“The news is all over the clubs,” Cuthbert, Earl of Tipton, said. “Nobody’s quite sure what to make of it.”
Beatrice took a slow, stalling sip of her chocolate. She ought to have ordered a tray in her room, because her husband always broke his fast in the morning parlor and always read the paper from front page to back. A former diplomat’s habits died hard.
“I beg your pardon?” she said. “Might I have the jam?”
The footman at the sideboard brought the jam pot to Beatrice’s end of the table. She sat where no impertinent beam of sunlight could strike her face and otherwise blight the beginning of her day.
Her husband’s relentless good cheer accomplished that feat most mornings. She didn’t hate Cuthbert, but managing him was wearisome.
“That damned Wentworth,” he muttered, turning a page. “You may be excused, Thomas.”
The footman, whose name was Harold, withdrew.
“Wentworth?” Beatrice made a production out of choosing a slice of toast from the rack on the table. The toast was warm, and Cook had flavored half the batch with cinnamon.
“Quinton Wentworth, the banker. He was to be hanged for murder, and now he’s larking about at liberty again, free as you please. One of King George’s many queer starts. Butter, pet?”
“Please.”
Cuthbert brought her the butter, for he was ever considerate. Beatrice wished he’d curse, rant, and accuse, but he never did. Not ever. Another relic of his days as a diplomat.
“Murder is distasteful so early in the day.” Beatrice tore her toast in half. The crime had been manslaughter, though the difference mattered not at all to the victim. The distinction was one of intent. A murderer sought to end the victim’s life. A manslaughterer might have shoved the victim to the ground or come at him with violence in mind, but without intent to take a life.
Ulysses had explained the nuances to her in tedious detail, as if the legalities should fascinate her when Quinn Wentworth had once again survived despite all odds to the contrary.
“His bank has to be reeling,” Cuthbert said, in the same tones he’d report that a cricket team was doomed without its best pitcher. “Though with a royal pardon in his pocket, Wentworth will likely come right soon enough. Please do have more toast. I can’t abide the cinnamon myself.”
Was he baiting her?
Cuthbert was an odd combination of shrewd and oblivious. He’d come into a second cousin’s title years ago, but the wealth had taken some time to free up from trusts and bequests. His solution had been to spend time in the diplomatic corps, living more cheaply overseas, drawing a salary, and periodically abandoning his younger wife for months at a time.
He made a credible earl, a touch of gray about his temples, his frame lean, and his wardrobe dapper.
Cuthbert wasn’t ugly, wasn’t stupid, wasn’t anything in particular that a wife was entitled to complain of. He was a considerate and undemanding lover, when he bothered to recall he had a wife.
Beatrice wasn’t sure which she resented more: his neglect or his attentions.
“I like variety in my treats,” she said. “Plain toast grows boring even with butter and jam.” She’d spoken without thinking, a simple truth about breakfast fare, but Cuthbert gazed at her consideringly over the top of his newspaper.
“If you’re bored, we might take a trip to Lisbon before the weather grows too warm.”
Any excuse to drag her off to his favorite haunts. “The social season has only started, my lord. What can you be thinking?”
He smiled, the diplomat’s self-conscious, gracious smile. “I’m avoiding my parliamentary committees, if you must know. What difference does it make how many hackneys trot around London, or how loudly George begs for more money? Will I see you at Almack’s tonight?”
“Possibly.”
He folded the paper and rose. “I’ll live in hope until this evening. Should I send Thomas back in?”
Harold-Thomas was handsome—footmen were required to be handsome—but he needed a better acquaintance with soap.
“No, thank you. I’ll enjoy the rest of my meal in solitude.”
Cuthbert kissed her cheek, the newspaper tucked under his arm. “Maybe we’ll go to Lisbon this autumn or sail off to Rome. You’d like Rome.”
All those ancient statues with their chipped noses and eternally staring eyes? Having a doting husband fifteen years Beatrice’s senior was bad enough.
“Let’s think about it. Autumn is months away.”
Cuthbert patted her hand. “You ladies do so enjoy your waltzing. I’ll take lunch at the club, see what the fellows have to say about this Wentworth debacle. A few of them bank with him, despite the availability of many more venerable institutions. Some say he stole his first fortune, the rest remain strangely reticent, even in their cups. All very interesting.”
“Money,” Beatrice said, putting a world of disdain into two syllables. “Was there ever a more boring topic?” Or a more interesting topic than Quinn Wentworth?
“A club man is easily amused,” Cuthbert replied. “Enjoy your day, pet.”
“Save me a waltz.”
“I’ll be happy to.” He left the morning parlor at his usual brisk pace, though why—why in the name of every gentlemen’s club in St. James—must Cuthbert focus on Quinn Wentworth now?
Beatrice closed the door after her husband, drew every curtain in the room, and resumed her seat. She rested her forehead on her crossed arms and hated her whole dreadful life.
And Quinn Wentworth. For good measure, she hated Quinn Wentworth too.
* * *
“You’d best tell me,” Stephen said, patting his gelding. “Whatever has you half deaf at table, and off to the bank at all hours, is worrying the sisters. You’ve been out of prison for nearly two weeks, and yet you might as well still be locked away somewhere for all we see of you.”
“The sisters always worry.” They’d also taken to shopping like coachmen sampling free summer ale. Instead of bickering incessantly, Constance and Althea planned mercantile raids, compared prices between establishments, and tried on bonnets without number. Jane abetted these excesses, and when Quinn had arrived home last evening—half an hour earlier than usual—he’d heard feminine laughter coming from the family parlor.
Who would have guessed?
“The servants tell me everything,” Stephen said, turning his horse down a quiet bridle path. “Everything, Quinn. If you want eyes and ears at home, I’m your man.”
On horseback, Stephen looked older than when in his Bath chair. He was growing into Quinn’s height, and he’d chosen a mount that stood more than seventeen hands. To compensate for the weakness in his leg, his upper body strength was significant, and his chest and shoulders were well developed as a result.
By the laws of the street, Stephen was a man.
“You’re my baby brother. Asking you to spy for me only puts you in harm’s way.”
Quinn had forgotten that Hyde Park early on a spring day was a slice of heaven. Birds flitted overhead in the luminous canopy of new leaves, the Serpentine reflected brilliant morning sunshine. Here was peace and beauty, right in the midst of London’s endless vice.
Stephen’s horse shied at a rabbit darting across the path, dislocating Stephen from the saddle not one bit.
“I do believe those two words—baby brother—are my least favorite pairing in any language,” Stephen said. “I wouldn’t be spying. I’m simply summarizing the endless stream of gossip, news, and hearsay that is heaped upon me daily by our loyal staff. Kristoff and Ivor are having a row over the new maids, for example.”
Kristoff and Ivor barely spoke when in livery. “What sort of row?”
“Don’t be an idiot. You might be married to your bank, but the rest of us are human.”
“I am married to Jane.” Which made Quinn increasingly uneasy. He slept beside Jane every night, to the extent he ever slept, and to the extent he could sleep when she was in and out of the bed so frequently.
Quinn almost enjoyed squiring her about to the glovemaker’s or the milliner’s—almost—but did Jane enjoy her post as his self-appointed bodyguard?
“I like Jane,” Stephen said. “She can’t play chess worth a tinker’s prayer, but she’s a good sport and she puts up with Althea and Constance. I think you’d like Jane too if you’d give her a chance, Your Grace.”
I do believe those two words…“I’m glad you and Jane are getting along. I’d take it as a favor to me if you’d teach her to shoot.”
Stephen halted his horse. “You should teach her. She’s your wife. Joshua says you’re frequently gone from the bank, off doing God knows what. Jane is determined that we all help keep your ungrateful self safe, which is difficult when we don’t know where to find you. Althea says the baby won’t settle for months yet, but leaving word with me of your whereabouts would be a husbandly courtesy. Mind, I’m not suggesting you tell your duchess what you’re about, because I would never meddle between man and wife.”
“What does that mean, the baby won’t settle?”
“Ask Jane.”
She and Quinn didn’t talk about the child. Jane had chosen a midwife and an accoucheur, and made second choices for each in case the first was unavailable. Always sensible, that was Jane.
“I don’t want to worry her. Please teach her to shoot.”
“You teach her to shoot. You’re her husband.”
Wentworths were stubborn, and Stephen was enjoying himself.
“You’re a dead shot,” Quinn said. “By comparison, I barely know which end of a gun does what.” Pistols were loud, they cost money, and they could fire at most four bullets, with little accuracy over any distance. Quinn was very good with a pistol, Stephen was brilliant. “A sharp knife is a poor man’s best friend.”
“You are not a poor man—or has that changed too? Is the bank in trouble?”
Stephen’s question was reasonable, but he had waited for one of few opportunities to raise it in private. Jane had asked Quinn to make this dawn jaunt with Stephen for three mornings in a row, and Quinn had relented mostly to appease her.
“The bank is in good health for the moment,” he said. “Any renewed scandal and we’re done.”
“Joshua says you’re thriving.”
Damn Joshua. “We’ve brought in some accounts from the working classes, I’m happy to report, though they have little in the way of funds. The major depositors are nervous. I’ve also been busy trying to learn the business of the dukedom.”
“Such a pity nobody else in your family has a grasp of basic math or simple mercantile concepts. All alone you must struggle on, the uncomplaining hero of some tragedy you’re determined to write in your own blood.”
“You sound like Jane.”
“I’m nearly quoting her on the subject of Ned and regular bathing, though I came up with the part about the tragedy myself. Jane said to ask you if I could help with the estate properties, because I have a fine head for numbers. Duncan seconded the motion, then Constance said if you hand me an estate to put to rights, she wants one too. Althea was at the glovemaker’s at the time, or she would have demanded a property as well.”
This was Jane being helpful. Also meddlesome as hell.
Another horseman rode toward them. A largish fellow on a largish bay, no white on the horse anywhere.
“I’ll review the stewards’ reports on the properties when I return from the bank this evening, but it’s not bank business that has occupied me so much over the past two weeks.”
Quinn’s groom—who did carry a gun, a knife, and a pocketful of sand—closed the distance between his horse and Quinn’s.
“That’s Elsmore,” Stephen said.
The Duke of Elsmore sat on the board of directors for the Dorset and Becker Savings and Trust. The bank was ancient, and Elsmore’s family had been involved at a genteel distance since its inception. From what Quinn had seen, the Dorset and Becker was an honest organization, though it catered to wealthy gentry and titles from the northern shires, and its investments were uniformly unimaginative.
Elsmore met Quinn’s gaze when the horses were a good twenty yards apart.
“Look bored,” Quinn muttered, motioning the groom to hang back. “Say nothing.”
Stephen snorted. “As Your Grace wishes.”
Elsmore brought his horse to a halt a few feet up the path. “Wentworth, good day. Perhaps you’d introduce me to your companion?”
Elsmore was several years younger than Quinn, had dark hair, and preferred severe attire to the gold buttons and lacy finery some of his class favored. At the rare gatherings where their paths had crossed, Quinn had sensed only polite curiosity from Elsmore rather than the lurid interest most hid so poorly.
“Your Grace, good morning. May I make known to you my brother, Lord Stephen Wentworth. Stephen, I present to you Wrexham, Duke of Elsmore.”
Lord Stephen Wentworth. That merited an upward twitch of Elsmore’s eyebrow.
Dodson had informed Quinn that the royal hand had been put to the appropriate warrants. Three days ago, Quinn had observed the bare minimum of ritual with the Lord Chancellor, and the Wentworth siblings now sported courtesy titles.
With this introduction to Elsmore, all of polite society would soon hear that news.
“Congratulations are in order,” Elsmore said, his smile surprisingly fierce. “One hears rumors. A ducal title?”
“Yes.”
Silence fell. Quinn’s horse snatched at the reins. Ruddy beast had no manners, but he was fast and fearless.
“Damned George probably saddled you with a load of debt,” Elsmore said, simply an observation from a commercially astute peer. “My condolences must accompany my congratulations, but you’ll sort it out. One hears rumors of a different sort, however.”
You’ll sort it out. From a duke, much less a director at a rival establishment, that was tantamount to sponsoring Quinn for vouchers at Almack’s. Doubtless, Elsmore expected something in return.
“Lord Stephen is in my confidence in every regard,” Quinn replied, and Stephen, who apparently aspired to reach his eighteenth birthday, did not fall off his horse overcome with mirth.
“One hears a certain viscount is considering moving his funds,” Elsmore said, gaze upon the greenery overhead.
Was this a warning, a confidence, an inchoate request for a favor, or…? Ah. Detwiler. A request for help making a decision, then, though a banker never, ever violated client confidentiality.
“Some viscounts can move their assets about in a thimble,” Quinn said, “while their debts would require a wheelbarrow.”
Elsmore appeared fascinated by the surrounding maples. “A wheelbarrow?”
He’d never struck Quinn as slow before. “A bloody big muck cart.”
“With a cloud of flies buzzing over it,” Stephen added, “that you can hear from halfway up the street.”
Accurate, given that Detwiler’s finances were under discussion, though Stephen couldn’t know that.
“I see.” Elsmore gathered up his reins. “Such a pity when that’s the case. Lovely morning, isn’t it?”
“The best London has to offer,” Quinn replied.
Elsmore touched his hat brim. “Your Grace, Lord Stephen, always a pleasure to pass the time in beautiful surrounds. I’ll wish you good day.”
He sent his horse at a walk between Quinn’s and Stephen’s mounts, his air of self-possession as subtle and bright as the sunbeams lancing down through the trees.
The bay’s hoofbeats faded, while Quinn tried to make sense of the encounter.
“What the hell was that about?” Stephen asked.
“The Duke of Walden has made his come-out.” Which Jane had doubtless known would happen on such an excursion.
“But that business with the muck carts and viscounts?”
“A test, and I passed, no thanks to your thespian capabilities.” Elsmore would have a quiet word with his bankers, and they’d advise Detwiler to keep his funds with Quinn for the sake of investment continuity or some such fiction. Detwiler’s financial muck cart would remain parked in its present location amid Quinn’s accounts.
A courtesy done between banking establishments, one that coincided with Detwiler’s best interests, or Quinn would not have even hinted to Elsmore of the viscount’s true situation.
“When will you let me start at the bank in earnest?” Stephen asked, nudging his horse forward on the path. “I’m good with numbers, and I’m entirely in Your Grace’s confidence. I can also keep an eye on you for Jane’s sake.”
Quinn’s gelding kept pace with Stephen’s mount. “You’re entirely a pest.” A loyal pest with quick wits, also Quinn’s only brother. “Robert Pike’s body was not in the grave where it was purportedly buried.”
Stephen stared at his horse’s mane while a squirrel started a racket overhead. “That’s good.”
“And it’s bad. The poor sod in that coffin had his hair dyed dark to match Pike’s, and he might have resembled Pike somewhat in life, but he wasn’t Pike.”
“You can tell his hair was dyed?”
“He was doubtless seriously ill, and chosen for his resemblance to Pike. His hair was dyed some time before he died. For however much longer he lived, his hair grew and nobody thought to touch him up in death.”
“I wish you didn’t know so much about dead people.”
“I know about staying alive, I hope. His skull bore no sign of injury, though the physician’s report said Pike’s death was precipitated by a mortal blow to the head.”
Abetted by exposure to a cold March night, lack of medical treatment, and six pages of nearly illegible lies, deceptions, and obfuscations by the physician, who was not regularly employed in the capacity of coroner. The author of the report hadn’t testified at the trial, but rather, a coroner who’d read that report had mumbled and muttered under oath in his place.
Quinn had brought a retired physician with him to examine the deceased, though anybody could see the poor blighter’s head hadn’t been bashed in.
“You planning to have a chat with the coroner who wrote that affidavit?” Stephen asked.
“He’s on indefinite holiday in a location his former housekeeper could not recall—somewhere far, far away.”
“That’s bad.”
“Pike hailed from York, and his family still bides there. I’ll be traveling north at the end of the week—on business, as far as Jane is concerned.”
The Countess of Tipton hailed from York, as did her in-laws. Quinn had pushed that fact to the very edge of his awareness, where it refused to stay.
Stephen brushed a glance in Quinn’s direction, presaging one of the lad’s rare attempts at delicacy. “Jane won’t like you disappearing onto the Great North Road even on business. She’ll expect you to take an army of nannies, all of whom will tattle on you without a qualm.”
“I know.” And that was bad too.