Most Eagerly Yours (4 page)

Upon closer inspection, however, the figures presented to potential investors simply didn’t wash. Work-force, expenses, payload . . . the inconsistencies were subtle, easily missed, but within minutes of perusing the so-called records, his uncanny mind had detected a pattern that shouted fraud.

Very quietly, he had brought his suspicions to the Home Office, which in turn had contacted the Foreign Office, which had sent its people to investigate. In many instances entire life savings had been spared. And while Aidan had kept his assistance mostly anonymous, he had come away with a lasting if often contentious partnership with the man blustering before him now.

Wescott paused for breath, then with obvious frustration burst out, “For the love of God, Barensforth, have you heard a blasted word I’ve said?”

“Of course.” Aidan ran his fingers through his hair and frowned. “Ah . . . a new spa, some sort of pavilion, and something rather melodramatic about looming financial ruin, I believe?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” With a disgusted shake of his head, Wescott went to the door and flung it wide. “The Earl of Barensforth requires coffee,” he bellowed into the brothel’s second- floor corridor, “and damned plenty of it.”

“Thank you, Wescott. Most considerate of you.”

After slamming the door closed, the man sneered at Aidan down the length of his bulbous nose. “Barensforth, do get up and make yourself decent. By God, look at you.” He gave the coverlet a disgusted flick. “Do you never tire of carousing?”

“Only doing my bit for my country. As ordered, I might remind you.”

“You play your part rather too diligently, I should think.”

“My dear Wescott, you should have taken that into consideration a good deal sooner.” He stretched an arm behind his head. “Now tell me the rest. What makes this pavilion project so urgent that you needed to come barging in on me at this ungodly hour?”

Wescott met his gaze evenly. “A dead MP, a French traitor’s son, and the Earl of Munster.”

Aidan sat up straighter, letting the bed linens slide from his chest to pool in his lap. “One matter at a time. Who died?”

“Roger Babcock, Whig member of the Commons.”

“Cause of death?”

“Drowning, it would seem, but we don’t know if it was deliberate or accidental. An attendant found him facedown in the Cross Bath three mornings ago, an hour before the facility opened to the public. The Bath authorities, damned half-wits that they are, seem content to call it a mishap and close the case.”

“Any injuries or wounds on the body?”

“A knot on the back of the head, but the coroner found that consistent with Babcock having fallen and hitting his head on the ledge of the pool, thus knocking him out and facilitating his drowning.”

Aidan frowned in thought. “Does anyone remember seeing him at the bath the night before?”

“He signed in shortly after six in the evening. Beyond that, however, no one seems to know anything, not even if he came alone or accompanied.”

“Hmm. Someone knows something. . . . They simply aren’t telling. What was he wearing when he was found?”

“Only his linens, as if he fell in before fully disrobing.”

“That makes no sense. He would have disrobed in one of the dressing rooms and donned a gown before going out to the pool.” Aidan rubbed his palm against the morning stubble on his chin. “Any chance it was suicide?”

Wescott shrugged. “Can’t think why. The man had no substantial debts, his wife was faithful, and he was in fair health except for recurring gout and a bit of a cough.”

“Enemies?”

“None that we know of.”

Aidan considered a moment. “What’s his connection, if any, to this pavilion?”

“He was one of the chief investors, as a matter of fact.”

“And Fitz? How does he play into it?”

Wescott perched his bulky figure at the foot of the bed. “That’s for you to discover. We consider it highly suspicious that Lord Munster should betake himself to Bath at this of all times.”

Aidan pushed a breath between his clenched teeth. “You’ve been suspecting him of foul play for years, and time and again he proves you wrong. George Fitzclarence is no more a threat to decent people than I am. He’s a blowhard, nothing more.”

He would know. For three years he had stuck close to George Fitzclarence under the guise of being his friend. When the Home Office wasn’t suspecting Fitz of treason, they made convenient use of him. Through his friendship, Aidan had gained access to the back parlors and smoky cardrooms where illicit plans were made and sizable sums exchanged. Not once had anyone suspected the Earl of Munster’s inebriated, irreverent friend of foiling numerous financial scams.

Along the way, Aidan had developed a genuine fondness for King William’s eldest by- blow; his antics and overindulgences and the slight stutter that increased when he drank had become endearing if exasperating traits to Aidan.

“The Earl of Munster is what he is.” Wescott’s upper lip curled. “A royal malcontent with an irrational grudge that will never fade. Never. You would do best to remember that.” He tugged at his cravat, tied too snugly against the slack skin of his neck. “And of late he’s become altogether too chummy with Claude Rousseau.”

“The traitor’s son,” Aidan murmured. At the close of the wars with Napoleon, Rousseau’s father, André, had been hanged as a traitor to the French crown. Though an aristocrat himself, he had secretly aided in the Terror, helping to send scores of his peers to the guillotine. Later he had spied for Napoleon’s troops. The discovery of his betrayal had rocked French society.

“To my knowledge Fitz and Rousseau are barely acquainted,” Aidan said. “Besides, despite his father’s sins, Claude Rousseau is a scholar and a scientist, not a politician. Certainly not a rabble-rouser. Since arriving in England nearly two decades ago, he hasn’t attached himself to the slightest hint of scandal.”

“Perhaps not, but he
has
attached himself to the Summit Pavilion in a way that makes me highly uncomfortable.” Wescott pulled a handkerchief from his inner coat pocket and mopped his forehead. “He’s supposedly creating a revitalizing elixir by enhancing Bath’s mineral waters with alchemical elements. Word is he has set up a secret laboratory to protect his patent, and those who have tried his formula swear by its invigorating properties.”

“What a load of bosh.” Aidan’s hand fisted around the bed linens. “Why don’t the Bath authorities simply arrest him?”

“For what? People have long believed in the benefits of Bath’s waters. Rousseau is merely claiming to boost those effects with a blend of herbal remedies already in use in the Americas. I believe coneflower is one of them.”

“And what’s he charging people for samples of this so-called elixir?”

“Not a thing. Oh, he seems to have a few voluntary investors, but beyond that, the samples have been free. That is why the authorities are leaving him alone.”

“Foolishness.”

Wescott tipped a nod. “Perhaps, but this is how medical advances are made. One cannot pooh-pooh them all.”

“I can.” Aidan threw off the covers, ignoring Wescott’s obvious discomfort as he collected his clothing from around the room. “I’ll leave for Bath first thing tomorrow.”

For all Aidan’s outward show of calm, the rage he had not completely conquered during the half dozen years since his father’s death writhed in his gullet. The virulence of his mother’s last illness had prompted Charles Phillips to seek unconventional treatments, to invest his trust and vast sums of money in promises of a miracle cure.

He’d been a desperate man, so desperate that when his wife lay dead, he retired alone to his study, put a pistol in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. Aidan had been standing on the other side of the door at the time, his hand raised to knock when the gun exploded. . . .

Following a tap, Delilah shouldered her way through the doorway. The tray in her hands exuded the rich aromas of coffee and warm scones. Aidan’s stomach grumbled. After setting down her burden, she poured a cup and handed it to him, at the same time leaning close to brush her lips across his.

She cast Wescott a sidelong glance. “Shall we crawl back into bed after your mate leaves, milord?”

Aidan stroked her cheek. “I’m afraid not, love, for I must be off.” Retrieving his frock coat from the brass footboard, he reached into the pocket, drew out a handful of coins, and pressed them into her palm. “Should anyone ask if I was here last night, be a good girl, do, and reply with a resounding yes.”

 

Laurel stared out onto rainy William Street and sighed. The clouds had spread an early dusk over the city, and the sodden weather had sent people scurrying indoors. The air of abandonment hanging over the streets had an equally dampening effect on Laurel’s spirits.

As often happened in such gloomy moments, her mind conjured a forbidden fantasy. . . .

He would appear out of the mist, ride his powerful gray to her doorstep, scoop her onto the saddle, kiss her—oh, she could taste those lips even now—and profess how desperately he had searched for her these many months.

His name was Aidan. . . .

Ah, yes, but he had not bothered to inquire after her name, had he? No, he’d saved her life, claimed his reward in a quick kiss, and, she felt certain, forgotten her as swiftly as he and his friend had rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.

The rain-speckled windowpanes reflected the bookshop behind her. Seated on a high stool behind the counter, her sister Ivy pored over columns of figures scrawled in the shop’s account ledger. The Knightsbridge Readers’ Emporium had not sold a book, or seen so much as a single customer, in two entire days.

It was partly due to this wretched weather. But then, the Emporium rarely saw more than a customer or two per day, and an entire week had been known to pass without the sisters once hearing the jangle of the bell above the street door.

Laurel supposed it didn’t much matter. The annuities left to them by their parents and dear Uncle Edward saw to their needs and a few luxuries besides. They were able to restock their inventory regularly as well as continue the lease on their guardian’s tiny London town house, which they had converted to a shop on the ground floor with living space above.

Poor Uncle Edward had succumbed to pneumonia during last autumn’s incessant rains; indeed, Laurel and her sisters still wore black bombazine in his memory. He had been like a father to them. Thorn Grove, however, had passed to a distant relative, a second or third cousin whom the girls had never met prior to the funeral and who had showed little interest in furthering their acquaintance afterward.

The Sutherland sisters were on their own.

Seeing no signs of impending business, Laurel sighed again and turned away from the window. Willow spared her a quick smile as she moved about the room swiping a feather duster across the tops of books lining the oak shelves. Behind the counter, Ivy frowned down at the account book and scrunched up her nose. Absently she tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear and scratched her quill across the page.

“Ivy, why are you laboring so?” Laurel could hardly suppress her impatience. “We haven’t sold a book in days.”

“I am perfectly aware of that, Laurel,” Ivy replied with her typical businesslike aplomb. She did not lift her gaze from the page. “But I have found a discrepancy. I fear Holly has muddled the figures again.”

Ivy never hesitated to blame her twin whenever the numbers failed to tally. Thank goodness Holly’s decision to brave the drizzle in favor of a trip to the bakeshop prevented her from hearing the charge, which surely would have set off another of the twins’ infamous arguments.

Laurel circled the counter. “Let me have a look.”

Ivy whisked the ledger out of reach. “If ever I am in a quandary as to an historical fact or a literary quote, I shall certainly consult you, Laurel. But we all know that when it comes to ciphering, well . . .” A lift of her brows completed the sentiment.

Laurel raised her hands and backed away. Ivy was right; neither she nor Holly had ever shown much aptitude for numbers.

“Why don’t you go on up and prepare tea, Laurel?” Dear Willow, always the diplomat. She attempted to diffuse the tension with a flick of her duster. “We’ll be up as soon as Holly returns. No use staying open any longer on an evening like this.”

An impulse sent Laurel across the room to wrap her arms around the baby of the family. The months since Uncle Edward’s death had not been easy on any of them, least of all Willow, who at nineteen should have been looking forward to her first, perhaps even second season here in London.

Ah, but there had been no seasons for any of them, no advantageous social connections or prospects of any sort. There had only ever been the four of them and Uncle Edward. Kind, if somewhat distant, their mother’s elder brother had always seen to their basic needs, but the extras, such as parties and seasons and introductions to eligible young bachelors, had been overlooked.

They had never discussed the reasons for this lack, not even among themselves. They had simply accepted their quiet life at Thorn Grove for what it had been: safe, tranquil, and thoroughly predictable. A retired army officer, Uncle Edward had shunned most social occasions, preferring his books and long walks with his hounds on Thorn Grove’s woodland paths.

Life might have been considerably worse. Laurel
knew
that, yet as the eldest she wished she could give her sisters all they deserved. To see both twins married and raising a baby or two . . . and for Willow, the prettiest of them all, a white silk gown, dove’s feathers in her hair, presentation at court, and a glorious season ending with a brilliant proposal of marriage . . .

As for herself . . . yes, she had wants, needs, that could not be met within the confines of their limited sphere. Adventure, travel—to see firsthand the sights she had only ever visited in books, to savor even a small taste of excitement, spontaneity.