The old man’s fleeting smile was approving. “You are a careful and cautious man—those are the right sort of attributes for an intrigue such as this.” He paused, clearly considering, then nodded. “Yes, Badger has outlived his usefulness. Remove him as well. And search Lawton’s rooms while you’re about it. As I did with you, I insisted that Lawton committed nothing to paper, but it won’t hurt to make sure.”
Careful and cautious to the last. Griswade nodded. “I’ll take care of that as soon as possible.”
He shifted, preparing to depart. The old man fixed him with a wintry eye, and he stilled.
After a momentary hesitation, the old man said, “There should be no further need to report here until all is finished and done. I will, of course, expect to hear from you then. My final advice to you is this: On no account, no matter what happens, deviate from the plan. There may be slips—matters you can’t control. Don’t panic. Simply proceed, step by small step, and follow my directions to the end…” The old man’s gaze grew distant, then he smiled beatifically, as if viewing his scripted climax, and murmured, “And all will be well.”
Griswade waited for several seconds, but when the old man said nothing more—when his gaze did not return to Griswade but remained focused on some imagined vision—Griswade bowed, then turned and left the room.
He walked out of the manor into the failing light. He paused to tug on his riding gloves—and to shake off the conviction, underscored by the quality of the old man’s final smile, that he was acting as the agent of a madman.
He didn’t care. The price was right. He considered his next step. First things first—he would search Lawton’s rooms and deal with Badger, who now knew too much.
Griswade caught his horse’s trailing reins, swung up to the broad back, and turned the horse’s head toward London.
CHAPTER 10
L ouisa arrived in Lady Harrington’s front hall at eleven o’clock that evening.
She allowed the butler to remove her cloak, paused to shake her absinthe-green silk skirt straight, then turned toward the stairs leading up to the ballroom on the floor above. She’d stepped onto the first stair when a stir amongst the bevy of ladies who had arrived after her had her glancing back—to see Drake striding swiftly up the front steps.
He barely checked on the threshold; he spotted her and, with a curt nod to the butler, who bowed low and murmured, “My lord,” made a beeline for her.
Completely ignoring the gaggle of other ladies filling the hall between them—a frothing tide of bright silks and lace that parted like the Red Sea.
On reaching her, he didn’t pause but, taking her elbow, started them climbing.
Bemused—and amused—she acquiesced. Three steps on, she cast a swift glance back at the milling ladies. Avid eyes were fixed on them; hands were raised as whispers abounded.
The instant they were out of earshot of the hall, Drake stated, “I’ve spent the evening trawling through the clubs and hells one step below those I and my peers would normally frequent and have signally failed to turn up anyone who has seen or had contact with Chilburn recently. And by recently, I mean in the past year. The most I succeeded in wringing from what was mostly stone was that Chilburn had been known to be short of the ready for some considerable time.”
They reached the head of the stairs, turned left, and strolled through an archway onto the tiles of the ballroom’s foyer. Ahead, the doors to the large room stood wide, and it appeared their host and hostess were still receiving. A short queue of arriving guests led into the ballroom.
Drake eased his grip. As his fingers slid from her satin-sheathed elbow, Louisa suppressed a too-revealing, rather too-appreciative shiver. Together, they joined the receiving line.
“Is this the first event you’ve attended tonight?” Drake murmured.
“No. I went to Lady Osterich’s for dinner. Sebastian and Antonia were there, and my parents as well. After that, I went on to the Framlinghams’ rout.” Louisa lowered her voice as the line moved forward and the ladies from the front hall bustled up behind them; tipping her head closer to Drake, she murmured, “I found another of Lawton’s sisters-in-law there. While she didn’t know Lawton’s address or anything about the company he’s been keeping, she confirmed that he is not in good odor with the rest of the family, primarily as a result of his insistent and persistent cadging from them, year after year, to gamble and generally laze about. Disapproval appears to be universal.”
Fleetingly, Drake grimaced. “That fits with what I’ve learned. It appears he’d dropped out of the expected social circles.”
The couple ahead of them moved forward to greet Lady Harrington and her spouse, then it was their turn.
Louisa smiled serenely and congratulated her ladyship on an excellent turnout. She might as well have been speaking to the wall; Lady Harrington’s gaze had fixed on Drake, and her mouth fractionally agape, her ladyship was staring as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.
Drake inwardly sighed and smoothly bowed. “Lady Harrington.”
Her ladyship finally found her tongue. “Lord Winchelsea—it’s a pleasure to welcome you, my lord.”
“The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.” With an elegant inclination of his head, Drake moved on, with a hand at the back of Louisa’s waist, steering her before him. They exchanged nods and greetings with his lordship, a genial, rotund gentleman entirely devoid of his wife’s transparent curiosity.
As Drake, with Louisa, passed into the crowd, he could feel Lady Harrington’s gaze boring into his skull. Arriving with Louisa had undoubtedly put the cat among the pigeons, but…he wasn’t sure he cared.
He glanced at Louisa; as far as he could tell from her demeanor, she didn’t care—wasn’t the least bit fussed by a reaction that he would take an oath she hadn’t missed—either. She seemed far more intent on scanning the throng around them.
“Given the Hawesleys weren’t at Lady Framlingham’s, and as I know they’re longtime acquaintances of the Harringtons, then with any luck at all, they should be here.” She glanced at him. “From your lofty height, can you see his lordship?”
“Hawesley?” He looked around, then grimaced. “Truth be told, I’m not sure I would recognize him.”
Louisa heaved a put-upon sigh. “In that case, I’ll have to work my way around the ballroom.” Without further ado, she started on her quest. She’d said nothing about Drake accompanying her, but he seemed intent on hovering.
She was forced to stop every few feet to exchange greetings and occasionally indulge in the usual conversations. Drake, too, was frequently waylaid, mostly by gentlemen, but occasionally by ladies. Not unmarried ones—matrons of the ton. Louisa needed no clues to guess why such ladies wished to corner him, to hang on his arm and whisper in his ear.
Much good did their machinations do them; whenever she moved on, he materialized by her side in less than a minute.
She wasn’t immune to feeling smug but endeavored to keep all signs of gloating from her face.
Indeed, she wasn’t entirely sure what Drake thought he was doing. His appearance at the ball, apparently as her escort, had sparked a veritable wildfire of conjecture that, at that very moment, was burning out of control through the assembled ladies; she was perfectly aware of that, but was far too experienced to react. Ignoring all speculation was the best way to deal with overcurious, overly imaginative ladies.
Meanwhile, she was intent on finding Viscount Hawesley and learning Lawton’s address. If she missed his lordship that evening, she wasn’t confident she would get another chance to question him within the next few days. As she didn’t know how long they would have to solve the riddle of Drake’s mission, making every effort to learn Lawton’s address as soon as possible seemed wise.
And if Lawton had deserted the usual ton circles, his family—those nearest and dearest—were the only certain source of the required information.
As she tacked through the crowd, surreptitiously searching for the viscount’s ro
bust figure, she considered alternative paths. If she failed to locate his lordship tonight, she might fabricate a reason and call on the viscountess tomorrow.
She hadn’t succeeded in thinking of a believable reason when, through a gap in the crowd, she spotted Lord Hawesley. Drake had been distracted by an inquiry from a friend of his parents; as he returned to her side, she glanced at him.
If she approached Hawesley with Drake at her shoulder…
She faced him and heaved a huge sigh. “You, my lord, are cramping my style.”
His only response was a slowly raised, highly skeptical eyebrow.
Ignoring that, she pointed over his shoulder. “The cardroom appears to be crowded. I haven’t checked in there. Even if you can’t recognize Hawesley, there’s sure to be someone there from whom you might inquire. At the very least you might run across one of Lawton’s brothers, and they are among the few who are sure to know where he lived.”
He studied her, making no effort to hide the calculation in his golden eyes; he was evaluating and weighing the possible reasons for her request.
She returned his gaze with untrammeled calm.
Eventually, he snorted softly. He glanced in the direction in which she’d pointed, then looked back at her. “Don’t leave this room without informing me.”
She widened her eyes, but before she could inform him what she thought of that outright order, he turned on his heel and walked off toward the cardroom.
As that was precisely what she’d wanted, she contented herself with a glare. How did he imagine she might abide by his dictate? If he was in the cardroom, but she couldn’t leave the ballroom…? “Idiot man.” She turned, fixed her sights on Viscount Hawesley, plotted her path to his side, then set off to corner her quarry.
She didn’t approach directly; Hawesley was no fool. Instead, she chatted with a neighboring group, eventually parting from them with a gay laugh and a wave—which brought her turning, all but stumbling, into the gentleman standing beside Hawesley.
The exchange of apologies on both sides brought her neatly into the small group formed by Hawesley and two gentlemen she recognized as the viscount’s close friends. Apparently only then noticing the viscount, she smiled delightedly and held out her hand. “My lord—we haven’t met in an age.”
“Lady Louisa.” Hawesley beamed; he was no less flattered than the next man when a fashionable beauty deigned to recognize him. He took her hand, bowed over it, then introduced her to his friends.
After the usual exchange of greetings, she adroitly steered the conversation to horse racing, a topic gentlemen almost always appreciated and one on which, courtesy of her father’s cousin, Demon Cynster, the reigning king of Thoroughbred breeders, she possessed a more than adequate insight.
Unexpectedly, she was visited by several qualms over questioning Hawesley about a son he didn’t yet know was dead. But the safety of who knew whom was at stake, so she stiffened her resolve and held her course.
Using the skills she’d learned at her mother’s and grandmother’s knees, she encouraged the conversation to run freely. Only when it started to flag naturally did she evince any sign of being about to move on—then as if struck by a thought, she stilled. With utter ingenuousness, she smiled and met Hawesley’s eyes. “That’s it—I knew there was something tickling the back of my mind when I first set eyes on you, my lord.”
“Oh?” Hawesley arched his brows. “I’m not entirely sure I want to know what that is, my dear.”
She laughed. “Oh, it’s entirely innocent. One of my cousins recently met your son Lawton at a race meeting, and my cousin was left holding some winnings that were paid out after Lawton left. He—my cousin—has been trying to discover Lawton’s address to deliver the sum to him, but to no avail.” She smiled beguilingly at Hawesley. “If you would be so good as to give me Lawton’s address, my lord, I’ll pass it on. My cousin’s quite put out about it—I know he’ll be grateful for the information.”
Hawesley hesitated. His reluctance was palpable. She’d given him no excuse to refuse, yet he clearly didn’t want to give her Lawton’s address…
She allowed a little of her surprise and the resulting curiosity to seep into her expression.
Hawesley stirred, coughed—then his expression cleared. He hunted in his pocket and pulled out a card case. “I’ll write the address down for you, my dear, and then you can pass it on to your cousin.” He pulled out a pencil and swiftly scribbled on the back of a card. “Which of your cousins was it?”
She didn’t miss a beat. “Toby.” At that time of year, Tobias, third child and second son of Demon Cynster and his wife, Felicity, would be immersed in all things racing and almost certainly not in London for Hawesley to trip over. Moreover, at twenty-four, Toby was horse-mad and was likely to frequent all race meetings, as well as being the trustworthy sort that other gentlemen might delegate to collect their winnings.
“There, then.” Hawesley handed her the card and tucked away his card case.
She let her smile brighten. She made no move to read the address but immediately slipped the card into her reticule and snapped it shut. “Thank you, my lord. And now I must leave you. Such a crowd—Lady Harrington must be feeling quite chuffed.”
After curtsying gracefully in response to the gentlemen’s bows, with a last brilliant smile, she moved into the crowd.
Without being obvious about it, she set a direct course for the ballroom doors.
When Drake abruptly appeared at her side, she struggled to hide her grin.
“Did you get Chilburn’s address?”
She’d thought he’d been watching her—while tacking through the guests and speaking with Hawesley, a subtle tingle of awareness had frequently brushed her nape before slithering down her spine. “You were supposed to be in the cardroom.”
He made a dismissive sound. As, side by side, they maneuvered toward the door, he repeated, “Did you get it?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t have if you’d been with me.”
He didn’t respond, at least not with words. To her surprise—to her senses’ shock—he caught her hand and smoothly twined her arm with his. When she glanced at his face, he nodded ahead. “Our hostess.”
They tacked around the last knot of guests, and she saw Lady Harrington still at her post even though the arrivals had slowed to a trickle.
Her ladyship saw them approaching. Her face fell. “Leaving so soon, my dear? I had hoped to have a chance to catch up with you.”
“Sadly, we must be getting on.” Louisa glibly thanked her ladyship for the pleasure of the company and congratulated her on the success of her evening. Louisa and her ladyship exchanged curtsies, and Drake made his bow. Then with all due nonchalance, they quit the ballroom and, within seconds, were descending the stairs.
In the front hall, Drake collected her cloak from the butler and draped it over her shoulders.
She clutched the velvet folds close as they emerged onto the porch.
Her carriage, already summoned by a footman, rolled up and halted at the curb.
Drake led her down the steps, opened the carriage door, and handed her inside, then demanded, “Where?”
Dropping all pretense, she hunted in her reticule and hauled out Hawesley’s card. “His lordship wouldn’t tell me—he wrote it down.” She angled the card to catch the light from the carriage lamp. “Number sixteen, Cross Lane.” She looked at Drake. “Do you know where that is?”
“Off Long Acre.” He stared at her, then his jaw firmed. “You can’t go into that area, especially not at night.”
She opened her eyes wide and raised her brows high. “And how, my lord, do you propose to stop me?” Before he could respond—because she suspected he would—she amended, “Or let me put it another way—won’t I be safer if I go with you rather than venture there alone?”
That, of course, won her the round.
Narrow-eyed, Drake looked at her for several long seconds, then glanced at her coachman and relayed the address
.
Then, with his jaw clenched against the urge to utter words he knew all too well were unwise, he climbed into the carriage and, very precisely, with the utmost gentleness, shut the door.
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 31, 1850
CHAPTER 11
The city’s bells tolled midnight as the carriage turned out of the streets of Mayfair and headed east along Piccadilly. From there, their route lay through Piccadilly Circus, then straight on via Coventry Street, along the north side of Leicester Square, on across St. Martin’s Lane, and into Long Acre.
Despite the directness of their path, at that time of night, they ran into a certain amount of traffic—patrons from the various theaters, from the Opera, from the hells and clubs and elsewhere returning home. The hour was well advanced by the time the carriage drew to a halt in Long Acre. Peering out of the window, Louisa saw the corner of Cross Lane just ahead.
Drake descended, swiftly checked the surroundings, then handed her down. She drew her dark-green-velvet cloak close, both against the rising chill and for the relative concealment. Beside her, Drake conferred with her coachman, agreeing with the coachman’s assessment that it was preferable to halt the carriage in the wider street rather than attempt to negotiate the narrower confines of the lane.
She glanced about. In Long Acre, streetlights were reasonably plentiful and shed enough light to illuminate the denizens still on the street—men and women both, some clearly the worse for drink, others more intent on commerce of various sorts. But in the lanes to either side, the streetlights were spaced much farther apart, leaving swaths of darkness between cones of yellow light. Although they were some way from the river, wisps of fog were thickening the air as the temperature dropped and the cold intensified.
“Come on.” Drake took her arm and steered her to the mouth of Cross Lane. As soon as they entered the lane, shadows engulfed them.
She was grateful that Drake didn’t stride rapidly but kept his pace to one she could match, steady, sure, and even. In the gloom, she had to manage her full skirts and cloak as well as being careful of her footing; evening slippers weren’t ideal for negotiating damp cobbles in the dark. Not that she entertained any thought of complaining; she was intent on seeing what they might find in Lawton Chilburn’s rooms.