Chapter Two
Van woke when the clock persistently chimed. Damn it, he’d drifted into a daze or a doze. He sank his head into his hands. Wine and a sleepless night had given him a tantalizing dream. Twenty thousand pounds. If only it were true.
He suddenly looked around the room. Had it been a dream?
His pistol still lay on the table, but then, he’d taken it from her and put it there. She hadn’t conveniently left her shawl, or a glass slipper.
The Golden Lily. Could his imagination really have conjured up a flesh-and-blood woman of such distinctive appearance? That long, sleekly curved elegance and smooth oval face. That creamy skin which flushed so delicately when another woman would have been beet red, and gone waxy with fear.
Hell. He’d deliberately frightened her!
But no one was mad enough to offer twenty thousand pounds for nothing. It must have been a dream.
But what if—?
He was trying to sift truth from fantasy when someone tapped tentatively on his door. His heart suddenly raced. Was she back, but more cautious now?
“Yes?”
The door creaked open, and his valet, Noons, peered around it. His ex-valet.
Disappointment swept through him like a chill. “What the devil are you doing here?”
Wizened Noons smiled tentatively. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but I went as you ordered. But I got to thinking about how you’d manage alone.
You know you’re no hand with your clothes, my lord.
I’d be more than happy to stay with you until things come right again.
And then stay on,” he added hastily. “Begging your lordship’s pardon . . .”
Van closed his eyes. If his pistol had worked, poor Noons would have returned to find the body, and after he’d dismissed him specifically to avoid that.
Or no. Mrs. Celestin would have. Bad planning, Van. Very bad. You should at least have locked the door.
He opened his eyes to see that the weatherbeaten creases on Noon’s face were crumpling even further. The man thought Van would dismiss him again.
Making an impulsive decision, he surged to his feet. “I was just going to set the Runners to find you, Noons! Our fortunes are reversed. I have hopes of a rich widow, but I can hardly go a-courting without you to turn me out well, can I?”
He’d go to Perry’s Bank. If the money was there, he’d have a start. If it wasn’t, he’d complete what Mrs. Celestin had interrupted. Somehow without hurting Noons more than he had to.
Misery switched to blinding joy in the valet’s face. “My lord! My lord! Oh, this is such good news! I was so afraid . . . I won’t tell you what I was afraid of—”
His eyes, glancing around, had found the pistol.
Van thought of lying about it, then shrugged. “It misfired. Faulty flint.” Then he saw the look on the valet’s face.
Noons retreated. “I’m sorry, my lord. No, I’m not sorry! I couldn’t bear what you might do when I was out of sight. And see, I was right, wasn’t I?”
For a moment, Van wanted to throttle him, but then he forced a smile. “Yes, by gad, you were right. For six weeks, at least.”
“Six weeks, my lord?” Noons gingerly picked up the pistol and put it out of sight in a drawer.
“Never mind. First order of business is to tidy me up so I can visit my bank.”
“Bank, my lord?” Noons glanced at the empty decanter in concern.
“A small loan to enable me to go fortune hunting. So, work your magic.”
Three hours later, rested, shaved, and turned out to Noons’s satisfaction, Van looked in a mirror. He wished the signs of dissipation could be polished away like the scuffs on his boots.
If the Golden Lily had been real, however, he’d polish up. Though he often felt like Methuselah, he was only twenty-five. His body must still have some repairing powers.
He rubbed a finger down the scar on his right cheek. That wouldn’t go away, but that, at least, was honorable.
He put on his hat and went out to test whether his visitor had been an apparition or real. A strange mission, almost like a trial. If he returned with no money and no hope, he would have to execute himself.
With that in mind, he paused by a gunsmith’s shop and counted his few coins. Yesterday, he’d paid Noons and his bills, then taken the rest of his money to Brooks’. He’d come home and bought that one bottle of good wine. Now he had just over a shilling.
He left the gunsmith with a flint, a sixpence, one penny, and a farthing. All he possessed in the world.
Oh, he could tease things out by selling bits and pieces, but after last night’s disaster, that would be stealing.
Despite his words to the real or imaginary Mrs. Celestin, his estates would not completely cover his debt.
Everything he owned, even to the clothes on his back, belonged to the men holding his IOUs.
The only hope lay at the bank. With the careless acceptance of fate that had carried him to hell and back for nearly ten years, he walked on briskly.
As he approached Perry’s, however, his steps slowed.
Somehow, passing through busy streets, greeted by the occasional acquaintance, he had begun to slide back under the damnable seductiveness of life.
It shouldn’t be difficult to stroll into the bank and ask whether an account had been set up for him there, but it had become the moment that would dictate whether he would live or die.
He hovered, seeking alternatives, but he knew there were none.
He’d inherited neglected estates drowning in debt.
He had no skills but soldiering, and the war was over.
Even if it wasn’t, he couldn’t go back. He knew now how Con had felt.
Con had sold out in 1814, then returned for Waterloo, but after the break, he’d lost the habit of war, the crusty, protective shell.
He’d come through the battle without serious physical wounds, but damaged in other ways.
Van had known that. He should have found Con and tried to help.
He’d been too wrapped up in his own problems.
In some ways Van had enjoyed war, enjoyed the constant test by fire, but he’d never become hardened to death. Each death around him had spurred him to fight more wildly, as if picking up the banner of the fallen without caution or consequences.
A clear form of madness. He’d been aware of that, and yet it had gripped him. No question of stopping, of backing away, with all the ghosts cheering him on.
But that drug had gone, drained to the last, overdosing drop at Waterloo. Once gone, there was nothing left. He could not fight again. He could not help a friend.
Why did a person live? What was the point? He’d carried on only because of another set of ghosts, his family preaching his duty to continue the line, to repair Steynings and restore it to the home it had once been.
He’d turned to gambling. He had luck and he stayed sober, so he generally won. Paid his way, in fact. He’d never made enough to change anything, however, in part because he couldn’t bring himself to fleece the innocent or those who couldn’t afford it.
Tiring of it, he’d made a bargain with the devil. He’d gamble the night away without restraint or caution. If he emerged a winner, he would settle in the country and work at restoring his home. If he lost, he’d put an end to it.
He’d lost. True to his bargain, he’d stayed through the night, even though the debts had mounted, actually welcoming the growing total that would remove any ambiguity.
He mourned that moment when he had known exactly what he must do, so like the absolute of a forlorn-hope charge in battle. Then, with a muttered curse, he took up his last forlorn hope and walked into the bank.
It was oak-paneled and sober, looking respectable and solid, as a bank must. Was it her bank? If she was real, if she had deposited the money, would everyone here know his account had been set up by the rich Mrs. Celestin?
He had no reason for pride anymore, but it still stung.
A neatly dressed clerk came forward, bowing. “How may I assist you, sir?”
Van gathered generations of wealth and arrogance as armor. “Lord Vandeimen. I have an account here, I believe.”
For a wretched heartbeat he thought the clerk was staring at him in puzzlement, but then he smiled. “Yes indeed, my lord. Permit me to take you to Mr. Perry, my lord.”
Van wondered if he staggered as he followed down a corridor and into the handsome office of the owner of the bank.
Reprieve.
He had six weeks more of life!
He still felt dazed as he emerged, guineas in his pocket, wealth established, debts paid.
Poor Mr. Perry had been disappointed to find that most of the fortune trusted to his care was to promptly leave it.
Van still had a thousand pounds in the account, and nine thousand more if he could satisfy his employer.
The Golden Lily.
He took a deep breath of spring air, appreciating it like a fine wine. He blessed the warmth of the sun on his face.
But as he strolled back to his rooms, wariness grew. For twenty thousand pounds Mrs. Celestin had to want more than his adoring escort. What? He’d swallowed the hook, so now he’d be reeled in.
Despite her rejection, perhaps she was after coupling. He fought back a laugh. If so, he’d be the most overpaid whore in London, no matter what her tastes!
In fact, he rather liked the idea. He’d like to warm that damnable, cool composure, see her flush and become disordered, unruly, wild . . .
Madness. She was probably all cool composure in bed, too.
When a ragged crossing-sweeper hurried to clear some horse droppings from his path, he dug out the sixpence, the penny, and the farthing, and dropped them into the lad’s hand. With the boy’s enthusiastic thanks loud in the air, he strolled on, a sparkle starting inside him.
With difficulty, he recognized mischief and challenge. How long was it since he had felt that way? Despite his employer’s command that he not touch her without permission, surely in six weeks of adoring companionship, he could find out whether she was cool in bed.
Even a servant deserved amusement.