Mortimer’s eyes widened. “Oh.”
“Yes—oh! And while we’re on the subject, I’ve a little news for you—just to strengthen your backbone.” Joliffe fixed his eyes on Mortimer’s wan countenance. “You owe me five thousand on a note of hand. I passed that vowel on, with one of my own, to a man who charges interest by the day. Together, we now owe him a cool twenty thousand, Mortimer—and if we don’t pay up soon, he’s going to take every pound out of our hides.” He paused, then leaned forward to ask, “Is that clear enough for you, Mortimer?”
His face a deathly white, his eyes round and starting, Mortimer was so petrified he could not even nod.
“Well, then!” Scrugthorpe pushed his empty tankard away. “Seems like we’d best make some plans.”
Joliffe had sobered dramatically. He tapped the tabletop with one fingernail. “We’ll need information on her movements.” He looked at Brawn but the boy shook his head.
“No good. The maid won’t talk to me again, not after the roasting that groom gave her. And there’s no one else.”
Joliffe’s eyes narrowed. “What about the other women?”
Brawn’s snort was eloquent. “There’s a few o’them all right—but they’re all as sour as green grapes. Take even you till next year to chat ’em up—and they’d likely refuse to talk even then.”
“Damn!” Joliffe absentmindedly took a sip of his porter. “All right.” He set the tankard down with a snap. “If that’s the only way then that’s the way we’ll do it.”
“How’s that?” Scrugthorpe asked.
“We watch her—all the time, day and night. We make our arrangements and keep all in readiness to grab her the instant fate gives us a chance.”
Scrugthorpe nodded. “Right. But how’re we going to go about it?”
Joliffe sent an intimidating glance at Mortimer.
Mortimer swallowed and shrank in his chair.
With a contemptuous snort, Joliffe turned back to Scrugthorpe. “Just listen.”
Chapter Fourteen
Five nights later, Mortimer Babbacombe stood in the shadows of a doorway in King Street and watched his aunt-by-marriage climb the shallow steps to Almack’s unprepossessing entrance.
“Well.” Heaving a sigh—of relief or disappointment he was not quite sure—he turned to his companion. “She’s gone in—no point in watching further.”
“Oh, yes, there is.” The words came in a cold hiss. In the past five days, Joliffe’s polite veneer had peeled from him. “You’re going to go in there, Mortimer, and keep a careful eye on your aunt. I want to know everything—who she dances with, who brings her lemonade—everything!” Joliffe’s piercing gaze swung to fix on Mortimer’s face. “Is that clear?”
Mortimer hugged the doorframe, his relief rapidly fading. Glowering glumly, he nodded. “Can’t think what good it’ll do,” he grumbled.
“Don’t think, Mortimer—just do as I bid you.” In the shadows, Joliffe studied Mortimer’s face, plain and round, the face of a man easily led—and, as was often the case with such, prone to unhelpful stubbornness. Joliffe’s lip curled. “Do try to recapture a little of your earlier enthusiasm, Mortimer. Remember—your uncle overlooking your claim to be your cousin’s guardian and appointing a young woman like your aunt instead is an insult to your manhood.”
Mortimer shifted, pulling at his fleshy lower lip. “Yes, it is.”
“Indeed. Who is Lucinda Babbacombe, anyway, other than a pretty face smart enough to take your uncle in?”
“Quite true.” Mortimer nodded. “And, mind, it’s not as if I’ve any bone to pick with her—but anyone would have to admit it was dashed unfair of Uncle Charles to leave all the ready to her—and just the useless land to me.”
Joliffe smiled into the night. “Quite. You’re merely seeking redress for the unfair actions of your uncle. Remember that, Mortimer.” He clapped Mortimer on the shoulder and waved towards Almack’s. “I’ll wait at your lodgings for your news.”
Mortimer nodded. Straightening his rounded shoulders, he headed for the sacred portal.
Deep within the hallowed halls, Lucinda nodded and smiled, responding to the chatter with confident ease while her mind trod an endless trail of conjecture and fact. Harry had driven her in the Park on the past five afternoons, albeit briefly. He had appeared every evening, unheralded, simply there, waiting when she descended the stairs to escort them to the balls and parties, remaining by her side throughout but saying not a word as to his purpose.
She had gone beyond impatience, even beyond chagrin—she was now in the grip of a deadening sense of the inevitable.
Lucinda summoned a smile and gave her hand to Mr Drumcott, a not-so-young gentleman who had recently become betrothed to a young lady in her first Season.
“I beg you’ll do me the honour of dancing this quadrille with my poor self, Mrs Babbacombe.”
Lucinda acquiesced with a smile but as they took their places she caught herself scanning the crowd—and inwardly sighed. She should, of course, be glad Harry had not arrived this evening to escort them here—that, she was convinced, would have been the last straw.
That he intended making her his bride was patently clear—his likely motive in underscoring that fact publicly was what was dragging her heart down. The memory of his first proposal—and her refusal—haunted her. She hadn’t known, then, of Lady Coleby and her earlier rejection of Harry’s love. Her own refusal had been driven by the simple belief that he loved her and would, if pushed, acknowledge that love. To hear the words on his lips was something she craved, something she needed. But not, she was increasingly certain, something Harry needed.
She couldn’t rid herself of the idea that he was painting her into a corner, that his present behaviour was designed to render a second rejection impossible. If, after all his studied performances, she refused him again, she would be labelled cruel-hearted, or, more likely, as Sim would put it, “dicked in the nob”.
Lucinda grimaced—and had to hurriedly cover the expression with a smile. As they embarked on the final figures of the quadrille, Mr Drumcott blinked at her in concern; she forced another smile—a travesty considering her true state. If Harry kept on as he was, when next he proposed, she would have to accept him, regardless of whether he offered his heart along with his hand.
The quadrille ended; Lucinda sank into the final, elaborate curtsy. Rising, she straightened her shoulders and determinedly thanked Mr Drumcott. She was not, she told herself, going to dwell on Harry’s motives any longer. There must be some other explanation—if only she could think what it was.
At that precise moment, the object of her thoughts sat at the desk in his library attired in long-tailed black evening coat and black knee-breeches, garments he considered outmoded in the extreme.
“What have you learned?” Harry leaned both arms on the blotter and pinned Salter with a steady green gaze.
“Enough to make my nose quiver.” Salter settled himself in the chair before the desk. Dawlish, who had shown him in, closed the door; folding his arms, he leaned back against it. Salter pulled out a notebook. “First—this Joliffe chap is more of a bad egg than I’d thought. A real sharp—specialises in ‘befriending’ flats, preferably those who come fresh on the town, gullible and usually young, though, these days, as he’s no spring chicken himself, his victims also tend to be older. Quite a history—but nothing, ever, that could be made to stick. Lately, however, quite aside from his usual activities, Joliffe’s taken to deep play—and not in the hells either. Word has it he’s heavily in debt—not to his opponents—he’s paid them off—but the total sum amounts to a fortune. All evidence points to Joliffe being in the clutches of a real bloodsucker—a certain individual who works out of the docks. Don’t have any information on him except that he’s not one to keep dangling too long. A mistake that often turns fatal, if you take my meaning.”
He lifted his gaze to Harry’s face; his expression grim, Harry nodded.
“Right then—next up i
s Mortimer Babbacombe. A hopeless case—if Joliffe hadn’t picked him up one of the other Captain Sharps would have. Born a flat. Joliffe took him under his wing and underwrote his losses—that’s the usual way these things start. Then, when the flat gets his hands on whatever loot is coming his way, the sharps take the major cut. So when Mortimer came into his inheritance, Joliffe was sitting on his coattails. From then, however, things went wrong.”
Salter consulted his notebook. “Like Mrs Babbacombe told you, it seems Mortimer had no real understanding of his inheritance—but Charles Babbacombe had paid off his debts annually, to the tune of three thousand at the last. Seems certain Mortimer assumed the money came from his uncle’s estate and the estate was therefore worth much more than it is. My people checked—the place can’t make much more than expenses. It’s apparently common knowledge up that way that Charles Babbacombe’s money came from Babbacombe and Company.”
Shutting his book, Salter grimaced. “That’s all right and tight—and a nasty surprise it must have been for Joliffe. But what I can’t see is why he’s gone after Mrs Babbacombe—knocking her on the head isn’t going to benefit them. Joliffe’s more than experienced enough to work that out—some old aunt of hers is her nearest kin. Yet they’re keeping constant watch on Mrs Babbacombe—and not as if they’ve got anything cordial on their minds.”
Harry stiffened. “They’re watching her?”
“And my people are watching them. Very closely.”
Harry relaxed. A little. He frowned. “We’re missing something.”
“Precisely my thought.” Salter shook his head. “Operators like Joliffe don’t make too many mistakes—after his first disappointment with Mortimer, he wouldn’t have hung around unless there’s a chance of some really rich pickings in the wind.”
“There’s money all right,” Harry mused. “But it’s in the business. As you know, Charles Babbacombe willed that to his widow and his daughter.”
Salter frowned. “Ah, yes—this daughter. A young chit, barely seventeen.” His frown deepened. “From all I’ve seen, Mrs Babbacombe’s no easy mark—why pick on her rather than the daughter?”
Harry blinked, somewhat owlishly, at Salter. “Heather,” he said, his tone oddly flat. After a moment, he drew in a long breath and straightened. “That must be it.”
“What?”
Harry’s lips twisted. “I’ve often been told that I’ve a devious mind—perhaps, for once, it can be of real use. Just hear me out.” His gaze grew distant; absentmindedly, he reached for his pen. “Heather is the one they could use to milk the business of cash—but—what if Lucinda is Heather’s guardian, as well as Heather’s mentor? In either role, Joliffe and company would have to get rid of Lucinda to get to Heather.”
Slowly, Salter nodded. “That’s possible—but why try that ramshackle business of sending Mrs Babbacombe to that fancy orgy palace, then?”
Harry hoped Alfred never heard of his ancestral home referred to in such vein. He tapped the blotter with the pen. “That’s what makes me so certain Heather’s guardianship must be the key—because in order to get rid of Lucinda for such purposes, showing her as unfit to be guardian of a young girl would be sufficient for Mortimer, who is Heather’s next of kin, to apply to overturn Lucinda’s guardianship in favour of himself. Once that’s done, they could simply cut all contact between Heather and Lucinda—and use Heather to draw funds from her half of the investment.”
Gazing into space, Salter nodded. “You’re right—that must be it. Roundabout but it makes sense.”
“And now they’ve failed to paint the lady scarlet,” put in Dawlish, “they’re planning to snatch her up and do away with her.”
“True enough,” agreed Salter. “But my people know what to do.”
Harry refrained from asking just who Salter’s “people” were.
“Even so,” Dawlish continued, “they can’t keep a-watching her forever. And seems to me this Joliffe character’s one as should be behind bars.”
Salter nodded. “You’re right. There’s been a few unexplained ‘suicides’ in Joliffe’s past that the magistrates were never convinced about.”
Harry repressed a shudder. The thought of Lucinda mixed up with such characters was not to be borne. “At this instant, Mrs Babbacombe is safe enough—but we need to make sure our conjecture’s true. If it’s not, we could be following the wrong scent—with potentially serious consequences. It strikes me that there might well be a second guardian, which would render our hypothesis unlikely.”
Salter lifted a brow. “If you know the lady’s legal man, I could make some discreet inquiries.”
“I don’t. And he’s very likely in Yorkshire.” Harry thought—then looked at Dawlish. “Mrs Babbacombe’s maid and coachman have been with the family for years. They might know.”
Dawlish straightened from the door. “I’ll ask.”
“Couldn’t you just ask the lady herself?” Salter asked.
“No.” Harry’s reply was unequivocal. His lips twisted in a grimace. “At the moment, the very last thing I want to do is ask Mrs Babbacombe about her legal affairs. The question of Heather’s guardianship can’t be all that hard to answer.”
“No. And I’ll tip my people the wink to yell the instant they sniff any shift in the wind.” Salter got to his feet. “As soon as we know for sure what these jackals are about, we’ll devise a way to trip them up nicely.”
Harry didn’t reply. He shook hands with Salter, the thought in his mind that if tripping up Joliffe involved placing Lucinda in any danger at all, it simply wouldn’t happen.
When Dawlish returned from showing the ex-Runner out, Harry was standing in the centre of the room, strapping his gloves on his palm.
“Well!” Dawlish opened his eyes wide. “There you be—all tricked out and not at the party. Best I drive you there, then.”
Harry looked down, casting a long-suffering glance at breeches he had long ago sworn never again to don. His expression grimly resigned, he nodded. “Best you do.”
His knock on Almack’s door very nearly prostrated old Willis, the porter. “Never did I think to see you here again, sir!” Willis raised his shaggy brows. “Something in the wind?”
“You, Willis, are as fervent a gossip as any of your mistresses.”
Unrepentant, Willis grinned. Harry gave him his gloves and cloak and sauntered into the ballroom.
To say his entrance caused a stir would be a gross understatement. It caused a flutter, a ruffling of feathers, and, in some, a mild panic akin to hysteria, all fuelled by the intense speculation that rose in feminine breasts as he strolled, gracefully but entirely purposefully, across the room.
Her emotions aswirl, Lucinda watched his approach with unwilling fascination. Her heart started to soar, her lips lifted—then her earlier thoughts engulfed her. A tightness gripped her lungs, squeezing slowly. Candlelight gleamed on his golden hair; in the old-fashioned attire, he looked less suave and debonair but, if anything, even more the rake than before. As she felt the touch of a hundred eyes, her lips firmed. He was exploiting them all, manipulating the whole ton—shamelessly.
As he neared, she held out her hand, knowing he would simply take it if she didn’t. “Good evening, Mr Lester. How very surprising to see you here.”
Her gentle sarcasm did not escape Harry; he raised his brows as he raised her fingers to his lips and gently brushed a kiss across their tips.
He had done it so often Lucinda had forgotten it was no longer the accepted mode of greeting. The collective gasp that seemed to fill the ballroom reminded her of the fact. Her smile remained in place but her eyes flashed.
The reprobate before her merely smiled. And tucked her hand in his arm. “Come, my dear, I rather think we should stroll.” With a nod, he excused them from the two gentlemen who had been passing the time by Lucinda’s side. “Gibson. Holloway.”
They had barely taken two steps before Lady Jersey appeared in their path. Harry promptly bowed, so elaborately
it was almost a joke, so gracefully it was impossible to take offense.
Sally Jersey humphed. “I had meant to ask Mrs Babbacombe for news of you,” she informed Harry without a blink. “But now you’re here, I need hardly enquire.”
“Indeed,” Harry drawled. “I’m positively touched, Sally dear, that you should think to take an interest in my poor self.”
“Your self isn’t so poor anymore, if you recall.”
“Ah, yes. A twist of fate.”
“One which has brought you once more within the sights of the ladies here. Take care, my friend, else you slip and get tangled in their nets.” Lady Jersey’s eyes twinkled. She turned to Lucinda. “I would congratulate you, my dear—but I fear he’s quite incorrigible—utterly irreclaimable. But if you seek revenge, all you have to do is take him to the furthest point from the door and cut him loose—then watch him flounder.”
Her expression serene, Lucinda raised her brows. “I’ll bear the point in mind, ma’am.”
With a regal nod, Sally Jersey swept on.
“Don’t you dare,” Harry murmured as they strolled on, his drawl instantly evaporating. His hand rose to cover hers where it lay on his sleeve. “You couldn’t be so hard-hearted.”
Again Lucinda lifted her brows; her eyes, no longer laughing, met his. “No?”
Harry’s eyes searched hers; Lucinda saw them narrow slightly.
Suddenly breathless, she squeezed his arm and forced a smile to her lips. “But you hardly need me to protect you.”
Determinedly, she looked ahead, still smiling, her expression as serene as before.
A short silence ensued, then Harry’s voice sounded in her ear, low and completely expressionless, “You’re wrong, my dear. I need you—very much.”
Lucinda couldn’t risk looking at him; she blinked rapidly and nodded to Lady Cowper, beaming from a nearby chaise. Were they talking of protection from the matchmaking mamas—or something else?