Some Like It Brazen by Alexandra Ivy (21)

The townhouse tucked in Lombard Street was a perfectly respectable brick structure, with a perfectly respectable garden, in a perfectly respectable neighborhood.

It was remarkable only for the fact that it managed to meld so easily into its surroundings as to be nearly invisible.

The owner, Mr. Dunnington, was equally successful in blending into his surroundings.

Even his most intimate acquaintances would admit they knew little of the gentleman. Nothing beyond the fact that he had once been a tutor who had come into a small inheritance and after buying the townhouse had converted it into an exclusive school for boys of superior, if not precisely legal birth.

Bastards, some would call them, but with enough money from their fathers to ensure that they received a proper education and the ability to establish decent careers.

Beyond his obvious skill at teaching, Mr. Dunnington, however, remained an intriguing mystery.

Of course, there was no one who could have suspected just how mysterious he would prove to be. Certainly not the three gentlemen currently seated in the library of the townhouse.

At a glance the gentlemen held little in common. Well, nothing beyond the fact that all three were the sort to cause a riot among the most fastidious of women.

Raoul Charlebois leaned negligently against the mahogany desk and was perhaps the most captivating of the three.

It was more than his pale, golden beauty or the perfection of his lean body. There was simply something in the grace of his movements and the compelling emotions that played over his classic features with a mesmerizing ease. There was no surprise that he was currently London’s most celebrated actor.

Ian Breckford in contrast was a dark, smoldering gentleman who managed to succeed in everything he attempted. He was the best swordsman, he held the fastest record of traveling from Dover to London on horseback, he had made a fortune at the gambling tables, and women throughout London referred to him as Casanova.

He was a genuine hedonist who was admired and envied by every gentleman in London.

Fredrick Smith was neither as fair as Raoul, nor as dark as Ian. His hair was a pale honey with an annoying tendency to curl over his ears and at the nape of his neck. His features were delicately carved and had been the bane of his existence when he had been a lad. What boy wanted to look like a cherubic angel? Thankfully, age had managed to add a layer of unmistakable masculinity to the wide brow, the angular cheekbones, and the thin line of nose. Nothing, however, could alter the eyes that were an odd grey that could shift from silver to the deepest charcoal depending upon his mood.

His body was also thinner, although he spent enough time in his workshops to develop the sort of hard muscles that were nicely displayed by the current fashion of skintight breeches and tailored jackets.

Not that he entirely approved of all the latest styles, he wryly acknowledged. There was nothing pleasant about the black slippers that he had hastily purchased for the funeral. They not only pinched his toes, but he feared the laces were beginning to cut off the bloodstream to his feet. Had he known that this appointment was going to take the better part of the day he would have worn his comfortable boots.

It had been nearly an hour since the small, annoyingly fussy solicitor had excused himself from the room, but the shocked silence remained as thick as the moment the will had been read.

Seated near the crackling fire that battled the late January chill, Fredrick sipped on the fine brandy that he had possessed the foresight to bring.

He had expected the day to be difficult. Mr. Dunnington had been more than a teacher to him and his two companions. He had been a father, a mentor, and the cornerstone of their lives. Even after they had left this townhouse to seek their fortunes in the world, they had never lost contact with the man who had given them something none of them had ever expected to discover.

A family.

A rare and precious commodity for a bastard.

To know that he had gone from this world forever left a gaping wound in Fredrick’s heart that would not soon heal.

There was a loud pop from the fireplace as one of the logs shifted. It was enough to jerk the three gentlemen from their broodings and with a muffled oath, Raoul rose to his feet and paced toward the bow window.

“I’ll be damned,” he muttered.

“That seems to sum it up nicely,” Fredrick said dryly. Ian made a sound deep in his throat. “The old man was always a bit batty and we all thought he must harbor some mystery in his past, but this . . .” He gave a shake of his head, the handsome features for once devoid of its wicked smile. “Bloody hell.”

Raoul leaned against the frame of the window and folded his arms over his chest. His movements were not the smooth, almost profound movements he usually employed. Raoul Charlebois was an actor who considered the whole world his stage. It was only when he was with Fredrick and Ian that he allowed himself to lower his guard.

“It does all seem highly unlikely.”

“Unlikely? It is a great deal more than that.” Ian surged to his feet, a restless energy crackling around his lean body. “It is one thing to possess a hidden lover or even an addiction to the gaming hells. Good God, even an occasional trip to the opium dens would have been less shocking. Who the devil could have suspected he was a brilliant extortionist?”

Fredrick remained seated, his mind methodically working through the stunning revelations that had shaken all of them. When they had been requested to attend the meeting with Dunnington’s solicitor, they had all presumed that the old man had left them some small memento, a reminder of the past they had shared. Certainly none of them expected to be told that they were each to receive a legacy of twenty thousand pounds. Or that the money they were each to receive had been bilked from their respective fathers over the course of near twenty years.

Absently, he reached beneath his jacket and pulled out a small notebook and nub of pencil he always kept handy. He was a man who understood that any problem could be solved once it was sorted into manageable details. No doubt it was the result of his career as an engineer.

Or perhaps he became an engineer because he possessed an obsession with details. Fate was a strange thing.

And getting stranger by the moment, he ruefully acknowledged as he began to jot down notes.

Across the room, Ian paced to pour himself a glass of Fredrick’s brandy. “What I want to know is how? It is one thing to manage to learn of a scandal. Hell, I do not doubt that I could be blackmailed under the right circumstances. But to have extorted each of our fathers out of twenty thousand pounds . . . Christ, it is nothing short of remarkable.”

Raoul narrowed his gaze as he brooded on his friend’s words. “True enough. Not that our dear, beloved fathers led blameless lives. We three are proof of that. Still, what sort of dark sin would they be willing to pay such a sum to keep hidden?”

“They must be sins worthy of the devil.” Ian gave a short, bitter laugh. “Hell, it almost makes me hopeful. I assumed that my father must have been forced at gunpoint to actually impregnate my mother, the cold bastard. Now I discover he has another sin or two up his sleeve. Perhaps he is mortal after all.”

“I think you have something there,” Fredrick murmured, scratching on his pad. “Whatever secrets our fathers are hiding must be of great importance. At least to them.”

“What the blazes are you doing Fredrick?” Without warning Ian was across the room and standing next to Fredrick’s chair. “Making one of your damnable lists?”

Fredrick shrugged. “It always helps me to sort things out to see them written in logical order.”

“Let me see.” Ian plucked the notebook from his hands.

Raoul stepped forward, his handsome features hardening with a flare of annoyance. “Ian . . .”

“Let it be, Raoul,” Fredrick said softly. He understood Ian. Behind his sardonic wit and restless need to forever be proving himself, he was a gentleman who felt deeply. The death of Dunnington, followed by this disturbing legacy, had left him unsettled and battling the desire to strike out.

“Item one.” Ian read from Fredrick’s notebook. “Dunnington leaves a legacy of twenty thousand pounds to three of his students. Why only three?”

“Mon Dieu.” Raoul sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes narrowing as he studied Fredrick. “As usual you have managed to hit on the pertinent point, Fredrick. Dunnington must have had twenty or more boys here over the years. Why would he choose us three?”

Fredrick reached for his brandy and took a sip. “We were the first three he brought in. Maybe it was no random coincidence,” he said slowly. “Perhaps Dunnington already had the information on our fathers before opening the school and when it came time to acquire his first pupils, where better to search than three powerful gentlemen who were clearly willing to go to any length to keep their secrets?”

Ian gave a lift of his brows. “So you suggest that Dunnington had managed to stumble across some intriguing information and he used that to fund his school for bastards?”

“Yes,” Fredrick agreed.

Ian mulled the notion for a moment. “Do you know . . . I think that it more likely that he started the school because of us. He was a sentimental old fool. It would be just like him to have caught sight of us or even just heard about us when he was a tutor at the various households. If he became determined to help us in some way he could have set about discovering information about our fathers. After he had us settled it would have been a natural thing to continue his efforts to assist other boys in need.”

There was a short silence before Raoul at last gave a low chuckle. “Egad, Ian. Did you actually make use of the organ located in your skull rather than your breeches?”

Ian smiled with dry humor. “Not nearly as rewarding, I fear.”

Fredrick smiled at the affable teasing. The three men were closer than brothers could ever be. They had more than the ties of blood, after all. They had the shared shame and burden of knowing they were unwanted. Not only by their families, but by society who considered them as outcasts.

Their lives would be a constant struggle to make a place for themselves in the world. Thank God they had each other.

“I think it is a reasonable hypothesis.” Fredrick reached to reclaim his notebook. “Let us say that Dunnington decided he wished to help us and managed to uncover the sort of information a gentleman would not wish bandied about.”

Raoul nodded. “Not a difficult task for a tutor. They are in an odd position within the household. Not precisely servants, and yet, not a member of the family. They seem to disappear between the upper and lower stairs. It would be a simple matter for them to overhear any number of conversations, or to catch sight of clandestine meetings.”

Ian returned to his quick, impatient pacing. “Well, whatever information he managed to uncover it had to be more serious than possessing a bastard. None of us were actually denied by our fathers.”

“Just unwanted,” Fredrick muttered.

“Here, here,” Ian muttered, lifting his glass in a mocking toast.

“Unwanted by our fathers, perhaps, but Dunnington appears to have wanted us. Quite desperately,” Raoul murmured, his perfect features softening as he recalled the man who had altered all of their lives. “After all, he could have walked away with sixty thousand pounds and lived a life of considerable luxury if he wanted.”

Fredrick smiled as he recalled the image of the thin, somber gentleman who was always tidily attired with his hair carefully combed to hide the encroaching baldness. At a glance, he appeared the sort of staid fusspot that young boys detested. Beneath his stoic demeanor, however, he possessed an extraordinary intelligence and a rare ability to inspire the most reluctant student. Even a young Fredrick who had been a shy lad with the tendency to retreat from others.

It had been Dunnington who had recognized Fredrick’s gift for anything mechanical. Indeed, he spent a small fortune on providing Fredrick with a variety of materials so that he could build and tinker to his heart’s content. The long-suffering man had even occasionally attempted to make use of the strange (and by and large useless) inventions, including a water clock that had leaked so often that it had ruined the floorboards.

“I am not certain that Dunnington could ever have been satisfied unless he was educating some reluctant lad. He devoted his life to teaching,” Fredrick said. “However, I do not doubt he was happier to be in charge of his own school as opposed to being at the whim of an employer.”

Ian halted at the fireplace and stared down at the flames with a brooding expression. “More the fool him. He should have taken the money and devoted his days to debauching his way through society.”

“Not all of us consider debauching a rewarding career,” Fredrick pointed out.

“Certainly not you.” Ian turned to regard Fredrick with a narrowed gaze. “How you can bear to spend your days in that cramped workroom with all those bits and pieces of machinery . . . it is enough to give a gentleman hives.”

Fredrick smiled. His workroom was no longer cramped. Indeed, he now owned several large buildings throughout London and employed near fifty people. Not bad for a gentleman who had started with nothing more than dreams.

“Those bits and pieces have made me a tidy fortune.”

“Bah.” Ian turned his attention toward the silent Raoul. “At least Charlebois understands the pleasures to be found in debauchery. Eh, old friend?”

Raoul shrugged, as usual far more reserved about discussing the women who warmed his bed. Odd considering most actors conducted their affairs with the same flamboyance as they lived their lives.

“It does offer its share of amusement,” Raoul murmured. “Although I must confess that anything can become tedious over time.”

Ian gave a lift of his brows. “Ah. Then the rumors must be true that you have ended your torrid affair with the beautiful Mirabelle.”

“All affairs must end.”

“Of course they must,” Ian readily agreed. “Variety, as they say, is the spice of life.”

Fredrick gave a shake of his head. He was not a prude, but he had never understood his friends’ incessant need to be forever seducing women. He had enjoyed discreet affairs, of course. And he had always chosen women who possessed intelligence and charm and could offer more than just a quick tumble. But on the whole, he had preferred to concentrate on building his business. Deep within, he had always known that she was out there. That one special woman who would alter his life forever.

Romantic drivel Ian would call it. Fredrick, however, had never doubted her existence.

“Variety may be the spice of life, but it is also the source of any number of nasty maladies,” he muttered.

Ian gave a short laugh. “Good God, I despair of you, Fredrick, I truly do.”

Fredrick smiled, not at all offended. Ian was forever chiding him for his dull dreams and lack of stylish dash. But his teasing was always born of affection. Dear God, how different it would have been for Fredrick had he gone to a traditional school. His shy nature and odd fascinations would certainly have been the source of malicious mocking, if not downright brutality. Dunnington had truly saved his life when he had brought him to this small townhouse.

“Because I do not keep a harem of women at my disposal?” he demanded softly.

“Because you were born to be shackled to some harridan who will run roughshod over you until you are badgered into the grave,” Ian retorted.

“No, Ian.” Raoul regarded Fredrick with a shrewd, piercing gaze. Fredrick found himself resisting the urge to squirm beneath that steady regard. Raoul possessed an uncanny knack of seeing far beneath the surface of a person. Almost as if he could read their very soul. It was no doubt what made him such a good actor. “Our Fredrick is destined for quite another fate.”

“And what is that?” Ian demanded.

“Fredrick happens to be one of those rare and fortunate gentlemen who are destined for true love.”

“Bah. It still includes a wife and pack of squawking brats, poor blighter,” Ian groused.

Fredrick rose to his feet, not nearly so flippant about discussing the future as his friends. He was superstitious enough to leave fate (or whatever one wanted to call it) well enough alone.

“As fascinating as I find your profound predictions, I believe we would be better served to devote our attention to our more pressing matter,” he said firmly.

Raoul reached out to give Fredrick’s shoulder a brief squeeze, as if sympathizing with Fredrick’s reluctance to discuss his very private dreams.

“No doubt you are right, old friend, but at the moment all we are doing is speculating with no real means of knowing the actual truth. Dunnington might or might not have extorted our respective fathers to rescue us and begin this school. There is simply no way of knowing for certain.”

Ian grimaced. “Dunnington managed to take his secrets to the grave.”

Fredrick paused as he was struck by a sudden thought. “Yes, odd that.”

“What?” Ian demanded.

It was Fredrick’s turn to do a bit of pacing. “Why did he not reveal the truth when we reached our majority?” he demanded. “God knows we could each have used such a fortune at that time.”

They exchanged knowing glances as they recalled the lean years when each of them had been forced to struggle to carve a place in a world determined to offer them nothing.

“Holy hell,” Ian rasped. “When I think of the years I spent dodging the collectors and living in flea ridden rooms . . .”

“Oh come, you know Dunnington,” Raoul drawled. “He would have told you that a man’s character is formed by his suffering, not by his successes. He wanted us to learn to survive by our wits. It is what he preached on a daily basis.”

Ian’s expression revealed precisely what he thought of such a philosophy, but Fredrick was more concerned with what must have been going through Dunnington’s mind.

“That is no doubt part of the reason,” he agreed. “Dunnington did possess a strange obsession with teaching a man to stand on his own two feet. Still, I think . . .”

Silence descended in the room as Fredrick struggled to put his thoughts into words.

“Well, do not leave us in suspense, Fredrick,” Ian at last prompted.

Fredrick gave a lift of his hands. “Just consider the fact that if Dunnington had given us our legacies, he would have been forced to explain how he came by them.”

“You are off the mark if you believe that Dunnington would have been too ashamed to confess the truth of his . . . unique methods of gaining the necessary capital to begin this school,” Raoul swiftly countered. “For all his fanciful notions of teaching, he was at heart a practical man who would take full responsibility for his choices.”

“Yes, I agree with you,” Fredrick said. “I was thinking more along the lines of protecting us.”

Ian frowned. “Protect us? From what?”

Fredrick moved to stare out the window. There was nothing much to see on the quiet street. A maid shivering against the frigid breeze as she polished the doorknob across the way, a coal wagon clattering over the rough cobblestone, a young boy and his nanny taking a walk through the garden. It was all quite commonplace, something to be seen out the window of a hundred homes in London.

But this view would always be special, Fredrick acknowledged as a fresh wave of pain rolled through him. It was special because this was home.

“If Dunnington were still alive we would not rest until we had forced him to tell us the truth of what secrets he learned of our fathers.”

“Bloody right.” Ian refilled his glass with brandy. “We have the right to know what nasty sins our fathers have been committing.”

“Perhaps we have the right, but maybe not the will,” Raoul said softly. “Is that what you are implying, Fredrick?”

“Yes.”

Ian gave a loud snort. “In English, please.”

Raoul absently reached to pluck the brandy from Ian’s hand. The actor had just celebrated his thirtieth birthday which made him a year older than Ian and three years older than Fredrick. He took his role of the elder brother quite seriously.

“Dunnington would realize that we would have instinctively demanded him to tell us the sordid secrets that he kept. Curiosity is human nature, after all. But, he might have felt that the past was better left undisturbed.”

“If he felt that way, then why reveal where the money came from to begin with?” Fredrick muttered. “There was no need to reveal that our fathers were ever involved.”

Raoul heaved a deep sigh. “Because it gave us the option of deciding whether we desired the truth badly enough to go in search of it.”

“Yes.” Fredrick shoved his fingers through his hair. Gads, but he was tired. He had been in Portsmouth when he had received word of Dunnington’s death and he had traveled without halt to arrive in time for the funeral. Since then he had been overwhelmed with one endless task after another. When this was all said and done he intended to reacquaint himself with his very large, very comfortable bed. “It is one thing to simply be told of the past, and quite another to have to go to the effort of returning to our families and seeking it.”

“Dunnington has ensured that the truth comes with a price,” Raoul whispered softly.

Ian firmly took back his glass of brandy and downed it in one swallow. “What you are saying is that he has left us holding Pandora’s Box.”

Pandora’s Box. Yes, that was a perfect description, Fredrick acknowledged.

The sensible choice, of course, would be to keep the lid firmly closed. After all, none of them had any true relationship with their fathers. And certainly whatever secrets their fathers might be harboring could have nothing to do with them.

More importantly, they had each forged lives that gave them satisfaction in their own way. Only a fool would risk such fragile peace to stir up the past.

A silence descended that was broken only by the crackle of the burning logs as the three gentlemen became lost in their own thoughts. At last Raoul gave a sharp shake of his head.

“It would appear that if we had any sense at all, we would take our money, invest it wisely, and forget where it came from.”

Ian gave a short laugh. “And when have we ever been wise?”

Fredrick had to admit his friend did have a point. Raoul devoted his life to playing roles upon the stage. Ian lived by the fickle fate of Lady Luck. And even Fredrick took enormous risks with each new patent he invested in.

“I do not suppose it is possible for any of us to know that there is some secret out there and not try to get to the bottom of it,” Fredrick admitted with a resigned sigh. “It is like having a splinter stuck in your finger that you try to ignore. Eventually you have to pluck it out or it becomes infected.”

“An unpleasant, if apt description.” Raoul gave a short, bitter laugh. “Mon Dieu, we are idiots.”

“And it would seem that Dunnington has at last had his final revenge for all those frogs we hid in his bed,” Fredrick said wryly.

Ian held up his empty glass. “To Dunnington, damn his soul.”

Fredrick and Raoul exchanged a wry glance. “To Dunnington,” they agreed in unison.