Kasey Michaels (6 page)

She nodded her agreement. “Fair enough, I suppose, as I had thought I’d have to squeeze every last bit of information out of you. I know that someone hid himself inside your coach last night while you were frequenting some low gaming hell. You lost, by the bye, not enough to hurt you but enough to be remarked upon. Halfway to the Green Man, and how I do not know, you convinced your captor to allow you to have the coach turned around, at which time there was a short scuffle, a single shot, and the brigand got away clean.”

“Not quite cleanly away, Mother. I managed to gain possession of the pistol.”

“As if that signifies! And don’t interrupt, if you please. The miscreant bounded into the saddle of a waiting mount with the grace and artistry of a performer at Astley’s Circus—although I believe I am cleaning up the language used by my informant more than a little. Shame on you, Simon. Were you foxed? Anything less than being falling-down drunk cannot be seen as an excuse for allowing a mere footpad to get the best of you.”

“She kicked a clog at my head,” Simon muttered angrily, then instantly wished back his words as his mother dragged him to a halt halfway down the length of the black-and-white tile foyer and spun around to face him.

“
She
?” His mother’s eyes, a startling blue that had not yet begun to fade with the years, were opened wide, her expression a ludicrous mix of incredulity and downright horror. “What sort of new playmate is this, Simon? Female brigands? My God—I wish I’d thought of it in my day. What a lark!”

“You probably would have thought of it eventually, Mother, had m’father not tamed you, then carried you off to the altar at the tender age of twelve. You see, I do remember that coming on to fifty remark. But it’s not to worry. The chit was after someone else entirely, as it fell out, and apologized quite prettily for the inconvenience before she tried to brain me with her clog. She won’t be bothering me again, as she’s some country miss, fairly gently bred, if her speech is to be considered. She’s probably halfway home by now, thanking her lucky stars she wasn’t caught, and regretting the entire incident.”

“After someone else entirely? Then this was not a random fit of violence, of robbery? Are you telling me that this girl—this desperate creature—was on some sort of
mission
last night?”

Simon began walking once more, which meant that his mother had to move as well, as he guided her closer to the stairs, and his freedom to get on with his plans for the afternoon. “It would appear so. And she impressed me as a young woman possessed of more than her share of determination. Rather like you, Mother, actually. Outrageous, a trifle profane, and yet oddly appealing if one was of a mind to enjoy being made a target of her rather volatile temper. And don’t look at me that way. I already know I’m only teasing myself if I believe she’s on her way back to Sussex or wherever, her mission not accomplished.”

“You’re going to chase after her, aren’t you? Hunt her down? Save her from herself?” his mother asked as she ascended the first step, then turned to look down on her son, the goddess Juno in a too-ornate dressing gown.

Simon sighed. “Now, Mother—”

“Don’t you ‘Now, Mother’ me. You’re going to go after her—aren’t you?”

“With a vengeance, sweet lady,” he told her emphatically as the butler handed him his hat and cane. “Thank you, Emery,” he said, tapping the hat down onto his head and giving his cane a quick twirl before tucking it beneath his ann. “I’m going to hunt her down with a vengeance, ma’am,” he repeated from between his clenched-teeth smile, “that amazes even me. There. Are you happy now?”

“I’m not sure. And when you locate her?” Imogene pressed him, her expression now quite entirely serious, as if she had just seen something in her son that she’d always suspected and secretly feared. “What then, Simon?”

“Why, truth to tell, I haven’t the foggiest notion,” Simon told her in all honesty.

“I do,” the viscountess murmured quietly, so quietly her son couldn’t quite catch her words. “She’s young, she’s interesting, she talks well enough. Exasperated as he tries to be, his eyes smile even as he condemns and dismisses her. She’s probably of an at least half-decently acceptable family. Damn that bun, that ham. I’m going to have to starve myself the remainder of the day, the remainder of the week. I’m running out of time now, and I know it.”

“Mother, what is it?” Simon inquired with some concern as he laid a hand on her shoulder, for it wasn’t like his booming, rollicking mama to be so solemn. Having the woman whisper was as unusual as would be seeing a duck fly backwards across the Serpentine. “What on earth are you mumbling about?”

Imogene tipped her head, pressing her cheek against the back of Simon’s hand. “You love me, don’t you, Simon? Love my outlandish ways, my somewhat daring manner, my plain speech, how I insist upon riding astride—as I’m convinced your brigand did last night?”

“I adore you and you know it—” Simon began, just to have her cut him off.

“You adore me,” the viscountess repeated, sighing as if he had just disappointed her to the very depths of her soul. “Just as all those milk-and-water pusses who mince and flirt and giggle at you from behind their fans bore you past all patience. Oh, Simon, don’t you see?”

Simon withdrew his hand, standing very straight. “Those stays are keeping the blood from your brain, Mother,” he pronounced tightly. “I want to find this girl, this
idiot
, to save her from herself before she can get into worse trouble. She’ll be hanged otherwise, and I can’t have that on my conscience. That is my reason, Mother, and nothing more. If anything, I had a brief thought that I might introduce her to Armand. But that’s all.”

“Of course it is, Simon,” Imogene agreed, her bottom lip beginning to quiver. “I’m going to lie down for a while now I think, dear, and will see you later.” She turned and began slowly mounting the stairs, leaning her hand rather heavily against the smooth mahogany railing and looking almost small and frail—which was a considerable feat for one of her robust size and good health. “Perhaps Kathleen will bring me a vinaigrette, or some burnt feathers.”

“Or your bottle of gin,” Simon called after her angrily before whirling on his heels and leaving the house as Emery stood at attention, holding the door open for his master. “Women!” he complained to the longtime family retainer, who only nodded and said, “Absolutely, sir. Always.”

—Francis Bacon

Chapter Three

S
imon sauntered into White’s shortly before two, slowly making his way through the tables, pausing to speak to friends who called out to him. He was smooth, polite, but never wavered in his determination to end up at his usual table in front of the bow window, a happy place of prominence lately made considerably sadder by the frequent absence of Mr. Beau Brummell.

As a matter of fact, there were more than a few empty chairs at White’s lately, which was unusual considering the fact that the Season had been under way for a good while, but not at all unimaginable, considering the state of the economy. Simon knew that his mother’s remark on the staggering rate of unemployment in the servant classes had a lot to do with the fact that many of his peers had been feeling the pinch that had followed hard on the heels of the final victory over Napoleon. The economy had not been helped by the past two seasons, one of the worst winters and wettest springs in more than a decade.

Spring lambs had stupidly stood in the fields with their even more ignorant mothers and died under the onslaught of spring hail, which had also ruined many a crop. Manufacturers were closing their doors, trade both into and out of England was falling at a rapid pace, and Parliament was run by fools and jabbed at by idiots.

And through it all, Prinny kept building, and the dandies, out of their desperation, kept parading and gambling too deep. The ladies of the
ton
kept up their lavish entertainments, the radicals kept haranguing, and the poor became poorer, angrier. All that was needed, in Simon’s opinion, was a fiddler and a fat fellow named Nero to pound out the tune while the country bumed down around all their ears.

For himself, Simon had done his possible with his estates in Sussex: cutting rents, installing the best stewards he could, and staying in almost daily contact with his people while he worked behind the scenes in London. He had quietly set up and now supported a half dozen charities. He had taken up his place in government, argued for some semblance of sanity both publicly and privately, employed as many servants as he could, and gave his lavish custom to shopkeepers, haberdashers, and vintners who were badly in need of paying patrons.

It wasn’t enough, but it was all he could do. As much as he detested the degree of waste and the spendthrift ways of the London Season, he was aware that the fits and follies of London society also provided the sole support of thousands of people, from the chimney sweep to the carriage maker to the umbrella sellers in small shops along the side streets of the Metropolis.

Simon liked his friends Bartholomew Boothe and Armand Gauthier for many reasons, but uppermost in value was that they shared his concerns over the hell-bent-for-leather rush to perdition that many of their acquaintance were pursuing. Brummell, for one, was soon going to be forced out of England entirely, because of personal economic reverses brought on by reckless gaming, and because the man had a mouth that was much too glib for someone of mediocre birth and limited funds. Next to go, Simon felt sure, would be Richard Brinsley Sheridan, three parts genius, one part glorious fool, who continued to spend money long after his pockets had been emptied.

And then there was George, Simon’s own dear Lord Byron, who doggedly held to his belief that the people of England, if not the
ton
, would never abandon him, even as scandal upon scandal rocked his former glory, driving him deeply into debt, pushing him headlong toward personal disaster.

It was for that reason, and to discuss both Brummell and Sheridan, that Simon was originally to have come to White’s today, to sip wine with Bartholomew and Armand and consider possible ways of rescuing their friends from their own follies.

As Simon approached the table it was to see both Bones and Armand already there. He paused a moment to observe his friends without their knowledge, as they hadn’t seen him as yet, and were deep in some argument.

Bartholomew Boothe was a most intriguing man to look upon, if one was of a mind to investigate the intricacies of the human skeletal structure without having to go to the bother of performing an actual autopsy: rail skinny, bony, and with a skin that was rather thin both physically and in attitude.

Of only medium height, with pale hazel eyes and unfortunately stringy brown hair, he had nothing much to show the world, and he believed that the world had even less to show him. But he was a good enough egg for all of that, Simon knew, loyal and true, if a bit of a dark cloud. He kept his friends centered, unable to go off on a potentially injurious lark without first considering all the dire consequences Bartholomew Boothe could see lurking behind every silver lining. Simon and Armand considered his bare-bones attitude and opinions much in keeping with his physical appearance, which was the reason behind his rather strange nickname.

An opposite to Bartholomew in every way, Armand Gauthier was tall, devastatingly handsome, and of a sunny disposition that made him popular with both sexes—although the gentler gender saw possibilities in his startling blue eyes, dramatic, long black hair, and impressive physique that went miles beyond the appreciation of his male friends. And, to most of the world, he was an enigma, which made Simon doubly flattered to have Armand see him not only as a valued friend, but as a confidant as well.

It was Armand who saw Simon first. Probably sensed his presence. Armand was like that. Deep. Faintly mysterious. “Simon’s here, Bones,” he said as Simon pulled out a chair and sat down. “Tell him what you’ve just been telling me.”

Bones shuddered, only once, as he was an economical man in all things, then declared flatly and without preamble: “Rains every day in London, I was telling Armand. Every day. Every night. Rain’s a curse.”

“And there you have it, Simon,” Armand Gauthier said, “the definitive answer to the question
what is rain?
—as delivered by our own good Barebones himself. It’s a curse. I will only dare to speak for myself, of course, but I know that I, for one, shall rest easier having had that explained to me. Rain’s a curse.”

Simon only smiled and shook his head. “Don’t tease him, Armand. The poor fellow probably had a hard night of it. First the gaming hell, and a few losses, if what I saw before I left was any indication of how the fellow’s luck was running. And then a ride home at dawn through yet another pouring-down rain. Is that right, Bones? You’re disgruntled, and rightly so. Poor Bones. Should we fear you’ll be fading into a sad decline?”

“Of the pair of you,” Bones shot back, “I consider you to be far and away the worst, Simon. Armand teases openly. You grin pleasantly enough, say all the right things, then wait until I’m feeling mellow to sink your knife in to the hilt.
Yes
, I lost last night. I lost, lost,
lost
! Happy now?”

“I will confess to being rapturous, Bones, if you wish it,” Simon answered calmly enough. “However, I will also remind you that I warned the pair of you against playing too deep last night. Personal amusement or profit were not the motives for the evening’s entertainment, if you’ll recall.”

“Although you seemed to do worst of all of us, Simon, which I presume was your point,” Armand put in, then looked to the still-frowning Bartholomew. “Bones—do you mean to blame your losses on our erstwhile friend?”

“Not erstwhile. I’m not that fickle. He’s still m’friend,” Bartholomew corrected. “Although friendship’s a curse, too, if you were going to ask, Armand. Friendship, rain—they both run down the back of your neck in cold dribbles at times.”

Armand shot Simon a blighting smile. “Isn’t our good friend delightful? There are times I simply long to wrap him up in cotton wool to keep him safe from the world’s travails. I would then take him out from time to time, and perch him on my mantel, show him off to company when they call. Oh—and you might want to buy his dinner tonight, Simon. Mine, too, come to think of it. I actually believe I’m down a good hundred pounds thanks to your notion of what constitutes a profitable evening. I only hope you don’t plan to make gaming in such private hells an ongoing custom, as I have found that I much prefer our own more civilized clubs, and cards dealt from somewhere closer to the
top
of the deck.”