In the bedroom of a London house, a servant offered the stout Englishman Avery Knox a breakfast tray. The master shoved it back into the servant’s hands. Caught by surprise, the servant fumbled his hold on the heavy tray. He sloshed a few drops of coffee onto the tumbled bedclothes about his master’s feet.
“Blast!” Knox swore and jerked his feet away from the scalding spill. The flustered servant quickly set aside the overburdened tray, and haphazardly blotted the stains with a napkin.
“Do that later,” Avery Knox snapped at the inept man, recalling silently what he endured in the name of economy. In recent months he’d had to let the best of the servants go and did not like the change it had made in his lifestyle. But for a while longer he would have to be conservative and put up with clumsy, lazy fools such as Meigs. “Get Seward in here,” he demanded. “I want to see him.”
“Very well, sir.” The servant started out of the room so hastily that he caught his foot on a throw rug and nearly lost his balance.
A curse erupted from Knox before the man had regained his footing. “Meigs!” he shouted after the man. “Take that tray with you!” As Meigs turned back, Knox shrugged deeper down into the bedclothes. “Must I tell you everything?” he asked.
“No, sir.” In a hurry to comply and escape his master’s foul mood Meigs snatched up the tray and raced out the open door.
A few minutes later a stocky man with full, flaming red whiskers stepped in. Being a cautious sort, Derby Seward glanced around as he entered to assure himself that he and Knox were alone. They were. The room was scantily furnished, though Seward’s memory and the marks on the carpet recalled that there had once been a large chest and a long settee in addition to the half tester bed and the chairs and small table that remained.
A desperate man was a vulnerable man, Seward thought to himself as he shut and latched the door behind him. And Knox was at the point of desperation if he had begun to sell his furnishings in order to meet his pressing financial commitments.
“You wanted me?” Seward asked nonchalantly, determined that he would not be put off, even if Knox had to sell the garments from his back.
“Like I want the pox,” said the other irritably. “But I have need of you.”
“State your business.” Seward stroked his thick whiskers as he strode nearer the bed. They were his pride, recompense for the bald pate that had emerged so early in life and spoiled his looks.
“The same as before.” Knox, still in his nightshirt, stuffed a fat feather pillow behind his back. “The Frenchman and the letter.”
“Delmar’s left,” Seward reminded. “And with a noose awaiting him, he’s not likely to set foot in London again. As for the letter,” he continued. “The Perrault woman did not have it with her. We can assume with confidence that Delmar never received it and is none the wiser to its contents.”
“Unless the Perrault woman lived long enough to tell him,” Knox pointed out.
“Impossible!” Seward said hotly. “The woman died in his doorway. A servant dragged her inside. Couldn’t have mouthed a word to anyone.”
“So you’ve said,” replied Knox. “But after thinking it over I’ve decided too much is at risk to leave anything to chance.”
Seward shrugged. “It’ll be a cold trail to follow now.”
“Whose fault is that?” Knox retorted. “If you’d done what I wanted—”
“I did what you asked.” Seward nudged a chair nearer the bed and sat, throwing his weight against the slatted back as he rested his right ankle above the cap of his left knee. Mocking Knox’s aristocratic accent he repeated the orders Knox had given him. “Get him locked up. I leave it to you to find a way to make him guilty of a crime. Just make certain Delmar cannot comply with the terms of the inheritance. And be quick about it, man.”
“You were too quick,” Knox complained, shifting his bulk into a more comfortable position. “The man is accused but he cannot be tried and hanged if he cannot be found. Humph! Better you had used your head and put that knife through Delmar’s heart.”
“You said—”
“I bloody well know what I said!” Knox bellowed. “No need to drive it in.” His booming voice fell. He knew he had no one but himself to blame for his situation but that fact made him no more willing to accept responsibility for his rash actions. Rather, he saw himself as a victim of circumstance, a man put upon by others. Or, more correctly, by one man. With eyes narrowed, Knox mumbled—more for his ears than for Seward’s—”Bloody, backstabbing bastard.”
“You refer to your uncle, I presume.”
Knox’s eyes lifted. “You presume correctly. Mad as a hatter too, Lord Sumner. Kept his bloody secret for thirty years. Foisted it on me after he was gone. A nasty trick from the grave.” Knox laced his fingers together and rested them on his round belly. “I never liked him, you know.”
“So you’ve said.” Seward nodded. Knox had an irritating way of snorting a breath between his briskly spoken sentences. For Seward, that habit, and the fact that he had listened to the story several times, had quickly begun to grate at his nerves.
“Hated him, in fact,” Knox continued, oblivious to all but his own need to be heard. “Treated my father like a servant. Drove him to an early death.” He snorted. “Stayed at me like a hound to a fox.”
“A regular viper,” Seward concurred.
“Worse,” Knox insisted. “A miser. Carped at me for thirty years. ‘Mind your step, boy, or I’ll leave the lot of what’s mine to the church.’” He looked directly at Seward. “I believed him, I can tell you. He never parted with a tuppence if he could avoid it. Sat on his estate and watched his fortune grow. Let me think I was his heir. Never said a word about—”
“A wife and son,” Seward supplied, ready to bring the tedious recounting to an end.
Staring straight ahead, Knox unlaced his fingers and began rubbing the satin edge of the velvet coverlet between the fat pads of his thumb and fingers. “Kept his bloody secret for thirty years,” he mumbled. “Never a peep about it. ’Course I’d heard stories from the servants of the old man’s liaison with a French kitchen maid,” he said. “Bred her then turned on her. Nearly beat her to death with his fists before she ran off and dropped the brat.” Knox shook his head, bringing himself out of a daze. “Who’d have guessed he married the wench before she took off? Or that he never bothered to divorce the chit once she was gone?”
He did not wait for an answer but instead stuck out a big hand and reached out for the bell pull. He was ready for coffee now. And Meigs could bring the rum. He was feeling poorly. Thought he might keep to his bed today.
Seward had gotten drawn into the tale in spite of himself. “Too much pride as I see it,” he said. “Andrew Knox, Lord Sumner wouldn’t let it be known that an earl had wed a kitchen maid and could not hold her.” His fingers stroked briskly through his beard. “But he left you an out, were you of a mind to take it.”
Knox nodded. His small eyes had narrowed so that they almost disappeared into his round fleshy face. The heir to his uncle’s title and all but a pittance of his fortune was the son he’d never acknowledged: Marc André Rhys Delmar. Avery Knox, who had always thought of himself as his uncle’s heir, would inherit only if the son should be deceased or found convicted a felon. His uncle’s solicitors had already established that Delmar was living but as yet had failed to locate him. Meanwhile time dragged on and Knox’s purse got thinner.
To worsen matters, since the Perrault woman’s murder he had been told by his uncle’s solicitors that the estate could not be settled until Rhys Delmar was either convicted or cleared.
“I tell you I believe he wanted me to destroy Delmar,” Knox said slowly. “Wanted me to even the score with the wench for running off like she did. For making a fool of him.” He coughed to clear his throat then turned glazed eyes to Seward. “He always thought of me as a son. Said so.” With that pronouncement the small eyes brightened. “I mean to do it,” he continued. “See Delmar dead. It’s what my uncle meant me to do. No doubt of it. The old man wants me to pay tribute to him before the title and fortune pass to me.” He turned the now-wide eyes on Seward. “Mad as a hatter, he was.”
A family complaint, Seward thought. But what did he care? He’d bargained for a share of the old man’s fortune when it fell into Avery Knox’s hands. What he had to do to get it was of no consequence to him. “I’ll need more money to find him,” he said.
Knox made a mental count of what he had left from his father’s small estate. Not much. He’d spent as if there was no limit to it. He’d seen no need to be prudent. He was Lord Sumner’s heir, destined to receive a fortune he could scarce spend his way through in a lifetime. But until that fortune was in his hands he had precious little left to live on. Still, he would invest it in finding Delmar. His uncle’s wish was becoming clear to him. The old earl had always put his nephew to the test, had always demanded more than seemed possible. He’d left his title and estate as a prize.
Avery Knox had to earn it, prove he was up to the measure. Well, he was. He’d misunderstood before. Only tried to keep Delmar from knowing the truth, only tried to send him to prison. But he’d make no mistake this time. He’d do Delmar in. By Seward’s hand, of course. He would not soil his own. “I’ve a little left,” he said. “Find him. Kill him.”
Derby Seward smiled.
***
The Countess Clemenceau prided herself that she was acquainted with everyone of note in London, but she did not recognize the gentleman with the flame-colored whiskers. Had his carriage not borne the crest of the Duke of Mitford she’d not have received the man. But now that he was in her drawing room and the tea had been brought she was beginning to believe she had made the right decision.
Curiosity, of course, had decided her against all else. The duke, to date, had declined all invitations to her parties. And now, here was his solicitor to see her.
“This is a matter of some delicacy, Countess,” Derby Seward said, borrowing again the inflections of speech from the more educated Avery Knox. “He begs your indulgence.”
“My pleasure is to oblige the duke in any way he wishes,” the countess replied. Already she could imagine the coup of having him in attendance at her next gathering. One favor for another, as she saw it.
“The duke will be pleased.” Seward began with a cheerful note then turned serious as he continued. “He wishes to inquire after an...acquaintance of yours. A Frenchman.”
Her face flushed beneath the powder and rouge. She had been made a laughingstock because of Rhys Delmar. Any reference to the man was not tolerated in her presence. Had Seward not been the duke’s representative, she’d have him shown out. Instead she looked about quickly to be certain no servant was within earshot. “I scarcely knew him, Mr. Seward,” she began. “But—”
Seward made a dismissive gesture. “That is understood, Countess. The duke only hoped you might recall some tidbit of information which slipped your mind when you spoke with the authorities. You are his last hope, you see. The Frenchman owes him a gaming debt.” He paused to allow her a moment to absorb what he had said. “As a matter of principle he never leaves a debt uncollected.”
“The duke is wise.” She took a deep breath, seeing a ray of hope that her embarrassment might be turned to a triumph if only she could think of something of importance to tell the duke’s solicitor. Unfortunately, try as she might, she could think of nothing. “But I am at a loss,” she said.
“The name of a companion, perhaps. A destination he might have mentioned before—” He left his sentence unfinished, purposely reminding the countess of the circumstance of Rhys Delmar’s departure from her house.
She reached nervously for her tea. “He never spoke of leaving,” she said apologetically. “And he had no companions I was aware of.” As she sipped her brow furrowed, showing the deep lines she had so carefully sought to conceal. She must think of something to tell Seward. She must help the Duke of Mitford. She needed him at her table. The scandal of a murdered woman in her house had nearly ruined her. Almost painfully she probed her mind for anything she might offer the solicitor. “There was a servant,” she said at last. “Devoted to the Frenchman.” She would not speak Rhys Delmar’s name. If she did she would be beset by the shame of the scandal and the agony of missing him. For all the disaster he’d brought her, she missed him. “Bouchet—No. Bourget,” she said at last. “Lucien Bourget.” She looked hopefully at Seward, wanting him to acknowledge that what she’d remembered would be useful. “The man is lame. He should not be so hard to find.”
“Not at all,” Seward said, rising though he had not touched his tea. “You have the duke’s gratitude, Countess.”
Visualizing herself fully reinstated in society, the countess rose and called for her butler. “Perhaps he will tell me so himself,” she said.
Seward nodded. “You may depend upon it.”
Her happiness had the effect of stirring her memory even further. She clasped her hands together, looking pleased as a child with a bit of cake. “I have recalled something else,” she said. “I lent a room to the Frenchman the night before he left. He entertained an American at cards, only the one gentleman.”
Seward had been about to follow the butler to the door, but turned back. “You remember his name?”
“Oui,” the countess said proudly. “The coincidence of it. The gaming. The cards. He was called Gamble.”
“Gamble,” Seward repeated, one hand absently stroking his red whiskers. “An American you say.”
“Oui,” the countess confirmed, quite proud of herself. “And beyond his means. He backed his marks with papers from a stage company in some unheard-of place. The Frenchman was afraid the American would not be able to pay them off.”
“They were worth a large sum?”
“Quite,” she said. “He’d not have let it go uncollected.”
“You’ve been helpful, madame,” Seward said, sure she was right. A gambler did not walk away from his winnings.
“About the duke,” the countess ventured.
“He will call on you,” Seward said as the butler led him out. But do not hold your breath. He laughed as the door closed behind him. The countess would wear herself out preparing for the duke’s visit. But then most people were gullible fools. Those that were not could be had for the right price. A few coins in a palm and one might get most anything, even a lift in a duke’s carriage if the duke was elsewhere.
A street away, Seward hailed a cab. The trail was not so cold as he had feared. He would find the American first. He would be easier to trace, since he was likely to be in one of the inns favored by colonials. From Mr. Gamble he was certain to get a clue to Delmar’s whereabouts. Seward was no stranger to the gaming tables. He knew that a man was apt to talk of anything over a hand of cards, even of where he might go next.