Nick clenched his fists and vowed to replace the money his twin had squandered. He would do everything in his power to make sure that when Kit married Alexandra, it would not be for her money.
The next morning, while Kit still slept, Nicholas transferred the stocks and bonds, as well as the four bundles of twenty-pound notes, from his locked desk into a valise. In a separate bag, he packed his black clothes, which Mr. Burke had meticulously cleaned, tucked in the black leather mask, and added his army pistols. In the stables, he harnessed the chestnuts to the phaeton, tied his mare’s reins to the back of the carriage, and was on his way to London before his twin even opened his eyes.
As Nick tooled along the Great West Road, he watched the chestnuts’ gait closely and saw that every now and then, the lighter horse fell out of step with the leader. He theorized that if he put blinkers on it, so that it couldn’t see the leader, it would have to rely on the other animal’s rhythm and would find it easier to keep pace. He reflected that it was rather like what he was doing with Kit, keeping him in the dark about their finances to keep him in line. His mind then moved on to what lay before him.
Alexandra put off telling Dottie that she had agreed to marry Kit in two weeks time. Then, on Friday, she received Kit’s note, giving her a short reprieve.
My Dearest Alexandra,
Please forgive me for the way I behaved when you came to see me. I am more than happy to concede to your wishes and have our banns read in church. A month may seem forever to an impatient bridegroom, but I do understand that a bride needs time to prepare for her wedding.
Love, Christopher
P.S. Rupert and I are off to Epsom races on Saturday.
Struggling to push aside all thoughts of Nicholas, Alex went out to the garden to convey her news to Dottie and Margaret. “Christopher and I have decided to get married in a month. Our banns are to be read in Hatton church the next three Sundays, and the wedding will be the following Saturday.”
“Oh, darling, that’s wonderful. You must have a new gown.”
“We cannot afford such an extravagance,” Alex protested.
“Fiddle-faddle! You are to be Lady Hatton; you cannot go to your husband in rags! Ride over and tell Rupert he must drive us to London tomorrow.”
“Rupert and Christopher are going to Epsom races, I’m afraid. I shall ride to Town as I did last weekend. I have to deliver my article to the Political Register,” she improvised quickly.
“You cannot ride into Town alone; ’tis most improper! I cannot understand what I was thinking of to let you go last week.”
“I’ll wear Rupert’s clothes and a tie-wig. No one will know I’m a female, and it will be the very last time, I swear! We did have an agreement, Dottie. You promised me complete freedom if I agreed to become Lady Hatton; I have kept my part of the bargain!”
“Mmm”—Dottie cast an accusing glance at Margaret—“I do know what happens when a young woman is forbidden to do something. Since I don’t want you running off with an untitled lout, I suppose I had better let you have your last taste of ‘complete freedom’ as you call it. I shall be most interested in reading your article.”
Alex swallowed. “It’s not finished yet; I’d better get to it.”
When she put pen to paper it was simple enough to write a scathing article about the Prince Regent and his disgraceful attitude toward England’s new hero, Wellington. It was no secret that the Iron General had shouldered most of the cost of war during the last year, with little support from the government or pudding-witted George, who had been deliberately penurious with both troops and funds. Then, when Wellington had won victory for England, Prinny was so jealous and afraid that he had stripped him of his power and sent off his Peninsular Army directly to America, out of his control. Now the Regent was offering him the insulting post of Ambassador to Paris to keep him away from England.
Alex pointed out that the Prince of Wales was reluctant to reward Wellington with a decent pension, yet he and his brandy-soaked friends dropped thousands of pounds at the races and the gaming tables on a weekly basis, and he had just paid a fortune to an artist called Thomas Rowlandson for some pornographic sketches. To add insult to injury, the rotund Regent had persuaded the government to spend hundreds of thousands on a collection of Dutch artwork. She ended the article by demanding reform. Government abuses had been overlooked because of war, but now that the war was over, they should and would no longer be tolerated.
Alexandra was so pleased with the article that she decided to take it to the Political Register in the morning and try to get it published. Then she drew a caricature of Prinny and his cronies at a gaming table, groaning beneath a mountain of money.
On Saturday morning, Rupert drove his phaeton to Hatton Hall, picked up his friend Kit, and headed south to Epsom for the races. This weekend was the annual Oaks race, second only in importance to the Derby, and Epsom’s close proximity to London guaranteed a large attendance by titled young bucks. It also attracted opportunists such as prostitutes, pickpockets, and peddlers who sold everything from fruit to flesh. Since drink was the foremost vice of the nobility, tents had been set up with the expectation of doing a brisk business in the sale of wine, whiskey, and blue ruin.
Christopher carefully avoided any mention of his financial difficulties to his future bride’s brother, yet thought nothing of sponging off his friend, taking full advantage of his generosity. Rupert laid out the money for their bets on the first race, and when Kit won he pocketed the winnings without a thought. When they encountered the Duke of York with his latest mistress on his arm, Kit tipped his hat with great deference, hiding his jealousy until His Royal Highness was out of earshot. “Fat Freddie is addicted to the turf! The lucky swine always wins obscene amounts of money. No wonder the fat pig has women panting after him. Let’s put our money on whatever he’s backing in the next race.”
Their enjoyment of the day increased apace with the guineas they won, and their laughter grew louder each time they repaired to the refreshment tent. It was mid-afternoon before Kit had a sobering encounter that effectively wiped the smile from his face. Rupert had just left to place their bets on the next-to-last race, while Kit lingered behind to finish his whiskey. Suddenly, he heard a voice that sent a cold shiver down his spine.
“Hello, Harm; thought I might run into you at Epsom.”
“Get the hell away from me, Jeremy Eaton. You and your fucking father have sucked me dry!”
“I doubt that, cousin. You are adept at worming your way out of any difficult situation that may arise. We have much in common, you know. Trouble with our fathers must run in the family. Mine has kicked me out of the ancestral home. It’s a good thing I prefer London to Slough; so much more convenient to White’s.”
“Can you not get it through your thick skull that my money is all gone? Even a leech like you cannot suck blood from a stone!”
“Harm, did I mention anything about money? What I have in mind is accommodation. As I recall, isn’t your town house on Curzon Street within walking distance of White’s? A year’s free lease would suit my needs perfectly.”
“You had better have a care,” Kit threatened with deadly menace. “If my twin learns that you are blackmailing me, he will take you down so hard, you will never get up again!”
Jeremy laughed in his face. “You are so droll. Your twin is just as guilty of perpetrating a criminal fraud on the authorities as you are. The two of you conspired to lie about your father’s death. I am sure the gallant captain would never forgive you if you allowed this to get out. Think it over, cousin; ’tis a small price to pay for my silence. I shall be at White’s on Tuesday.”
Kit watched him stroll off to enjoy the last race. I shall never be free of him! The son of a bitch will blackmail me until the day he dies! As he went in search of Rupert, one scheme after another went through his mind to rid him, once and for all, of the bloodsucking swine. Each plan he visualized ended by his putting a ball in Jeremy Eaton’s brain. Kit dis
missed each plot as too risky; then it suddenly came to him that there was a way to shoot his cousin—and get away with it. Without a doubt, the perfect answer to his dilemma was a duel!
“Damn, where have you been? You just won the last race and weren’t even here to watch it,” Rupert informed him.
“How much?” Kit asked absently, his mind on bigger fish.
“Odds of twenty-to-one gives you a win of two hundred guineas!” Rupert said happily.
“I warrant my luck has changed,” Kit declared. “Why don’t we go to London for a couple of days next week and make the rounds of the clubs? Sort of a last fling before I become leg-shackled!”
Alexandra, wearing her male attire, went directly to the newspaper office when she arrived in London. The editor of the Political Register was so pleased with the article and caricature that he paid Alex ten shillings. It was more than she had ever received for her writing, and it made her feel good inside. The country was sadly in need of reform, and if her efforts helped, even in the smallest way, it was worthwhile. Perhaps after they were married she could persuade Christopher to take an interest in the government. As a Lord of the Realm he had a voice and should use it to help bring about changes to unjust laws and petition the Regent for reform.
She stabled Zephyr at Berkeley Square, then went upstairs to change from her male attire. When Hopkins served her a light lunch he asked after Sara and Mistress Margaret, as he called her mother.
“I believe Margaret enjoys being back at Longford Manor. Sitting in the garden every day seems to have done her good. Sara likes the country too; the sun has brought out her freckles, and I’ve been teaching her how to ride.” Alex took a deep breath, then plunged in. “Hopkins, I want to thank you for your unfailing kindness to me on my visits to London. Whether I dress as male or female, and no matter what strange hours I keep, you never raise an eyebrow or show the least disapproval. After this visit I probably won’t be back at Berkeley Square for some time. I am to be married shortly.”
“I wish you every happiness, Mistress Alexandra. If the lucky gentleman is Christopher, Lord Hatton, I know your grandmother will be most pleased with your choice of husband.”
“Thank you, Hopkins. Before I left Longford, Dottie made me promise to visit Madame Martine’s in Bond Street and at least look at new gowns, but it seems such an extravagance.”
“Every bride should have a new gown for her wedding, Mistress Alexandra; ’tis a tradition, not an extravagance.”
“You’ve convinced me, Hopkins. I’d better go now, while the mood is upon me, before I change my mind.”
As Alex walked up Bruton Street on her way to Bond, she decided against white for practical reasons. By the time they married, Christopher’s mourning period would be officially over, and since social invitations would begin to arrive for Lord and Lady Hatton, Alex decided that a new ballgown would not be amiss. She would put it on Dottie’s account, and somehow, someway, pay for it later.
Alex did not mention her upcoming wedding to Madame Martine, since she did not want the Frenchwoman telling her that her choice was unsuitable for a bride.
“I weesh to thank you verrry much for recommending my shop to the Duke of Devonshire’s sisters. Both Lady Granville and Lady Carlisle came in to buy cashmere shawls, like the one you chose, and ended up purchasing many other garments.”
“Oh, I’m so glad they brought you their business. Today I came to look at gowns, and perhaps I’ll take a cashmere shawl for my grandmother; she loves beautiful things.”
When Madame Martine brought out a gown of palest sea-foam green muslin, Alex knew she had to have it. It had long, diaphanous sleeves that fell in points, and the low-cut bodice was decorated with rosebuds and leaves of green silk love knots. When Alex tried it on, it fit her to perfection. “Oh, it makes me feel so feminine; I cannot resist it!” When she looked at the shawls, one stood out from all the rest. It was cream cashmere with a black silk fringe, and she knew Dottie would adore it. “Wrap them up, please; I shall take them with me.”
As she strolled back to Berkeley Square, enjoying the sights and sounds of the London afternoon, she refused to dwell upon what lay ahead of her in just a few short hours.
Only when the clock chimed seven did Alex begin to prepare for what would be her final performance at Champagne Charlie’s. To her horror, the flesh-colored net garment that had been washed so often suddenly fell apart. Reluctantly, she knew she would have to perform naked this one time. Alex dressed quickly, feeling great relief that this would be the last time, and hoped fervently that Charlotte King would not be angry when she found out that Caprice would not be back. As Alex walked along Pall Mall, she had to admit that Mrs. King had always dealt generously with her, allowing her to use her private bedchamber to dress after her performance, and always coming upstairs with her hundred guineas before she left. Alex took a deep breath, lifted her chin high, and walked into Charlie’s. Only three more hours and I’ll be back in Berkeley Square, without anyone ever knowing my wicked secret!
Chapter Twenty-Eight
When Nicholas Hatton arrived in London, he deposited the money in the Coutts account he had opened in the name of Flynn Hatton, which now had a satisfying balance of more than fifty thousand pounds. Under the same name he rented a safe-deposit box in which he placed the title deed to Hatton Hall. He also put in the stocks, bonds, and investment certificates for safekeeping until he could find a financial advisor in whom he and his twin could put their trust.
Next, he sought out his friend Hart Cavendish, who was in a better position than anyone he knew, to recommend a financier.
“Nick, I heard you were back from France. I truly envy you your courage. Were conditions over there as bad as reported?”
“Probably worse. Wellington snatched victory from defeat, one bloody battle at a time. He is a military genius; the odds were overwhelmingly stacked against him.”
“I have recommended to the Prince Regent that Wellington be rewarded with a dukedom for his service to the Crown, which was consistently above and beyond the call of duty.”
“I’m afraid your recommendation falls on deaf ears. I believe the government fears it will have a military dictator on its hands, and George of course is riddled with petty jealousy.”
“Is it any wonder? The people of England worship a hero, and Prinny could never be that to them. He is nothing more than a figure of fun, whom the people ridicule for his excesses.”
“His excesses are fast becoming an embarrassment. I understand his losses at the gaming table are so out of control they must be conducted in private at the Foxhole.”
“That is true,” Hart confided. “I was invited to dine at Carlton House, then join them at Fox’s old gaming hell, but I declined and used the excuse that I was off to Chatsworth in Derbyshire. I know Prinny too well! Once he loses his own money, he takes it for granted that I will lend him mine; then George conveniently forgets he is in debt to me.”
Nick tucked away the information that the Prince Regent had invited his cronies to dine at Carlton House; then, most likely cup-shot, they would make their way to the Foxhole, just as Champagne Charlie had told him. “Speaking of money, I wonder if you could recommend a good financial advisor? My father’s cousin, John Eaton, has proved most unsatisfactory. Confidentially, both he and his son spend far too much time at the gaming tables themselves.”
“Really? Come to think of it, Jeremy Eaton does seem to be a permanent fixture at White’s these days. Most of my investments are in the hands of James Balfour, who is a trustee with Lloyds of London. They have offices in all the large industrial centers like Birmingham, Manchester, and Sheffield, as well as London. If you like, I’ll drop Balfour a note and tell him to expect you.”
“Thanks, Hart. I appreciate your help.” Nick stood up and shook the Duke of Devonshire’s hand with sincere gratitude for the helpful information he had just shared.
It was a short walk from Devonshire House to Carlton House, and Nicholas
strolled around back to the stables and courtyard where the Regent’s carriages were kept. Pretending that he and the Duke of Devonshire would be dining at Carlton House, he enquired if there would be room for their carriages. He learned that indeed there would not be room, since the Duke of York and the princes’ dissolute cousin Gloucester would arrive in their own carriages. With a few casual questions, Nick also learned that the Regent’s party always left in time for their weekly, nine o’clock card game.
From Carlton House he walked to the Foxhole and estimated that it was less than half a mile away. Nick’s plan was simple yet extremely bold. He knew he would have only minutes to carry it out, and an escape route through nearby St. James’s Park was essential if his plan was to succeed. He traced his steps half a dozen times, then feeling a confidence known only to those born under the sign of the lion, he returned to Curzon Street to wait for darkness to fall.
A few minutes before eight, Alexandra entered the room that held the stage where she performed. Though no one was in the room yet, she averted her eyes from the empty chairs and focused her gaze on Charlie’s red-and-black Axminster carpet beneath her feet. Once she went through the curtain that separated her from her audience, Alex was usually able to relax a little, but tonight, because she knew she would have to perform naked, the tension did not leave her.
As always, she checked the props on the stage and saw that it held both the bath and the bed. Since it was to be her last performance, it seemed as if fate had decided that she give her audience its money’s worth. She looked to make sure the hairbrush was on the dressing table, and adjusted the angle of the screen on which she hung her garments once she removed them.
As Alex positioned herself just inside the stairwell door at the side of the dais, she could hardly breathe. It was an extremely warm night, and the layers of clothing she wore, topped by the flowing cape, felt suffocating. The palms of her hands were damp as she listened for Charlie’s male clientele to file into the room, and as she tied on her mask and made sure her long wig was in place, she felt her hands tremble. The moment the gas lamps were lit, Alex was assailed by a wave of nausea and feared she might be sick. What the devil is the matter with you? You’ve done this two dozen times before, her inner voice scolded. That doesn’t make it easier; it makes it harder, she replied. The sooner you begin; the sooner it will be over! She steeled her nerves, turned the doorknob, and stepped onto the illuminated stage.