Captain Rakehell (6 page)

“That’s not a question you should ask of me,” Her Grace replied with a twinkling and knowing half smile, “but rather of Amanda.”

“I suppose so,” Lesley agreed glumly, and got stiffly to his feet. “Very well, Mother. You may summon the hangman.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“So sorry. I meant to say send a notice to the
Times
.”

Her Grace laughed gaily, the shining smile on her still lovely face. Though her obvious relish of her victory pricked Lesley’s pride, he knew her triumph would be brief, and so chose to let her enjoy it while she could.

“You are merely being married,” she said, “not murdered.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Just like your father.” Her Grace
tsk
ed at him fondly, then grew thoughtful. “Lady Cottingham’s ball is two days hence. I shall, of course, expect you to escort Amanda. And you will, in the interim, have ample time to present yourself to her and to Lord Hampton.”

“As Your Grace wishes.” Bracing himself on his cane, Lesley gave her a small bow, and accepted the hand she lifted to him.

As he touched his lips to her smooth knuckles, his mother surprised him by disengaging her fingers from his and cupping his bruised jaw in her palm. He winced again, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“You’ve made me very happy, Lesley,” she said, gently stroking the curve of his cheek.

“I’m glad, Mother.” He caught her hand, kissed her fingertips, and straightened. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m expected at White’s.”

His mother nodded, and he left, limping markedly on his left leg. Once the door had closed behind him, the duchess was out of her chair in a flash and at the window that faced Bond Street. She lifted the drape and peeped out, just as Lesley reached the flagway and strode—briskly and rather purposefully, thought Her Grace—toward his waiting carriage, the cane he had leaned so heavily upon only moments before swinging loosely from his hand.

“Oh, you wicked, wicked boy,” she laughed softly, and let the drape fall.

Chapter Six

Despite the heavy midafternoon traffic, which made for slow going and frequent stops between Bond Street and his Mayfair establishment, the normally impatient Captain Lord Lesley Earnshaw reclined contentedly against the blue velvet squabs of his carriage.

“Captain Rakehell,” he murmured, grinning as he recalled the angry flush the name had brought to his mother’s cheeks.

She was a dear, really. Scheming, conniving and dictatorial, but a dear nonetheless, and he adored her. Not enough to marry Amanda Gilbertson to please her, but that was part of the fun.

And to think he’d worried civilian life would be stiflingly dull. Why, he’d scarce been home a fortnight, had already fought a duel (at least part of one), and was now up to his shirt points in intrigue. What more could one ask?

The well-sprung barouche jolted to a sudden halt just then, pitching him head first toward the opposite banquette. By quickly throwing up one leg—his left, unthinkingly, and wincing as a stab of genuine pain shot through the muscles—Lesley caught himself and saved his chin a nasty scraping on the squabs. Muttering a curse, he grasped the edge of the lowered window, levered himself out of it and craned his head toward the box.

“Have a care, Ruston!” he shouted.

“Sorry, m’lord!” his driver returned. “But some bloody fool jus’ cut ‘is team right in front of— ‘Ere, you!” The coachman broke off and grabbed his whip. “You can’t—”

The right hand door sprang open and a small man dressed in gray city clothes climbed into the carriage and seated himself opposite Lesley, who was still hanging out the window. Planting the walking stick he carried between his knees, he folded his hands on top of it, nodded, and said, quite conversationally, “Good afternoon, Lord Earnshaw.”

Wishing he had his rapier or a pistol, or at least his cane, which lay out of his reach on the banquette, Lesley eyed the intruder balefully, swung himself back inside and observed forcefully, “Cut purses have certainly grown bold in my absence.”

The man’s laugh was interrupted by the appearance of the bewhiskered Ruston, brandishing his whip, and the groom Tom, his fists doubled and his square jaw clenched, in the still open carriage door.

“A moment, if you please.” The man held up a hand to them, reached inside his coat, and produced a card, which he handed to Lesley.

He scanned it quickly, then eyed the intruder again, this time incredulously. “Bow Street! What is the meaning of this?”

“If you would instruct your men to carry on, my lord—” the Runner paused to glance significantly at Ruston and Tom “—all will be explained by the time we reach Mayfair.”

He could, of course, have the man—Mr. Gerald Fisk, according to his card—summarily tossed into the gutter, but his curiosity was piqued. “Very well,” Lesley acquiesced. “Get us under way, Ruston.”

“Can’t, m’lord. Our way be blocked.”

“If you will remount your box, coachman,” Fisk told him, “my associate will remove our carriage from your path and follow at a discreet distance.”

Ruston frowned suspiciously and glanced at Lord Earnshaw. He nodded, and the two servants withdrew, closing the door behind them.

“Are the methods employed by Bow Street always this unorthodox?” Lesley asked, slipping the card into his inside pocket.

“Rarely, my lord.” Fisk smiled and refolded his hands atop his cane as the barouche rolled forward. “But because the matter I wish to discuss with you will require a good deal of discretion, I felt the means justified. In the excitement of our near collision I doubt anyone noticed me slipping into your coach.”

“For the sake of discretion you risked life and limb? Not to mention my cattle?”

“There was very little risk.” He shrugged dismissively. “My associate is quite a skilled driver.”

“You are aware that I will verify your credentials?”

“Of course. If you don’t, my lord, I’ll be forced to reassess your character.”

Satisfied, at least for the moment, that Fisk was who and what he said he was, Lesley settled back against the banquette.

“Now what is this discreet matter you wish to discuss?”

“The robbery—or rather, the attempt at robbery—that was made last evening at your mother’s home.”

“I cannot help you, for I was not on the premises at the time.”

“Were you not, my lord?” Fisk smiled and leaned forward on his cane. “In questioning Her Grace’s guests—-in particular the Baroness Matilda Blumfield—I heard a most preposterous story regarding a man in a black mask.”

“Really?” Lesley rejoined lazily, covering the jolt of surprise he’d just been given with a feigned yawn. “One of the thieves, I’m sure.”

“Are you, my lord?”

“Am I what?”

“Are you sure it was one of the thieves?”

“Of course I’m not sure. How could I be, since I’ve just told you I was not at my mother’s house last night.”

“How odd.” Fisk pursed his lips perplexedly. “I could have sworn your younger brother Theodore told me he’d arranged to meet you with fresh clothing in the stables.”

Lesley laughed, though it sounded a bit forced even to him. “What a prankster our Teddy is.”

“So I’ve been told.” Fisk smiled, not altogether pleasantly. “But I can assure you, my lord, he wasn’t in a jesting mood last night when I accompanied him home from Regent’s Park.”

“Good heavens!” Lesley did his best to look shocked, despite the strong feeling he had that his ploy of ignorance wasn’t working. “Whatever was he doing there?”

The smile vanished from the Bow Street Runner’s face.

“May I suggest, my lord, that you leave off trying to bam me so we may get down to cases?”

His ruse definitely wasn’t working, still Lesley stiffened indignantly on the banquette. “Now see here, Fisk—”

“Your brother confessed everything to me,” he interrupted. “The duel, the mask you took from him at the Cyprian masquerade, everything, my lord. I paid a call on Sir Alex Hawksley this morning, and no more believe his valet dropped the razor while shaving him and cut his shoulder than I believe that you were not in your mother’s garden last night at more or less the same time as the thieves, because the sack of items they attempted to make off with was found near the wall, where the ground is muddy and full of hoofprints.”

A good portion of successful soldiering—-and Captain Lord Earnshaw had been a very good soldier, indeed—-was recognizing when the odds were against you and you were about to be overwhelmed.

“If you wished merely to question me about the robbery,” he replied, striving to change tactics, “why didn’t you call upon me at my home?”

Fisk’s small, narrow face took on a sly look, not a smile so much as a subtle lifting of the lines around his calculating gray eyes.

“Obviously, my lord, that’s not what I want.”

“Then what do you want?”

“Your help in apprehending the thieves.”

Lesley laughed again, this time genuinely. “You can’t be serious!”

“I’m prepared to drop all charges stemming from the duel you fought last evening,” Fisk explained brusquely, “in exchange for your assistance. Should you decline, however, I will have no choice but to prosecute.”

“Outrageous!” Lesley cried angrily. “That’s blackmail!”

“I prefer to call it persuasion,” Fisk corrected, “though from your point of view it would also be certain social ruin, for I would also, naturally, have to bring charges against Sir Alex Hawksley.”

“Oh, naturally,” Lesley agreed caustically. “And how much damage, do you suppose, will be done to my reputation if it gets out I’ve actually stooped to helping enforce the law? Or do you even care?”

“Under the circumstances, not especially, my lord,” he admitted, “for you did clearly and willfully violate the law. However, if you are discreet, and rely upon the mask you took from your brother, the part you play in the arrest need never become public knowledge.”

“What has that cursed and damned mask to do with this?”

“Everything, my lord, for it is the beauty of the plan.” Fisk leaned eagerly forward, his expression animated. God help me, Lesley moaned silently, another plan.

“Allow me to explain further. The mode of operation employed by these thieves is for one of the band to take the place of a servant. After each robbery, tied and gagged footmen stripped of their livery have been found in some part of the house or grounds. Their method is quite brilliant, for ladies and gentlemen of Quality accord servants and furniture equal notice.”

The observation stung, but its veracity couldn’t be denied, not even by Lesley, who’d himself been guilty of such haughtiness before enlisting in the Second. His experiences on Spanish battlefields, however, had taught him that nobility and honor were determined by more than the circumstances of one’s birth.

“They strike only at Society affairs, balls, routs, and the like,” Fisk continued, “and as best we can deduce, during the supper hour. With the guests at table, the thief is then relatively free to help himself to whatever valuables he’s had time to reconnoiter.”

“It’s a clever scheme,” Lesley granted. “But having reasoned it out, why does Bow Street need me? Why don’t you plant a few of your number among the guests?”

“We’ve done that, my lord, to no avail,” Fisk replied, a hint of chagrin in his voice. “Apparently, we stick out like bandaged thumbs, and we have been forced to conclude that anyone can masquerade as a footman, but only a gentleman can play the part of a gentleman.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” Lesley agreed, only a bit smugly, “but why, then, don’t you pass yourselves off as footmen?”

“That, too, has been considered, but for two reasons discarded. One, Bow Street lacks sufficient manpower to infiltrate the staff of every Society establishment in London, and second, there is a great pressure being applied to apprehend these thieves. A close friend of the Regent, robbed of over ten thousand pounds in objects d’art, made appeal to His Highness, who has taken an interest in the matter.”

“Poor fellow.” Lesley
tsk
ed piteously, an amused smile tugging at his lips. “You are in a coil.”

“A bit of one, yes,” Fisk granted, smiling back at him. “But then, my lord, so are you.”

“Yes, well.” Lesley frowned sourly. “We are nearing Mayfair, and you’ve yet to say precisely what it is you want me to do.”

“I want you to appear again as the gentleman in the black mask.”

“To what end?”

“To this end, my lord.” Fisk hunched more eagerly over his cane. “Based on the Baroness Blumfield’s reputation, I’m certain, the story of the man in the black mask will have spread all over London by evening. Her ladyship is convinced he’s the thief who attempted last night’s robbery.”

It hadn’t occurred to Lesley to wonder how the old dragon had heard the tale when Fisk had mentioned her earlier, but he did now. Was the connection his mind instantly made between the baroness, the bruise on his cheek, and the little minx who’d put it there—who had also believed him a thief—as logical as it seemed?

“Did the old besom happen to say how she came to hear the story?”

“No, my lord, she didn’t,” Fisk replied, stifling a grin, “for we were interrupted at that point by morning callers.”

“I should very much like to know how she heard of him,” Lesley said, frowning thoughtfully.

“I intend to question the baroness again and will ask her. Now.” Fisk glanced out the window to check their progress, then continued. “There is among thieves a degree of professional courtesy. Simply, one does not poach on another’s territory; to do so would be considered a serious breach. And here, my lord, is where you enter in. If the thieves hear of the man in the black mask, and thanks to the Baroness Blumfield and her tongue they surely will, and are given to believe he’s encroaching upon their preserve.”

“Good God!” Lesley exploded, so suddenly that Fisk started and nearly dropped his cane. “You intend to use me as bait for your hook!”

“Not in the sense of being swallowed by the fish,” Fisk corrected hurriedly, “but merely as a lure, my lord, an enticement to draw them out.”’

“And what if it does? Draw them out, I mean? Where will you be?”