Chapter Twelve
After a false sighting of Forney led them to a dead end, Strathairn suspected Parnham had withdrawn his support for the investigation. He was soon proved right, for Parnham stated it bluntly and would not be swayed.
Strathairn stamped away from Horse Guards, grinding his teeth. This was tied in some way to his dead partner, of that he remained convinced. He needed to prove it for Nesbit’s wife’s sake. If he could, It might be possible to convince the War Office to pay some sort of remuneration and possibly gift Nesbit with a decoration for bravery. But not even a little luck had gone their way, and he didn’t have the smallest clue as to who killed his partner or Dawes in so ruthless and efficient a manner. Disheartened, he resumed his search for Vaughn.
Strathairn visited the morgue, coming away relieved not to find the young man. As night fell, he went to Covent Garden. The stalls had shut, and the market closed and only a few prostitutes roamed the shadowy square.
He ventured into the brothels in the surrounding alleys and questioned the game girls. No one remembered him. And a good-looking young lord would be remembered. At Haymarket Theatre, King’s Theatre, and the Royal in Drury Lane, the actresses and opera dancers could tell him nothing. London teemed with people; it was easy to get lost among them if one chose. He only hoped Vaughn hadn’t chosen to.
Strathairn sought out the Black Legs at the gaming houses in Jermyn Street, Bury Street, and Cleveland Row, but it, too, proved unproductive. Vaughn was known in several places, but no one could say where he’d gone.
Strathairn visited White’s Club on St. James’s Street. The current arbitrator of fashion since Brummel departed London, William Arden, Second Baron Alvanley, hailed him from his position by the bow window, the seat of privilege.
“You haven’t set eyes on Lord Vaughn of the Brandreth clan recently, have you, Alvanley?”
“That young whippersnapper? Not of late.”
Alvanley was an inveterate gambler who frequented Watier’s. Not a bad sort, he’d supported Brummel and sent him money after he’d fled to the Continent to escape his debtors. If he hadn’t seen Vaughn, then it was unlikely he was around. “You haven’t lost Underbank Hall, I trust?”
“Not yet.” Alvanley gestured to the window with a laugh.
Strathairn grinned and clapped Alvanley on the back. “Send me word if you hear from the youngest Winborne?”
Alvanley nodded, his attention already caught by an offer to take a bet.
Strathairn moved on through the club where laughter and conversation rose from every corner. He located Edward in the card room.
Edward threw down his cards and rose from the table with a worried frown. “Sibella said you were looking for Vaughn.”
“Haven’t found him yet. Vaughn might be holed up with a woman somewhere,” Strathairn said, trying to ease his mind.
“Yes, he’ll appear before long. I just wish Sibella didn’t take these things to heart.”
“She worries about her mother,” Strathairn said as a fresh wave of frustration tightened his shoulders. “If we don’t find him soon, the dowager marchioness will discover him missing.”
“Dear God, let’s pray that doesn’t happen,” Edward said gloomily.
Strathairn feared what sort of condition Vaughn would be in. If he was found. There was nothing more he could do in London; all avenues had been explored. He left Edward to continue the search.
With Parham disinterested in furthering the investigation, and Sibella prevented from riding in Hyde Park, Strathairn had a fervent desire to escape London for a few days. He wanted to bury his woes while watching his latest racehorse perform at Doncaster. He had run out of ideas and his mood had grown too low to bear.
The next day, Strathairn left Irvine in charge of what amounted to the cleaning up of a defunct operation. With a portmanteau packed, he headed north to Linden Hall. His thoroughbred was to make its debut run in the St. Leger. He would return to London in time for Sibella’s ball, where he hoped Vaughn would finally appear.
It had rained earlier but was now a fine crisp autumn day, the trees bordering the race course gleamed green, gold, and bronze in the sunlight. A lengthy line of punters trudged along the busy road to the racecourse, the road choked with riders and carriages.
The St. Leger course provided a broad straight gallop for the horses. Strathairn entered the racetrack grounds, keen to see how his horse Ulysses faired, though he doubted the gelding was suited to the distance.
Strathairn fought his way through the crowd and placed a bet on the next race, then he skirted the mob where all manner of betting was taking place from cockfighting to cards. He climbed the steps into the grandstand to wait for Ulysses to be led out onto the track. When the big horse appeared, he rose to his feet along with the well-dressed patrons around him. At the flap of the starter’s flag, the five horses sprinted. Ulysses got off to a good start. Strathairn followed the progress of his big chocolate brown horse, holding his breath as excitement kicked in and the crowd’s roar rose to an ear-deafening crescendo. Ulysses was well placed, tucked in behind the two leaders. The mighty horse, Antonio, led the way, and he was sure it would win. A lot of jostling took place among the competitors before Antonio galloped home in first place.
He turned away, pleased that Ulysses had run a good race. Next year the horse would have a better chance. He made his way down the stairs, planning to bet on the next race. Someone slapped him on the back and he swung around. “Vaughn!”
Vaughn grinned. “When I heard you had a horse running, I thought I might find you here.”
Annoyance fought with an overwhelming sense of relief. “You’ve been gone from London quite a while. Care to tell me where you’ve been?”
“Making a tour of race tracks.” The youngest of the Brandreth males was unkempt and pasty-faced. Either he hadn’t slept or he had been drinking too much. Startled but greatly relieved, Strathairn grabbed Vaughn’s arm as if he was about to disappear in a puff of smoke. “Your family is worried about you.”
Vaughn cocked a brow. “Are they? I am only doing what Chaloner wants of me, to stand on my own two feet.”
Strathairn eyed Vaughn’s crumpled cravat, from which a stale unwashed smell arose. “You don’t appear to be making a great success of it. Lady Sibella is frantic. She asked me to find you before your mother learned you’d gone missing.”
“I intend to stay away from home until I win back the money I owe.” Vaughn’s green eyes shifted away and his mouth formed a mulish caste.
“An admirable goal.” Strathairn raised a brow and hid his pity for the younger man behind a brusque stare.
Vaughn shrugged. “I can see you don’t agree. If you’ll excuse me…”
“Don’t run off.” He slung an arm around Vaughn’s shoulders. “I need to speak to my groom about Ulysses. I’d appreciate your company.”
Vaughn nodded and walked with him past the horses being led onto the track. The thoroughbreds tossed their heads, their glossy coats gleaming in the sunlight. “Love to own one of those beauties,” Vaughn said.
After Strathairn saw his horse depart for home, he remained with Vaughn as they waited for the next race to start. The splendid favorite was a very short price.
“He looks a safe bet. I’ll wager a monkey on him. I won at billiards last night,” Vaughn said.
“Five hundred is a lot, Vaughn. Are you sure? There’s no such thing as a sure thing,” he said. Gambling seemed an unpalatable way to deal with feelings. It fixed nothing in the end.
“It can’t lose.” Vaughn firmed his lips.
“You think not?” In response, Strathairn raised an eyebrow, and he fell silent.
Strathairn was glad the favorite failed to win. Vaughn may learn something from it although he already appeared to be a hardened gambler. As they walked away from the track, he found out Vaughn had nowhere to stay.
“Come home with me,” he said, wanting to make sure the young man didn’t disappear again. “I’ll be glad of the company.” It would give him time to talk some sense into Vaughn.
Despite readily agreeing, Strathairn could get little out of Vaughn on the way home. He remained tight-lipped about where he’d been or the state of his finances. He gave up asking when the young man scowled and slumped on the squabs, looking profoundly miserable.
At Linden Hall, they visited the stables and then rode out to watch a groom put a horse through his paces over the moor. The handsome black stallion performed impressively, covering the ground with easy grace.
Vaughn rested his arms on the fence rail. “I was impressed with Ulysses, but he’s even better,” he said, enthusiasm warming his voice.
“You’re looking at a champion in the making.” Strathairn ran his hand over the horse’s smooth neck. “Indigo is the best I’ve ever had. He’s the progeny of Sabre who won the Two Thousand Guineas at Newmarket.”
“Good lord! I’d love to see him race!”
“Would you?” He studied Vaughn. Here at the hall, he seemed a different person. The debauched gambler had suddenly turned into an excited young man, his eyes bright with interest as he admired the stud’s blood cattle.
Vaughn asked surprisingly intelligent questions about the stud, and he did his best to answer them as they dismounted at the stables, then walked down the avenue of trees, fallen chestnuts crunching underfoot. In the library after dinner, Strathairn eyed the hunched young man sitting opposite him in the fireside chair. “How much money do you owe?”
Vaughn winced. “A thousand guineas.”
“You went to the cent per centers.”
Vaughn nodded. “The interest is crippling. I had hoped Chaloner would bail me out before it got to this.”
“Chaloner’s not a mean man. I believe he tried to rein you in.”
Vaughn scowled. “I regret being so pig headed. I got myself into this mess, and I’m determined to get myself out.”
Strathairn eyed him sympathetically. He might have got into the same trouble when he was younger, had he not chosen the army. “You are genuinely interested in horses, aren’t you? Not just betting on them.”
“Indeed, yes. One day I hope to set up a breeding stable like yours.” His shoulders sank. “If I ever get free of debt.” He shoved an errant lock back with an impatient hand. “But I won’t come into my inheritance for years.”
“You might consider a proposition of mine, then.”
Vaughn’s eyes widened. “Which is…?”
“You will have to be prepared to remain here and not be tempted to seek excitement in the city fleshpots. You can learn from my man and help with the running of the stables. That will require manual labor. I would be grateful if you’d help me out until things settle down in London.”
“But the money lenders are after me—”
“I’ll pay them off.”
Vaughn gasped. “I can’t allow you to do that.”
“Yes, you can. You’ll earn every bit of it. But you must write to Lady Sibella and tell her where you are. I’ll take your letter with me tomorrow.”
Vaughn regained some of his lost cockiness, arching a dark eyebrow. “Sibella, eh? Not Edward?”
“Either,” Strathairn said offhandedly.
Brandreth’s green eyes assessed him. “I don’t know why you didn’t marry Sib, Strathairn.”
Strathairn offered him the decanter of whiskey. “Your sister has made a good match.”
Vaughn held out his glass. “I’d have preferred her to marry you. Don’t care for Coombe much.”
“Just write that letter. Tonight,” Strathairn said, refusing to be drawn. “And I’d rather you didn’t mention I’ve given you the money.”
“I shall have to tell Chaloner.”
“Let’s wait and see how well you do here.”
“That’s mighty generous of you.”
“Not really. It suits me, that’s all.” Strathairn took a swig of his drink, savoring the delicate toasty honey flavor of good whiskey. “And if you find life here doesn’t suit you, you are to let me know immediately. I’ll not chastise you.” He leaned forward. “But if I’m informed you are back at the racetrack, seeking out betting shops or Tattersall’s, you’ll be out on your backside.”
Vaughn’s eyes grew steely with determination. “I won’t let you down, Strathairn.”
Apparently, Vaughn meant it. At least for now.
*
At Lord Peter and Aida’s home in Curzon Street, Sibella attended Aida while her husband walked a distinct track in the corridor carpet. Finally, her sister gave birth to a daughter just before midnight. When the physician assured her that her sister was well and resting comfortably, Sibella returned wearily to St. James’s Square. The clock struck two as she climbed the stairs. She found her mother still awake in the drawing room.
“The babe is born?”
“Yes, Aida has a daughter.” Sibella removed her pelisse and hat and handed them to a footman.
“Both are well?”
“In excellent health. Peter is pleased and remains confident the next child will be a boy. Everyone is well. Do please go to bed, you look so tired.”
Her mother followed her along the corridor to her bedchamber. “As do you. I don’t know why Peter wouldn’t let me stay to care for Aida.”
“Neither Peter nor Aida wanted to risk your health,” Sibella said diplomatically. Aida had begged her husband to convince their mother to go home. She preferred Sibella’s calm practical nature to their mother’s more forceful one.
They entered her bedchamber. “And the babe, did you see her?”
“Oh yes. I held her.” She had studied the tiny hands, delicate features, and stroked the baby-soft skin. “She has the Brandreth’s black hair. I believe her eyes will be green, too.”
“I did fear she might inherit the drab coloring of Peter’s family. Such a plain woman, his mother. Lady Wallace and the earl are traveling up from Dorset. I daresay they’ll arrive first thing in the morning.” Her mother pulled the bell. “I’m ordering hot milk. Please drink it.” She stood behind Sibella who sat at the mirror removing the pins from her hair. “Where is your maid?”
“I told her not to wait up. I’m perfectly capable of getting myself ready for bed.”
“What nonsense.”
A rap on the door interrupted them. The bleary-eyed footman entered.
“Have hot milk and biscuits sent up, Bolt,” Lady Brandreth said.
Sibella brushed her hair. There was no point in telling her mother she couldn’t eat a bite even though she’d missed dinner. Her appetite had deserted her of late.
Lady Brandreth took the brush from her hand and ran it through Sibella’s hair. “You have not been at your best lately. Not at all like a woman about to marry.”
Sibella closed her eyes, enjoying her mother’s soothing touch. “I’m just tired.”
“Are you not pleased to marry Lord Coombe? Is he not polite and attentive?”
“He is. But I don’t love him.”
“The love of your life isn’t always the one you marry.” Her mother put down the brush and gathered Sibella’s hair into braids. “My dear, are you aware that I didn’t love your father when we first married?”
Sibella met her mother’s eyes in the mirror. “I wasn’t, Mama.”
“Not at first. I was desperately in love with someone entirely unsuitable.”
“Was he a rake?”
“Oh yes. Lord Bascom was a rake of the first order.”
Sibella swiveled to face her. “Did you ever regret not marrying Bascom?”
“Goodness, no. Do keep still. Bascom wed one of the Kirkpatrick twins. The poor lady died after only two years of marriage. Not from a surfeit of his company, I gathered. He was known to be seldom at home as gambling and mistresses were his favored pursuits.” She smiled into the mirror. “But his eyes were like melted chocolate and his physique quite startling…” Shaking her head, she laughed. “All the ladies were smitten with him. I clearly remember that he wanted me as desperately as I did him.”
Sibella studied her mother objectively. Age had thickened her waist and threaded white through her black hair but had also enhanced the fine bone structure of her face. “I believe many men did, Mama.”
“Yes, but your father was the best of them. We made an excellent match in the end. Just look at our progeny!”
Sibella rose to remove her dress. Her mother came to help her, undoing two buttons just out of reach. “Foolish to spoil your maid. She will grow lazy and useless.”
A footman brought in the hot milk and biscuits on a tray. The drink warmed her cold insides, but somehow the warmth failed to banish the chill which had lodged in her heart.
“I trust you will come to love Lord Coombe, my dear,” her mother said. “After you become intimate, everything changes.”
“I do hope so.” Sibella was too tired to argue. The image of John’s face as they stood on the pavement that last time swum into her mind’s eye. Was that misery darkening his eyes? It hardly mattered, he had made up his mind. So infuriatingly noble. But yes, she admired that about him, too. She sighed. But had he found Vaughn?
Her mother tucked her in bed and left the room. Sibella blew out the candle and lay staring into the dark. Her sister’s tiny babe was perfect. She wanted one of her own. She banished Coombe from her thoughts and indulged in the memory of John’s hair like rough silk beneath her fingers. A deep sigh escaped her lips as her senses came alive to the slide of silk nightgown against her thighs. Exhausted and sensually disturbed, she drifted off to sleep.