Chapter Twenty-eight

Stanhope looked at his watch. Three hours before the theater, and he was to meet with Daven at his club prior to attending the play. He’d had the devil’s own time securing tickets. Apparently all of London wanted them. He was determined, however, to see her home tonight.

Manchester had said he would call on Pamela this afternoon. Stanhope wanted the betrothal announced before his son-in-law-to-be went to sea. Especially now that the damnable rumors were circulating through London. Manchester’s death must be considered an accident.

Which evoked another vexing problem. Stanhope had called on several acquaintances today. None were in.

He had left his card. There had been no answers. For the first time he feared that the new rumors could be ruinous. His first instinct had been to ignore them. He had survived rumors for years. Without proof, he’d been able to counteract them with charges of jealousy. Every successful man had enemies who wanted to bring him down.

And he’d had protection in high places. Some high government officials had invested in his business ventures and reaped high profits. Others had personal eccentricities they’d rather not come to light. They had always stopped queries before, but he’d had no word from them today.

Had he been too confident about explaining away Stammel’s death?

Or perhaps everyone was too busy to see him?

Daven had said he would try to discover where the rumors started. A guest at his country home? The actress? Even Manchester. The thought continued to haunt him. Had he underestimated the man?

He considered Monique Fremont. She was a woman. An actress. French. She had no reason to hurt him and every reason to please him. She had been teasing him to up the stakes. Nothing more.

Still there was something about her, something that tickled at his memory. Perhaps that was why he had been more patient with her than he usually was with a woman. It had not only been the contest with Stammel and Daven. She intrigued him.

He’d dismissed those odd flashes of familiarity. He’d not allowed a woman to affect him since he was not more than a lad, not since …

He saw her then in his mind’s eye. A brown haired girl with blue eyes that had made his heart beat fast. But she had died before giving birth. His father had said …

It must have been that resemblance that had weakened him momentarily. But then everyone had doubles. He forced his thoughts away from her to the next potential source of trouble.

Manchester. The oaf had reason to hate him. Blazes, but he wished he had some kind of report back on the man’s activities in America. His mind returned to the times he had seen Manchester with Monique Fremont. Had he seduced the woman under Stanhope’s own nose and used her?

Could he really be that wily?

He wished now that he had hired a man to watch Manchester. He had grown careless during these last fat years. He had lived on proceeds from earlier illegal transactions and some more recent legal ones.

Perhaps he should not have targeted Manchester. Yet he had every appearance of being a fool. And his father certainly was gullible. There had been no reason to think the son was any more. Pickwick had confirmed his opinion, and certainly so had Stammel.

Yet he always appeared at the side of Monique.

Stanhope cursed himself for not exercising his usual caution.

Perhaps he could discover something more about the man today. Bait him a bit. Stanhope prized himself at being a judge of character, particularly avarice and greed. Manchester had certainly displayed those characteristics.

Too obviously?

He was beginning to get a very sick feeling at the pit of his stomach.

He made a trip up to his room and unlocked the safe. It was as it had been after he discovered the missing money. Nothing else had been moved.

His desk. Manchester had been alone there.

But he kept nothing important in his desk. He had given Manchester the manifest he intended to give the authorities. Nothing dangerous there.

But Manchester had been insistent.

He was doubting himself now. That solved nothing.

He had to know.

Pamela had been with Manchaster. His daughter was not very smart, but perhaps she had picked up something along the way.

He called Ames, his valet. “Tell Pamela I want to see her immediately.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He bowed his way out, and Stanhope waited impatiently. Seconds later Ames returned. “She is not in her room, my lord.”

“Search the house, damn it.”

Ames left hastily as Stanhope paced the room, his anger and frustration growing. His daughter had been told to stay in the house. Where would she have gone?

Ames returned. “We cannot find her, my lord. No one saw her leave. She did not request the carriage.”

Stanhope swore.

Now even his daughter was out of control. At least that was one complication he could fix. The moment the betrothal was announced, she would return to the country under the sharp eyes of someone he hired. He would make sure she never disobeyed him again.

He heard someone at the door but stayed where he was. He heard the butler open the door. Heard the cautious words. “Lady Pamela is out visiting. I will see if my lord is receiving.”

Manchester. And his daughter had slipped away.

He nodded to his butler, who showed Manchester in.

The marquess bowed. “I was hoping to see Lady Pamela.”

“She is visiting friends. I had not informed her about your earlier visit.”

“Would you suggest I wait for her?”

Stanhope had few choices. He wanted to meet Daven. Perhaps the man had learned something. He wanted the betrothal, but leaving Manchester alone in his home after all that had happened was not a prospect he liked either.

Damn Pamela.

Perhaps she would soon return. He could afford another twenty minutes, long enough to probe Manchester.

“Yes. In the meantime, did you bring your investment?” Stanhope tried to keep the eagerness out of his voice.

“I had it, but I wanted to go by the ship before coming here and thought better of bringing that kind of money on the waterfront,” he said. “You said the agreement will be ready tomorrow. I can meet you at Pickwick’s office and give it to you then.”

Stanhope shrugged, disguising his sudden discomfort. “What did you think of the ship?”

“Looked like every other ship. Can’t say I liked the accommodations.”

“It is not a long trip.”

“Still, I am accustomed to better. I expect you to explain that to the master.”

“I will see what I can do,” Stanhope said. “I will meet you at Pickwick’s office at noon tomorrow. Time is getting short. He will not sail without payment.” He took two cigars from a box on his desk. “Would you care for a cigar?”

“I would, with thanks,” Manchester said.

Stanhope took the top from the oil lamp to light his, then passed it to Manchester. He watched the man’s movements.

Awkward, he thought with satisfaction.

“Did you look over the manifest?” he asked.

“Did not make a lot of sense to me,” Manchester said.

“Some of the abbreviations might be strange to someone unfamiliar with them,” Stanhope explained. Puzzlement was clear in the man’s eyes; so was indifference.

“If you have it with you, I can explain them.”

Manchester shrugged. “Left ’em in the room.”

“You have not talked about your life in America. Do you plan to go back?”

“I like being a lord,” Gabriel said. “There is respect with a title.”

“That’s fine. I would not like to see my daughter go to America,” Stanhope said.

“Of course,” Gabriel Manchester said, “we have not yet discussed a dowry. I understand that any marriage arrangement includes one.”

Strangely enough, the request made Stanhope feel far better. Manchester was a greedy opportunist. “We will discuss that when she accepts your proposal.”

“Perhaps a glass of brandy to seal the bargain?” Manchester said. “You will have to tell me where to buy it. It is very fine.”

It was not fine at all. Stanhope had his own supply from which he drank. But what could you expect of a fool?

He looked at his watch. Daven would be waiting for him, hopefully with answers.

Stanhope rang for the butler and took one last look around. Nothing here to be concerned about. And he would make sure his servants kept an eye on Manchester.

He lingered to share a few sips of brandy, then he put his down.

“You may wait here for Pamela. I hope you will have happy news for me later this evening.”

“You can be assured of it,” Gabriel smirked.

Deciding Manchester was not the man who started the rumors, Stanhope left for White’s. Daven would have learned something by now.

Pamela had waited until noon, hoping Manchester would answer her message. Then she knew her father would rise shortly. She could wait no longer. She had to reach Manchester.

She looked at her hands. They were trembling. They had been since she’d heard her father plotting with Lord Daven. She’d prayed Manchester would present himself, but he had not. Either he had not received her note or he’d had more important things to do than see her.

She waited as long as she could, even as the overheard conversation continued running through her mind. When the front hall was empty, she slipped out the door, hoping no one had seen her.

Apparently they did not, for no footsteps or calls followed her. She was not sure what direction to take. All she knew was New Bridge Street, and she had to stop several times to ask a Charlie, one of the watchmen employed to guard the streets, for directions. The hem of her gown quickly became soiled, and her soft slippers afforded little protection. She had no coat despite the chill in the air; she’d feared that would give her intention away.

She looked enviously at several sedan chairs, but she had no coin, and she’d continued until she saw the street name and a row of houses. A few more questions took her to Manchester’s lodgings.

“His lordship is out,” she was told by the middle-age woman who opened the door.

“I … I am Lord Stanhope’s daughter,” Pamela finally found the courage to say. “I … Lord Manchester …”

“Oh yes, my son has mentioned you.”

She must have looked confused because the woman continued quickly. “My son, Sydney, is valet to the marquess.”

Pamela had seen the large valet several times. She had been awed by his size. “I have seen him.” She hesitated, then asked, “Do you know when Lord Manchester will return? I have some urgent business with him.”

The woman looked shocked for a moment, and Pamela realized young unmarried women did not go to the residences of gentlemen without an escort. Even when they did have urgent business.

Pamela shivered, and the woman opened the door wide. “Come in, my lady. How far did you come?”

Pamela shrugged. “A few miles. I really do not know.”

“Well, bless you. You must be freezing. I will make you some hot tea. I am Mrs. Smythe, housekeeper to the marquess.”

“Thank you.” Pamela followed her into a small sitting room and sat with relief on an upright chair. The lodgings were not what she expected. They were not nearly as grand as her father’s residence. Indeed, they were rather spare. But a fire blazed in the fireplace and she found a chair near its heat.

When Mrs. Smythe disappeared, she dropped her head into her hands. What had she done? If anyone discovered her here, she would be ruined. Her father would be in a rage.

She still felt the pain from the blow yesterday. She recalled the rumors she had heard. Her father had caused her mother’s death. He had openly talked of killing Lord Manchester.

Now that she had disappeared without permission, she would receive no mercy.

She swallowed hard. What if Manchester had been playing with her? What if he took her back?

What had she done?

She sat in the chair, leaning toward the heat, praying it would warm her soul as well as her body. She had come to warn him, and in doing so she might have signed her own death warrant.

Pamela realized at that moment she could not go back.

Not ever.

And Manchester? If he was not what she believed him to be? Where would she go? How would she survive?

She stared blankly at the dancing flames. Bright. Cheerful.

“My lady?”

The woman’s voice startled her, and Pamela started to rise in a panic.

“It’s all right, my lady. It is just me with a bit of hot tea to warm you,” the woman said and put down a tray laden with a teapot, cup, thick cream, several pastries.

“Do you know when Lord Manchester will return?”

“Nay,” the woman said. “He must have come in very late last night. I made him breakfast, and then he hurried out.”

“I … I sent a note yesterday,” Pamela said.

A look of horror came over her face, then she hurried out of the room and returned a moment later. “It is still on the silver tray. I forgot to tell him about it.”

Pamela did not know whether she should be relieved or not. At least he had not ignored her. But what to do now?

Did she dare return home and hope he might stop to visit her? Should she stay here until he returned?

Her father probably knew she had left against his wishes. He’d made it clear last night that she was to stay in her room for her disobedience. Would he forbid her from seeing Manchester? Would he send her back to her aunt’s residence?

Should she write something on paper or even tell this woman? Then what if her father learned of it?

Tom with indecision and misery, she looked up at Mrs. Smythe, whose expression went from horror at her own failure to obvious concern for Manchester’s uninvited guest.

“You are welcome to stay here until he returns,” the woman said kindly.

“My father will …”

“Lord Manchester will take care of it,” the woman said with the supreme confidence of one who believes totally in someone.

“Can someone find Miss Fremont, the actress?” Pamela said, taking her last desperate chance. She was growing more uncertain and even panicked every passing moment.

“I will ask Sydney,” she said. “He has been there. In the meantime you drink that tea,” she ordered.

Pamela did as ordered as the woman swept out. The housekeeper obviously had the same kind of confidence in her employer as Pamela had at the beginning of this journey. But now that time had worn on, and her problems multiplied, her fear grew.

Then his valet was standing in the room. He was as large as she remembered. But his eyes were kind.

“My lady?”

“I came to tell the marquess something. He must know. I have not been able to find him.” The words came tumbling out of her mouth now. Despite his size, the valet had the same comforting face and words as his mother.

“Lady Pamela,” he acknowledged. “Does your father know where you are?”

“No, and he must not.”

Smythe looked at a clock in the corner. “Lord Manchester said he planned to call on you later.”

“I cannot go home.”

She tried to check the tears in her eyes. But leaving the house today took the bulk of her courage. She had been so sure—with no evidence whatsoever—that Manchester would magically solve everything.

Then she stiffened. She was no simpering miss. Just days ago she had resolved to be strong. Just last night, she had defied her father.

He studied her for a long time, as if he wanted to do something but was not quite sure exactly what.

“Miss Fremont will know,” he said.

She looked at the clock again and her blood chilled. “When does she go to the theater?”

“I will see if we can get there before she leaves,” he said.

She rose. The top of her head came to his shoulders. That gave her comfort. There was a steadiness in him.

“I want to thank your mother.”

“I will do that for you later. Your cloak?”

She shook her head.

He disappeared and returned with a worn cloak. “My mother’s. It is not what you are accustomed to, but …”

“I am very grateful,” she said with what smile she could manage.

He did not say anything. He opened the door for her, then followed her down the steps. In minutes he had hailed a hackney and helped her inside.

“I do not have any funds,” she said, humiliated.

“Lord Manchester would not want you to pay,” he said.

The coach started. If only she was in time.

Daven had news.

Stanhope had barely entered White’s and sat at Daven’s table when his partner said, “It was the actress.”

Stanhope struggled to control his anger. He had not wanted it to be her, he realized now. At some point in the blasted contest, he had started to actually care about her. The realization was galling.

“How do you know?”

“She told the manager of the theater. You are banned from attending the theater, and he has approached Sir Thomas Colley about opening an investigation into Stammel’s death.”

Stanhope’s hands clenched the glass he was holding. “How serious is it?”

“Colley is incorruptible. There is nothing we can do to stop him. I fear one investigation will lead to another.”

“We have stopped them before.”

“A baron has not been killed before.”

“I had nothing to do with that.”

Daven was silent.

“You do not believe I had nothing to do with Stammel’s death?”

“I am thinking about leaving London for a while. Now that we are no longer at war with France …” Daven said without answering the question.

Stanhope stared at him. “This will go away.”

Daven stood. “If I were you, Stanhope, I would leave, too.” He left the table.

Stanhope sat there blindly. No one spoke to him.

How could everything have gone so wrong?

He had expected to have the betrothal this afternoon and Manchester’s thirty-five thousand pounds. That and the insurance money would have been a godsend. Now his daughter was missing, Manchester was proving to be more stubborn than he thought, and a bloody actress was accusing him of murder.

His world was falling apart, and it was all her fault.

Why?

Now that he thought of it, she had targeted him ever since she came to London. He thought back to the times she had dangled herself in front of him, only to back away. Of her strange friendship with Pamela, even Manchester.

Manchester …

Was he still at his home? Or with Monique Fremont? Or was there another reason?

He jerked away from the table, knocking over a chair as he rose. Goddamn it, no one was going to make a fool of him.

Manchester smoked his cigar and drank some of Stanhope’s brandy after the man left.

He wondered where Pamela was. She hadn’t appeared to have many friends. Perhaps Stanhope had decided he was no longer useful as a possible son-in-law.

He poured the rest of the bottle of brandy in a spittoon, then approached the door, which had been left open, and looked out. He probably had a few moments before the butler appeared again. He took the forged manifest from inside his waistcoat and wandered over to the desk. Again, he unlocked the drawer quickly and put the manifest at the bottom of a pile in the lower left hand drawer.

He straightened just as he heard the butler again, but he did not have time to lock it.

He moved to the door. “Just looking for you,” he said as the butler came through the door. “I am ready for another glass of brandy.” He peered at the man with his quizzing glass. “Is Lady Pamela about yet? Dashedly bad manners to keep me waiting.”

The butler stalked over to the bottle on the table, discovered it was empty, and left again. Gabriel locked the drawer and sat, stretching out his long legs.

Monica would be on her way to the theater. The Smythes should be packed and waiting for him. If only he could talk to Pamela.

Timing was everything tonight.

Everything.