Three Nights with a Scoundrel: A Novel (6 page)

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Julian did indeed have an appointment with his tailors—just not the ones Lily might have supposed, and he took a circuitous route to meet with them.

He bypassed the corners of Bond and Regent Streets, with their many mercers and haberdashers and tailors. On another day he might have stopped in to order a new waistcoat with contrasting embroidery, or a coat with an extra button on the cuff. These small modifications to accepted style were the way he’d harnessed the allegiance of England’s young aristocrats. He now pulled them along on a worsted thread, to the point that the bucks of the
ton
would wear undyed homespun, if Julian Bellamy declared it the latest thing.

It took him twenty minutes to walk to his relatively modest home, just over the boundary into Bloomsbury. He could have afforded a larger dwelling in a showier part of Town, but this house suited his needs. Its common rooms were unremarkable, cramped, and unsuitable for parties, which absolved him from repaying invitations. The third floor, however, was one vast, lavish bedroom suite, ideal for entertaining female guests singly. Most usefully, at the rear it backed against a busy merchant street.

Upon entering, he followed his habit of proceeding directly to his library. A young man dozed in an armchair by the window, wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes. Julian recognized him as Levi Harris, one of the runners he’d hired to investigate Leo’s murder. Harris was young but hungry—and reputed to be the best. Leo deserved no less than the best.

The best, however, needed to look alive. Julian slammed the library door.

Harris woke with a start. As his boots hit the floor, he blurted out, “Good morning, Mr. Bellamy.”

“It’s afternoon. News?”

“Nothing much of interest.”

“Tell me everything. I’ll determine what’s of interest.”

Harris told Julian nothing he didn’t already know. He’d also attended the boxing match in Southwark last night. The bout had featured one of the same pugilists who’d fought the night of Leo’s death. The investigator and his men were supposed to be stationed at every exit, watching for anyone who matched the description of Leo’s killers.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Harris said. “After that mishap with the bull-baiting, the crowd got away from us. My men and I lingered well after the melee, traced all the nearby streets. We didn’t see any suspicious activity, other than the usual. And no pair of men matching the description.”

Julian nodded his understanding. What description they had was pitiful indeed. The prostitute who’d witnessed the attack could only describe Leo’s killers as two large men in rough clothing; one bald, the other with a Scots accent.

He sank into the rich, tufted leather of his desk chair, deflating with fatigue and frustration. Almost five months since Leo’s death, and despite the discovery of new information and witnesses, he was no closer to the killers now than he had been the day his friend was buried. And so long as the attackers themselves went free, the name of their employer remained secret. Julian had no way of knowing just which of his many enemies had discovered his true identity and ordered his death. He’d been going at it from the wrong angle—trying to ferret out the brutes, rather than the man or men who’d hired them.

“Very well,” he told Harris. “That will be all.”

“Until tomorrow then?”

Julian shook his head. “No. I mean, that will be all. We’re finished with this.”

“Finished?” Harris rose to his feet. “Sir, you mean to abandon the investigation? Leave the murder unsolved?”

He obviously didn’t like the idea, and Julian respected the man’s dedication. But they couldn’t go on in this manner any longer when it yielded no meaningful results. And he most certainly couldn’t give Harris the information necessary to pursue a different tack. From here, Julian proceeded alone.

“I mean,” he said, “your services will no longer be required. Send me an accounting of your charges and expenses, and I’ll see that you’re compensated with all due speed.”

Harris opened and shut his mouth a few times, as if he wanted to argue back. He ultimately decided against it. “As you wish, Mr. Bellamy.” With a perfunctory bow, he left.

Alone, Julian sorted through the correspondence that had amassed atop his desk. Invitations, of various kinds, comprised the bulk of the missives. Everything from “Your presence is cordially requested …” to “Darling, my husband will be away …” No matter that he hadn’t accepted an invitation of either sort in months, they still heaped his blotter daily.

With a weary sigh, he tossed them all into the grate. He never had answered the things anyway. He simply appeared at events where and when the mood struck. Ironically, this complete disregard for etiquette had only enhanced his popularity. For when he did make an appearance, he did so in grand style, whether playing to a crowd of hundreds or entertaining an audience of one.

An appearance by Julian Bellamy, he strove to ensure, ranked among a certain class of delights. Rather like roasted chestnuts at Christmas, or simultaneous orgasms. Not so rare as to be mythical, never so commonplace as to become boring. Dependably satisfying, occasionally transcendent. In sum, an experience to which no one could pretend ambivalence.

Save Julian himself, of course. He pretended ambivalence very well indeed.

It was a talent shared by his house staff. As Julian entered his bedroom suite, his valet greeted him from behind a sporting newspaper. “Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, Dillard,” Julian greeted him dryly. “Oh, please. Don’t get up.”

A soft grunt was his only reply.

“Is my bath drawn?”

The newspaper rustled. “I reckon it is.”

Dillard was the most spoiled, useless valet in all London. Normally, Julian demanded competence and efficiency from all people in his employ, but he made an exception for his personal servants. In this house, indolence and a marked lack of curiosity were desirable traits. Julian only kept Dillard on for appearances. Or rather,
not
for appearances. That was a valet’s usual post, of course—tending his gentleman employer’s appearance in all particulars: bathing, shaving, attire, and more. But where his own appearance was concerned, Julian attended to every detail on his own, save the laundering, pressing, and boot-blacking.

He lowered his weight to a bench and removed his boots. “I’m off to bed,” he told Dillard, setting the boots neatly to one side. “Not to be disturbed. See that these are polished by tonight.”

Another grunt.

Julian left the man to his paper and crossed into his dressing room. It was a large space, formerly a bedchamber in its own right, but he’d had it fitted with custom shelving and mirrors. He tossed his befouled topcoat in the grate and stripped to his skin. After a hasty bath and a close shave, he wrapped an Oriental-patterned silk banyan about his torso.

With grave deliberation, he selected a set of clothing for that evening. He had a new waistcoat in pigeon’s blood red, and this he laid aside for pressing, along with a royal blue topcoat with brass trim and charcoal-gray pantaloons. From his row of sixteen hats, he selected a jaunty blue felt with a red band. The color combination was revolting. But he needed to draw notice tonight, even more so than usual.

Though he’d opposed the idea initially, on reflection he saw the potential in this social scheme of Lily’s. His investigative efforts were going nowhere. By withdrawing from public life, he’d given his enemy a sense of complacency.

These were the inescapable facts: In trying to kill Julian, someone had killed Leo instead. If Julian wanted justice for Leo’s murder, he would have to draw the cowardly rat out of hiding—by making himself the bait.

He’d start with dinner tonight, then a genial round of the clubs. All very friendly, all very tame—even if he had to sit on his hands when Morland drew near, just to keep it so. He would remain on good behavior through a few scattered, sedate appearances—the three evenings he’d promised Lily. Once he’d reestablished his place at the top of every guest list and Lily’s marital prospects were assured … only then would Julian Bellamy lay his trap.

At the moment, however, Julian Bellamy was retiring to bed.

Once inside the richly appointed bedchamber, he locked the door behind him. And then he waited. When a few minutes had passed and he was certain no one was listening, he followed the golden path of the carpet’s Greek maze border, skirting the four-poster bed with its crimson velvet hangings, until he stood before a bookcase in the room’s farthest corner. He pulled a lever in the hidden recesses of the third shelf, then stepped back to let the panel swing out on its hinges.

On the other side of the false wall was a narrow, humble closet that belonged to the mercantile building in the rear.

The small space held a shelf of starched white shirts and cravats, a few folded pairs of trousers in neutral shades. Plain brass hooks supported a row of four coats: dun, gray, black, and dark blue. Two hats.

Tossing his banyan aside, he stepped through the hidden passageway and closed the panel behind him. His night as Julian Bellamy was over.

He was very late for his day as James Bell.

Chapter Four

Mr. James Bell did not employ a valet. Nor a cook, nor a butler, nor indeed a single footman. Just a charwoman to come in and sweep twice a week. She was an illiterate and perpetually harried woman, unlikely to snoop.

Mr. Bell was, however, a generous employer. He compensated said charwoman thrice the normal amount, and he treated his clerks well. Paid wages promptly, with annual rises in pay and bonuses at Christmas. Well-paid employees did not question or complain.

Mr. Bell lived in rooms above his business offices, and he kept eccentric hours. Though his dedication was above question, the clerks never knew at what time he might appear belowstairs. He’d let spread a vague rumor that he suffered from recurrent bouts of headache. Some mornings, they found him already behind his desk at eight, cravat-deep in accounting ledgers. Other days, like today, he didn’t appear until well after noon. This inconsistent schedule kept his clerks on constant alert.

Mr. Bell dressed in unremarkable though well-tailored attire. He parted his black hair severely and combed it with pomade until it lay flat against his scalp. “Fastidious,” some might have described him. The less charitable might have said, “Dull as toast.” Rarely was he observed going out-of-doors without a hat, and he wore spectacles at all times.

There was only plain glass in the lenses, of course. Julian didn’t wear them to see. He wore them so he would not be
seen
.

And the disguise had worked quite well for several years.

It was midafternoon when he came down the back stairs today and entered the offices from the rear. As usual, he found his eight clerks hunched over two neat rows of desks that ran the length of the room. They all hastened to their feet with a chorus of “Good day, Mr. Bell.”

He nodded in reply.

The errand boys threw him guilty looks from a corner, where they no doubt had been dicing until a few moments ago. Julian decided to overlook the infraction. For now. He’d provide tasks enough to keep them hopping the rest of the day.

“As you were,” he said, retreating into his office—a partitioned section at the back with a glass window for supervisory purposes and drapes he could pull when privacy was desired. The frosted pane set in the door was lettered in gilt: “J. Bell. Manager, Aegis Investments.”

So far as his employees understood, Mr. Bell managed the interests of several wealthy investors. These unnamed investors—aristocrats, it was presumed, who could not be seen sullying their hands with trade—had pooled their money toward various business endeavors: in particular, several wool and linen mills to the North, and commercial real estate holdings in most of England’s larger cities. Mr. Bell oversaw the operations and management of these investments with the assistance of his clerks and a personal secretary, and he reported to his superiors regularly.

In reality, Mr. Bell had no superiors, and there was but one investor: Julian himself. He not only owned the mills in the North and the buildings in Bristol, Oxford, York, and beyond—but he in fact owned most of this very block, including the mercantile building that housed the Aegis Investments offices and the residential row to the rear. He was, by any standard, a man of great wealth. And key to all of this was maintaining his status as a man of many secrets.

If certain powerful men learned just how he’d amassed this fortune and just what he intended to do with it …

Well, he already knew the completion of that thought, didn’t he? Those certain men would arrange to have him waylaid in a darkened alleyway, pummeled to death.

He shuddered, thinking of Leo and his broken face.

His secretary, Thatcher, followed him into his private office, waving a clutch of papers. “The morning post, sir.”

“What’s in it?”

Thatcher riffled through the papers. “A report on the fluctuating price of indigo. A letter from the Benevolence Society for the Deserving Poor, requesting the renewal of the investors’ generous subscription. The contract for lease of the Dover property. Your express from the mills.”