Duke of a Gilded Age (44 page)

“We’ll have no more of that, Sir Errol!” Cavendish said.

Nursing his wrist, Errol turned to flee, but Wesley grabbed the back of his collar and spun him around.

“Let’s finish this, Brooklyn-style.”

Wesley’s right hook connected with Errol’s jaw. The blow snapped Errol’s head to one side, and he crumpled to the ground. Constable Dremond and his assistant strode up then, hauled Errol to his feet, and began to frog-march him back toward the house. Wesley bent nearly double as he tried to catch his breath.

“Can you walk, Your Grace?” Cavendish asked.

“I think so. I must admit, Errol fights like a wildcat.”

Cavendish winced when Wesley stood upright. His waistcoat and shirt were stained red and hanging open where the knife had slashed the fabric.

“You’re injured, lad. Put your arm around my shoulder.”

Although Wesley would have preferred to walk unassisted, the sight of his own blood had made him woozy. He gratefully accepted Cavendish’s help, and they moved slowly across the lawn. They got as far as the reflecting pool before a groan escaped Wesley’s lips. Despite Cavendish’s strength, he could stand upright no longer.

“Just let me rest a minute,” he murmured before sinking to his knees.

The last thing Wesley remembered before he blacked out was Belle’s scream.

A wedge of pillows behind his back allowed Wesley to sit up without putting pressure on his wound. Gauze bandages circled his torso, visible through his open pajama top. Belle spooned the last bit of soup into Wesley’s mouth and sat back with a smile.

“Very good, Your Grace. You’ve been an exemplary patient.”

“With such a beautiful nurse, Miss Oakhurst, I may be inclined to malinger,” he replied.

“No malingering allowed! With your house party in seven days, you need to be fit enough to dance with me.”

“And so I shall. In fact, the surgeon has finally given me permission to rise tomorrow.”

“That’s excellent news!”

“Yes, it is. And now that most of my bruises have faded, I’ll no longer look like a ruffian.”

“You do seem to get into more fights than anyone I’ve ever met, but I’ve decided perhaps it’s in the nature of a warrior hero to do so. Speaking of which, I want to show you something.”

Belle set the bowl and spoon down on tray and retrieved a short slender knife with a handle of ornate gold and silver. She presented it to Wesley, handle first. “One of your gardeners found this on the lawn. Be careful, it’s sharp.”

Wesley examined the dagger with admiration. “So this is what Errol used to carve me?”

“Indeed, he kept it hidden inside his boot. I’d no idea he possessed such a thing, but Grandpapa recognized it right away as one of the items Errol stole from Brimstone Manor. It’s an ancient Roman artifact, and Grandpapa says it’s very valuable.”

“I suppose that makes my injury a little more noble, doesn’t it?” Wesley said.

“Grandpapa wants you to have it, Wesley. He says he already has far too many things as it is.”

Belle returned the knife to Wesley’s cufflink tray, and came back to sit on his bed.

“Grandpapa had to go home, but he’ll be back for the ball,” she said. “Acceptances have been arriving, and your mother has been working very hard to make sure all our friends will be well taken care of.”

“Has Mr. Ley responded?”

“Yes. He wrote to say he was leaving Derby for London but would wrap up his business there in time to attend.”

“Very good.”

Belle took Wesley’s hand. “How did you know what Errol planned to do with me that night?”

“I didn’t know for sure, but I didn’t trust him. A wise man once advised me to always protect my queen.” Wesley brought her hand to his lips for a kiss. “I wasn’t about to leave anything to chance.”

Belle felt her skin tingle pleasantly at his touch.

“Thank you, Wesley, for being my champion.” She paused. “As far as Errol is concerned, however, I behaved more like a court jester than a queen. He certainly played me for a fool. Did you know he used to read to me from Fordyce’s
Sermons to Young Women
? I thought him to be a pious and upright man.”

“Perhaps an impudent American is more to your liking?”

Belle’s lips curved in a smile. “An impudent American is most definitely more to my liking.”

The long scratch on Wesley’s chest still showed red on his skin, but the wound itself was fully closed. Fresh from his bath, he examined the mark in the mirror with a rueful smile.

“If it’s not a sprained ankle or singed eyebrows and hair, it’s a scar,” he said as Cavendish helped him don a dressing gown. “I hope I’m in for a slight reprieve from damage going forward.”

“You’re in for a haircut and a shave, Your Grace,” Cavendish said. “You’ve begun to resemble a Teeswater ram again.”

Wesley took a seat and allowed Cavendish to drape a towel around his shoulders.

“Are you certain you feel up to traveling, sir?” Cavendish asked as he picked up his scissors. “The Belgravia townhouse is being made ready for you, of course, but I’d advise waiting another day or two.”

“With the house party in less than a week, this is my last chance to go shopping.”

“Perhaps I can go on your behalf?”

“Thank you, but that won’t work this time. I need to pick out a ring in person.”

A pleased expression lit Cavendish’s face. “Ah. Now, I understand.”

“I’m also going to meet with Mr. Ley while I’m in London.”

“I’m sure he’s excellent company.”

“Yes, he’s the best of men. By the way, I’m happy to give you time off if there’s anyone you wish to visit,” Wesley said.

“Alas, no, but perhaps I’ll go for a long walk while I’m in town. It will be good to see London again.”

The breast pocket of Wesley’s coat bulged slightly from his successful trip to Hunt & Roskell jewelers in Westminster. Buffeted by the crowds in Piccadilly Circus, Wesley consulted the directions written on a piece of paper, headed down a side street, and finally spotted the tavern where he was to meet Mr. Ley.
Esmeralda’s
was carved into the wooden sign hanging over the door, and when he entered the establishment, it was as if he’d walked into an explorer’s museum, equipped with a bar and fully occupied tables. Maps from around the world hung on the wooden-paneled walls, along with all manner of weaponry, armor, and tools for navigation. A barmaid behind the bar caught his eye; her youthful beauty was faded, but she was still quite striking and possessed a fine figure.

“What can I get for you, sir?” she asked, over the loud conversation in the tavern.

Far from a barmaid’s accent, the woman’s voice and manner of speech was cultivated and refined. Wesley bowed.

“I’m looking for Mr. Francis Ley,” he said. “He asked me to meet him here.”

A flash of recognition appeared in her eyes.

“You must be the Duke of Mansbury. Mr. Ley is in the club, Your Grace,” she said. “I’ll show you.”

The woman came out from behind the bar, and led Wesley through the crowds, to a door marked “Private.”

“Just through here,” she said.

“Thank you.”

Wesley passed into the large back rooms, which were decorated in largely the same way as the tavern, with the addition of a large number of bookshelves. Here, however, the furniture consisted of armchairs, sofas, and tables. Well-dressed gentlemen were playing cards, reading newspapers, or having lively discussions. A butler approached. “May I take your hat, sir?”

“Oh, yes.” Wesley surrendered his top hat and received a claim ticket in return. “Er…thanks.”

Mr. Ley rose from an armchair as soon as Wesley appeared, and hastened over to shake his hand. “So you found us all right, Your Grace? This is the Explorer’s Club, or what remains of it. Our membership has dwindled since the original founders died and disappeared, respectively.”

“Disappeared?”

“Well, that’s why I asked you to meet me here. I’d like to introduce you to a few of the members of course, but I wanted to show you something I think you’ll find very interesting.”

Mr. Ley ushered Wesley toward an unoccupied table in the corner, where a waiter took Wesley’s drink order.

“You have my attention, Mr. Ley,” Wesley said, after the waiter left.

“I want to tell you a story about the two original founders, Lord Archibald Gotham and Lord James Overton.”

The hair on the back of Wesley’s neck rose. “Lord James Overton? He was my valet’s previous employer. Go on.”

“I never met them personally since I joined the club after they’d left, but I’m told they were a couple of rebels and very great friends. They traveled the world together and were so fond of adventure they founded this club. Then, as the story goes, they had a falling out over a woman.”

Immediately the image of Stephen Van Eyck and Belle flashed into Wesley’s mind. “I can imagine.”

“Well, after his argument with Lord Overton, Lord Gotham went on an extended safari to Africa, and was killed by a poacher.”

Wesley grimaced. “And Lord Overton?”

“He mysteriously disappeared, never to be heard from again. That was nearly thirty years ago.”

“I was told he died. What happened to the woman?”

“Miss Christianson had been engaged to Lord Overton. After he disappeared, she never married—despite the fact she was rumored to be one of the greatest beauties in England.”

“This is a rather sad tale, Mr. Ley, but I’m curious what this has to do with me.”

“Over your shoulder, on the wall just there, is a photograph of Lord Gotham and Lord Overton. I think you ought to have a look at it.”

Wesley turned around to examine the image. The grainy photograph portrayed two handsome, dapper young men posed side by side with devilish grins on their lips. One man was tall and athletic, with a well-trimmed beard. The other man had a clean-shaven, boyishly handsome face and was slight in stature. He also held a walking stick with a distinctive snake head for a handle.

“Good Lord,” Wesley exclaimed. “That’s
Cavendish
.”

The waiter brought his gin cocktail, and Wesley downed it in one gulp.

“I
knew
I’d seen your valet somewhere, Your Grace,” Mr. Ley said, “but it didn’t register until I was sitting here the other day and glanced over at a photograph I’ve seen dozens of times before.”