Never Love a Scoundrel (10 page)

Lydia glanced at the fire and pondered why he should even care. He and Lockwood were estranged, after all. She shifted uncomfortably beneath his frank stare, still unsure of his purpose. “Why should that matter to you?”

He paused and his gaze lost a bit of its intensity. He tipped his head back and forth as if weighing whether to continue. “Because I believe you’re in a position to help me. Aside from the business about his scar, what else has he told you about me?”

Help him do what, spread rumors about Lockwood? Why else would Locke seek her out and ask what Lockwood had told her? Well, Locke was going to be disappointed because for some indefinable reason, she’d decided to protect Lord Lockwood. In fact, she already regretted telling Locke about his scar. “I must warn you, Mr. Locke, if your goal in entering Society is to somehow discredit or adversely affect your brother, I’ll do my best to stop you.”

Oddly, Locke gave a subtle nod of appreciation. “Excellent. I don’t wish to discredit him. I wish for us to try to claim a brotherly relationship.” His gaze darkened. “However, if you repeat that to anyone, there will be
unfortunate
consequences for you.”

His words spread over her like a glacier moving across land, slow but very, very frigid.

His features immediately brightened. “My apologies. I don’t wish to frighten you, only to stress the importance of my mission and the need for secrecy. I can see you wish to protect Lockwood, so my persuasion isn’t really necessary, is it?”

Persuasion? Was that a new word for threat? Though he looked somewhat remorseful, his tone was still edged with steel, and it compelled her to agree with him. “No, it’s not necessary. I would be happy to assist you with your brother.” And she would, his threat notwithstanding. “But why me?”

“Because you’ve met Lockwood on more than one occasion—which is far more than anyone else in Society—and when I saw the two of you together tonight . . . ” He shook his head, smiling. “And I can see you already care for him.”

He was right. However, Lydia was at a loss for how she could help, and she was still feeling particularly loyal to Lockwood. “What do you want me to do?”

“For now, I would appreciate it if you could determine his level of animosity.” His tone turned a touch self-deprecating. “Although from his reaction earlier, I would guess it’s still fairly high.”

“You’d guess right.” Though she felt no compulsion to aid Locke, she thought it best to warn him. “I think it’s possible he may seek revenge for his scar.”

Locke’s eyes fixed somewhere to the left of Lydia and he frowned. Deeply. When his gaze found hers again, it was inscrutable. “Indeed?”

Lydia didn’t think he needed or wanted an answer, so she waited. He looked away again, appearing absorbed in thought. When the silence stretched and she began to grow uncomfortable, particularly given the length of her absence from the ballroom, she said, “Have you changed your mind?”

He shook his head and focused on her once more. “No. I’ll simply have to reassess how to proceed. I should like to speak with him. If you think you can arrange a meeting, I’d be grateful for your assistance. Otherwise, if you could, perhaps try to persuade him that I’m not the man—or boy—I used to be.”

She wanted to ask why and how he’d changed, but she was out of time. “I can try, but you’d do better if you could perhaps demonstrate how you’ve changed.” Anxiously, she glanced at the door. “I’m afraid I have to go.”

“Remember,” he said, and the steel was back in his voice. “You can’t speak of this to anyone but him. I know you want to, but you can’t.”

Keeping a secret from Aunt Margaret would be a risk. Lydia didn’t doubt that she could do it, but if Aunt Margaret ever learned she’d withheld information like this . . . Lydia didn’t want to imagine it. Her punishments had lessened over the past few years, but this level of betrayal—which is precisely how Aunt Margaret would characterize it—would surely earn Lydia some sort of misery. Was keeping this confidence worth being exiled from London forever? A nervous jolt rippled through her as she turned her head to look at him. “I understand.”

“Go ahead and leave the way you came,” he said. “I didn’t enter that way and I won’t leave through there either.”

Lydia exited the room and was nearly to the ballroom when she realized there had only been the one door. Just how in the world had he come and gone?

Chapter Six

JASON SAT
at his desk eating a late breakfast three days after the Whitmore Ball. He finished reading a letter from his mother’s physician and set it aside. The familiar melancholy ache that always accompanied news of his mother settled over him. She’d finally stopped begging to come to Town—at least for now. The regular valerian tinctures had done their part, and she’d returned to her more complacent self. How Jason wished she could return to her
real
self, but he’d accepted that would likely never happen. He shoved his plate away, having lost his appetite for eggs and kippers.

North entered, Scot on his heels, and presented the
Times
.

Jason glanced up at his two most trusted retainers before taking the newspaper. The headline leapt from the front page:

Robbery on Curzon Street

Jason skimmed the article. Several items stolen. No one injured. In fact, no one could actually pinpoint
when
the items were taken. A silver piece was noted missing yesterday and a search of the house revealed other items were also absent. The residents—Lord and Lady Chauncey—insist their retainers are not to blame. Bow Street is making inquiries.

Robberies in Mayfair were not particularly noteworthy. However, robberies that occurred when Ethan Jagger was about
and
being investigated by Bow Street gave Jason pause.

He looked up at North and Scot. “Is there anything else you know that’s not written here?”

“Mr. Jagger was a guest of Lord Chauncey just over a week ago,” North said.

Another “coincidence.”

“I see. Excellent reconnaissance. Still no response from Ethan regarding the party tomorrow night?” Jason had issued an invitation after returning home from the Whitmore Ball. He wanted their next meeting to be on his terms in an environment where Jason felt completely at ease.

North shook his head. “Not as yet, my lord.”

Perplexing. Jason leaned back in his chair. Ethan had sought Jason out at the ball the other night. He would presumably have jumped at the invitation to Lockwood House. “Who delivered it to the Bevelstoke?”

“Hennings,” North said.

“I want to talk to him before I leave.” Jason had an appointment with Lord Carlyle.

North inclined his head and departed.

Scot remained. “What do you have planned for Jagger tomorrow night?”

“I only mean to speak with him.” Jason gave his valet a sardonic look. “You needn’t worry we’ll rip the house apart again.” He stood and inclined his head for Scot to follow him. “Assuming he comes, I’ll expose him to everything I have to offer.”

“See what perks his interest?” Scot asked, falling into step beside Jason as they made their way to the foyer.

“Yes, and maybe find a vulnerability.” Though Jason suspected Ethan guarded those just as closely as he did.

“Hoping he loses his shirt at the tables? Or maybe drinks himself under one?” Scot chuckled.

Jason flashed Scot a smile. “Something like that.”

North met them in the foyer with Jason’s hat and gloves.

Hennings, a footman, came from behind the stairs and bowed. He was one of the youngest on staff and had only been in Jason’s employ a few months. “My lord.”

“I understand you delivered the invitation to Mr. Locke at the Bevelstoke?” Jason took his gloves from North and drew them on.

The boy’s eyelid twitched. He looked nervous. “I did.”

Jason smiled faintly, trying to put Hennings at ease. “Did you give it directly to Mr. Locke?”

Hennings shook his head. “No, I gave it to his man.”

“His man?” Jason chastised himself for not conducting this interview immediately after the delivery, but that had been the day he’d gone to the Whitmore Ball and he’d been preoccupied. “Tell me about him.”

Hennings eyes were bright, his face animated, and he spoke a bit too fast. “Odd looking bloke. He didn’t say anything. Just nodded and took the note.”

Interesting.
“Odd looking in what way?”

“He was bald, my lord, and he wore an earring.”

The baldness wasn’t peculiar, but the earring was notable. Perhaps a criminal cohort? “Thank you, Hennings,” Jason said and then added, “well done.”

Hennings stifled a smile, bowed again, and took himself off.

“What’re you thinking?” Scot asked as he took Jason’s hat from his brother and brushed a speck of lint off the black wool. He presented the spotless item to Jason.

Jason took the hat and set it on his head. “I’m thinking I want you to spend some time hanging around the Bevelstoke and see what you can learn. Do either of you have any friends in service there?”

The brothers looked at each other. “Is Jemmy still with Mr. Ingle?” Scot asked.

North shook his head. “No, he left to care for Lord Anstruther’s horses.” He turned his gaze to Jason. “I’ll think on it, my lord. I’m sure we’ll come up with someone.”

“Or I’ll just make a friend,” Scot said with a grin.

“Keep me informed.” Jason turned and strode to the door, which North hastened to open.

A half hour later, he was admitted to Carlyle’s town house on Brook Street, where he was shown into the viscount’s office.

Carlyle stood from behind his desk. “Good afternoon. I hope it’s all right that we’re sitting in here. This seemed more a business meeting from the tone of your note.”

Jason had purposely worded it that way in order to exclude Lady Carlyle. He didn’t want to have this conversation in front of her. “This is fine, thank you.” He removed his hat and set it on the edge of Carlyle’s desk before sitting in a large, wingback chair.

Carlyle gestured for the butler to leave them. “I’ll ring if we require refreshment,” he said and then sat behind his desk. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

Jason took in the surroundings. It was a very masculine room decorated with a trio of pastoral paintings from the middle of the last century, a large gilt-edged mirror, a pair of twenty-year-old chairs situated before a hearth with a low fire, and a sideboard with a collection of half-empty bottles on display. Something about it seemed off. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but the décor didn’t seem to fit the office of a former constable. It seemed the office of an aging viscount. But then perhaps Carlyle still hadn’t quite learned to inhabit his new role.

The chair Jason sat in might be a bit old, but it was comfortable. He put his shoulders back against the seat. “I won’t mince words. I’m here to discuss my half brother—Ethan Locke, as he calls himself.”

Carlyle’s nostrils flared. Jason inched forward. The man knew something and meant to share it, otherwise his face would’ve been impossible to read. He was a former constable after all. “You know him by another name?” Carlyle asked.

“Yes, and I’m willing to wager you do too. Jagger.”

Carlyle leaned back in his chair. “I know Jagger. We’ve had dealings in the past.”

Excellent.
This was precisely what Jason had been hoping for. “Are you aware that Bow Street is investigating him?”

Carlyle’s gaze turned inscrutable. “Yes, and I’ve told them what I know, which isn’t much.”

Jason’s muscles tensed with frustration. He’d been hoping Carlyle would know something of interest. Still, he’d take what he could get. “Would you mind telling me what you told them?”

“For what purpose?” Carlyle’s features broke into a smile then. “Look at us, tiptoeing around the subject. Let us speak frankly. I am aware that you and he are estranged. Are you helping Bow Street, or is there a chance you want to reconcile with Jagger?”

Jason wasn’t ready to speak quite so openly. Not until he knew the extent of Ethan’s crimes—or if he’d actually committed any. Did that mean he’d consider reconciliation? Not on his bloody life. “You’re correct that we are estranged. We’re trying to determine how to proceed.” That wasn’t precisely a lie given their awkward encounter at the Whitmore Ball. “I’m not certain whether we’ll reconcile or not.”

“And you came here to see me because of my former occupation. You hoped I would shed some light onto Jagger’s activities.” The corner of his mouth ticked up. “Sorry, it’s difficult for me to think of him as Locke.”

Jason allowed an ironic smile. “I have the same difficulty. I’m curious as to how he went from thief-taker to alleged thief.”

Carlyle lifted one shoulder. “Thief-takers are paid for recovering stolen goods and identifying the thieves. Some of them organize thefts so that they can easily return the goods and collect the reward—at the expense of their gang, of course. The practice isn’t as common as it once was, but it still happens.”

“Doesn’t sound like that would make them too popular,” Jason said.

“Perhaps not, but they prey on young, naïve boys who are eager for the promise of wealth—however small.”