Blackstone's Bride (3 page)

“You have a remarkable faith in my libertine ways then.”

Goldsworthy nodded. “Your way with women. Why in no time, you’ve turned Lady Ravenhurst away from that sly Russian count. Now do you think you can manage two ladies at once?”

“What are you suggesting?” Conversing with Goldsworthy was like talking to an old yew tree in Epping Forest. Tonight the man wore a forest green jacket over a russet silk waistcoat and tree trunk brown trousers.

“No need to get your back up, lad. A fellow’s gone missing with . . . a report of great interest to the government. The trouble is he was supposed to meet our courier in Koron and the fellow turned up dead. We arranged another to meet him in Naples. Equally dead. So we’ve a problem.”

Koron
, the name caught Blackstone’s attention. So there had been a reason for Goldsworthy to be in that Greek harbor when he’d offered to aid in the rescue of Blackstone and the other captives.

“Any idea who killed your agents?”

“Someone who didn’t want that report to reach us.” Goldsworthy’s large hands flattened over the papers on his desk. He shifted them about the way a hazard dealer might rearrange his cards. Blackstone had a momentary recollection of that card table on the
Redemption
, where he’d lost so much he’d been willing to take whatever bargain Goldsworthy offered. He had not missed Goldsworthy’s hesitation over the missing “report.”

“How were these agents killed?”

“Strangled. Killer used some sort of cord. Necks heavily bruised. One fellow nearly decapitated. Ugly business.”

“Just where do the elegant London drawing rooms, society functions, and willing women come into the case of agents murdered abroad?”

“I’ll get to it, lad.” He ended his paper shuffling, pulling out from under a pile of loose sheets a small blue velvet box of the kind jewelers used. “Our missing man was to arrive with the Prince of Moldova for a state visit. The prince landed this afternoon, but not our man. We’ve kept the prince and his party tied up in customs as long as we could, but nothing turned up. We think our murderer is one of the prince’s people, and we want you to stick as close to them as possible.”

“Who’s the missing man?”

“A banker. Frank Hammersley.”

Blackstone could not have heard properly. He waited for Goldsworthy to look at his desk again or shuffle his papers some more. But the man sat there with his bluff country squire looks as if he had not just poked a stick in the wasp’s nest of Blackstone’s past.

“With whom am I to flirt then?” He kept his voice level. He could guess the answer.

Goldsworthy flicked the lid on the little box in his large hands. “There’s a countess in the prince’s party. We want to investigate her.”

“And the other woman?”

“Ah, now there’s the pickle. We need you to be a good bit closer than a flirt, Blackstone. We need you to be a fiancé to Hammersley’s sister.”

Blackstone stared at the man across from him. Did Goldsworthy know the whole of Blackstone’s past? The engagement between him and Violet Hammersley had been public at the time, but there had been scandals since his and no one cared for old news. “The lady may have some objections.”

Goldsworthy tossed Blackstone the small blue velvet box. “To find her brother, she’ll have to swallow them.”

Blackstone flicked open the box. A great square diamond winked up at him. Fate once again assigned him the role of faithless fiancé. He could see himself bending to kiss Violet Hammersley’s cold hand while looking over it to catch another woman’s glance.

“It’s paste,” said his tormentor. “Remember, a year and a day clears you and Blackstone Court.”

Chapter Three

“There’s a gentleman . . . who can it be? It looks just like that man that used to be with him before. Mr. what’s-his-name. That tall, proud man.”

—Jane Austen,
Pride and Prejudice

“Your tie’s askew, Papa. You don’t want to lessen the triumph of Frank’s homecoming.”

George Hammersley turned to his daughter at the top of the grand stairs of Hammersley House. “Don’t tease, Violet. You know Preston’s handiwork is perfection.”

Violet reached up to tug the neck cloth in question. “Precisely the problem. It’s too perfect. We’ve got to be ourselves even if a prince is our guest. Show no awe.”

George squared his shoulders and gave his daughter a wink. “I know you’ll be yourself, at any rate, my girl. You can’t help it, can you?”

Violet laughed. “I’m afraid not.”

From below came the rap of hurried footsteps on the parquet. Granthem, the Hammersley butler, looked up from the foot of the grand stairway. “A Lord Chartwell to speak with you, sir, about the prince. There’s been a delay.”

Papa frowned and turned to Violet.

She shrugged. “It’s to be expected with this rain.”

“Will it ruin the royal supper?”

Violet shook her head. “Never fear, Papa. We’ll manage. Let’s meet the visitor.” She took her father’s arm.

In the smaller drawing room, the one with the straw silk walls and Aubusson sofas, Violet rang for refreshments. The man who entered with Granthem was round-faced with a bald, freckle-dusted dome, an air of consequence, and gold-rimmed eyeglasses as round as his head. He came forward as Granthem announced him.

“I have unfortunate news for you, Mr. Hammersley. Your son Frank did not arrive with the prince’s party.”

Violet clutched her father’s arm. She felt an odd sensation as if a cold rushing wind filled her ears.

“I don’t understand.” Papa’s voice sounded like it came from a well. “Frank did not reach London?”

“That’s what I’m saying, Hammersley. We don’t know where your son is.”

“Why is it your concern, Lord Chartwell?” Violet did not imagine the foreign office usually sent lords to find delayed travelers.

Papa turned to hush her, but she kept her gaze on their visitor.

Lord Chartwell frowned. “Perhaps you would care to sit, Miss Hammersley. Naturally, the government is concerned when one of his majesty’s subjects is missing.”

“Missing?” Papa croaked the word.

“Yes, missing.”

“Do you mean dead, Lord Chartwell?” Violet had to ask.

“Not dead, Miss Hammersley. A dead man generally shows up somewhere, and your brother has not appeared in Spain or in England and certainly not aboard the ship on which he booked his passage.” Lord Chartwell seemed to take it as a personal affront that Frank was not where the government expected him to be.

They settled uneasily, Lord Chartwell opposite Violet and Papa. Violet felt the hard edge of the gilt wood against the backs of her legs. Granthem appeared with a tray of tea and refreshments.

Chartwell turned to Papa. “Your son, Hammersley, went to Moldova to make a report on the prince’s use of funds borrowed from England to improve Moldova’s defenses. We know he arrived there, and we know he left again. He met the prince’s party in Gibraltar to begin the final leg of his journey. No doubt you had messages from him along the way.”

“We did.” Violet felt an odd unease. The way Lord Chartwell described it, the government had been following her brother.

“Somewhere in Gibraltar between his hotel and the prince’s ship, your brother’s path diverged from his plan.” To Violet it sounded as if Chartwell were making an accusation.

Papa strained forward so that he filled the space between himself and Lord Chartwell. “What’s been done to recover my son?”

“Recover him?” Chartwell’s round eyebrows arched above the gleaming rims of his spectacles. “We are investigating his trail, questioning all who saw him, examining the ship, and interviewing its crew.”

Violet pulled Papa back. “Was he attacked in the street then?”

“Ordinary street ruffians might be to blame, but your brother is an experienced traveler, Miss Hammersley, and the one particularly valuable item he possessed was his report on the state of military finances in Moldova. The document is also missing.”

“Who knew that Frank was carrying the document?” The government’s rapid and thorough response did not sound like concern for Frank. Something was not right in Lord Chartwell’s approach to Frank’s disappearance.

“We must assume that everyone in the prince’s party knew that he carried those documents.”

Violet picked up the blue and white china teapot and concentrated on filling Lord Chartwell’s cup instead of pouring tea over his round, freckled, unfeeling head. He was placating them, telling a shocked family that the government would do everything in its power to recover Frank, but his true concern was the missing document, not the missing brother. She recognized what was wrong with his tone. Chartwell was annoyed. Frank’s disappearance was inconvenient. He didn’t say it directly, but it was plain nonetheless. The government suspected someone in the prince’s party of murdering or abducting Frank.

He ended by saying that all the government required was a little cooperation on their part. No one in the prince’s party must know of the investigation.

“To aid in the recovery of your son, we have created an inconvenience for the prince and his party with Milvert’s Hotel and have advised them that they will lodge with you for the first week of the royal visit. That will give us time to investigate.” He looked at Violet. “We have added two servants to your staff, Miss Hammersley, who will be of material advantage in the investigation.”

Violet saw Papa swell with outrage again. His voice boomed out. “We are supposed to host the prince and his people at Hammersley House for the duration of a state visit when one of them might have murdered Frank?”

“The best way to find your son is to keep the prince’s entire party under scrutiny.”

“And allow the murderer a chance to get at us in our own beds?” Violet tried to picture Granthem defending them and failed.

“We will arrange for you, Miss Hammersley, to have protection close at hand wherever you go.”

“Do you recommend that I carry a pistol?”

Lord Chartwell’s round face registered a faint distaste. He resettled his glasses on his nose. “Not necessary, I assure you. We have a man who will be at your side at all times.”

“I beg your pardon. Won’t such an arrangement appear odd to the prince and his party?”

“Not if the man at your side has a right, indeed a duty, to escort you wherever you go in the coming week.”

“Outrageous!” Papa sputtered.

Violet watched Chartwell straighten his coat. “What man has such a right?”

“A fiancé, Miss Hammersley.”

She must have misheard. They were talking about Frank, missing, not her unmarried state.

“Lord Chartwell, a woman does not acquire a fiancé in the same way she acquires a hat.” She should have thrown the teapot at him.

“We will provide the fiancé, a reliable man.”

“Really! I think the young ladies of London should know that the government keeps a supply of eligible men available. How soon do you expect to find Frank?”

“The sooner the better.”

“If Frank is alive, what are his circumstances likely to be?”

Lord Chartwell shrugged, and Violet contemplated the poker by the fireplace. “If he is alive, he’s likely being kept away from notice, somewhere where his presence won’t rouse curiosity, but not far from the prince’s party.”

“So, not far from Hammersley House. What may we do?”

“Do nothing, Miss Hammersley. Unless you wish your brother dead.” Lord Chartwell abandoned all pretense of offering comfort. He simply rose, signaling an end to the conversation. “A little cooperation from you is all we require, Hammersley. We have retrieved your son’s possessions from the ship. We’d like you to look at them with our man to see whether anything strikes you as out of the ordinary. Where should we send them?”

Violet turned to Papa, staring ahead unseeing, and took his hand. “To Frank’s room, and we should send for Preston, Frank’s valet. He’ll know better than any of us whether anything is missing.”

* * *

Blackstone supposed that if one had to meet one’s first love after a bitter parting and years of separation, it was best to have the upper hand. He had all the advantage. He knew the moment was coming. He had time to prepare his countenance. He had a job to do.

He had the further advantage of seeing Violet Hammersley before she saw him. She was crossing the landing at the top of the grand vulgar stairway of the mansion her father had built with his banking fortune. The whole house was a monstrosity that dominated one of the newer squares north of Mayfair, and the entry’s soaring white marble steps with their iron filigree balusters and red carpet, were a particular offense against good taste.

Violet’s face was closed in a tight frown and her wine-colored silk skirts made a rustle like a rushing stream. Blackstone could see at a glance that she had grown into her beauty. Styles had changed, but the new fashion of locating a woman’s waist somewhere about her ribs suited Violet well. The downward V of the bodice was meant to flatten a woman’s chest, but in Violet’s case only served to heighten her charms.

She turned to her papa and picked up her skirts with the practiced gesture of a woman sure of her movement, anticipating the stairs. He had perhaps two seconds to arrange his face into a bracing sneer. He had known the news of Frank’s disappearance would hit her hard. He watched the next blow fall, not without satisfaction.

Her startled gaze met his, and in her unguarded expression he read a brief tumultuous history of their past before her papa caught her stumble and steadied her.

He had wished in that moment of freefall on the
Redemption
to see the flash of those dark eyes again. Now he steadied himself with the reflection that getting what one wished for rarely measured up to the expectation.

George Hammersley glared down at him, a staked bear, his black hair peppered with gray now, but his height and bulk undiminished. He disengaged himself from his daughter’s hold, setting her unresisting hand on the banister and turning to the government’s man. “This man cannot be the man you mean. You can’t foist this fellow on us, Chartwell. Don’t you know who he is? He’s the very blackguard that broke my Violet’s heart.”