December 1820, London, England #2
Coolly, he tore the page from the newspaper, folded it in two, and slid it into his coat pocket. “I’ll tell you who she’s not. She’s not my mistress. Lord X is mistaken.”
And about to discover that not everyone would tolerate the man’s loose tongue. If Lord X knew about Waltham Street, he might know other things, and before the arse revealed them in his nasty column, Ian would put a stop to it.
“But you do own a house on Waltham Street?” Jordan asked.
Ian considered telling him it was none of his concern, but that was sure to rouse Jordan’s curiosity further. “Yes, but not for the purpose Lord X implies. I lent it to a friend of the family fallen on hard times. Nothing more.”
“Really?”
“Really,” he said firmly. “No matter what that fool gossip says.”
Jordan leaned back and folded his hands over his waistcoat. “Is this friend of the family as beautiful as Lord X claims?”
“Why do you ask?” he snapped.
Mischief sparkled in Jordan’s eyes. “It would explain your lack of concern about Miss Hastings’ physical attractions. If you have a beautiful mistress on the side—”
“Damn it, you didn’t listen to a word I said!”
“Sorry, old friend, but one doesn’t help a beautiful woman who’s fallen on hard times by providing her with a house in a very expensive part of town.”
“I don’t expect you to understand.” Ian stubbed out his cigar, irritated by Jordan’s perception. “You don’t have a noble bone in your body.”
“My wife would take exception to that statement,” Jordan said, smirking.
“Would she? You nearly destroyed her reputation during the first weeks you knew her, and over my objections, as I recall. It was only after you figured out what a fool you were being that you decided to marry her.”
With a thunderous look, Jordan opened his mouth to retort. Then he snapped it shut and surveyed Ian a moment. “I see what you’re doing: trying to get me off the subject of your mistress.”
“Not at all.” That was exactly what he’d been doing, and it usually worked with Jordan, whose temper erupted at the slightest provocation. Jordan had never been forced to learn the dangers of an ungoverned temper the way Ian had. “Besides, she’s not my mistress.”
“Lord X thinks so.”
“Lord X is an arse. I’ll have to talk to the bastard—make him stop maligning my friend publicly.” His voice hardened. “I know exactly how to deal with his sort.”
“If you can find him.” Jordan hunted through the humidor. “No one knows his real identity.”
“Someone does. There’s generally a confidante or a servant or a relative to point the way. And surely there’ve been rumors—”
“There are always rumors.” Jordan nudged a cigar aside, then picked up another. “Pollock was mentioned, though we both know he lacks the ballocks for it. Someone suggested Walter Scott. But no one really has a clue. Lord X keeps to himself.”
“I’m sure he does. Otherwise, one of his enemies might slice off his wagging tongue in a dark alley when he least expects it.”
Jordan’s gaze met his. “Is that what you mean to do?”
Ian laughed. “Slice off his tongue? And what would I do with it afterward? I doubt there’s much of a market for gossip tongue at the butcher’s.” When Jordan’s only response was a thin smile and a sudden absorption in his cigar, Ian stared at him. “My God, you were serious!”
Ever since Ian’s return to England, the chasm between Ian and his childhood friend had yawned wider and deeper with every day—and suddenly it angered him. “Did you really think I would cut out his tongue for printing gossip about me?”
“Of course not.” Jordan shrugged. “It’s all those stupid rumors about you and your bloodthirsty past ... I keep forgetting it’s nonsense—”
“Yes, it is nonsense.” Some of it. He wasn’t about to discuss his “bloodthirsty past” with his best friend. That really would widen the chasm. “You shouldn’t listen to rumor-mongers.”
“And you shouldn’t do things to stir up more gossip. Or prompt the man to write further columns about you.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Ian retorted. “When I’m finished with him, he’ll know better than to gossip about me or my friends again.
” When Jordan lifted an eyebrow, Ian growled, “I merely intend to talk to the man. Bribery, manipulation, or threats should work, especially on the sort of sniveling coward who hides behind a pseudonym.”
Jordan relaxed. “How will you find him?”
“Anybody can be found if one knows how to look.” Ian rose to stare down at his friend. “I’ll speak to his superior first—the publisher of The Evening Gazette.”
“John Pilkington? He’ll give you no help. He delights in concealing the identity of his most popular correspondent.”
Maybe, but even John Pilkington had vulnerabilities. And Ian excelled at using a man’s vulnerabilities to find out what he wanted. “Then I’d best get started now, hadn’t I?” He turned toward the door.
“We’ll see you next week at Sara’s new country house, won’t we? Emily’s looking forward to it. We won’t be staying at the house ourselves, since Emily hates to leave home for too long with the new baby, but we’ll pop over for the ball. And you must come and see the baby.”
“I’ll be there. I promised to bring Katherine and her parents in my carriage.”
Katherine. God only knows what she would make of this. It irked him that she might think him so callous as to flaunt a mistress while they were courting.
Well, Lord X wouldn’t be mentioning Waltham Street in his column anymore. First Ian would warn Miss Greenaway how to handle any inquiries; then he’d run this Lord X to ground. And when he did, the man would wish he’d kept to jibes about Bentley’s excesses.