The Handbook to Handling His Lordship (2 page)

For another moment the marquis eyed him. “I suppose it will have to. Very well, then. Five years ago, my wife hired a young lady to serve as a governess to my son, George. Three years ago a very valuable diamond necklace vanished from my wife’s dressing table, along with the governess.”

“A stolen necklace,” Nate said with a nod. He was becoming a bit weary of hunting for misplaced jewelry, but London’s
haut ton
seemed to have very slippery fingers. “I think I can manage that.”

“That isn’t quite everything,” the marquis countered, sitting forward an inch or two. “The afternoon Miss Newbury disappeared, my wife was killed in a riding accident.” He cleared his throat. “Actually, the horse returned to the stable without Katherine, and everyone went searching for her. We found her in a ditch, her neck broken. It was only afterward I realized that Miss Newbury hadn’t been among the searchers. When I returned to the house, her things were gone, along with the necklace and the girl, herself.”

“So you think this Miss Newbury murdered Lady Ebberling?” Nate asked slowly, studying his client very carefully. Hands clenched, jaw tight, eyes lowered—anger. Deep anger that this governess had escaped without paying for her misdeeds.

“The physician said Katherine’s fall was possibly an accident. What I
think
is that something untoward occurred. Perhaps Katherine saw Miss Newbury with the gem, or … I don’t know. But if you can find the diamond necklace, then perhaps you will also have located Rachel Newbury. And I would pay three thousand pounds to recover one or the other.”

Four years ago, Nate’s annual salary from the Crown had been three hundred pounds. Today, as the Earl of Westfall, his annual income was somewhere in the realm of eight thousand pounds. In theory he would have offered all of it to find the killer of his wife, certainly. But he would hope that the man he hired wouldn’t accept it. “My lord, three thou—”

“And another five thousand pounds if you deliver her to me and allow me to contact the authorities.”

To Nate both that comment and the amount of blunt being offered spoke volumes. Ebberling wanted to find that woman very badly, and when he did, Miss Newbury would likely never reach the authorities. If Nathaniel meant to be squeamish, however, he’d missed his chance a very long time ago. And he knew quite well that women were perfectly capable of being vicious and murderous. In some ways they were deadlier than their male counterparts, because who would suspect them of such foul deeds?

Above—or below—the morality of it all, the prospect of hunting down someone who’d vanished into the shadows three years ago fascinated him. For God’s sake, he could use a damned challenge. He awoke some mornings with his mind feeling positively mossy.

“May I ask why you’ve decided to embark on this venture now?” he queried, settling his spectacles as he did when he wanted to look particularly unthreatening. “It has been three years, as you said.”

“I was patient for a very long time,” Ebberling replied, “waiting for Bow Street and the local magistrates to do their duty. But now I’ve made plans to remarry. The idea that the woman who may have had something to do with Katherine’s death—who stole from me and betrayed my trust—is still somewhere in the world perhaps waiting to do harm to me and mine again is intolerable. I won’t have that hanging over me any longer.”

It seemed as good an answer as any. “I’ll need whatever information you can provide me about this Rachel Newbury. Age, appearance, breeding, education, birthplace—any of it could be the key to discovering her whereabouts,” he said after a moment. “And that of the necklace, as well.”

Ebberling nodded. “My wife hired her, of course, but I do know her present age would be somewhere between twenty-three and twenty-five years. She was a tall chit, with an air about her, as if she thought herself just a bit more clever than everyone else. Brown eyes, yellow hair that seemed to want to curl every which way, though she always wore it in a perfect knot at the back of her head. Pretty enough, I suppose, and very proper. And I recall that she had a fondness for strawberries and liked to ride. And read. She always had a book in her hands.”

Standing, Nate walked over to the writing desk and pulled free a piece of paper. “I’m a fair hand at drawing,” he said, finding a pencil and taking a seat again. “I’ll make an attempt at sketching her if you’ll guide me through it.”

“Excellent,” the marquis returned, finally reaching for a teacup. “Rycott said you were the man for the job.”

The name startled him. “Rycott?” he repeated, facing his new client. “You’re acquainted with Jack?”

“You mean do I know you served Wellington as a spy?” Ebberling countered, filling his cup and then moving over to the writing desk. “I have my connections. I required someone who could successfully complete this task. Jack Rycott said that would be you. And I haven’t seen or heard anything from you to cause me to doubt his opinion.” He gestured at the paper. “An oval face, as I recall.”

“So Rycott simply told you I worked for Wellington?” Nate said, setting down the pencil and using every bit of willpower he owned to keep from dropping the marquis and permanently silencing the man before he could go about wagging his tongue to anyone else. “I doubt that.”

“Very well, he didn’t say it directly. In fact, he said he’d heard that the new Earl of Westfall liked to find lost cats. And then he said, ‘Why a man would go from lions to cats I have no idea, but there you have it. He’ll do you for the job. And then some.’ When I deduced the rest, he didn’t deny it.”

Now
that
sounded like Jack Rycott. “I won’t deny it either, then,” Nate said aloud, “though I will clarify that I
consulted
with Wellington during the war. There’s a large difference between tracking down a lion and going into a cage with one.” It sounded believable, anyway. “Cats—and females—are in my experience much more manageable.”

And given what the Marquis of Ebberling thought he knew, the sooner Nate could find this particular female and be done with it, the better. Then he could drive himself to Brighton and have a little chat with his former comrade and remind Colonel Rycott just how little he appreciated being gossiped about. Or mentioned at all, for that matter. He’d found and trapped and killed his share of lions. More than his share, according to the French. And now cats and females and the occasional piece of lost jewelry suited him just fine, thank you very much.

Once Ebberling was satisfied that the drawing accurately depicted Miss Rachel Newbury—or her image as of three years previously, anyway—the marquis handed over a hefty stack of blunt along with his address both in London and in Shropshire’s Ebberling Manor. Nate sat back and studied the pencil sketch. She was pretty, with that lifted-chin haughtiness Ebberling had described. In truth she could be anyone, residing anywhere in England. Given the supposition that she wouldn’t want to be found, however, he’d never encountered a better place to lose oneself than in the crowded streets of London.

A stranger in a small village would be noticed. People would ask questions. Rachel Newbury wouldn’t want to answer questions, and she wouldn’t want to be remembered. She would likely be employed in some quiet, nondescript occupation where she was unlikely to encounter anyone from her prior life—as a seamstress or a baker’s helper, a shopkeeper’s assistant or even an old lady’s companion.

Yellow-blond hair, brown eyes, haughty, and highly intelligent. Not much to begin with. But he’d found people in Europe in the middle of a war. That had been a matter of life and death, of security for England.
This
would be fun.

The moment Lord Ebberling left the house, Nathaniel summoned his valet. “Franks, retrieve my saddlebag from the attic, will you? I’ve a bit of traveling to do.”

The valet wrinkled his long nose. “My lord? How long will you be gone? I can’t possibly pack such a small bag with adequate garb and your toiletries. Allow me to fetch you a proper valise.”

“A valise won’t fit on my saddle,” Nathaniel returned, the stifling robes of earldom beginning to close on him again, not that they’d ever fit well. For Christ’s sake, until two years ago he’d practically lived out of a saddlebag, acquiring additional things as necessary and discarding them once they were no longer needed. Evidently an aristocrat didn’t pilfer shirts from clotheslines, however.

“Please reconsider, my lord. Wherever it is you’re going, you will have need of pressed shirts and starched cravats. You—”

“Very well.” Cursing under his breath, Nathaniel motioned the servant toward the door. “One small valise. And tell Garvey I’ll be taking the phaeton. To Shropshire and its environs, since I’m evidently to inform people of my comings and goings now.”

From his expression, Franks didn’t quite know how to respond to that, but Nate wasn’t in the mood to explain himself. He’d done his duty by the Crown, and now he did his duty to his family by taking the title his cousin Gerard had vacated after falling from a boat in the Lake District. What grated was the remaining wish to do something for himself, something that he wished to do for his own curiosity and interest. At the moment, that was riding—no, driving now—to Shropshire and the neighboring villages to look for a trace of Miss Rachel Newbury. And by God, he meant to find her.

Chapter Two

The washroom was the plainest room in The Tantalus Club. Even the kitchen had a selection of antique pots and pans lining the walls. The washroom, however, featured only a wooden chair, a small cabinet for towels and soaps, and a large brass tub in the middle. A small window did look out over the carriage drive, but after several men were caught trying to look inside, the window was actually raised so high on the wall that it now looked out into the sky.

Considering the reputation of The Tantalus Club for hiring beautiful, unavailable women, Emily Portsman was somewhat surprised the window hadn’t been boarded over entirely. The fascination of the unobtainable, she supposed it was. But as she’d been obtained several times over the past three years, that explanation didn’t quite serve.

As usual on Sundays and Thursdays, Emily was the last to use the bath for the day. With her making the schedules, that feat was particularly easy to arrange. By now the water had moved past tepid and into cool and unpleasant, but it served its purpose. And she needed the extra time that being at the end of the line provided. It wasn’t that she felt a particular need to scrub herself clean; in fact she had stepped from the tub nearly an hour ago.

She currently sat in the simple wooden chair beside the bathtub, a warm woolen robe wrapped around her, and her latest gothic horror novel open in her lap.
The Scottish Cousin
featured a plot so convoluted she had no idea what was truly going on. It had passed the border of impossible five chapters ago, but it kept her entertained. And that was the point of it.

Finally the small, secondhand clock sitting on the cabinet ticked past three o’clock, and she set the book aside and stood. Making her way back to the cold bath, she knelt beside the brass tub and unceremoniously dunked her head. Immediately the water turned a reddish brown, spreading out from the long strands of her hair until the entire bath was the color of weak tea. Emily drew her fingers through the mess, shaking it out vigorously, then grabbed for the stained brown towel she always used and wrapped it tightly around the dripping cascade.

Immediately she went to the bowl of clean water she’d set aside and thoroughly washed her hands in the most abrasive soap she’d been able to find. No sense going through all this twice a week and then having stained brown fingers giving her away. Sitting on the chair again, she toweled off her hair, then combed through it until it was smooth and glossy. She would have to wait until it dried before she could take the straightening iron to it—only once had she made the mistake of putting metal to her hair while it was still wet, and she’d had to wear a matron’s turban for a week until the green tint faded.

Now, once the thick paste of henna and tea and lemon juice had been rinsed away, she would have a head of pretty, if utterly unremarkable, dark chestnut hair. The color of a bay horse, one of her intimate companions had once said. Nothing to write a poem about, certainly, and that was precisely what she wanted.

The door rattled, and she started. “Nearly finished,” she called, reaching over to collect her shift and pull it on over her head.

“It’s Jenny,” a feminine voice in a light French accent called. “I have the new gown you ordered from Gaston’s.”

Emily sent a glance at the tea-colored bath, then padded over in her bare feet to unlock the door and pull it open. “You know I didn’t order a gown from Gaston’s,” she said in a low voice, allowing the club’s majordomo into the bathroom before she closed the door again.

Genevieve Martine, her blond hair pulled tightly into a bun that bespoke a governess rather than the second-in-command of an exclusive and decidedly unconventional gentlemen’s club, shrugged her shoulders. “It sounded plausible, no? Not that I think anyone cares to hear that you color your hair, Emily.”

“It’s a matter of pride,” Emily lied with a short smile. “Not all of us have ravishingly lovely golden hair.” She fingered the mostly dry ends.

“Mm-hm.”

She would’ve preferred an even plainer brown color, actually, but the henna tended to turn everything red before it deepened to brown. The tea and the lemon juice helped, but to keep her hair from changing color every other day she had to apply the dye twice each week. “Was there a reason you wanted in here, then? The bathwater cooled past tepid an hour ago.”

“I thought I might assist you with carrying buckets to empty,” Jenny replied, “since you’ll be overseeing the dinner service in an hour.”

Emily blinked. “I did the schedule.
You’re
overseeing dinner service tonight.”

“I was,” Jenny countered. “Now I’ve been volunteered to speak at a meeting for women who wish to own their own businesses.”

“But—”

“Yes, I know. I don’t own The Tantalus Club. Diane does. She also asked me to attend, as she refuses.” Jenny grimaced. “I would decline also, but women who can envision owning their own businesses are also ones who can afford to wager here on ladies’ nights. In order to serve our own interests, I can be politic for an evening.”