Читать книгу Regency Collection 2013 Part 1 - Хелен Диксон, Louise Allen, Хелен Диксон - Страница 24

Bree leaned back in the corner of the chaise and brooded on Max and his proposal. In her daydreams she had pictured a future together; now she knew that what she had done in refusing him was right and that dream had gone for ever. His loss would not hurt only her. Piers’s enthusiastic acceptance of a man whom he already seemed to regard as a superior older brother was giving him the male guidance he had so long lacked.

Her life was changing out of all recognition from how it had been before James’s betrothal, yet all of it seemed meaningless now. Could she go back to her old life? It did not seem possible.

She sighed as familiar landmarks slipped past. ‘Nearly there. Uncle George is going to be surprised to see us. Do you think Betsy told him she had written?’

‘I’m still trying to read this letter.’ Piers squinted at it, turning it towards the chaise window. ‘She says something about him drinking and playing cards at the Queen’s Head.’

‘Well, I knew about that,’ Bree pointed out, butterflies chasing round her stomach. ‘But it didn’t seem excessive.’

‘But something new has happened.’ He brought the page almost to his nose. ‘Won’t forgive himself and Master Piers is all I can make out—it looks as though a drunken spider has been all over it with its feet in the inkwell.’

‘Never mind, we’ll know in a minute. We’re here.’

Bree jumped down as soon as the step was lowered. The housekeeper came to the pealing of the bell, only to gape at the smart carriage and the liveried postilions.

‘Lord love us, Miss Bree! You got my letter then, thank the good Lord.’ She bustled forward, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘I’ve been that worried. And Master Piers, bless you. What’s all this about being poorly? They don’t feed you properly at that school of yours. You come along with me—’

‘Betsy.’ Bree cut in with the skill bred of long familiarity with the housekeeper’s conversational style. ‘Please see to it that Lord Penrith’s postilions are looked after.’ She looked up at the men and gestured to the stable-yard arch. ‘The stables are round there. Tell them that you brought me and you need lodging. When the horses are settled, come to the kitchen door and Mrs Bryant will find you something to eat.’

As they touched their hats and took the chaise away, Bree swung back. ‘Betsy, we came as soon as we got your letter, but we cannot read your handwriting. What has happened to our uncle? Where is he?’

‘In his study, Miss Bree. He hasn’t been right for days, that’s why I wrote. He’s been awful quiet all day today, brooding like. I don’t know what’s the matter with him, not properly, but he keeps saying he has betrayed Master Piers, or some such thing. He had a visitor again last night, stayed late, into the small hours.’

‘We’ll go and see him, thank you, Betsy.’ Bree led the way down the flagged passageway as the housekeeper bustled off in the direction of the kitchen. ‘Perhaps he is unwell? A brain fever? That might account for saying strange things about you. Perhaps that was the doctor last night.’

‘Staying into the small hours?’ Piers queried reasonably as she tapped on the planked oak door.

‘Uncle, it’s us, Piers and Bree. Do let us in.’ Silence. Bree lifted the latch and pushed. The room was gloomy with only one candle lit against the gathering dusk. A figure was slumped at the cluttered desk. As they came in George Mallory pushed back his chair and gaped at them. Bree saw, with a sinking sort of dread, that he was unshaven and that his hands were trembling.

‘I was writing to you. Trying to. To you both. Oh, Bree, lass, Piers, my boy, I’ve done a dreadful thing. Your father would never forgive me.’ He dropped his grizzled head into his hands.

‘Uncle, don’t … don’t say that, it can’t be that bad. Come, we will sit down and you can tell us about it.’ She pressed him back in his chair, suddenly very conscious of the feel of his shoulders under her hands. He was losing weight, ageing, when he had always been ageless to her. She felt full of dread. ‘Piers, light some more candles.’

The older man flinched at the light and Bree realised she could smell stale brandy on him. ‘Tell us, we’ll help,’ she said, desperately hoping it was true.

‘I’ve lost my share of the company,’ George blurted out, so suddenly she could only stare at him, waiting for the words to make sense. ‘Gambled it away. Lost it at cards.’

‘Oh, bloody hell.’ Piers sat down with a thump. ‘Who to?’

His uncle did not answer him directly. His eyes were fixed on Bree. ‘I got to playing cards, a few nights a week, down at the Queen’s Head. Same men—I was there every night. I found I enjoyed it, lost a bit, drank too much. Then I found it was difficult to stop and I was losing more. Nothing too much to manage, though.’ His voice trailed off.

‘Is that when you wrote the letter that brought me here the other day?’ Bree asked gently. How could he have lost as much as half the company is worth? She fought her impatience and let him tell the story at his own pace.

‘Yes. Tried to stop going down there in the evenings, but I went again, night before last. Got to talking to a gentleman, a real London swell. He bought me a drink or two, we played a hand. I won.’ Bree’s heart sank. It was all to obvious where this was going.

‘I won again, and again. I felt a bit bad about it, to tell you the truth, so I asked him back for supper—the food’s not up to much down at the Queen’s Head.’

‘And you played some more, and began to lose?’

‘Yes. He said he’d come again last night, give me a chance to win it back. I lost again, and when we added up the IOUs—Bree, it was everything I have and more.’

‘So he said he’d take your share in the company?’

‘Yes. I offered him all my horses, all my cash, asked for time to raise the rest, but he said no. All he wanted was the Challenge Coaching Company. He knew all about it, called it by name.’

‘Where is he now?’ Bree got to her feet, a hard determination settling over her. Who this sharp was and how he had come to be there, preying on her uncle, she could not fathom, but he was not going to get away with it.

‘Down at the inn. He’s leaving tomorrow—I was writing to warn you to expect him at the Mermaid with his lawyer.’

‘I will go and see him and buy it back.’

‘We have that much money?’ Piers stared at her.

‘No.’ Bree stared into the candlelight, wrestling with her conscience. For herself she would not dream of it, but for Piers’s future she was prepared to sacrifice both pride and principle. ‘But I know a man who has.

‘I will ask Max. What’s the alternative?’ she demanded in the face of Piers’s gesture of protest. ‘To go to a moneylender? Or to James?’

‘James would never agree,’ her brother said positively. ‘He does not approve of the business, and we would never convince him how important this is.’

‘I will ask Max to lend it to Uncle—it will have to be repaid.’ George Mallory was too sunk in gloom to take in what she was saying—the brief discussion seemed to have gone over his head. ‘Piers, stay here with Uncle.’

‘You cannot go off to a common inn by yourself to meet a strange man. I’m coming too.’ Piers clattered at her heels as she strode down the hall, and out of the front door. Bree did not argue: Piers’s tall frame and fierce indignation were too much of a comfort to have at her side.

It took only twenty minutes to have a pony hitched to the gig and to drive the quarter mile to the Queen’s Head, sitting next to the church in the little hamlet. ‘What’s he doing here, this gentleman?’ she asked. ‘A London swell, Uncle said. It is hardly the place for a sharp to find pigeons for the plucking.’

‘Perhaps he came for a reason, deliberately to find Uncle,’ Piers speculated. ‘But who? Why?’

Bree shrugged. Speculation would do them no good. She flicked the reins around the hitching bar outside the inn and swept inside. ‘Good evening, Mr Tanner. You have a gentleman staying here? He dined with my uncle the other night.’

The publican came out from behind his counter, his expression puzzled at the tone of her voice. ‘Aye, Miss Mallory, he’s taking his supper in the back parlour. Private like,’ he added as Bree headed off in the direction he pointed.

She did not trouble to knock, sweeping in to confront the man who looked up in surprise as the door banged back. He laid down his knife and got slowly to his feet, a wary smile on his face.

Bree’s stomach performed a slow flip. ‘Brice Latymer. I should have guessed.’

‘Mr Latymer?’ At her side Piers stared. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘He is taking his revenge, I suppose,’ Bree said with loathing. ‘At the picnic he made advances to me. I rebuffed him. Lord Penrith and Mr Harlow threw him out. I imagine his pride is severely dented.’

Latymer was warily keeping the table between himself and the Mallorys, a wise precaution as Piers lunged forward, fists clenched. ‘You bastard! I’ll call you out. How dare you touch my sister!’

‘Piers, no.’ Bree held his arm and he subsided, his lanky frame quivering with anger. ‘I want to know how he knew about Uncle.’

‘You told me, my dear. Don’t you recall confiding your worries about poor Uncle? I thought then it might come in useful, and how right I was.’

‘How despicable you are,’ Bree observed. ‘Do you save every morsel of gossip, every hint of weakness, every possibility for advantage on the off chance that you can profit by it?’ It was strange, but she felt quite cold and controlled, as though she was dealing with a reptile, not a human being at all.

‘Of course.’ He smiled and she wondered how she had never before seen the cold that lay behind his eyes. ‘I was not born with a silver spoon in my mouth like your lover Penrith. I have had to make my own way by my wits.’

Bree ignored Piers’s growl at Latymer’s description of Max, but the significance of the words had not escaped her. ‘So that is what it is—you are jealous of the earl. I turned you down, he called you to account.’ The flush on the man’s cheekbones betrayed him. ‘I imagine he is your superior in every way one can name,’ she said contemptuously. ‘I will buy the company back from you.’

‘And I will not sell it.’ Latymer moved back from the table, his lean elegance incongruous in the modest inn parlour. His expression was venomous as he picked up an ebony cane that was propped against the fireplace and began to twirl it. The flash of the silver mountings fretted at Bree’s nerves. ‘I will not sell for any amount you might name.’

‘How do you expect the company to function, split like that?’ she demanded.

‘Poorly, I imagine,’ he drawled. ‘It can run to rack and ruin for all I care—it cost me nothing to acquire my share. Of course, my dear, you could marry me and then we’d all be one happy family and I’ll be as anxious as you that it runs well. What do you think? You may have found my proposal not smooth enough for your tastes, but we could deal well together.’

‘You disgust—’ Bree did not finish the sentence as Piers pulled free from her grip on his arm.

‘She is not marrying you, you are going to be dead!’

‘Piers.’ Bree cut off the boy’s tirade with a sharp word. ‘Mr Latymer, I would not marry you if you professed undying love and crawled over hot coals to my feet. You are a treacherous, spiteful, vindictive, two-faced liar. You will hear from our lawyers. Come, Piers.’

‘They won’t find a crack in it, my dear. Your uncle’s in his right mind. This was a gambling debt between gentlemen.’

‘Gentlemen!’ Piers snarled, lunged back towards the table and was brought up short by the point of a long steel blade at his throat.

‘A swordstick.’ Bree, her heart in her throat, reached out a trembling hand and took Piers’s arm, pulling the boy back towards her. Latymer made no move to come round the table after them. ‘I should have guessed you’d use a coward’s weapon. But do not worry, we are both unarmed, and we are leaving.’

They walked out of the inn, arm in arm for support, too shaken to say anything until the pony was making its way back to the farm. ‘Bree, he’ll ruin us. We cannot run the company with half of it in hostile hands,’ Piers stammered. ‘If he won’t sell, any amount of money from Lord Penrith will not help.’

‘We are going back to London tomorrow morning,’ Bree said. ‘And we will ask Max for help. He will know what to do.’ She shook the reins and the reluctant pony lumbered into a trot. ‘Now we must do our best to lift Uncle’s spirits. Put a brave face on it, Piers—like you did just now. I was so proud of you.’ And so scared for him. Whatever happened, she had to keep him away from Brice Latymer.

Max sat back in his chair, studying the fan of cards in his hand. Across the table in the best private parlour that the Sun in Splendour in Winchester could boast, the man who called himself Jack Ryder did the same.

A fire crackled in the grate, the remains of an excellent supper had been cleared away and a rare Bordeaux gleamed ruby light in their glasses.

He felt, strangely, calm. It was not at all how he had expected to feel after viewing the unmarked plot that held the remains of Drusilla’s family in the corner of the small church of one of the city’s outlying parishes.

With Ryder he had found the verger and they had dragged the registers out of their cupboard in the vestry and pored over them. As the agent had told him, the entries during the epidemic that had ravaged the city were scanty and ill written.

‘Vicar was taken with it,’ the verger explained. ‘He lived, although his wife died. The sexton and I, we did our best with notebooks and scraps of paper, but we were burying that many, sometimes we forgot. We’re not lettered men, my lords.’ He rubbed a gnarled hand over his face. ‘It was a terrible time, that it was. Bitter bad.’

‘Here is what I found before.’ Ryder pushed a register towards Max. ‘See. Fifteenth of May, The Cornish family, 3 souls. But which three?’

‘I can see if I can find the old notebooks,’ the verger offered. ‘I gave them all to Vicar, once he was up from his sickbed. He read the service over all the graves then, and filled in the registers, best as he could. He was in a right state, though, still weak himself, and his wife just gone.

‘They’ll all be in here, I suspicion,’ he mumbled, pulling out a battered chest. ‘Aye, there you are.’

The two men had looked at the jumble of scraps of paper, battered notebooks and pieces of old parchment, all covered in blotched and pot-hooked handwriting. Ryder dug in his pocket and handed the verger a coin. ‘A jug of ale and three tankards, if you’ll be so good. This could be a long business.’

It had taken them three hours before they found the notes relating to that day in May 1807. Max spread the page out on the table. ‘Buried Mr Matthew Cornish, apothecary, Mrs Letty Cornish his wife, Drusilla Cornish his daughter, spinster, of Eastcheape, dead of the pox, 15th day of May,’ he read. ‘We must put this under lock and key here and go and see the vicar. Will you swear before a lawyer where it was found?’

‘Aye, I’ll do that,’ the verger nodded. ‘It’s my handwriting too, I’ll swear to that as well. We’ll put it in this cupboard here, all safe and sound.’

After they had seen the vicar, a thin, tremulous man with pockmarked cheeks, and had made arrangements for an attorney to come to the vestry next day, the verger guided them to the gravesite. Max had stood there a long while, the flowers he had brought held loosely in his hand, his eyes unfocused as he thought of his wife. Then he had put down the flowers with the sense of having found an answer to an unspoken question, and asked the old man for the direction of a monumental mason.

‘What name will you have put on the stone?’ Ryder asked, striding beside him through the drizzle.

‘Her own, with her parents’. She did not want the marriage—I will not force the name on her now.’ The stone mason’s work shed was dusty, dim and noisy, but somehow the act of doing something was curiously soothing and he left with the sense of having come to the end of a book and of having closed it, completed.

Now, in the warm comfort of the inn, he was enjoying the sensation of matching his wits against someone he could not read at all. The play was about even, they were winning almost turn and turn about, yet there was something in Ryder’s game that made Max suspect he was more than the excellent card player he appeared to be.

Max played an ace and took the hand. ‘May I make an observation that may appear insulting, without the risk of being called out?’ he enquired, watching the other man’s hands as he dealt.

Ryder glanced up, smiled and returned his attention to the cards. ‘You may, my lord.’

‘You play like a sharp, yet I would swear you have neither played to lose, nor to win unfairly, this evening.’

Ryder raised one eyebrow. ‘You have a good eye, my lord. I can play booty …’ he glanced up to make sure Max understood the cant phrase ‘… to draw the pigeons in, and I can rook them royally when I have them. You are the first man I have ever played against who has called me, my lord—and that when I was playing fair.’

‘Call me Dysart. That is my name, although I might hazard a guess that Jack Ryder is not yours.’ Max picked up the cards he had been dealt and fanned them out.

‘It is part of it.’ The other man made his play, then drained his glass. ‘I should say that I have never cheated for personal gain, only in the course of my work—and where it was deserved.’ He reached for the bottle and refilled their glasses. ‘After today, is there anything further I can assist you with?’

‘No, nothing, I thank you. I shall make sure Lord Lucas is well aware of how much you have assisted me. I would prefer it if you sent your accounting directly to me, marked for my personal attention. My secretary is not aware of this enquiry.’

Ryder nodded. ‘It will be done. You are travelling direct back to town tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’ Max grinned, his thumb caressing the Queen of Hearts in the cards fanned in his hand. The consequences of their day’s discoveries were beginning to sink in. Surely, with the proof that he had been a widower for seven years, he could win Bree round? ‘Oh, yes. I have a lady to see. Are you married, Ryder?’

‘I have not that felicity,’ the other man replied, straight-faced. ‘But I wish you good fortune.’

They travelled back to London together, Ryder amusing himself by teaching Max some of the sharper’s skills. They were still chuckling over Max’s attempts to palm aces as they came through the front door of his town house and were confronted by an agitated butler.

‘My lord! Miss Mallory is here without a chaperon!’ He saw Ryder behind Max and froze into an expression of mortified dignity at such a lapse on his part before a visitor.

‘Outrageous, Bignell, I shall have to marry the lady, I suppose.’ Max sighed, tossing his hat to the footman. ‘Ryder, come and meet Miss Mallory.’

He pushed open the salon door and strolled in, only to be brought up short by the sight of Bree’s white, strained face and Piers, coiled like a spring under tension, at her side. ‘Max! Thank goodness you are back. I am so sorry, coming here like this, but we need your help so badly. You will never guess what that toad Latymer has done.’

‘If he has laid a finger on you—’ His insides were suddenly hollow as the memory of Bree struggling in Latymer’s arms came flooding back. He grasped her by the shoulders as he searched her face, his light-hearted mood swept clean away.

‘No, not that, although he had a swordstick at Piers’s throat. Max, he has cheated Uncle out of his share of the coach company.’

Behind him Max heard Ryder clearing his throat. ‘I’ll just—’

‘No, Ryder, don’t go, we may need you.’ He took Bree’s arm and guided her back into the room. ‘Piers, are you all right?’

‘The bastard—’ the boy began.

Max held up a hand. ‘Not that language in front of your sister.’ Bree growled, making Max’s lips twitch. He imagined she would have a stronger word for Latymer. ‘This is Mr Ryder, who acts in confidential matters for me. Tell us what happened.’

‘Mr Ryder.’ Bree nodded politely, sat down on the nearest sofa and swallowed, obviously marshalling the facts. Max listened, trying to control his fury as the tale unfolded. ‘He thinks he has us over a barrel,’ she concluded. ‘He says that a gambling debt between gentlemen could not be challenged legally, and I expect he is right. My uncle is of sound mind, no one coerced him into playing, he admits that himself. He signed IOUs.’ She turned troubled blue eyes on Max. ‘I am sorry, Ma … my lord. I could think of no one else to advise us. James will not have the slightest sympathy.’

Inside, somewhere beyond the fury, Max felt a warm glow building. She had come to him, trusted him to help her. Despite what she had said, her protests, he knew she felt more for him than she would admit.

‘Your uncle could default,’ Ryder observed dispassionately from where he stood near the window. With a fraction of his attention Max noted the way he had automatically taken up a position where he could scan the street. The man was dangerous.

‘And have Latymer spread it far and wide that he did so?’ Bree demanded. ‘My half-brother is about to marry the daughter of the Duke of Matchingham. Piers and I are already considered something of an embarrassment. Latymer will know how to make a scandal out of this.’

The agent cleared his throat. ‘Dysart, have you played Latymer? How good is he? Does he cheat?’ Ryder’s questions brought a grim smile to Max’s lips—he could see where this was heading.

‘He plays moderately well, not as well as I do. I have never suspected foul play, although he would not dare to try it, I suspect, not in the club. Against an inexperienced player, slightly fuddled with drink—I can imagine nothing more likely.’

‘Then we have him,’ Ryder said, a slow smile curling his lips. ‘All I need to do is to lure him into a game, somewhere public, then either catch him cheating, or create the illusion that he has. As the price of our silence he hands back all the IOUs and any documents from Miss Mallory’s uncle.’

Max watched Bree’s face as she listened. He loved the way she tipped her head slightly to one side as she concentrated, and the focus of those incredible blue eyes on Ryder’s face. ‘That sounds a wonderful plan—except, where are you going to catch him?’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t turn up at the club,’ Max observed. ‘He has the brass neck to do so. He knows Nevill and I will keep quiet so as not to bring your name into it, he knows I won’t call him out now he has apologised. He has no reason to suppose you would bring your uncle’s problems to me.

‘Now, all we need to do is to introduce Ryder as a guest. If you don’t mind letting him into the secret, I’ll ask Lansdowne to do it so there will be no connection with me.’

‘I’ll wait to hear.’ Jack Ryder nodded pleasantly to the Mallorys. ‘A pleasure to meet you. Dysart, you know where to find me.’

Max saw him to the door then came back into the room. ‘I’m sure you must be busy, Piers,’ he observed.

‘No.’ The lad beamed back. ‘That’s a great plot to snare Latymer, I wish I could see what happens.’

‘Piers,’ Max said with more emphasis and a jerk of his head towards the door. ‘I am convinced that Miss Thorpe is in need of a discussion about company business after your absence. I will see your sister home.’

‘Oh. Oh, right. Yes, I’ll be off then.’ He grinned cheekily at Max as he strolled out. ‘Is this worth a driving lesson?’

‘You can drive my Hanoverians,’ Max assured him. ‘Just go!’