Lord Scoundrel Dies (24 page)

‘You did? How the devil did you manage
that?’

‘I told her that I had found it.’

In the dimness, she saw him
frown. ‘Was that sensible? You
found
it at Lord
Sutton’s.’

‘Yes, but he would have stolen it just like
he stole Sarah’s necklace. It makes sense that somebody found it.
Why should it not be me?’

He was silent for a moment, head still bent
towards her, close enough to feel that warm breath move across her
sensitive skin. ‘I suppose. As long as it’s the only thing that you
have found. It wouldn’t do to make a habit of it for word might get
around that you have a talent for finding things presumed lost or
stolen.’

‘I don’t intend to. It was just so difficult
to hold her attention, let alone arrange a cozy tête-à-tête, which
would give me the opportunity to return it. She is so very vague.
Either that or she does not care for me. Either way, I fear that
Miss Messingham and I are not destined to be close.’

There came a white flash of teeth. ‘I
daresay. She strikes me as a very conventional young lady. You
would probably shock her with your forward behavior.’

‘My behavior is not forward,’ she protested.
‘It is… it is determined.’

‘Well that is certainly one way of phrasing
it.’

‘What a disagreeable man you are.’ Although
she knew he was teasing her. His voice held none of the impatient
annoyance that had characterized their first few meetings and,
while she did not hold out any hope that they would continue on
such good terms indefinitely, it was enjoyable enough to savor.

I can see how females might go weak-kneed
over this man. When those dark eyes smile at you and he gets that
wickedly teasing note in his voice… yes, I can see why a girl could
lose her heart if she were not very, very careful…

She drew back and turned her eyes towards
the stage at last, where the play was once again underway. It took
a great deal of determination on her part to turn her attention
away from the man at her side and focus on what was being said. She
did think, however, before turning her thoughts resolutely away
from such unsatisfactory territory, that it was a pity girls such
as herself stood no chance with gentlemen like Lord Talisker for he
was turning out to be as enjoyable a companion as Mr. Lampforth.
Although honesty compelled her to admit that there were some
differences. Charlie did not leave her feeling oddly breathless
occasionally. Something had certainly changed between them. His
lordship seemed inclined to unbend with her lately and she had
discovered he had a ready humor and willingness to see the
absurdity of so many things that she had found ridiculous since
coming up to town.

Despite her concerns about the success of
her role as Good Samaritan, she realised that she had enjoyed their
little adventure enormously.

And that she would miss it when life
returned to what passed for normal in London Society.

‘The thing is,’ Monty Truelove observed,
leaning back in his chair, ‘we will never know who did him in.’

Charlie nodded thoughtfully. They were
sitting in the Pharaoh Club, in one of the quieter lounges that
were designed to provide a respite between the heady rounds of
gambling. Charlie had come along at his friend’s request for a bit
of inoffensive wagering – enthusiastically, on Monty’s part, rather
half-heartedly on Charlie’s – and now they were enjoying a break
and, almost inevitably, the conversation had drifted around to
Arthur Sutton. In a month, or even a few more weeks, it would be
mostly forgotten except to illustrate in the House of Lords that a
man was not safe in his own home but Sutton was not a well-liked
man and nobody but a few desperate women would actually miss
him.

‘If he had been a decent man, it would be
tragic. But as it is…’

Monty grinned. ‘As it is, the world has lost
a scoundrel and is a better place for it?’

‘Exactly. Although I would be interested to
know who had the gumption to whack him on the head.’

‘You’ve been sniffing around the thing. Any
ideas?’

Charlie had plenty of ideas, actually, which
was unusual for one of his temperament and inclination. But his
involvement with Miss Honeywood over the past few days had made him
think with unaccustomed vigor.

‘It’s a wide field. You weren’t the only one
he was putting the screws on. The man ran a healthy business in
blackmail.’ There was no harm in talking to Monty. The man was a
crypt, if one asked him to keep matters under his hat.

‘Nasty blackguard. Wasn’t even as if he
needed the ready.’

‘No. I think he just enjoyed the pleasure of
having something over somebody.’

‘Damned bad lot, Sutton was. So the list of
suspects is long?’

‘Long enough.’ Charlie took another mouthful
of claret and considered. ‘There’s Robert Fielding –’

‘Never!’ Monty was shocked. ‘Wouldn’t say
boo to a baby.’

‘Ah, but he might have hired somebody to say
boo for him.’ For Fielding had certainly not been shy about
employing someone to lean on Charlie for that necklace. A desperate
man could go to lengths he would not usually dream of. ‘And then
there is de Veer, who was in much the same position as you were.
More so, actually. He owed Sutton a fortune.’

Monty pursed his lips. ‘I can see de Veer
doing it. And then taking himself off afterwards to have a drink at
his club, cool as a cucumber.’

‘Exactly right. And remember, it wasn’t only
you and de Veer. The man had quite a few people’s notes of hand in
his possession along with letters that I’m sure the authors would
have wished to remain private. Not to mention the jewelry he had
acquired.’

Mr. Truelove thought about this for a
moment. ‘The only thing at all extraordinary about the matter is
that he wasn’t done in years ago. Whoever did the deed deserves a
medal.’

Charlie was inclined to think his friend was
right in that. Despite the fact that he had felt a few qualms about
the lack of public investigation into Sutton’s death, the more he
learned about Sutton the more he believed that the world smelt a
great deal sweeter without his continuing presence in it.

He glanced around at the people sitting
around them. Some were laughing, some were talking quietly together
but he was beginning to believe that each had their secrets, a
different face to the one they presented to the world. He knew he
tended to take people as they wished to be taken but the past few
days had been enlightening. Scandals – both public and private –
hovered around so many of them, as close as their own shadows. It
was remarkable what nonsense people got up to and how men like
Sutton capitalized on the weakness of others.

And while it might not be entirely right
that the death of a man could go unpunished, it troubled him less
when that man was Arthur Sutton, a blackmailer and a letch who gave
nothing to Society but made it his business to take whatever he
could.

No, it wasn’t the lack of justice for the
likes of Sutton that made him uneasy. But what about those who did
not deserve to die? He had been thinking of Simon Blunt, an
excellent fellow who was murdered only five months before when he
had been walking back home early one morning across St James Park.
He had never made it to his house in Haymarket Street because he
had been fatally stabbed before he could get there. The attack had
generally been considered to be the work of footpads and there had
been an outcry about the streets not being safe for law-abiding
citizens, although nothing had really come of it. His family had
posted a reward for information, a private agent had been enlisted
to investigate, but no information had been forthcoming. They never
did find out who stabbed poor old Blunt in the park.

‘It’s lucky more people don’t get themselves
murdered,’ he murmured, more to himself than to Mr. Truelove.

‘Well when you think of all the ghastly
people there are about the place then yes, I suppose you’re right,’
Monty agreed thoughtfully. ‘Just as well, eh? I wouldn’t like to
think somebody could kill me off and get away with it. Not the way
to go about things at all.’

‘No,’ Charlie agreed, ‘unless it happens to
the likes of Sutton.’

‘Absolutely.’ Mr. Truelove sat up a little
straighter in his chair and raised his glass. ‘To Sutton, who is
undoubtedly feeling the heat, around about now.’

‘To Sutton,’ Charlie raised his own glass.
‘May he be toasting his toes in hell.’

‘No doubt he will.’

‘No doubt at all.’

Both men took a deep draught of the Pharaoh
Club’s excellent claret then prepared to return to the tables. The
night was, after all, still young.

‘I did not think you cared for deep play
Talisker,’ de Veer said idly, as he dealt the next hand of loo. ‘In
fact, you have a reputation for indifference to the vice.’

Aubrey shrugged. It had not been difficult
to maneuver an invitation to the night’s proceedings. He was rich
and had no particular reputation for luck so there was always the
chance that more skilled players might fleece him. And while it was
true that he had no real appetite for gambling – nobody in the
family but a reprobate uncle being afflicted with that particular
curse – he was by no means unversed. How could he be, living in a
society that enjoyed gambling almost as much as it enjoyed
gossip?

‘What can I say? I was bored.’

Antony de Veer smiled
although it looked a little like a sneer. He had a dark, saturnine
face, deeply seamed and a smile that denoted genuine delight was
quite possibly beyond him. His entire existence was given over to
the pleasures of gaming for which he had a prodigious appetite.
Outwardly, he seemed to survive very well but the extent of his
losses was evidenced by the chits in Aubrey’s pocket. He must have
had one hell of a losing streak to have generated
that
much debt. How it
must have galled him to know that Sutton held his reputation – no,
his very
survival
– in the palm of his hand. Did that make him a
murderer?

It wasn’t out of the question. One loathsome
lord might very well have killed another.

‘Let’s hope I can keep you entertained. You
might develop a taste for it and become a regular.’

Unlikely, Aubrey thought with distaste.
After he had rid himself of his burden he did not intend to return
to the hospitality of de Veer’s card tables. Surroundings such as
these were hardly convivial and de Veer was not somebody he cared
to spend a great deal of time with. He had to admit, he had been a
little surprised by the set up when he’d arrived; apparently de
Veer entertained regularly and several of his salons were devoted
entirely to play. Aubrey had observed that the place was fitted out
like many of the best gaming hells; the tables, the lighting, the
fresh decks of cards that were laid out would have done justice to
anything to be found in Pall Mall Street. He had arrived at eleven
to find several of the tables occupied, a hush hanging over them
that suggested serious business was in progress. Aubrey had
recognized the players – generally men who were well known for
their love of cards – but one or two faces made him inwardly raise
an eyebrow, for they were not known to be devotees.

He was seated at de Veer’s
table, plied with wine and then they commenced. There was very
little chit chat before the first hand was dealt. Aubrey allowed
himself to focus on play, for it would not do to have his host
doubt his seriousness and suspect his motives. After an hour he
dropped his cards to the table and leaned back in his chair. He had
lost, not
too
badly but enough to be credible, and he stretched his arms out
over his head as if sitting for so long had caused a few
kinks.

‘D’you know, I think I might stretch my
legs. You will excuse me for ten minutes, de Veer?’

The man blinked; long, slow blinks that
reminded Aubrey of a reptile. Yes, he reflected ruefully, there was
definitely something of the snake about the man. Cold blooded and
disengaged from common human interaction.

‘But of course, Talisker. You will be
rejoining us?’

He would certainly want his new found lamb
to rejoin them. Aubrey had already lost several guineas for play
was high. ‘Oh, yes. It is all vastly entertaining.’

‘I am relieved you find it so. I would be
loathe to be considered a poor host.’

Of course he was. Antony de Veer was the
very model of hospitality when it came to attracting people to his
tables. As he turned his attention to the rest of the room, Aubrey
wasn’t best pleased to see that several of the gentlemen playing
were scarcely out of school. Young Michener, for example. He
couldn’t have been more than nineteen and if the look of anguished
concentration on his face was anything to go by, he was losing all
of the allowance his father made him. It seemed de Veer had no
qualms about those he allowed to join the proceedings. Quite
probably his host believed the greener they were, the more they’d
lose. Aubrey resolved to have a quiet word to the lad when next he
came across him about the folly of spending too much time in the
company of wolves.

He wasn’t the only one
stretching his legs. Several other gentlemen had taken up position
in front of the fireplace, lighting pipes and talking in low voices
so as not to disrupt proceedings. Aubrey strolled about casually,
showing no particular interest in anything, wandering into the
library that adjoined it. A desk stood at the far end and he moved
towards it unhurriedly, ostensibly pausing to study a book or a
painting as he went. It seemed extremely unlikely that de Veer
would be able to tear himself away from the game at the table but
Aubrey intended to do his best to look innocuous. He realised there
was a very good chance that his host would put the sudden discovery
of his chits together with his unexpected guest’s presence in his
library – or at the very least, his departure from the table – and
conclude that Aubrey had been the one to return them but he was not
particularly bothered by the knowledge. If de Veer wished to
question him about it, he was more than welcome. Aubrey did not
think he
would
want to however, for it wasn’t in his interests to ask too
many questions. He was the kind of man who accepted whatever good
fortune came his way. The fact that he had his debts back, that he
wouldn’t have to make good on them, would surely be
enough.