Lord Langley Is Back in Town (5 page)

“Well, I think it is rather too late now,” Langley admitted.

“What did you do?”

“Went and saw an old friend tonight.”

Thomas-William groaned. “Who?”

“Brownie.”

The older man looked askance. “You did what?”

“Now before you start lamenting the moment you ever laid eyes on me, I think he knows more than he is letting on,” Langley rushed to say. “He went rather pale when he realized I wasn’t dead. Well, that and I shoved a pistol between his eyes.”

“I think you will find that a common response,” the man muttered.

“No, no, not like that. I think he was scared because he knows why I was betrayed.”

Thomas-William studied him, then shook his head. “Too bad you don’t, my lord. It would be better than baiting the lion in his own den.”

This is exactly what George Ellyson would have said. For George had always gone on and on about not plunging into a situation without having a plan. Without knowing what you were after.

But it was rather hard to do that when you didn’t remember anything. And that was the rub. When Langley had been struck in the head that fateful night in Paris, the injury had struck at his memory as well.

Why he’d been betrayed, who betrayed him, and what he’d been doing in Paris to begin with were all lost. Just fragments and scattered bits in his thoughts, flashes of images, none of which made sense.

“Have you considered that you just gave him time to see the original assignment finished?” Thomas-William said, arms folded over his chest. “Or simply the reason to have you openly declared a traitor and hung?”

“I can’t sit around and wait.”

Thomas-William looked as if he wished the baron would do just that. Wait. For by taking his cause—their cause, really—out into the open, it put them both at risk.

“What if it is true, Thomas-William? What if I am a traitor and I just don’t remember it?” He looked over at his old friend to see what the other man thought of that, for it was something that had been festering in the back of his mind for months. Years, really, ever since he’d woken up in a Paris prison.

“Then why did you come back to England?” he asked. “Why even bother?”

Langley stared at him.
Why bother?
“Because it is utter nonsense! I can’t be a—”

Thomas-William laughed softly and then clapped him firmly on the back. “Exactly, my lord. You are no traitor. Ellyson trusted you. And I trust you as well.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said, bowing slightly.

“Enough of that,” Thomas-William told him, looking embarrassed. “Now it is time for us to leave.” He leaned over to retrieve his valise. “Not even for Miss Lucy will I stay in this house. Not if you intend to stand out in the open like a stag in the meadow.” He smiled at his own joke.

“Come now, my old friend,” Langley cajoled. “It isn’t like you to pass up what might be a rout. You always did like a losing proposition.”

The man looked over his shoulder at the house behind him and shook his head. “We had better odds playing cards with Miss Tia.”

That bad, eh?
Langley looked back at the house, the shadows of figures passing back and forth in front of the curtains like a regimental parade. Egads, how many of them could there be inside?

And as if he’d read his thoughts, Thomas-William told him. “Four.”

“Four?” Langley’s gaze narrowed. “Which ones?”

“A Russian—”

“Tasha?” he murmured.

Thomas-William nodded. “An Italian—”

“Lucia?” Langley glanced again at the house. His fiery Italian countess with his ruthless Russian mistress? Good God, he was shocked the house wasn’t yet in flames and London burning down around them.

“A contessa with a dog—”

“Brigid,” he said, a chill running down his spine. If anyone was capable of killing him, he might look no further than Brigid—for the lady was as beautiful as she was deadly.

“And a margravine with a temper,” Thomas-William said.

“Wilhelmenia?” Langley couldn’t even imagine the lady leaving her corner of Europe unless she was following her ancestors’ tradition of conquest and pillaging.
Saint George, save them all, if that was the case.

It had been difficult enough sneaking in and out when Elinor Sterling and her young sister Tia had been living in the house, but now? Why, it would be nigh on impossible.

For even with his careful planning, Tia had caught him a week into his residence. She’d snuck down to the kitchen in the middle of the night and discovered him and Thomas-William playing cards. They’d tried to fob her off with lies, but she’d coolly regarded the stranger at the table, declared him a gentleman and obviously a spy, and then anted into their game of
vingt-et-un
, soundly beating them both before she’d toddled off to bed again, declaring, “I care not if you are living in the attic, but best not let Minerva find out.”

Luckily for Langley, the rest of the servants were much like Tia, and had taken little notice of Thomas-William’s mysterious guest in the attic. For as long as there was no work associated with his care and upkeep—it was no matter to them.

But the baron suspected the sole remaining mistress of the house would not share their largesse.

Proper and strict, Minerva Sterling, from what Thomas-William had told him, would most likely set a pack of hounds on him. If she owned any. Luckily she didn’t. But Thomas-William had muttered something about her stealing his pistol once, something he’d dismissed as a drunken blithering.

Still, Langley glanced over at her window, the one on the corner near the drainpipe. The chamber was dark and still, which said to him she had either sought her bed long before or was out for the evening.

“Why hasn’t she cast them out?” he asked. From what Thomas-William had said about the lady, he couldn’t imagine Minerva Sterling suffering a pack of fools gladly.

Thomas-William’s answer was one upraised brow that said so very clearly that the lady had tried . . . and failed.

Langley nodded. “It would have probably taken a regiment of the king’s finest Marines, a dedicated group of cannoneers, and a nearby sale on silks to get those four to quit their stronghold now that they’ve dug in.”

“And they know you’re about,” the other man grumbled.

That was the worst of it. They knew he was alive. And that he was in London. So how was it that all four of them had discovered this, and discovered it early enough to journey all this way just to corner him? And what if they believed the rumors, the lies that he was guilty of treason . . . guilty of something he couldn’t even remember . . .

Perhaps he should take a more a careful tack, listen to Thomas-William.

“Are you coming?” the man prodded.

Shivering in the cold, Langley muttered, “I must get my notes . . . my clothes . . .”

“Have you considered that one of them might be . . .” Thomas-William’s words trailed off, but it didn’t take much wit to finish his supposition.

The one who wanted to see him gain his just reward
 . . .

Oh, yes, that thought had run its wild course through his rattled senses.

“This complicates everything,” he said, more to himself.

Thomas-William made a loud snort, as if to underline such a statement. “I have your things—at least your clothes. Come with me to the earl’s estate. We’ll catch the first tide.”

Langley shook his head. “No, I stay in London. I’ll never discover the truth, never clear my name, cowering in the countryside.”

“Suit yourself. You might try the King’s Barrel in Shoreditch. Ellyson favored it when he came to town. Mention him, and the landlady might extend you credit.” This was Thomas-William’s oh-so-subtle way of reminding him that he had no money. No money for lodgings, no money for bribes, all the things that would have made his task much easier.

That was the rub of it. He had no money—other than the handful of coins he’d stowed away in the attic. Nor was Thomas-William sporting plump pockets, not unless he’d finally found a way to win back his last six months of salary from that cheating little minx, Tia.

Since most everyone thought him dead anyway, his fortune had been divided between his daughters. There were no accounts to draw from, not unless he wanted to drag Felicity and Tally into his dangerous pursuit. And that was exactly why he’d deposited them in Miss Emery’s school all those years ago. To keep them safe. Hidden away from his enemies.

Hiding.

God, he hated that word. It left him in alleyways, grasping at fleeting memories and chasing shadows. What if this was it? The rest of his life was to be spent thusly? At the edges of society, if only to avoid the scandal of treason, of his name—not to mention his carcass—being dragged through the streets and what that would mean to his daughters, their reputations.

Shivering anew, Langley lost patience with this half-life of his—even if it was only for a narrow bed and the faint warmth of Lady Standon’s attics. By God, he needed to finish this. But to do that, he needed to retrieve his journal—for it held what little he did remember of Paris, along with his list of suspects, top of which sat one name: Sir Basil Brownett.

That was one of two things he’d recalled all this time. Sir Basil’s name and a shadowy profile of the villain who’d struck him down in Paris.

A face so familiar he swore he knew who the fellow was, if only he could make out the man’s features, remember where he’d seen him before.

No, there would be no clearing his name until he solved this mystery, so he started toward the house. That is, until Thomas-William caught him by the elbow, tugging him to a halt. “Are you mad? You can’t go in there.”

“I must have my notes. I’ve been collecting every bit I can remember from Paris, and I don’t dare lose them.” All he really had were his suspicions of Brownie scrawled in a journal full of nonsensical notes.

Yet when he started for the kitchen door again, Thomas-William shook his head. “You cannot go that way,” he said, nodding toward the windows.

For between the kitchen and the attic stood five flights of stairs—any of which could be occupied by one of the visiting servants. While Mrs. Hutchinson didn’t care about a stranger in their midst, Helga’s maid or one of Tasha’s footmen might not be so willing to look the other way.

After all, they’d come all this way for their mistresses to find her man.

Langley muttered a curse, to which Thomas-William chuckled and said, “Seems you have no other choice but to do as I advise. Come away with me. It is what Ellyson would do. It would hardly do for you to find yourself out in the open.”

“I don’t intend on being caught,” Langley said. “Watch and learn something not even Ellyson would have tried.”

Edging his way along the garden wall, for there was still a light on in the first floor parlor, Langley worked his way to the side of the house, where the drainpipe ran up all the way to the attic balcony. He glanced over his shoulder and smirked at Thomas-William. Now it was time to show the man how it was he’d managed to steal so many secrets from the courts of Europe. And contrary to popular opinion in the Foreign Office that it had been his prowess in seducing the wives and mistresses of the various princes, ministers of state, and high ranking nobles, it had more to do with the fact that he could prowl like a cat.

He glanced up the drainpipe and measured the distance, which was considerable, but then again Lord Langley had never been known for avoiding a bit of risk, and a few moments later he was climbing up the side of the house with the agility of one of Astley’s rope walkers.

Grinning down at an astonished Thomas-William, he continued upward—silently and stealthily. Truly, if he hadn’t become a spy, he might have done well as London’s finest burglar. That is, until the old pipe groaned in complaint and began to shudder beneath his hands. A ripple of panic ran down his spine, and he cursed his own bravado as the cold metal began to waver and shudder in earnest.

He should have known. Most of this house was in ill-repair. Why should the drainpipe be any different?

Yet here he was, halfway up, having to weigh his options in a split second—and he did, making a scrambling leap onto the wide ledge of the nearest window just as the pipe gave way, clattering onto the ground below.

Clinging to the stonework, Langley held his breath, waiting for some sound of alarm. Below him, Thomas-William had melded into the shadows, now unseen, as if he too were waiting to see what sort of aftermath would come of this.

But by some miracle of chance, the house remained silent, not a soul stirred. Thomas-William eased out of his hiding place and glanced up at Langley. Then he shook his head, as if the real calamity had yet to drop.

For indeed, Langley’s refuge could hardly be called that. His only option now was to climb into the room the window led to.

Lady Standon’s room, to be exact.

Glancing inside at the pitch-black bedchamber, Langley wondered if he wouldn’t have been better off staying in Paris.

Without his title. Without his name.

No, that would never do. As he told Brownie, he’d never give up. So, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly before he slid the window open as quietly as he could and slipped into Lady Standon’s room.