one. This girl who, even in her drab, damp-stained clothes, was a tempting little beauty. The gin he’d paid the waiter to slip in her drink had achieved its purpose swiftly in fuddling her wits. His man Markin had done well, too, in getting information from the slut Sal that the girl had a sister who was dead. Markin had also got the fire started at exactly the right time.
There was just one problem. No one, unfortunately, had made any mention of this woman Rosalie having a child—Stephen detested children. But that was a minor issue. He had her in his power, and now was his chance to find out exactly what mischief she might be about to stir up.
Alec Stewart had spent the afternoon at his father’s house, gathering up the possessions the Earl had ordered him to remove.
The Earl had gone to Carrfields with his young wife and the big house was quiet as Alec sorted through his various maps and campaign diaries, his bound volumes of war sketches done by talented comrades and some books about eighteenth-century art that he’d inherited from his mother. She’d died in a hunting accident when Alec was ten and the whole house, for Alec, still bore the stamp of her loving devotion to her family. Many of the paintings around the house had been hers.
Jarvis, his father’s loyal steward, had helped him to pack up some biographies of the commanders Alec had idolised in his youth. ‘A pity we see you here so rarely nowadays, sir,’ Jarvis had said gravely.
‘My father’s got a new wife, Jarvis. Things were bound to change.’
Jarvis’s silence was telling.
‘Have you heard from Carrfields yet?’ Alec asked.
‘Indeed, sir, they arrived safely. And the longer they stay there, the better.’
Another enigmatic remark. ‘The country air will certainly do my father’s health good,’ agreed Alec. But he reckoned that wasn’t what loyal old Jarvis meant.
He’d filled up three packing crates and Jarvis had promised to have them sent over to Two Crows Castle the next morning. ‘My thanks.’ Alec nodded. ‘I’ll be back for more in a day or so.’ He was already on his way to the door, when something in the entrance hall caught his eye. He halted. ‘Do you see that painting, Jarvis?’
‘Which one, sir?’
‘The oil, of the British troops at Blenheim.’ Alec stepped closer. ‘It looks different. Brighter. Or has it always been like that?’
‘Lord Stephen’s been telling your father he ought to get some of those old paintings cleaned, sir. In fact, Lord Stephen’s been seeing to it himself over the last few months, taking them off to be restored. That one’s just come back.’
Alec frowned. Restored? But his father had always declared that he liked the patina of the old oils …
‘You’ll realise, Master Alec, that I had no choice but to agree,’ Jarvis was saying anxiously.
That evening Alec had had a fencing lesson and was tidying away his equipment when Garrett came in. ‘One of the lads has got some news of a poetry reading in Piccadilly, Captain.’
Alec almost laughed. ‘Poetry! God’s teeth, why should that be any concern of mine? And confound it, Garrett, didn’t I tell you to get rid of that dog weeks ago?’ The big golden mongrel bounded happily up to Alec, wagging its tail.
‘His name’s Ajax, Captain. And I keep tellin’ him to go, but he won’t.’
‘He’ll eat us out of house and home!’
‘I’m payin’ for his food myself, Captain.’
‘Anyone ever told you you’re a fool, Garrett?’
‘I know that, Captain.’
Sighing, Alec continued putting away his foils. ‘This poetry reading you mentioned. I can only assume there was some purpose in your raising that unlikely subject?’
‘Well, yes, Captain. The girl’s there, you see—the one that was writin’ those lies about you and this place, the other week.’
Alec went still. ‘Mrs Rowland?’
‘Aye, Mrs Rowland. You ordered us to keep an eye on her, since we told you about that printing press of her friend’s bein’ all busted.’
‘Indeed,’ muttered Alec. ‘Busted, as you put it, by some enemy Mrs Rowland’s made with her scurrilous writing, no doubt.’
For God’s sake, she looked for trouble! She’d been blatantly on stage at the Temple of Beauty, half-clad, then she’d written some vile stuff directed at him and confronted him with a whole pack of lies in his own home. Yet she was so young, so vulnerable, despite her bold defiance … The dog came up to him, wagging its tail, and Alec absently stroked its head. ‘So you’ve discovered she’s at a poetry reading. Is that the sum of your information, Garrett?’
‘Not quite, Captain. We’ve got an informer there—a cousin of McGrath’s—who was hired as a waiter, ‘cos there was refreshments, see. And he’s told us that someone else you know is at this lit’rary faradiddle. Your brother. He and the girl seem pretty friendly.’
Alec’s hand went very still on the rapier he held. Despite her defiant words to him, the little widow knew Stephen!
‘What do you expect me to do, Garrett? My opinion of her is already pretty low,’ he answered, sliding the rapier back into the wall rack. ‘Finding out that she’s a friend of Stephen’s does nothing to alter that.’
Red-haired Sergeant McGrath had come in also. ‘There was somethin’ odd, Captain, if they’re friends,’ McGrath offered. ‘My cousin told me your brother ordered some gin to be put in the girl’s lemonade. And she was startin’ to look a bit sick, apparently.’
Damn it. Alec gave up hope of a quiet evening. ‘Saddle up my horse, Garrett. This place is in Piccadilly, you say?’
‘You will remember she ain’t no friend of yours, won’t you, Captain?’ Garrett warned. ‘Remember that nasty stuff she wrote about you …’
‘I’ll not forget it, never fear,’ Alec gritted, heading for the door. ‘That’s why I’m going to see what they’re both up to. Oh, and saddle a horse for yourself, too.’
‘Why’s that, Captain?’
‘You’re coming with me.’
Pulling on his greatcoat, Alec left. And Garrett muttered to McGrath, ‘I hope, I do hope, that our Captain’s not laying himself open to the tricks of another sweet-faced whore.’
‘Now you know and I know, my lad,’ replied McGrath, ‘that our Captain’s no fool in dealing with the muslin company … unless you’re talkin’ about that society lassie with all the money who ditched him just before Waterloo?’
Garrett snorted. ‘Her? The bird-witted little Lady Emilia? He was well rid of her and he knew it. No. It was someone else I was thinkin’ of. Someone who’s a real bundle of wickedness and is out to make more, unless I’m very much mistaken.’
‘Who—?’
But
