Chapter One #2
He nodded. She was right. It was their future that should concern him. “What of the door?”
Johnny, whom they had thought wasn’t listening, was the one who answered, proving Janet’s concerns right. “A man came looking for Liam. A big, ugly man. Mama wouldn’t open the door and he broke it in. He woke me up. Maeve, too. She cried, but I didn’t.”
“You cried, too,” his sister answered. Janet crossed to her children.
Anger made Ian dangerous. “Did he find Liam?”
“Not that I know,” Fiona said. The tight clasp of her hands in her lap belied her external air of composure. “But, Ian, I can’t find him.”
“He didn’t come home at all?”
“No.” The word cut the air. Her jaw tightened as she said, “The landlord wants to charge the price of five doors for the damage.”
The money in the cloth purse now seemed a pittance. “I’ll take care of it,” Ian promised, his temper rising. He’d shake the bastard by his neck until he came to his senses.
Suddenly, there was the sound of footsteps running up the stairs, and a pale-faced Liam appeared in the doorway. In his expression, Ian recognized the signs of a boy being forced to grow up too fast.
Fiona was up from her chair and ready to throw her arms around him but Ian demanded, “Where have you been?”
Liam shrugged off a reply and his mother, something he wouldn’t have done several weeks ago.
Instead, he said, “There is a gent here in the neighborhood to see you, Ian. He’s been asking for you at Boney’s.
” Boney’s was the pub around the corner and not a place for young boys.
Liam’s voice was also losing the soft lilt of their native country and in its place was the edge of the streets.
Ian rose to his good six feet and more. “Didn’t I tell you to stay away from the pubs?”
Liam’s chin came up before he hesitated and then bowed his head slightly, an acceptance of his uncle’s authority—but for how much longer?
“What does the man want?” Ian asked.
“I don’t know,” Liam answered. “He’s on his way here right now. He’s driving a big coach and his horses—! Gawd, Ian, you ought to see them. Matched grays. They are the handsomest I’ve ever seen.”
There was a movement, a shadow in the hallway.
His reflexes honed by years of war, Ian pulled Liam and Fiona behind him and faced the door just as a gentleman dressed in a green striped coat with a cherry vest moved with the silence of a cat to stand in the doorway.
He wore his impossibly black hair combed forward into curls fringing his forehead.
His hat was a green silk to match his coat.
“The boy is a good messenger,” the gentleman said.
“They told me at the pub if I were to follow him, I would find you.”
“What do you want me for?” he asked the man coldly.
“ ’Tis not I who want you, but my employer, Dunmore Harrell. You have heard of him?”
Who hadn’t heard of “Pirate” Harrell, the Scotsman who had made a fortune for himself in trade through hard work and unorthodox investing and was now accepted in the highest circles?
Harrell had even married the widow of a duke.
There was not a man who wanted to make something better of himself who did not admire him.
“What does he want with me?” Ian asked.
“My name is Parker and we have a job for you, Mr. Campion. We’ve heard you are a man with a talent for doing what is necessary.”
“And how did you hear that?” Ian asked, wary and all too conscious of Liam listening. There were things he’d had to do to earn money he’d rather not have his family know.
Parker sensed his reticence. He looked Ian right in the eye and said, “From your satisfied employers of course.”
Ian weighed the risk. It would do no harm to listen to what the man had to say. “My service doesn’t come cheap and I’ll not do anything illegal,” he lied.
The foppish Parker smiled. “We didn’t think you would, sir. As to the particulars, perhaps you will be kind enough to step downstairs with me? A coach awaits to take us to see Mr. Harrell.”
Fiona placed her hand on Ian’s arm. “Be careful, brother,” she whispered. She claimed she had the gift of the sight and although Ian often had his doubts concerning her supposed powers, he was not one to ignore good advice.
“Should I not go?”
“You must.”
Her sudden urgency made him pause. She squeezed his arm. “Go. You must go.”
Ian didn’t like his sudden doubts but he forced them aside. What harm was there in hearing what a man like Harrell had to offer? Had he not just been wishing for a piece of luck?
He covered her hand with his. “I’ll be back shortly. Hand me my knapsack.” Reaching for his hat, he turned to Liam. “Watch the family—and that means you don’t go out.”
The lad nodded solemnly.
Satisfied, Ian said, “I’ll fix the door when I return.”
Downstairs, a handsome, black-enameled carriage took up the width of the street, its bright brass fittings and driver dressed in gold-trimmed livery commanding everyone’s attention.
Liam had been right. The grays were prime bloodstock.
Horses were in the Campions’ blood and they knew fine cattle when they saw them.
Parker waved a perfumed kerchief in front of his nose. “The streets stink. Climb in.”
Conscious that everyone gaped at him, including the whore in the window, Ian did as ordered.
He had never been inside such a large coach or one as luxuriously decked out as this, with its velvet cushions and burled wood paneling.
The fop jumped in behind him, a footman closed the door, and in moments they were on their way, the footman shouting at people, “Make way for the horses.”
“What is this about?” Ian asked Parker.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” was the cryptic answer.
Ian grunted his response. He hated surprises.
They drove fifteen minutes to a new, fashionable section of the city. Here the roads were less crowded and far wider. Harrell’s man set aside his perfumed cloth and drummed his fingers on the door.
The coach turned into the paved drive of an opulent mansion.
The driver reined the horses to a stop. A butler in stark black, a marked contrast to the gold trimmings of the other servants and to Parker’s flamboyant jacket and vest, came down the front steps to open the coach door himself.
“Mr. Parker, you are to go to the master immediately. He is most impatient.”
Parker didn’t respond but jumped down, signaling Ian to follow.
As Ian stepped out of the coach and walked up the front steps, he was all too conscious of the shabbiness of his appearance.
His tanned leather breeches and cobalt coat with its frayed edges were definitely out of place.
Ill at ease, he touched his neck cloth, which he wore wrapped around his neck once and loose.
The devil-may-care style suited him but it was far too casual for these surroundings.
The main hall was as big and open as a banker’s lobby.
The black onyx and white marble squares on the floor were polished to such a degree they reflected the worn heels of Ian’s boots, and a statue of some ancient Greek with a missing arm and leg stared down at him with unseeing disapproval.
Two maids had lowered a chandelier that held at least a hundred candles.
They were too busy cleaning off the wax to notice the likes of him.
“Your hat, sir?” the butler asked.
Ian handed it to the man, who passed it to another footman. Harrell apparently had servants for his servants.
Parker walked down a long, thickly carpeted hallway.
The air smelled of beeswax and lemon oil.
Ian followed, noticing the lavish wealth—the paintings by old masters, the carved scroll work in the wainscoting, the shining brass wall sconces—surrounding him.
At the end of the hall, Parker opened a set of double doors without knocking.
“Mr. Campion,” he announced and stepped back.
Ian had no choice but to walk forward and found himself in a walnut-paneled study.
The walls were lined with books and statuary.
The carpet was an Indian rug woven of reds and blues.
Leather upholstered chairs created seating areas in front of the windows and the huge, ornate desk that dominated the center of the room.
Dunmore Harrell, the richest man in London, rose from a chair behind the desk. Ledger books were stacked in multiple, neat piles in front of him. He took off the glasses perched on the end of his nose and came around to greet Ian.
He was of medium height and whipcord thin with hair that had once been as red as a brick but had faded to a graying muddy brown. Like his butler, he wore austere black, but there was the twinkle of diamonds in the studs he wore in his neckcloth and on the buttons adorning his coat.
If Ian had been sizing Harrell up for a bout in the ring, he’d have considered the man a threat.
Harrell obviously knew his strengths and his weaknesses and would use both to his advantage.
He scrutinized Ian with a stare that was discomfiting.
Ian challenged him by staring back, opening and closing one fist, a sign to the older man that he was no green lad either.
Harrell’s astute green gaze darted to Ian’s clenched hand.
His lips curved into a half smile, an acknowledgement.
“You’ll do.” He motioned to a chair in front of the desk.
“Please sit.” Ian noted a small hint of a Scottish burr in his speech, but it was so carefully hidden, however, Harrell could have passed for one of the king’s courtiers.
There was another man in the room, but Ian had been so intent on Harrell, he’d not registered the other’s presence until he took his seat.
Now he looked to the gentleman who had remained sitting in the high-backed winged chair opposite the one Ian was to take.
The man was built like a small bull, with a receding hairline and a pompous attitude.
Ian decided that here was a man who was more bluster than bite, one who lacked Parker’s flamboyant presence.