One Night in London (5 page)

She closed her eyes in relief, but just for a moment. Georgina looked thin? She was always out sweeping the steps, like a servant child? Francesca struggled to keep her voice even. “But surely they left some word of how they can be reached.”

“Not that I know of.” The woman’s expression melted into pity. “I’ve seen you call on them before. On the outs with Mrs. Haywood, are you?”

“In a way,” Francesca murmured. “The little girl, Georgina, is my niece. I just wanted to see her . . .”

The woman cleared her throat, and sidled a step nearer. “It’s not my concern, o’ course, but I think the family might have fallen on some difficulties. You weren’t the only one Mrs. Haywood turned away.”

“Oh? Who else?” Francesca asked in surprise.

Mrs. Jenkins lowered her voice even more. Gossiping had brought a glow to her round face. “Tradesmen,” she said with relish. “Some of them more than once. Mr. Watts threatened one with his cane, and Mr. Jenkins swears he heard quarreling just last week.”

“Quarreling? Between whom?” Francesca eyed the woman with a mixture of intense curiosity and apprehension.

“Mr. Watts and Mrs. Haywood!” exclaimed Mrs. Jenkins in indignant glee. “Going at it like furies, they were. And those two babies howling right along with them.”

Francesca was speechless. Ellen was quarreling with her brother? They had moved away without notice to anyone? Tradesmen had been threatened with violence? Georgina was being treated like a servant? “But where have they gone?” she asked again with forced patience. “Surely they couldn’t have decided overnight to leave. Someone must know . . .”

“No one here.” Mrs. Jenkins gazed at her with pity. “Mr. Brown at the end of the street is the landlord’s agent for most of us here, and he didn’t know, either. They were three weeks behind on the rent, and when Mr. Brown came to collect it, the rooms had been quite cleared out.”

“Mr. Brown.” Francesca latched onto the name. “At the end of the street?”

“Number two,” said Mrs. Jenkins. “He’ll tell you just what I’ve done. Mr. Jenkins and I had him ’round to tea just Wednesday, and he related every detail.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. “Thank you very much.”

Mrs. Jenkins’s gossip was sound. Mr. Brown confirmed that the Haywood family had left without word, and owing several weeks’ rent. He hadn’t wanted to tell her, until she told him she was Georgina’s aunt—and then had to grit her teeth when Brown referred to Georgina as Ellen’s daughter—but once he realized she might be able to find his wayward tenants, he readily told her how late Ellen always was with her rent payment, how he’d had to threaten to turn them all out, how she’d wept so pitifully and begged him to have mercy for her babies’ sake, while Mr. Watts stood sullenly at the side doing nothing. By the time he finished, Francesca was shaking with anger. She thanked Mr. Brown, marched back to her carriage, and looked at her coachman.

“Back to Berkeley Square, Mr. Hotchkiss,” she told him. “Posthaste.”

She had changed her mind about confronting the dreadful duke.

Chapter 4

J
ames Wittiers responded with gratifying alacrity to his inquiry. Edward had chosen him carefully, after a discreet investigation of several solicitors. Wittiers was reputed to have a keen, quick mind, a thorough understanding of the law, and was something of a specialist in probate cases. He had won the infamous Cowley case just last year, claiming for his client a barony that had been in abeyance for nearly a century. It was quite a surprise that anyone succeeded, for the Cowley family had been a large one. One newspaper had reported there were at least five people with legitimate claims to the barony. But Wittiers had directed the case and won it, and that made him very appealing to Edward.

The man himself was modest in appearance, except for the intelligence that all but crackled off him. He listened intently as Edward explained his needs, then asked several pointed questions. His clerk sat beside him, scribbling notes as fast as Wittiers could speak. The solicitor understood was what needed and what must be avoided. He had a plan, and an alternate plan. His mind seemed to work much faster than normal; twice he realized Edward’s point before the conversation had reached it. He broached the subject of the fees very frankly, but Edward waved it off. Whatever the man charged to secure Durham to him and his brothers would be well-earned. He was demanding a great deal of the solicitor, and was happy to pay for it. By the end of the interview Edward was well pleased with the arrangement, and from the expression on Wittiers’s face, so was he.

“I’ll send word to Mr. Pierce that he should expect you.” Edward rose. He’d already told the Durham solicitor that he would be engaging another attorney on this most delicate matter, and Mr. Pierce had been very relieved to hear it. Pierce was good at what he did, but he had no experience in this sort of matter. “He should be able to provide any additional information you need.”

“I will see him first thing tomorrow.” Wittiers bowed. “You shall have my first report as soon as I have reviewed the will.”

“Very good, sir.” Edward inclined his head, and the solicitor and his clerk left.

He walked to the window and looked out over the green at the heart of Berkeley Square. Two young children were rolling a hoop under the watchful gaze of a nurse, just as he and his brothers used to do on their infrequent visits to London. Durham had believed boys needed country air to grow, and rarely brought them to town with him. Even now Edward had little affection for London. He would have preferred to stay in Sussex.

But it was far more convenient to be here at the moment. It would save considerable time, as just proved by the fact that he had sent for Wittiers late in the morning and already spoken to the man well before dinner. He could keep an eye on Charlie far better here than from Sussex. And he could see Louisa, whose family had already come to London for the Season.

As he began to turn from the window, a small carriage dashed down the street and pulled up right at the steps of the house with a jangle of harness he could hear all the way from where he stood. Edward spared a glance at the arrival in idle curiosity. He wasn’t expecting anyone and had no wish to receive guests. Still, it was rare to see a carriage speeding through Berkeley Square, let alone to his own house.

A woman emerged from the carriage. She wore a dark gray dress, rather stark and staid, but her hair gleamed like a new copper penny under her hat, and from his angle high above her, he could see that she had a spectacular bosom. She twitched her skirts smooth, then raised her eyes and cast a look of such loathing at the house, he blinked. Even from this distance he recognized a woman enraged. She straightened her shoulders and marched up the steps and out of his view.

Charlie, he supposed, must be to blame for this somehow. There was surely more to the story of his broken leg than Barnes had admitted.

The clang of the knocker echoed through the house, several loud, emphatic bangs. Edward wondered what his brother had done to set the woman off so violently, and why she’d come here instead of to Charlie’s own house. He was in no mood to pacify a jilted lover or an outraged mistress. Charlie would have to deal with this problem himself, since he was doing his brother quite a considerable service already, looking out for his inheritance and title.

He stalked toward his own rooms to change. Now seemed like a fine time to call on Louisa. The butler tapped at his door several minutes later. “There is someone to see you, sir: a Lady Gordon.”

“I am not in.” Edward slid his arms into the fresh jacket his valet held out. “In fact, I am going out. Have the carriage brought around.”

“Yes, sir. But she is most insistent that she speak with you.”

“With
me
?” he said sharply, swinging around to glare at the man. “She mentioned my name?” And not Charlie’s?

“She did not mention your name, my lord,” said Blackbridge, unflappably calm. “She said she had an important matter to discuss with the person who had summoned James Wittiers, and that she would not leave without doing so.”

Edward paused in the act of tugging his sleeves into place. That was unexpected. “Did she?” he murmured. “What did she say about Wittiers?”

“Nothing specific, my lord, just that she wished to discuss him with you.”

“Indeed.” Edward stood still and thought as he let his valet finish ministering to the proper set of his coat. “Very well. Show her into the blue salon and I will see her presently.”

Perhaps there was some shady aspect of Wittiers he hadn’t uncovered. He had made discreet inquiries and heard nothing but praise and admiration for the man’s ability, but that was not conclusive. If this woman, Lady Gordon, had dealings with Wittiers, she might know something he didn’t. It was certainly possible Wittiers’s reputation wasn’t entirely supported. By the time he made his way to the blue salon, Edward was more than a little curious—and wary. He hadn’t forgotten the look of hostility on the woman’s face when she stepped out of her carriage.

A footman swept open the door of the salon before him. His guest didn’t appear to notice. She was standing by the fireplace, gazing down at something cupped in the palm of her hand. Her expression was pensive and still, but something in her pose hinted at anguish. Indoors her hair appeared to be light brown, without the coppery sheen he’d noticed before. Her figure, though, was every bit as luscious as it had looked from the upstairs window.

Edward closed the door behind him with a loud click. Her head jerked up, and her hand squeezed into a fist about whatever she was studying. “Lady Gordon,” he said, bowing politely. “I am Edward de Lacey. You wished to see me about James Wittiers?”

A flush rose in her cheeks. She shoved the object in her hand into her reticule and pulled the strings tight. “Yes,” she said in a warm, husky voice that stroked across his senses like a siren’s lure. “I do.”

F
rancesca had almost begun to regret her impulsive action. After some small wait, the butler had shown her into an elegant room done up in icy blue, a cold but beautiful room that looked more like a museum than anything else. She eyed one of the exquisite marble tables flanking the tall windows, and would have bet a month’s housekeeping that the only thing that touched their surfaces was a maid’s dust cloth.

Perhaps she had better just go. The owner of this mansion wouldn’t be impressed, let alone deterred, by her cause or her outrage. She had been consumed by fury when she realized that Ellen had stolen away with Georgina and not left a word where she could be found, and in the absence of any pertinent party, she had searched for someone on whom to vent that fury.
This won’t do any good,
whispered a little voice in her head. It was the voice of reason, finally breaking through the shrieking storm of emotion. Francesca straightened her shoulders and dug out her tiny miniature of Georgina. It had been done right before Giuliana’s death, as a gift for Giuliana’s parents. But no one had sent it when Giuliana died in childbed, and then John had given it to her.

A round, cherubic face stared up from the golden frame, the dark eyes serious, the mouth a dainty little pink bow. She was a beautiful child, and as dear to Francesca as her own child could be. The portrait was two years old; Georgina had grown since it was done. Mrs. Jenkins said she was thin now, and Francesca’s heart constricted that she didn’t know what her own niece looked like anymore.

The door opened as she was sunk in maudlin thought, and she looked up. Not the butler again, nor any other servant. From the cut of his clothing, this was the man she had come to see, the man who could summon James Wittiers with a snap of his fingers. She took in her nemesis with one critical glance. He was tall and on the lean side, although with a nice breadth in his shoulders. Dark hair, cut neither long nor short; well dressed, but in singularly dull, dark colors; a face that was neither arrestingly handsome nor unremarkably plain. Even his eyes were ordinary, a colorless gray, with all the warmth of the steel they resembled. All in all, he was the most uninteresting man she had met in a long time. And he had stolen her solicitor, the one she had maneuvered for weeks to hire, which was simply intolerable. She closed her fingers around Georgina’s miniature as some of her ire returned.

“Lady Gordon.” His voice was cultured and smooth, but as bland as the rest of him. “I am Edward de Lacey. You wished to see me about James Wittiers?”

She put the miniature into her reticule. “Yes, I do,” she replied. “I am not certain if you are aware of it, sir, but you have done me a grave disservice.”

A slightly raised brow was his only reaction. “I fail to see how that can be possible, madam. We have never met, to my recollection.”

“This morning I was in the offices of Mr. Wittiers. It took me weeks to secure an appointment with him; he is very much in demand, you see.” He looked unimpressed, and unmoved. Even a little bored, to her eyes. Francesca’s poise slipped, and she plunged along with her grievance. “He agreed to take my case. We discussed it at some length, and at the end he agreed to handle the matter for me. He excused himself for a moment, and never returned. His clerk came in shortly after to tell me that Mr. Wittiers had been called away on an urgent matter and wouldn’t be able to assist me after all. He recommended I seek other counsel.”

“It sounds to me as though your complaint lies with Mr. Wittiers,” said the infuriating man in that cool tone.

“He left in response to your summons!” She could hear her voice rising and fought to control it. “Before your note arrived, with its noble crest, he was willing to help me. And then suddenly he was gone, leaping to do your bidding and leaving my case without so much as a word!”

“Again,” he said, “your displeasure should be directed at Wittiers, if he has treated you so abominably.”

“No,” she retorted, flinging out one hand. “That won’t do any good. I know his services are well and truly lost to me now—lured away by your title and your money. But I want you to know that you have cost, not me, but an innocent little girl her best hope of happiness.”

“Madam—” he began, but Francesca had lost all hold on her temper.

“You disclaim all responsibility,” she charged, jabbing a finger at him, “but through your interference with
my
solicitor, a child, my niece, has been wrongly kept from me and now spirited away, to God knows where, in the custody of a cold and possibly cruel woman, and I shall be forced to waste precious days and weeks searching for another solicitor and an investigator to find her!”

“I sent a note to Wittiers asking him to call upon me when he found it convenient,” said Edward de Lacey, as calmly as before. How that calm infuriated her. “How he arranged his schedule to find a convenient time, I do not know. Why he turned you away, I do not know. I was by no means ready to engage him blindly, and thought it entirely possible that he might not suit my purposes.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And did he?” she asked softly.

He looked back at her with implacable eyes. “That is not your concern.”

She caught her breath. Slowly she crossed the room until she was just a few feet in front of him. “How dare you,” she whispered. “I—I should insist that
you
help me now.”

The man had the nerve to smile. It was a flat, dry smile, with only a spark of amusement in his eyes to indicate it wasn’t forced. “Should you?”

“It would be only fair,” she said wrathfully. “Since you have snatched away my solicitor.”

“He wasn’t really ‘your’ solicitor, though, was he?”

“He agreed to take my case!”

“Apparently he changed his mind.”

“Through your interference!”

“Oh?” He rocked back on his heels, then abruptly leaned toward her. She refused to give ground, but had to look up to meet his eyes. They gleamed like polished silver, as if he enjoyed this, and she caught a whiff of his soap. He smelled very masculine and very rich, with nothing of hard work about him. “Then win him back,” the coldhearted devil replied. “Steal him away from me, Lady Gordon.”

“But no.” She raised her eyebrows at him. How she hated that tone of voice, partly mocking, partly daring, and underpinned with amusement because he knew she would fail even if she tried to do as he suggested. “I am sure your case is much more important than an innocent little girl whisked away from her only living relation by a greedy stepmother. The more I think about it, it is much more appropriate that I seek aid from someone who has only to snap his fingers to bring people running to his bidding. And since you will have Wittiers to do that bidding, you should be able to spare a few hours of your time to attend to my trifling little need.”