Chapter Twenty-Five
AS A RULE , anxiety’s nimble tread tiptoed through Lando’s mind and out the other side with nary a pause. Melancholia generally stayed a while, and when absent, Lando was not averse to vanity’s dancing feet. Though he’d deny it all day long. But anxiety and a weakness of the nerves never tarried, which was why today’s vacillation was all the more surprising.
“If I forewarn Kit of our plans regarding Clark, then I’m convinced he will give himself away to Gartside,” Lando fretted for at least the fourth time. “We must use the element of surprise to our advantage, and I fear if Kit is in on it, then he might not behave in front of the others in the manner in which I intend.”
Pritchard’s expression told him he’d begun to find Lando’s fussing quite wearing. Along with London life in general. The sooner Pritchard was back at Rossingley and enjoying the comforts found within Inglis’s capable hands, the better his valet’s humour would be.
“He is not half the actor Tommy is,” Lando continued. “He wears his heart too close to his sleeve; he’ll give us all away. But if I don’t forewarn him, he will suffer such a dreadful shock he might loathe me forever after, even when all is revealed.”
Pritchard tutted. Again. His well of subtlety had run dry, evidently. “My lord. If you believe that bag of moonshine, then I’ll be wondering if you also took a cudgel to the head. Loathe you? Fat chance of that. The man is besotted.”
They were returning in the phaeton from Coutt’s on the Strand, having deposited Gartside’s two hundred pounds for safekeeping. Wracked with nerves on the drive out, on account of being laden with so much money, Pritchard’s usual gripes regarding his employer’s penchant for speed had been forgotten. Now, with an empty purse and a nagging headache borne of his lordship’s wittering, they returned in full flow.
“And if you don’t slow down, there will be nothing left of you to loathe, my lord. Really, that last bend was not designed to be taken with two wheels in the air.”
“But afterward, Pritchard, when all is revealed, do you truly believe he’ll forgive me and accept my invitation to return as my guest to Rossingley?”
“No, my lord. I think he’ll slice off his apples with a rusty blade and join a Cistercian monastery. And I also truly believe that lovesickness is a disease mostly suffered by those in the company of the infected person. Lovesick earls don’t have to endure listening to themselves.”
He threw Lando his sternest look. “And if you don’t stop this thing bouncing over every blasted pothole in the road, I might choose to go and join him in the monastery. Keep both hands on the reins! Begging your pardon, my lord.”
“Pardon absolutely refused.” Snorting with laughter, Lando gave him a poke in the ribs. “And if you continue in this vein, I’ll tip you over the side. I’ve told you before, it is not the done thing for an earl to be seen about the ton giggling with one’s valet.”
Reining the horses in a fraction because he was nothing if not considerate, Lando indulged himself in daydreams of the future: Waking with Kit alongside him, planning their day together in Rossingley’s cosy breakfast room while admiring the flowers in the walled garden; serving him food from the sideboard while he poured Lando’s coffee; watching him eat, watching him chew, watching him swallow; becoming insatiably aroused; dismissing the footmen so he could initiate amorous congress amongst the kippers. He mused over innocent, harmless reveries, so it was such a pity Pritchard’s next words carved through them.
“Though Mr Angel may feel inclined to join you as a temporary houseguest, I feel duty-bound to remind you that it is also not done to have a permanent male house guest. Rossingley might be eighty miles hence, but one can never be too careful. Whilst your staff are loyal and discreet, visitors from the village and beyond may gossip. And—” He raised a finger to silence Lando’s protests. “I grant that Mr Angel is as nauseatingly taken with you as you are with him, but have you considered whether he actually wants to live the life of a…a concubine? He’s young, strong, and virile. He’ll soon tire of loafing around your great pile while you’re out doing your…whatever it is you do to keep your swathes of acreage shipshape.”
“Oh.” Lando pouted. “I…had not considered that.”
“Hence, I’m alerting you to it. I’m not merely here to pick out waistcoats, you know.”
To the delight of the matched pair and the dismay of Pritchard, the reins slipped loosely through Lando’s fingers again as he sank into deep thought. Beyond their declarations of love, he hadn’t fully pondered what Kit would do at Rossingley, only that he would be there. He had dismissed Kit’s foolish insistence he should return to Kent to earn blunt, but now he reconsidered. As his valet had so forthrightly put, a prideful young man such as Lando’s beloved would not be content in the role of unpaying house guest and lover. Pritchard was right. Kit wasn’t of Lando’s class—he would be no more comfortable living as an idle gentleman of leisure as Lando would clambering up sooty chimneys. He would have to do something.
“Given that you are in such an insightful mood, Pritchard, what do you suggest? You have presented me with a problem but offer no solution.”
White-knuckled, Pritchard clutched the rail. “What I was going to add, my lord, if you would just slow this godforsaken contraption down for half a second, is that removing Sir Ambrose Gartside from your neighbouring property constitutes only half a plan. You will be improving the lives of many, but not of your own.” He let out a yelp of terror as Lando’s arms crossed over the reins as they went screaming around a stationary stage.
“You were saying?” Lando queried, unruffled.
“I was saying that this plan of yours is looking after everyone except for yourself!”
Muttering under his breath, Pritchard made the sign of the cross. “Removing Gartside would be excellent for all concerned, except yourself, who will not only inherit a multitude of tribulations to overcome in addition to managing your own affairs, but you would still be alone.”
“Mmm,” replied Lando with a brisk jerk of the reins. A rather brilliant idea had just occurred. “Unless, of course, I remove Gartside and place someone capable in his stead. Someone in desperate need of a home near to Rossingley. Someone…young and strong and virile, for instance.” Taking his eyes off the road, he glanced at an ashen Pritchard. “Do you imagine that might be a feasible solution to our Mr Angel problem? Might it assuage his pride?”
“I have no idea. But if you don’t rein in these satanic horses right now, then I swear to our Lord God Almighty, neither of us will live to find out.”
Such a spoilsport. With a click of his tongue and a twitch of the reins, Lando brought the phaeton’s speed down to a gentle trot. A huge smile spread across his face. Under duress, his valet could always be relied upon to unearth pockets of absolute genius.
“Thank you,” Pritchard whimpered. “I shall live to see my Inglis again, after all.”
Still grinning, Lando gave him another nudge. “It is I who should be thanking you, Pritchard. And before it escapes me, may I take this opportunity to praise your choice of the word concubine . It really is one of my very favourites. Terribly exotic , don’t you think? Invariably puts me in mind of leather and thick strapping.”
“Always here to please,” Pritchard answered primly. “Although, if you ever drive this thing at those speeds again, I shall take a leather strap to you. And unless I’m mistaken, Grosvenor Street is that way. Where the devil are you taking me now?”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Lando grinned evilly. “The bids are in. From Cobham and Sir Richard. Delivered by hand this morning. So, we’re off to share the good news with Tommy.”
“Drury Lane?” cried Pritchard, aghast.
“Well, he’s hardly going to be found propping up the mantel at White’s, is he? If we get a shuffle on, we can make the interval of the matinée performance. I hear Tommy’s portrayal of Dick Turpin is terribly vulgar. It incited a riot two days ago. A brawl in the street! But I’m sure you’ll be fine if I pop in for a few minutes.”
*
THE DAY OF the rendezvous at White’s drew bright and cheerful. As if eager for the afternoon ahead, the wind blew in teasing gusts, sending leaves flying from the trees and swirling around the landau in a mosaic of colour. Autumn, dazzling at its very best.
Kit, floundering in a soup of trepidation and foreboding, felt he was anything but. His form-fitting coat was trying its hardest to suffocate him. He was hot, and his head throbbed with all that hung heavy on his mind. Half an hour hence, he would be congratulating Gartside as the victor in a business proposition that didn’t exist, disappointing two honest and innocent gentlemen of the ton . And then, somehow, Gartside’s deceit would be exposed, while his own would remain magically secreted away, intact. Gartside would slink off into the night a broken man, and everyone else would happily go their separate ways. Believing all that was a rather tall order, despite the reassuring presence of Lando’s cool hand gripping his. Trust me . By this point, Kit didn’t have much choice, even though Lando was keeping him in the dark.
Dressed in a severely cut charcoal coat and unadorned navy cravat, his lover looked splendid and maddeningly unruffled, as if they were off to the theatre or a pleasant stroll around Vauxhall. Which only served to add to Kit’s growing irritation.
“You’re glowering, darling,” Lando murmured, rubbing his thumb over Kit’s tensed knuckles. “You know the effect that sulky mouth has on me. If you don’t stop, I shall arrive in a state of heated arousal, which will quite ruin the line of my breeches.”
Despite himself, Kit smiled. They had made love that morning, indolent and unhurried—a measured grinding of hips, Lando on top and Kit below, slippery with sweat. Whispered endearments had flowed between them, promises and reassurances, and in the moment, Kit had believed anything was possible, including a bright future in his lover’s arms. Afterward, with the earl curled up alongside him, sweetly drowsy and pliant, Kit had shut his eyes tight so he might hold on to the sensation as long as possible.
“You would still be the most handsome, well-dressed gentleman in London,” Kit replied gallantly, though his belly curdled. And I would still be a common thief .
*
TOMMY SQUIRE, PLAYING the role of Mr Arthur Hamilton, was undeniably handsome too. Artfully so. Like Kit, he wore his hair longer than the current fashion, but where Kit was also unfashionably broad and solid, Squire was slight and agile. And where Kit lacked guile, Squire was fox-minded; his calculating gaze travelled around each member of their small party, only softening when it fell on Lando. Kit fervently wished this would be his last ever encounter with the man.
“Lord Rossingley,” Mr Hamilton drawled in that accent, which Kit now knew to be fake but, for the life of him, couldn’t fault. Impeccably attired, the man occupied an armchair near the fire, looking for all the world like a seasoned member of the club. As his shrewd eyes raked over Lando, obviously approving of the view, Kit clenched his jaw. “My offer for your tailor to accompany me back to South Carolina still stands.” He sighed—that was fake too. “Though, I suspect his skilfulness is greatly flattered by your fine figure.”
“I think that’s quite enough of the pleasantries.” Lord Cobham’s bark precisely mirrored Kit’s thoughts. With a bandy strut, he took up a wide-legged stance in front of the great hearth, mopping his brow. “Let’s get this thing done, shall we?” He glared at Mr Hamilton. “With less of the theatrics.”
Theatrics ? The man had no idea how closely he skirted the truth.
Other than greeting his cousin warmly, Sir Richard had said nothing, too busy quietly observing the others. An impatient Gartside paced the room. He’d barely acknowledged Kit, though he’d shot him one or two furtive glances, which Kit had returned as calmly as a fellow could whilst simultaneously trying to stop his heart from beating out of his chest. He noted Gartside perspired, too, even though the room was cool.
Only Lando, effortlessly drawing everyone’s attention, seemed totally at ease. Quite still, he had arranged himself in a highbacked chair of claret-coloured silk. One slim leg was drawn back and the other stretched out; his hands rested easily in his lap. His refined features were inscrutable, reminding Kit of the dispassionate, frigid nobleman he’d first encountered that wet and windy evening at Rossingley. It seemed an awfully long time ago now. Since, Kit had learned to recognise the pose and the hauteur for the facade they were. He blew out a breath. Ye gods, Kit hoped his lover knew what the blazes he was doing. If this was to be one of his last few nights as a free man, he had no desire to spend it in this company.
With a light clearing of his throat, Lando spoke, reaching directly to the heart of the matter. “All of you have made your interest known regarding my proposal to construct four new mills on my land, in addition to expansion of the shipping routes. I thank you.”
His silvery gaze turned to Kit. “And I also extend my gratitude to Mr Angel for most thoroughly fulfilling all I have asked of him.” His lips twitched faintly; if Kit hadn’t been sensitive to his lover’s every move, he might have missed it. “Without his company, these last few weeks would have been much less…satisfactory.”
Kit gave a modest nod in Lando’s general direction, praying his cheeks didn’t appear as heated as they felt.
“I’ll begin with you, Mr Hamilton,” Lando continued smoothly. His expression softened to one of sympathy. “As fervently as I wish our arrangement regarding the export of your raw cotton to continue unabated for as long as the hot South Carolina sun continues to shine on your crops, alas, you have been comfortably outbid in your efforts to establish your enterprise on English soil. As we both suspected would happen.”
Not only was Mr Hamilton’s accent authentic, at least to Kit’s untutored ear, his disappointed pout was a highly credible performance too. Slapping his thigh and clicking his fingers might have been a step too far, but for all Kit (and the other assembled gentlemen knew), perhaps Americans employed a host of bizarre rituals to cope with disappointment. As if reading his mind, Hamilton slapped his other thigh.
“Well darn,” he replied, elongating the vowels. “But I thank you for your consideration, Lord Rossingley. And never you mind. I’ll sail on home, count my blessings, and still be a winner. As we like to say back in America, you’re only a loser if you don’t enter the race.”
Kit suppressed a wince. If Americans truly spewed uplifting homilies like that in response to defeat, he sincerely hoped he never had cause to visit the place.
“That’s very…gracious of you,” said Lando thinly. The lack of empathy from the other three gentlemen in the room was deafening. “Regardless, your family will continue to profit from my business association with one of these gentlemen gathered here with us. So may I trespass further on your valuable time by inviting you to stay a while?”
Hamilton rubbed his hands together. “Why, thank you kindly, Lord Rossingley. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Lando’s attention switched back to the others. Steepling his fingers under his chin, he regarded them contemplatively. Like the charged seconds before a thunderstorm, anticipation hung in the air. Twice, Gartside tugged at his cravat, his eyes darting towards Kit, and twice, Kit managed a polite smile in return. He felt a tad hot under the collar himself, though he’d die before showing it. Refreshments were unforthcoming; he’d have killed for a jug of ale.
“You all delivered your bids into the hand of my butler earlier this week.” Lando adjusted his cuffs, the only outward sign of the strain he must surely be feeling. “I am most grateful for your promptness. Mr Angel and I have had time to discuss them at length. You have all been most generous.” He gave a cryptic smile. “Clearly, I approached the right fellows to assist me in my venture.”
Gartside rocked on his heels, unable to keep still. If Lando didn’t declare him the winner soon, Kit wagered the baronet would combust.
“Lord Cobham, Sir Richard.” Lando’s voice was solemn. “You delivered almost identical bids. I salute your diligence and sharp minds. The opportunity to work with either of you would be most humbling. And profitable. Alas, you were both handsomely outbid by Sir Ambrose here, who not only surpassed my expectations by offering a substantial source of funds for expansion but also brought to the table his own brand of wisdom and perspective.”
How Lando managed to say the last few lines with a perfectly straight face was anyone’s guess. At that moment, no one paused to ponder it because two of the gentlemen regarded each other with identical expressions of disbelief. One fake American gentleman endeavoured to hide his enjoyment of the whole charade behind his hand while Lando’s glittery gaze had trapped Kit’s, the two of them silently sharing all the words they couldn’t speak in the company of the others. Gartside, of course, being the poor winner Kit anticipated, clapped his hands with delight, revelling in the sweet taste of victory. He might as well have shaken a triumphant fist under the noses of the other two, such was his elation, an ugly mix of glee and condescension. Enjoy this moment, Kit thought, for it shall not last long.
A disgruntled Lord Cobham had seen enough. “I shall be getting along, Rossingley,” he announced briskly, throwing Gartside a curt glance. “Let this gentleman have his day.”
Gracefully rising from his seat, Lando proffered a hand. “Then I’ll wish you a pleasant evening Cobham. Let’s ring for someone to show you out. And once again”—he treated the portly baron to his most ingratiating of smiles—“I am eternally grateful for your time and your patience. No doubt, there will be other ventures we can explore together.”
He wheeled the lord in the direction of the doorway, to where a waiting footman proffered his hat and coat, and in a whirlwind of activity, Cobham was gone.
“The old man’s a buffoon,” chortled Gartside, all traces of his prior anxiety vanished. “Good riddance, I say. The man lost his wits years ago. Even had the nerve to accuse me of compromising his damned youngest daughter at Vauxhall. Bloody cheek. If it wasn’t for his father and mine being old chums, I’d have called him out years ago.”
“As to the unsavoury matter of his daughter, I cannot comment,” answered Lando coolly. “Though I have heard conflicting accounts. Regardless, I happen to hold his intellect in high regard.”
“Hear, hear,” said Sir Richard, earning himself a spiteful glare from Gartside. With a nod to Kit, he made a move to leave. Lando stayed him with a hand on his sleeve.
“I wonder, Sir Richard, if I could trouble you to remain behind a little longer. A family matter.”
“Of course.”
Strolling to a long window providing excellent views of the lush parkland opposite, Lando looked for all the world like a man with his affairs about to be wrapped up.
“Age and infirmity will come to us all one day,” he observed. “God willing.”
“We should call for drinks,” Gartside declared, jubilantly ringing the bell. “The cellar’s finest claret. I have much to celebrate.”
“Why not,” agreed Lando, turning. “Do you care to join us, Mr Hamilton and Mr Angel, in a toast to our new business partner?”
A knock at the door heralded a wave of relief all around. A footman entered, bearing glasses and a silver decanter. Awkward small talk had filled the interim, mostly provided by Mr Hamilton, whose voice had an uncanny knack of grating on the stretched few nerves Kit had remaining. Lando, no doubt filled with a similar growing sense of unease as Kit, indulged his chatter, while Sir Richard stayed silent, his plain features set in a slight frown. Gartside, oblivious to the tension, helped himself to a very generous slug of claret and would have downed it in one if it wasn’t for a commotion at the door chopping short his celebration as suddenly as it had begun.
“What the dickens?” Gartside exclaimed.
A thick-set man, younger than Cobham but older than the rest, marched into the room.
A beleaguered footman dashed in after him. “Sir, you are not invited. Sir, I do insist you return to the…”
“I’m here on business,” snapped the intruder, holding up a hand. “Official magistrate business.”
The man removed his hat, revealing a pallid, fleshy face below a balding pate. A harsh face, one Kit had only glimpsed once, as he’d raced down an alley and vaulted a low wall. One he’d prayed to never see again. Magistrate business. Bow Street magistrate business. The floor beneath him suddenly dropped away.
“Yes, but I insist…” tried the troubled footman again but to no avail. This interloper didn’t care for the rules of White’s, he had no patience for fancy gentlemen and ton etiquette. Clark—for it was he—took up a position in the centre of the floor, brandishing his scroll of paper like a dagger.
“I’d say I’m sorry for the interruption, gents.” He smiled without mirth. “But then I’d be lying.”
Kit’s heart raced as Clark swept his keen gaze across his audience. It settled on him, of course, and the man sneered. “There you are, my friend.”
Once more, the footman tried to intervene, once more, he was brushed aside.
“Mr Christopher Angel, last known abode Sindell Street, London,” Clark began in a condescending nasal tone. “ I’m arresting you for heinous wrongdoings against multiple honest gentlemen of the town. For false representation of yourself. For misleading others. For gross larceny amounting to more than one shilling against Sir Ambrose Gartside, amongst others. Crimes punishable by certain death.”
Outside the window, a carriage drew up. Maybe two from the loud clattering that reached into the room. Gentlemen arriving for an evening hand of cards perhaps. Maybe even some of Lando’s acquaintances, not that Lando would be of a mind to see them tonight. Kit didn’t want to look at his ashen lover, didn’t want to see the pain of failure written in his sculpted features. Didn’t want to read goodbye on his lips. He might cry if he did, and God knew a man like him should never show fear in front of a man like Clark.
“Let me see that,” ordered Lando, his chilly voice stretched taut.
Holding it at arm’s length, as though poisonous, he scanned Clark’s sheet of paper, an imperious scowl marring his fine features. He regarded Clark dismissively before turning to address his fellow noblemen.
“This arrest warrant is signed by a magistrate, giving this man, John Clark, the powers of a Bow Street runner. Everything seems to be correct. It would appear, gentleman, that we have a suspected criminal in our midst.”
With barely an icy glance at Kit, Lando examined Clark with open disdain. “Your interruption to our evening is most reprehensible, sir. Cuff him and be gone.”