luring them with healthy wages and then entrapping them by overcharging them for their board, so that they are eternally indebted to him.”
Owen pushed to his feet and roared, “The hell I do!”
Jasper did not flinch, but he assessed Owen with cold, hard eyes, until finally he gave a single nod.
“I realized today, when I met you, that something was wrong with the picture. You did not strike me as the sort of man to play oily games, and when you did not know what my dishonorable acquaintance was talking about, it occurred to me that there may be more at play than what meets the eye. It seems the pattern does not create the picture I thought it did.”
Owen’s fists were clenched when he slowly sat back down.
If someone was using his name to secure investors and oppress workers, he would not rest until he had ferreted him out.
This was no longer his father’s viscountcy.
Owen had been bequeathed it whether he wanted it or not, and he would be damned if he let anyone think he was a continuation of his amoral father.
His voice was menacing when he said, “Tell me everything you know.”
An hour later Owen sat in the kitchen, backlit by a dying fire and playing with a set of Chinese Baoding balls he had found in his father’s study, the two metal balls clicking together rhythmically as he rotated them in his palm.
What he had learned from Jasper Jones had equally enraged and flummoxed him. Who could have tricked so many gentlemen of the ton into believing they were investing with the real Viscount Brackley? Was he so nondescript that any man could claim his visage and name?
Jones had given him the name of one of his club members who had invested with the imposter Viscount Brackley, and Owen’s first order of business tomorrow was to visit the man before the ball and discover what he knew.
He was deep in thought when a figure appeared in the open kitchen doorway, a slender silhouette wearing a silky purple dressing gown. Ivy. Her loose hair curled over her shoulders, and her honey-colored eyes were warm in the banked light of the fire.
She halted when she caught sight of him. He must have made quite the picture, his hair mussed and the cuffs undone on sleeves that were rolled halfway up his forearms. A glass of cold milk sat untouched before him, along with a hard-crusted roll and the case to the Baoding balls.
“Oh… Owen. I did not know you were here.” She paused, hovering by the fireplace, neither leaving nor coming closer.
“Midnight snack, Ivy?”
She lifted a shoulder and padded toward the table, her bare feet soundless on the floor. “Barnes is snoring loud enough to wake the dead, and I was feeling restless. I can leave you alone, if you prefer your solitude.”
Owen eyed the matching purple silk rope tied around her waist. She followed the direction of his gaze. “This is one of the many items included in the wardrobe you bought.”
It was not appropriate for her to be alone with him in the house kitchen, wearing nothing but a dressing gown, but he was incapable of suggesting she remove herself.
The neckline of the robe gaped enough for him to catch sight of the pristine white cotton of her nightgown.
Had she removed her chemise and corset? Was she entirely bare beneath the fabric?
He was grateful for the table covering his lap when his thoughts veered toward the inappropriate. He pushed the roll toward her. “Hungry?”