midafternoon message caused a crisis at the Wainwright town house.
Rupert Wainwright crushed the letter from Kathryn into a wad and threw it into the grate. “The little fool! She’s gone and got herself wed!” He raked his hand through what was left of his graying hair and scratched his bushy side-whiskers.
“That’s it, then,” Randall Nelson said, slumping his gangly frame down on the horsehair settee.
“You limp-wristed nodcock! You’re giving her up? Just like that?” Rupert threw up his hands, wondering whether he had chosen the right man after all. He needed Kathryn wed to someone malleable enough to go along with the scheme. And someone stupid enough to share the wealth. Pity the lad didn’t have more gumption, though, when it came to overcoming obstacles.
“What we have to do is find the bastard she married and get rid of him!” Wainwright settled himself behind his scarred oak desk and pounded a fist on the blotter. “Now then, think hard, boy. Do you know any Lyhams? Unusual name. Can’t be many of ’em. Check the census records first. The fellow has to be from here in town, or she’d never have met him, eh?”
Nelson’s gray eyes widened and his head came up with a start. “You mean to kill the man, sir?”
Rupert snorted with disgust. “You have a better idea?”
Nelson winced. “I hadn’t thought to do murder, Roop.”
“How else can we pull this off? You think she’ll simply divorce him and fall in your lap for the asking? We’ll have to make it look an accident, of course.”
Nelson stared out the window, saying nothing.
Rupert nodded and breathed out a gusty sigh. “Shame we can’t just do away with her. Wouldn’t get anything that way, though. Charities would get it all. Damn that brother of mine!”
He noticed Nelson’s brooding silence. “What is it?” Then louder. “What is it, man? I know that look! You’re hiding something from me, I can tell. Let’s have it.”
“I knew a Lyham once. Was up at school with him. Eton, when we were just lads.” He shook his head. “Couldn’t be the same one.”
“And why not? Well, spit it out.” Rupert wanted to cuff him, but he held off. No sense in alienating his only hope.
“Name wasn’t Nathan. Edward, I believe we called him. Surname was Chapton, or something like that.” Nelson nodded, satisfied he’d remembered correctly. Yes, I believe it was Edward Chapton, or perhaps Chudwyn.”
Rupert threw up his hands again and rolled his eyes. “Well, if his given name wasn’t Nathan and his last name wasn’t Lyham, what’s the bloody point, man?”
Nelson folded his hands and returned Rupert’s glare. “Lyham was his title, Roop. The fellow was a lord. Father was an earl, I believe. Left school when the old man died.”
“Christ’s nails! An earl?” Rupert’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The gel’s gone and got herself an earl?”
“No, no. I told you this fellow’s name wasn’t Nathan. And besides that, wouldn’t Kathryn have thrown the man’s title at you if he had one? That would make her a countess, and I doubt very much if she’d forget to mention that.”
Rupert thought for a moment. Randall was right for a change. The lad hadn’t much in the way of fortitude, but he had a head on his shoulders. A fine-looking head it was, too. Rupert had been banking heavily on Nelson’s good looks to snag Kathryn’s attention. Bugger that idea now; they would simply have to resort to elimination and force.
“You find out, boy. I want to know who this rascal Lyham is by week’s end. Get on it first thing in the morning. Better yet, tonight. Ask around, check the peerage books just in case. Hire a detective, whatever it takes. We have to know who we’re dealing with and get rid of him before the girl turns twenty-five.”
Very late that evening, Jon stopped in the village and stabled Imp with the smithy, Ike Noblett. He then trudged through the woods to Grandy’s cottage, where he left his suit and the small case containing the wig, mirror and stage paint. After scrubbing himself in the lake, he donned the rough work pants he had brought with him. His heart had gone out of the charade, but he had little choice but to continue now that he was in it up to his neck.
The chilly night air revived him a little, but nothing could restore the bit of his soul he had left with his harp at Graythorne Antiquities. With a huge dose of luck, he might retrieve her someday, but that would rest with fate and the whims of Ned Bunrich.
He approached the house and noticed candles flickering in the ballroom windows. Had Kathryn waited up? “Halloo th’ house!” he called, so that he wouldn’t frighten her.
“Pip! Where have you been? It’s so late!” She caught his arm and shook it gently. “I was worried about you.”
Jon patted her hand and fought the urge to raise it to his lips. There was a stupid thought. He had always hated kissing hands. Pretending attentiveness. Watching women simper. But Kathryn’s hands were so small and so soothing, even when she was berating him for being late.
“Hungry,” he mumbled. And not just for food, he thought.
She sighed and pulled him toward the kitchen, where she had obviously been sitting. One of the chairs stood out of place. Usually they all did. Someone had scraped away his huge mound of candle wax from the center of the table and replaced it with a dish holding a fat new taper.
Kathryn nudged him to sit. “There’s a bit of the bacon from this morning. Your Grandy brought a tin of biscuits, and I cooked some of the apples I picked out back.”
Jon looked around while she gathered the food on a chipped plate. The whole room seemed different. The floor had a near shine to it. The cobwebs had disappeared, and the window glass reflected the light clearly. He didn’t recall ever seeing it do that. “It’s clean!” he exclaimed.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
