Barbara Metzger (7 page)

"We could amount to cannon fodder. We don't have to die so Miss Lockharte don't haunt us, do we?"

"War's almost over. No chance of that."

"That's all right then,” Tom said.

"It's all right,” Tim said, “unless the female ain't dead. What do we do then?"

"We buy her a dog?"

"That ain't going to give her back what we stole."

"We weren't the ones who stole that kiss, remember? It was old Rolly, by George. Thought we were clear on that."

"Dash it, Tom, we stole her reputation, just like she said in the letter. Gentlemen don't ruin ladies,” he declared, maintaining his twenty-minute maturity. “We've got to do right by her. You'll marry her."

Tom almost fell off his chair. “Me? Why not you? You're the older. The one who is going to be baronet someday. More honor in that than marrying a plain mister. Ladies like titles, don't you know."

"But they don't like living in a cottage, which is all either of us could afford. You know the governor said we're too expensive for a poor female, so one of us has to marry money. Rich chits are more likely to fall in the heir's lap than the spare's."

Tom shoved an unmatched glove, a half-eaten roll, and a stack of racing forms off the table beside his chair. Under it all he came up with a deck of cards. “We'll play for it."

Tim wasn't so sure. “Winner gets the girl?"

"Hell, no. Winner gets to join the army. Loser gets the leg-shackles."

"Uh, maybe we better let the woman pick—if she ain't dead. Better go find her at that place in Worthing. Save her life, what?"

"Regular heroes, that's us. So do we ride or drive?"

"Now how are we going to bring a sickly female away from some academy on horseback? You ain't thinking, Tom."

"Seems to me we've done more thinking now than in the last five years. Giving me the headache, it is. So we'll drive. My curricle or yours?"

"My bays are faster than your nags."

"Are not. Your slugs will be winded before we've gone ten
miles."

"We'll race."

Tom wasn't so sure. “What's the winner get?"

"He gets to Worthing first, you chinch."

"Uh, Tim, where is Worthing?"

"Damned if I know."

Viscount Stanford hadn't placed the Heatherstone twins on his mental list of suspects for either stealing his soldiers or making off with Hume's hat. He hadn't recalled their first names or initials, since he always thought of them merely as Rattle and Pate. But he did remember that they'd been at his house the night before once he saw their names on the guest list Stubbing had compiled with the butler's help. They'd been wearing yellow Cossack trousers and puce waistcoats with cabbage roses embroidered on them. With their red hair, Haddock and Hake had looked like wallpaper for a whorehouse.

And they'd been making calf's eyes at Susan. The Heatherstones were known to follow the latest fashions, both in their attire and in paying court to the latest belle. Wynn was pleased that his sister had the nod, but not from those noddies, as rackety a pair as he'd ever known. They'd always seemed harmless enough, but someone had been in his studio.

Wynn's first call, after discussing the list with Stubbing, was at the Albany. The porter there reported that the twins had left in tandem an hour earlier, arguing over horses, roads, and who would pay the tolls.

"I wouldn't be surprised if they came a-cropper before they reach Reigate, the way they was carrying on.” The porter was garrulous, with a new guinea in his pocket. “On the go and on the wrong road for Brighton."

They were cow-handed, to boot. But what the deuce were those two jackstraws doing, going to Brighton?

"Trying to beat Prinny's time, from what I heard,” the porter said, shaking his head at the young men's chances.

"But during the Season?” Wynn wondered out loud. “Those two nodcocks never miss a free meal."

The porter had no answer. “Maybe they don't know it ain't summer yet."

"Do you mind if I go up and leave a message?"

For another guinea, the porter wouldn't have minded if Viscount Stanford left the twins a mangel-wurzel. “You can try, but they'll never find it in that pigsty."

Wynn looked around the sitting room, not even pretending to be seeking a safe place for his calling card. Lud, his pigs lived better than this.

"The maids come on Thursdays. They do the best they can, but it would take more'n a dustmop and a broom to make this place look presentable."

A fire or an earthquake, perhaps, Wynn thought. He did find a top hat, resting on a bust of Homer that could only have come with the furnished rooms. He smelled the hat while the porter shrugged at the ways of the gentry.

"Queer as Dick's hatband, all of ‘em,” he muttered.

No, there was nothing in the hatband or the lining either, just the stamped initials TH. And the hat smelled of London's stews, not of cigar smoke. Wynn gave up the search. A battalion of his miniature soldiers could have bivouacked in this dump and he wouldn't spot them. So he left, stepping on the letters that had sent the Heatherstones hying for the high road.

The rooms belonging to Tripp Hayes, the Honorable Thorence Hayes the Third, that was, were ascetic in contrast. Nothing was out of place or less than immaculate, including Tripp's valet, Fullerton. The fastidious gentleman's gentleman was packing.

"Mr. Hayes has decided to visit his family,” the gray-clad servant said with a sniff, expressing his opinion of gentlemen who went haring around the countryside without their valets. “Quite unexpectedly. I shall follow this afternoon with the baggage."

"Nothing wrong with his mother, I trust."

"I'm sure I couldn't say, not being in the master's confidence.” Which the little man obviously resented.

He also couldn't say when Hayes might be returning to Town. He was, however, able to state unequivocally that no hats had suffered mistaken identity at his hands. “Ours are made by Locke, of course."

"Yes, but Locke makes a great many hats and some have the same initials."

The valet drew himself up to his full height, nose twitching. “Mr. Hayes has never and would never put on another gentleman's hat."

And he would never betray his country or his friends, Wynn was willing to swear. He'd be the perfect match for his peagoose of a sister, if only she could be made to see Tripp's sterling qualities. The only thing that nagged at the viscount—and it truly was a small thing, he told himself—was that Tripp's mother lived in Bognor Regis, along the southern coast where smugglers were known to ply their trade with France. It was also along the same coast as Brighton, as a matter of fact.

Tully Hadfield wasn't at home at the run-down rooming house where he boarded. Seeing a squad of bailiffs at the door, Wynn was not surprised Hadfield had done a flit, but he was not happy either to see that the rake was in such dire straits. Punting on tick, a man could grow desperate.

Wynn checked the stable where he knew Hadfield kept his cattle. As he'd expected, they were missing, too. The ostler hadn't seen Tully leave, else he would have called for the bailiffs himself. Now he'd never be paid. Wynn tossed him a coin for his troubles. Blast, there'd be no finding Tully's direction now. He could be halfway to France with Wynn's handiwork and Old Humidor's hat.

Wynn's last stop was at White's, in search of Townsend Haverhill. To the doorman's surprise, the baron hadn't been in yet today. Lud, the viscount did not want to call at the baron's house. He might as well put his head in the lion's mouth as pay a call on Clarice Haverhill. The baron was his last chance of recovering Lord Hume's hat, though, with whatever secrets it contained.

Fortunately, he did not have to go into Haverhill House. In the doorway he asked the butler if he might speak with the baron.

"Milord is not in, Lord Stanford. May I take your card up to the ladies?” He held out a white-gloved hand for the ritual calling card, one corner turned down to show that the viscount had called in person. The butler would carry it up the stairs, ask his mistress if she was receiving, then stand back lest he be trampled in Miss Clarice's eagerness to snag the eminently eligible lord. Wagers among the footmen were two to one in Miss Clarice's favor.

Wynn placed a pound note on the butler's palm instead. “Forget I even stopped by, will you?"

The butler noted that his lordship wasn't carrying a nosegay or a box of bonbons. There was no ring-box-size bulge in the coat stretched across a broad chest. Jamison nodded. He'd back the winner, and Miss Clarice could lead apes in hell. The pound note disappeared discreetly.

Wynn had a second one ready. “Perhaps you could tell me where I might find Baron Haverhill? Another of my guests last evening mislaid a personal item and I was wondering if the baron had seen it."

Jamison eyed the paper money with regret. “I am sorry, my lord, but Baron Haverhill has gone out of town on a family matter. He expects to return from Worthing within a sennight."

Worthing, on the seacoast between Brighton and Bognor Regis? The same Worthing where Wynn's sister had gone to school, where that female was dead or dying? Impossible! Ridiculous! Out of the question.

Dash it, Wynn swore as he made his way back to Grosvenor Square, he might have to call on Miss Lockharte after all.

When the viscount returned to Stanford House, he handed Wilkins his hat and gloves. The butler handed him more headaches.

"Mr. Stubbing asked to be notified immediately at your arrival, my lord. He is in the office. Lady Stanford requests you attend her in her chamber, and Miss Susan is waiting for you in the morning room. Also Lord Hume has called. I put him in the library."

"What, Cousin Lenore doesn't want to talk to me?"

"I regret to say that Mrs. Dahlquist is ailing. She has not come out of her room today."

"Has the doctor been called?"

"No, my lord. The note from under Mrs. Dahlquist's door requested that she be permitted to rest today, that there was nothing terribly wrong."

"Most likely she was sick and tired of Susan's pleas to attend the masquerade. With that rake Hadfield out of town, maybe we'll get some peace."

"Yes, my lord."

Wynn stood in the hall, brushing his dark hair back with his fingers, trying to decide where he ought to go first, other than back to White's.

"And this was delivered while you were out, my lord.” On a silver tray that usually held invitations and calling cards reposed the remains of a miniature of himself that Maude had commissioned, at his expense, of course. The frame had been smashed, the painting sliced. Maude was nothing if not thorough.

"It does not appear to have been a very good likeness, my lord,” the butler commiserated.

"
Au contraire, mon ami,
it is a perfect representation of how I am feeling: battered and torn, ready for the dust heap."

"Perhaps Mrs. Dahlquist's ailment is contagious."

"Ah, but I can neither take to my bed nor hide under the covers, can I?” Then again, if he'd stayed at Maude's, in her bed, he wouldn't have had an expensive trinket in smithereens, or his peace entirely cut up.

The butler did not bother answering; he merely informed the viscount that Lady Stanford seemed quite perturbed, as did Miss Susan and Lord Hume.

"Right, I'll check in with Stubbing first then."

"Excellent, my lord. I'll bring the brandy directly."

"That bad, eh? I don't suppose any odd hats have been returned?"

The butler just shook his head in regret and sympathy. Stubbing hadn't found any clues to the missing soldiers either. None of the guests was on Whitehall's suspect list or Bow Street's thief-takers’ roster. A few of the nobs, like Lord Hadfield, were known to be below hatches.

"I am not disparaging the ruling class, my lord, my own father being one of them, but it's the truth that men living beyond their means cannot always be trusted.” The men were sitting at either side of Wynn's wide desk, the cut-crystal decanter between them.

Wynn swirled the brandy in his glass and agreed. “At least you're honest. If we consider everyone punting on tick to be a traitor, though, we might as well hang half of Parliament."

The officer nodded, then continued: “We are not hopeful, although our people are watching the usual scoundrels."

"No, my people are too small, too easily hidden or disguised as children's playthings."

"Precisely what made them so valuable to us in the past. I am afraid we shall have to discontinue the operation for now. General's orders."

"No more lead soldiers?” Wynn tried to keep the disappointment from his voice. Dash it, he'd been doing something worthwhile.

"The general says that you should keep painting, in case. He's hopeful the war will be ended shortly anyway, but then you can give them to your sons."

"I don't have any sons."

Stubbing looked down at the papers in his hands. “The general mentioned that, too. He seems to feel it is the responsibility of the nobility to provide for the future."

"Blast him for an interfering old busybody then."

Stubbing cleared his throat, sudden color coming to his fair cheeks. “The general is my godfather, my lord."

"My apologies, Lieutenant, but I get enough of such lectures from my mother."

"I understand, my lord, and there are times when I do appreciate being a second son. No one is concerned with the proliferation of more cadets."

"And you got to join up."

The lieutenant tapped his stiff leg. “Not always a blessing."

"Sorry, that was thoughtless of me. But tell me, Lieutenant, are you being recalled to Whitehall or can you stay on a few days? I have an idea or two about the missing soldiers. There have been some odd coincidences lately."

The young man smiled his pleasure at being invited to stay. Stanford House was decidedly an improvement on the army barracks. “Rare things, coincidences,” he said, sipping his smooth, well-aged drink.

"That's what I thought."

When his discussion with Stubbing was over, Wynn went upstairs to scratch on his mother's door. He hadn't had enough to drink to face telling his sister that her would-be paramour would be imprisoned for debt if he showed his face again. And Old Humidor was his mother's problem, not his.