Chapter 25
Chapter 25
Nick strode to the wall safe and opened it. Miraculously, he found the money he had put there intact—almost twelve thousand pounds. He removed it and went upstairs to his bedchamber to pack a bag; he wouldn’t need much, for most of his dress clothes were in London. He had not yet formulated a plan of action, but obviously he couldn’t hide out at the Grange. One thing was certain: Eaton would not get his greedy hands on Hatton Hall. Nick would die first.
He would take the money with him; he dared not leave it here, for there were too many temptations close at hand. There was Epsom, with its horse races; Chiswick, with its boxing matches; and even closer was The Cock and Bull in Hounslow, where cockfights were held twice a week in the inn yard. Nick decided that he would deposit the money in Coutts Bank, where neither Kit nor Eaton could get their hands on it. When he opened his drawer and saw the black leather mask, half a dozen reckless schemes flashed through his imagination. He dismissed them out of hand, yet some perverse whim made him stuff the mask into his bag.
On his way out, Nick paused on the library threshold. His brother had managed to pull himself up into a chair, and Meg Riley bathed his face. When Nick saw that Kit’s cheek was badly bruised and his eye swollen closed, he felt a surge of deep satisfaction.
“You can’t leave!” Kit shouted, then winced from the pain. “I cannot let Alexandra see me like this.”
“I suggest you send Alex some flowers and a note of apology telling her you have unavoidable business in London. That should give you a week to crawl to your bed and lick your wounds.”
When he arrived in London, Nicholas immediately went to Coutts Bank and deposited most of the money under the name Flynn Hatton. He kept one hundred pounds for gambling, knowing a game of chance was likely the only way he would get his hands on more money quickly. At Curzon Street, Nick stabled his horse and went straight upstairs to his twin’s chamber. He methodically emptied the contents of Kit’s desk and finally found what he was looking for. It was the list of investments that John Eaton had sent the day before Nick had left for Spain.
As he read the list, suspicion reared its ugly head. Not only did the list appear to be inadequate but the investments seemed improbable for a businessman like Henry Hatton. He could well believe that his father had invested in shipping, but the vessels would not be American; they would be British. Nick also doubted that his father would sink money into crops such as tobacco grown in the Colonies, when England was at war with America. British manufacturing was at its height, and her factories produced everything from guns to machinery that wove cloth for uniforms. It was inconceivable that his father had not taken advantage of the opportunities available in times of war. He folded the list, tucked it into his pocket, and decided to pay a visit to Tobias Jacobs, his father’s former solicitor, in Chancery Lane.
There were a great many law offices in the area, but he finally managed to locate Jacobs’s place of business in an ancient building with wooden stairs. He went through a door marked SOLICITOR AT LAW and was surprised to see a young man with a familiar face. Nick’s brows drew together as he searched his memory for a name. “Jake . . . Jacob Smith . . . do you work here?”
The young man was grinning from ear to ear. “Captain Hatton, sir, the Jacob part is real enough, but my name was never Smith. Remember I told you my father wanted me to be his clerk, so I ran off and joined the army?”
“I do indeed. Don’t tell me your father is Tobias Jacobs?” Nick asked in disbelief.
“Yes, he is, sir. After I had a taste of what real war was like, I was damn glad to come home and be a law clerk. I’ll get Father.”
Tobias Jacobs emerged from an inner office. “You’re Captain Hatton? The man who dug the bullet from my son’s arm and took him under your wing? But you’re the twin, the one who inherited a great estate. Why did you join the army?”
“I am the other twin, Mr. Jacobs. I’m Nicholas, the one who was disinherited.” Nick handed him the letter that he had made Kit sign allowing him to handle his affairs.
“Ah, it begins to make sense. I don’t believe I can help you, Captain Hatton. Though grossly unfair, your father’s will followed the letter of the law scrupulously.”
“I’m not here about contesting the will, Mr. Jacobs. I strongly suspect that my father’s financial advisor misrepresented the investments my twin inherited. I am hoping against hope that when you prepared my father’s will, you made a list of the investments he had with John Eaton.”
“It is most probable that I did, knowing that I would need to prepare a statement of assets and liabilities of the estate for probate. Let me locate your father’s file.”
Within ten minutes, Jacobs provided Nicholas with the list he was seeking. Nick took Eaton’s list from his pocket and began to compare them. He saw immediately that they were totally different. “Shares in coal, lead, and copper mines seem far more likely ventures for Henry Hatton,” Nick said. He read the complete list of investments, which included northern factories that produced not only guns but copper pipes to carry water and gas.
“I remember thinking he had great foresight to invest in gas. At the time, gaslight in the streets was only an experiment, but now there are plans to light half of London, and I predict it will eventually illuminate every city in England.”
“I need this list,” Nick said decisively.
“My son will make you a copy, which I shall certify. If you are considering litigation, Captain, please keep us in mind.”
“I hope it won’t come to that, Jacobs; lawsuits cost money. But I sincerely thank you both for your help in this matter.”
“Nay, Captain, it is we who give thanks to you.”
Nick descended the wooden stairs two at a time. Now that his suspicions had been confirmed, a hot, burning anger ignited in his gut and threatened to flame out of control. He had long known that Eaton was a greedy, avaricious swine; now he was convinced that the financier was corrupt. Nick knew he would not have a moment’s peace until he confronted the thieving bastard. He strode down to the Strand and took a hackney cab to Jermyn Street. When he saw that number 10 was a brick town house, Nick concluded that John Eaton must conduct business from an office in his home. He knocked loudly, twice, before the door was opened by a man wearing spectacles, who seemed distracted.
“Yes, sir?”
Nick saw the ink stains on the man’s fingers and surmised that he was Eaton’s clerk. “I have business with John Eaton.”
“Sorry, sir, but you’re too late. Mr. Eaton has closed this office for the summer and we are in the midst of packing up everything for his transfer to Eaton Place in Slough.”
Nicholas banked his anger and masked his irritation. “I’m quite sure Eaton will see me, if you will be good enough to announce me.”
“That is impossible, sir. Mr. Eaton had a social engagement and left early. If you will excuse me, sir, it looks like rain, and I must transfer the files to the coach before the deluge starts.”
Nick uttered a foul oath when the door closed in his face. His fingers fairly itched to rifle through Eaton’s documents. If I had a gun, I would relieve you of your bloody files! Then it came to him that at Curzon Street he did have a gun. He also had a mask. Nick crossed the street to observe the house from a discreet distance. He could see that there was indeed a coach at the back door of the house. There were no horses in evidence, however. Nick reasoned that if Eaton had a social engagement this evening, likely he would not journey to Slough until tomorrow. An inner voice told him that it would be a simple matter to break into the coach after midnight and lift the files.
Nick felt a cold drop of rain hit his face. It was barely three o’clock in the afternoon; he had at least ten hours to kill and knew he could put them to better use than standing in a downpour.
Champagne Charlie was observing a game of four-hand bezique, a fast-paced diversion that was becoming quite fashionable. She left the players and with a radiant smile came to greet the tall, dark man. “Since Rupert isn’t glued to your side, it must be Nick.”
“Hello, Charlie. I came to pick your brains.”
“Oh, I thought you might have dropped in for another shave,” she drawled with exquisite sarcasm.
“Sorry,” he said shortly, “I’m in a dangerous mood. I need money—as much as I can get my hands on. Do you know of any high-stake games going on tonight where the betting will be steep?”
“Well, it certainly won’t be here with my bezique players. Actually, there’ll be deep play tonight at the Mollies’ Club, but that’s not in your style. Better wait until Saturday night. The brandy-soaked Prince of Wales, his buffoon-of-a-brother Frederick, and their profligate cousin, the Duke of Gloucester, will be gathering at the Foxhole losing thousands to the wily Dukes of Rutland and Bedford.”
“The Foxhole?”
“That gaming hell Charles James Fox opened near Carlton House. It’s just a stone’s throw from here.”
“I thought they closed that place when Fox died.”
“Only officially. Prinny offers a melodramatic toast to Fox, dripping with bathos, before every game. They sometimes ask for a couple of my girls, who invariably return convulsed with laughter. That would be your place to make a killing.”
He drew her hand to his lips. “Charlie, you never disappoint.”
As he walked out onto Pall Mall, he looked up at the sky. It was still only spitting rain, but gathering bruise-colored clouds had stolen the light from the afternoon and darkened the city. Since Curzon Street wasn’t that far, it suited Nick’s mood to gamble on the weather. As he strode past White’s on St. James’s Street, the urge to gamble further soared in his blood, and he knew that before the night was out he would risk much more than getting drenched.
He thought about the Mollies’ Club, where homosexuals and men dressed as women shared intimate oyster suppers and other decadent appetites in the club’s private rooms. Before they withdrew up the stairs for their licentious fun and games, however, they indulged in reckless bouts of gambling in the opulently furnished gaming rooms. When it came to Nick that the Mollies’ Club in Piccadilly was just around the corner from Eaton’s town house, where he planned to be at midnight, he knew where he would go to play cards.
After Fenton served him a light supper, Nick picked up the Political Register to pass the time before he dressed for the evening. What he read only inflamed his temper and made his mood more dangerous. Because Wellington was considered a hero by the public and was fast becoming the most popular man in England, the idiotic Prince Regent was denouncing him with scathing criticism and was doing his best to prevent the government from honoring him at a public reception upon his return to England. Nick flung the newspaper across the room. Come Saturday night, it would give him the greatest satisfaction to spit in Prinny’s royal eye, by winning Prinny’s royal gold.
When he judged the time to be right, Nick dressed for his night’s adventure with care. He put on his black evening clothes, chose a black stock for his throat, then pulled on black riding boots. Only his shirt was white, and he planned to remove it before he ransacked Eaton’s coach. He slipped the black leather mask into his coat pocket, then donned his long black evening cape and a black tricorn. They would not only protect him from the rain but would conceal his identity. Before he forgot, he took the list that Jacobs had given him and put it into his wallet; from now on he intended to keep it in his possession at all times.
Nick loaded his army pistols and took them down to the stables. When he had saddled his mare, he mounted the weapons in their saddle holsters. He rode to Pall Mall and stabled his horse in the cobbled coach house behind Charlie’s, then he walked to Piccadilly.
At the Mollies’ Club, the doorman’s bulk was imposing, his pugilist’s face intimidating. Nick slipped the man five guineas in lieu of the password and gained entrance. Inside, it was extremely crowded because of tonight’s high-stakes betting. He couldn’t get near the cloakroom, so he removed his hat and folded his cape over his arm. Nick kept to the shadows, walking the perimeter of the gaming room, focusing his attention on the brightly lit tables rather than on the painted creatures in their garish gowns who were making wagers. The raucous laughter and exaggerated, high-pitched voices were an assault on the ears. He narrowed his eyes against the blue smoke that filled the air as he searched for the table holding the most money. When he found it, he saw that it was a roulette table. He blinked to make sure he wasn’t seeing things as his glance fell upon a stack of rouleaux that must have represented twenty or thirty thousand. His nostrils flared as he was about to walk a direct path toward the spinning wheel of fortune, when suddenly he raised his eyes and saw something that momentarily rooted his feet to the carpet. When he could move, he stepped quickly back into the shadows.
“Joan, dahling, I warrant you’ll break the bank!”
“Oohh, Joan, let me rub you for luck!”
“I’ll let you rub me for fun, but not for luck!” came the arch reply from the woman they addressed as Joan.
Nick was mesmerized as he stared at the creature in the striking red gown and jet-black wig. It cannot be possible; my imagination is playing a trick on me! Yet the longer he studied the woman’s face, the more convinced he became that the agate eyes and long arrogant nose bore a remarkable resemblance to someone he knew. Though he could not be absolutely certain, Nicholas strongly suspected that Joan was not Joan at all, but John . . . John Eaton!
“Place your bets, ladies!” admonished the croupier. When the wheel stopped, a cheer went up from the crowd, and Nick was jostled aside as a rush of people gathered closer to enjoy the excitement and completely blocked his view of the lucky lady in red.
Nick knew he must leave. If it was Eaton, he could not take the risk of being recognized by him. But if he was right, the knowledge he had just gained would be worth far more to him than anything he could win at the tables. He put on his cape and tricorn and stepped out into the night. He heard the distant rumble of thunder in the west and was thankful that the rain had moved off. He crossed the road and stood in the recessed doorway of the building opposite, prepared for a long vigil. Nick had no choice; he had to prove to himself that the man he had seen in the striking red gown was indeed John Eaton. If he was a habitué of the infamous Mollies’ Club, Nick knew he would hold the upper hand.
His wait turned out to be shorter than anticipated. Within the hour, Joan came out of the club, escorted by the burly doorman. The black leather satchel she carried obviously held her winnings, and Nick assumed her escort would be armed. He held his breath, half expecting a carriage to draw up and whisk them away. When the pair walked briskly to the corner, his spirits soared. He willed them to turn the corner and make their way to number 10 Jermyn Street. When they were out of sight he controlled his impatience by counting to two hundred before he stepped from the doorway to follow them. He kept a safe distance behind the queer-looking couple, not actually believing his good fortune until Joan entered her town house and her vigilant escort departed.
As Nick watched the lights go on upstairs, his gut ached from holding in his laughter. What a bloody sight for sore eyes! He dared not let himself picture Joan as she readied herself for bed. Instead, he focused on the task that lay ahead, estimating that it would be at least an hour before everyone in the household was safely asleep. As Nick sauntered off to retrieve his horse, he hoped his saddlebags would accommodate the files he intended to steal from John Eaton’s coach.
* * *
When Nick returned to Jermyn Street, he found the house in darkness. He slid from the saddle, garbed in black from head to foot. The white shirt was in his saddlebag, and the black leather mask covered his face completely. He tethered his mount to a tree and with great stealth made his way to the back of the house.
Judas Iscariot! The bloody coach is gone!He leaned against the wall in disbelief as his brain strove to make sense of it. It took only a minute to realize that Eaton must have gone upstairs to change his clothes, then left for Slough tonight. He untethered Satin and stroked his hand along her withers. “Come, my beauty, we have our work cut out for us.”
Nick mounted, removed his mask so it would not impede his vision, and rode along Piccadilly, hoping to catch a glimpse of Eaton’s coach. There were not many mounted riders out tonight because of the wet weather, but the carriage traffic was heavy and didn’t thin out until Kensington. Nick rode all the way to Chiswick before he singled out a lumbering coach ahead of him that could be the one he sought. “Now, if yonder contraption turns onto the Great West Road, I think we’ve got our man.”
They rode head-on into the rain, which obliterated his view of the coach, but suddenly a flash of lightning lit up the sky, and Nick’s mouth curved in a sardonic smile as he saw the coachman turn his horses onto the Great West Road. “The trick now, my beauty, is to get to Hounslow before them.”
As he galloped after the coach, amused that the rumbling wheels and booming thunder masked the clatter of his horse’s hooves, it all felt strangely inevitable to Nicholas, as if it were preordained. It almost seemed as if he had done it all before, perhaps in another lifetime. The words of an ancient rhyme ran through his head:What memories those roads bequeath
That traverse Hounslow’s dreaded heath,
Where every tree might hold beneath
A masked and pistoled rider.
Nicholas knew exactly where on the wild heath the coach must turn from the Great West Road onto the Bath Road. It was the only way to Slough. And, thanks to his ancestor’s journal with its detailed sketches of Hounslow, he knew precisely which black spot best suited his plan. He headed into a wooded stretch at the side of the road and, allowing his mare to set her own pace, guided her in a wide arc that put him ahead of the coach. Once he was back on the road, he urged her into a full gallop and did not draw rein until they reached the crest of Shooter’s Hill. The area was heavily treed on both sides of the road, providing perfect cover.
He slid from the saddle and tethered Satin to a tree. The woods were littered with fallen oak branches, which he dragged onto the road at its steepest incline. They were not substantial enough to impede a heavy coach, but Nick knew the pair of coach horses would shy in panic at the unexpected barrier. He quickly remounted, and as he waited beneath a sheltering oak, he calmly donned his mask, withdrew his pistols from their holsters, and made sure that their flashpans were filled with dry powder.
Nicholas heard the pounding hooves and clattering wheels long before he saw the faint yellow light of the coach lamps. In this weather they did little to illuminate the road or aid the coachman in any way; they were, however, most helpful to the man who silently tracked the progress of the coach. He waited with infinite patience, aware of the slow, steady thud of his heart. Nicholas experienced no fear; he was merely righting a wrong. He was not the thief—Eaton was.
The coach rumbled along, passed through muddy Dog’s Hollow, then slowed as it started up the incline of Shooter’s Hill. Suddenly the carriage horses encountered the branches. They whinnied in fear and reared up, straining in their traces to avoid the strange objects that lay in their path. The coachman cursed and dragged on the brake. “Whoa! Whoa there!” The coach swayed then lurched to a halt. The driver threw aside the reins, jumped down from his seat, and grabbed the leader’s bridle.
The coach door swung open. “What the hell are you about man? Why did you stop?” Eaton’s arrogant voice demanded from within.
“Nothin’ to worry about, sir. Just some branches the storm brought down.”
“Then get them cleared away, you fool!”
The masked rider smiled with satisfaction as the glow of the coach lamps showed him that the driver had left his flintlock musket up on the box. Nick raised his pistols and, with his knees, guided his horse to the open coach door. “Stand down!”
The voice—deep, demanding, and dangerous—brooked no disobedience. John Eaton looked down the twelve-inch pistol barrels and knew he had no choice but to obey. The coachman jerked upright when he heard the command, a branch still clutched in his hand. The highwayman silently motioned with his pistol, and the hapless driver dropped the branch and joined his master beside the coach.
“Deliver up your goods.”Nick half cocked both weapons.
Eaton pulled a large valise from the coach and threw it to the road. It was not the leather satchel that held his winnings.
“Deliver all your goods.” Nick took aim at Eaton’s head.
With great reluctance, Eaton reached beneath the seat and drew out the bag that held the money. “You’ll not get away with this!”
“Are you threatening me?” The question was low, deadly.
Eaton threw the bag on the road beside the first.
“You!” Nick addressed the driver. “I said everything!”
When the man hurriedly reached inside the coach for the metal box of files that sat on the floor, Eaton protested, “No, the rest are just personal papers of use only to me.”
“Deliver or die!”
The coachman slid the box onto the road with care, never taking his eyes from the cocked pistols. Eaton dared not protest further.
“Now start walking.”The voice was implacable.
Before they were twenty-five yards down the road, Nicholas was transferring the papers and documents to his saddlebags. He secured the leather satchel to his saddlebow, then dragged the valise and empty file box behind the trunk of a sheltering oak. Nick mounted, but before he set his heels to Satin’s flanks, he fired a warning shot, then disappeared into the dark, wet night.