October 26th, 1805
Grosvenor Square, London
Albin was sliding a ledger from the bookcase when Marcus entered the study. “Put that back. We’re heading out.”
“Where to, sir?”
“Phillip’s.” Marcus glanced at the clock. A few minutes past eight. Phillip wouldn’t be sober at this hour of the morning, but he might still be awake.
The lad shoved the ledger back. “Shall I be a dog again, sir? I might smell the Smiths. It would prove he had dealings with them.”
I don’t need proof; I know it was him. Marcus shrugged. “If you wish. But I should warn you, I intend to walk there.”
Albin bent to pull off his top boots. “Perhaps it would be wise to take a pistol, sir.”
Marcus patted his pocket. “Ahead of you, lad.”
It was the better part of a mile to Upper Rathbone Place, where Phillip had his lodgings. The sky was an ominous pewter gray, promising snow.
Marcus tried to plan as he walked. Phillip first. Then, the letters.
Brashdon was behind the letters. If he could gain entry to Brashdon’s house and search the place, he knew he’d find proof.
But with his reputation so badly damaged, was searching Brashdon’s a risk he dared take? If he were caught . . .
He turned into Rathbone Place, the black spaniel trotting at his heels. The street narrowed, the tall houses funneling the wind. Marcus turned up the collar of his greatcoat.
Phillip lodged opposite the small, dark-stoned Percy Chapel. Albin set to work sniffing the steps, sniffing the door.
A knife grinder was making a circuit of Upper Rathbone Place. “Knives or scissors to grind today?” he cried.
Marcus watched the man broodingly. How to gain entry to Brashdon’s house?
“Do you smell the Smiths?” he asked, turning back to Albin. He blinked. The spaniel was now a large brindled mastiff. He didn’t need to wonder why: To protect me.
The mastiff shook its head.
“I have a pistol.” I’m not helpless. “Change back.”
Albin didn’t obey. He stayed as he was, a mastiff.
“Fuck,” Marcus said, under his breath. He scowled at Albin, climbed the steps, and rapped sharply on the door.
The middle-aged maid who opened the door recognized him, but she didn’t bob a curtsy and invite him inside. Her eyebrows pinched together in a frown. “Mr. Langford is behind with his rent, sir. Master wants him out by tomorrow.”
Marcus looked down his nose at her. “I beg your pardon?”
A flush mounted in the woman’s cheeks. “Mr. Langford ain’t paid—”
“That will do, Jenny!” Honeymay, the retired valet who owned the building, hurried up behind her. “Enough! Cook needs you in the kitchen.”
The maid pressed her lips together. “Don’t let that dog in the house,” she said, and departed, a flounce in her step.
“I beg your pardon, Lord Cosgrove. Please come in. Please come in.” Honeymay punctuated each sentence with an agitated bow.
Marcus held on to his anger a moment longer—sharp, hot—and then made a conscious effort to let it go, leaving it on the doorstep as he stepped inside. Honeymay didn’t deserve his anger. Even Albin, despite his disobedience, didn’t.
“I beg your pardon for Jenny’s behavior, sir,” Honeymay said, pink-cheeked, flustered. “She’s got it into her head that I need looking after and she sometimes steps above herself. But she means no harm, sir.”
Marcus glanced sourly at the mastiff. I have the same problem. He removed his hat. “Mr. Langford is giving you trouble?”
“You could say so, sir,” Honeymay said. He looked at the mastiff, but made no protest.
“He hasn’t paid his rent?”
“No, sir. Not for several weeks now.”
“Did he tell you I’d pay it?”
“No, sir. He said you’d . . .” Mr. Honeymay became even pinker. “What he said isn’t for repeating, sir.”
“I’m sure it isn’t. Is he in? I’d like a word with him.”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Langford didn’t go out last night. Or the night before.”
“He didn’t?” That was unusual.
They climbed the stairs, Honeymay, himself, the mastiff. Honeymay knocked on Phillip’s door. After a moment he knocked a second time, more loudly.
“Where’s his man?”
“He left several days ago, sir.” Honeymay took a bunch of keys from his pocket and inserted one into the lock. “Said he hadn’t been paid and he wasn’t about to give his service for free.” He knocked once more and swung the door open.
The room released a foul exhalation of air. Marcus recoiled from the stink of gin, the stink of vomit, the stink of shit.
“Oh, dear me,” Honeymay said faintly.
Marcus pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his nose. The mastiff pushed past him, entering the darkened room.
Marcus followed. He threw open the curtains and heaved up the window, letting cold air gust in, and then turned and surveyed the room, the handkerchief still pressed to his nose.
In the absence of his manservant, Phillip hadn’t bothered to tidy up after himself. Clothing littered the room—hats, gloves, a greatcoat, neckcloths. A half-eaten meal sat on the table. The tankard alongside had tipped over.
Phillip had clearly spent some time drinking beside the fireplace; several gin bottles lay on the floor. There was vomit on the rug, vomit on the armchair, even vomit in the grate.
Marcus crossed to the open doorway to the bedchamber. The stench emanating from it was even worse. Behind him, Honeymay articulated his dismay: “Oh, dear me. Dear me.”
Marcus pressed the handkerchief more firmly to his nose and entered, jerked the curtains wide, flung the window open.
There were gin bottles here, too, and vomit, and several days’ worth of clothing on the floor. The chamber pot was full. Phillip hadn’t bothered to empty it; he’d let it overflow.
The bed was a filthy nest of twisted sheets. Phillip lay on it, half-naked and unshaven. His snores were snuffling, grunting. A pig in his sty.
“Phillip.”
Phillip kept snoring.
Marcus reached down and gripped his shoulder, shook him. “Phillip!”
It took almost a minute to rouse him. At last, Phillip squinted open his eyes. “Wha’?”
The slurred voice, the bloodshot eyes, the gin fumes, told him Phillip was still drunk. Good. I may get an honest answer. “I’ve come about the Smiths.”
“Wha’?” Phillip blinked and focused. “You.” His face twisted into an expression of loathing.
“Yes, me,” Marcus said grimly. “You and I need to talk. About the Smiths.”
“Smiths? What Smiths?”
“The Smiths you hired.”
“Hired? I haven’t hired anyone.” Phillip fumbled among the sheets and found a gin bottle. “Norton left me. Took my watch and all my fobs, damn his eyes. And my best coat. Said I owed him.”
“I imagine you did.”
Phillip opened the bottle and emptied what gin was left down his throat. “Go away. Leave me alone.”
“With pleasure.”
Marcus retreated to the sitting room, where Honeymay stood wringing his hands. “I apologize for Mr. Langford.” He pulled several folded banknotes from his pocket. “I’ll be back shortly to remove him. If you could have someone clean up the vomit and the chamber pot, I would be extremely grateful, but please don’t touch anything else until my secretary and I have gone through Mr. Langford’s papers.” He unfolded a banknote. “How much does he owe you in rent?”
Marcus trebled the amount Mr. Honeymay stated; cleaning the rooms, making them habitable again, wouldn’t be cheap. He was conscious of Albin exploring the sitting room, sniffing the furniture. From the bedroom came the sound of snoring. “I apologize,” he said again. “I didn’t realize matters had come to such a pass.”
“Thank you, sir,” Honeymay said, clutching the banknotes. “You’re most generous.” He escorted Marcus downstairs. As the door closed, Marcus heard him call for the maid, Jenny.
Marcus grimaced; she had a foul task ahead of her.
“Are you going to bring Mr. Langford here?” Albin asked, pulling on his breeches.
“Heaven forbid.” Marcus crossed to the brandy decanter, reached for a glass—and hesitated. Memory of Phillip intruded: the stench, the squalor.
He’d been drinking more heavily the past year and a half. Nowhere near as heavily as Phillip, but even so . . .
Marcus put the glass down. “I’ll send him to his mother until I decide what to do with him. He can’t stay in London. He’s incapable of looking after himself, the state he’s in.”
Albin shrugged into his shirt. “I don’t think the Smiths had been there, sir . . . but it was hard to smell anything.” His nose wrinkled.
Marcus grunted. He leaned against the sideboard. “Let that be a lesson to you, lad; drink too much and it’ll ruin you.”
Albin buttoned his waistcoat. He reached for his neckcloth. “What now, sir?”
“Now? Now we go back to Rathbone Place, pack Phillip off to Derbyshire, and search his rooms.” Marcus straightened away from the sideboard. “Give me that neckcloth. I’ll tie it.”
Shortly before eleven o’clock, Phillip was carried from his room in a snoring stupor. Tiny snowflakes drifted from a gray sky. The water in the puddles was congealing into ice.
“He’ll likely kick up a fuss when he wakes,” Marcus told the two footmen he’d chosen to accompany Phillip. “If it helps to keep him half-sprung, do it—but make sure he’s sober by the time you reach Derbyshire.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll need to clean him up before his mother sees him. There’s a change of clothing in the valise, and more in the trunk. Mrs. Langford will undoubtedly be upset. Give her my message and tell her I’ll be up as soon as I can.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Keep your wits about you . . . and if he should mention anything about anyone named Smith, make note of it.”
Marcus watched the post-chaise depart. The footmen hadn’t a pleasant journey ahead of them. It should be me taking him home. He owed Phillip’s mother that courtesy.
The carriage turned the corner and disappeared from sight.
Marcus climbed the stairs to Phillip’s rooms two at a time. Once he’d exposed the letter-writer, he’d post up to Derbyshire, talk with Mrs. Langford, see if anything could be retrieved from this mess.
Albin was where he’d left him, going through the drawers of Phillip’s escritoire, putting everything in a leather satchel.
“Honeymay?”
Albin nodded in the direction of the bedroom.
He found Honeymay staring dolefully at the soiled bed. “Please direct anyone who wants payment from Mr. Langford to Grosvenor Square.” He handed the man his card. “Mr. Albin will settle any outstanding bills.”
“Yes, sir.”
The vomit and the overflowing chamber pot were gone, but their stench remained, filling his nose and mouth with each breath. “Have I reimbursed you sufficiently, Mr. Honeymay?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” Honeymay said, a smile wreathing his face. “You’re been most generous.”
Marcus nodded. “My apologies once again for the trouble Mr. Langford has caused you.” He strode back into the sitting room. “Do you have everything, lad?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s be off.”
On the doorstop, Marcus inhaled deeply, clearing the stink from his lungs. Specks of snow drifted down, stingingly cold on his face, stingingly cold on his tongue.
One problem dealt with.
No, only part of one problem. The fact that Phillip had attempted to murder him still remained.
Marcus trod down the steps to the street. Percy Chapel drew his gaze—small, built of dark stone, reminding him that the first anniversary of Lavinia’s death was only a few days away. How did one mark such an event?
Marcus’s footsteps slowed.
How could he be relieved that Lavinia was gone from his life when it meant she was in her grave?
“Sir?”
Marcus blinked, and saw Albin with the satchel of Phillip’s bills and letters.
“Did we forget something, sir?”
He shook himself. “No. Nothing.”