The Sinners Club (2 page)

“I intended to wait until I had the title confirmed, why?”

“I was hoping you might consider a journey in the near future.”

“What's wrong?”

Adam looked up. “It's Keyes.”

“What about him?”

“He's still missing.”

“Damn.” Jack sipped his brandy. “Do you have any idea where he might be?”

“You know he disappeared a week or so ago?”

“Yes. Violet and I were worried he'd taken our chance to clear our name with him. At one point, we even suspected
him
of being Mr. Brown.”

“Mr. Brown, or should I say Lord Denley, is dead now. Keyes wasn't involved with him in the slightest. We suspect foul play from other quarters.”

“From what I've heard, Keyes did have a habit of sticking his nose in where it wasn't wanted. I'm fairly sure there are several people who might want to take revenge on him. Do you have any idea where he's gone?”

Adam sighed. “That's the problem. We've tried all the usual channels, and no one has seen or heard from him. There's been no ransom demand, or offer to exchange prisoners from any of our current enemies either.” He hesitated. “Would you mind if I asked the Earl of Westbrook to join us and offer his opinion on the matter?”

“I have no objection. But I can't say I know the man.”

Adam turned to ring the bell. “You probably don't, but he has an office here, as does his wife.”

“His
wife?”

“Didn't you know? He and the countess founded the Sinners in 1812. Lord Westbrook was alarmed at the number of his colleagues who received no official recognition from the government for the dangerous acts they committed to safeguard their nation's future. He wanted to offer them and their dependents a safe place, support in legal matters, money when needed, and a place to stay and enjoy their own kind.”

“I thought that was your and Keyes's doing.”

“No, we are mere inheritors of the day-to-day running of the place.”

Jack rose as an older gentleman came through the door. He was still a handsome devil, his skin darker than normal and eyes the color of excellent whisky.

“Mr. Lennox?”

He sounded more English than he looked. Jack bowed. “My lord.”

The man glanced at Adam and they all sat down again. “You are aware that Lord Keyes is still missing?”

“So Adam has just told me. How can I help you, sir, and, may I ask, what is your interest in this matter?”

“Ah, Mr. Lennox, you are as sharp as I was led to believe. You are an excellent choice for this adventure.”

Jack couldn't help but notice the earl hadn't answered his question. “How do you think I can help?”

“Keyes has family in Lincolnshire. He usually avoids them like the plague.”

“Ah, which is why you're both hoping I'd be going to visit Pinchbeck Hall.”

Adam sat back and stretched his booted feet toward the fire. “I suspect that whatever happened, Keyes won't thank us for blundering in there and making an official fuss. His disappearance might not be connected to his work for his country at all. I trust your discretion in this matter.”

“My discretion?” Jack fought a grin. “I'm a born hell-raiser, ask my sister.”

“It is of no matter, if you aren't going to Lincolnshire anyway.” Adam directed his next remark at the earl. “He intends to wait to visit Pinchbeck Hall until his title is confirmed.”

“I understand. That is certainly the most prudent thing to do.” The earl sighed. “It's a pity, but it can't be helped.”

Jack finished off his brandy and contemplated his empty glass as a flicker of excitement warmed his gut. Perhaps it was time to allow himself a last escapade before he settled down to the life of a landed peer. Didn't he deserve an adventure, and wouldn't it be amusing to descend on his inheritance without announcing his true purpose? He could see what was wrong at his ancestral home
and
help find Lord Keyes all in the same trip. He held out his glass.

“I think I might be going into Lincolnshire in the next few days after all. What exactly do I need to know about your missing colleague?”

T
he county of Lincolnshire was very flat. From his vantage point beside one of the cuts that came in from the cold North Sea, the view across the fens went on for miles. The sky was immense, a billowy mass of lowering gray clouds filled with the howl of a sharp easterly wind. His horse shifted its feet and threw back its head and Jack absentmindedly patted the animal. He'd heard tales that the ghosts of the drowned and the disappeared inhabited the fens, and with the wind screeching like a banshee in his ears, he might well believe it.

He nudged his horse down the barely perceptible incline away from the coast inland following a thin trail that ran parallel to the deep water-filled ditch. Far in the distance, he could see his destination, the squat tower of a church and a huddle of cottages and greenery around it. The host at the Golden Goose Inn on the previous night had told him that Kirkby la Thorpe—the village he sought—was in the Kesteven area of the county, east of the bigger town of Sleaford and on the Boston road. He wrapped his muffler more closely around his face and rammed his hat down on his head. He hoped to God this was his destination, as there was nothing else in sight. If he was mistaken, he might wander for days and be found raving mad in a ditch.

The distances were deceptive, and it took his horse far longer than he had anticipated to reach the edge of the small village, which barely qualified as such, apart from its too large church and old inn. The lights of the only hostelry, The Queens Head, appeared in the gathering dust, and Jack let out a relieved breath. The monarch whose faded redheaded portrait hung outside the inn was good Queen Bess. It was a fitting choice for a region that had lost its power when the old queen died and trade shifted to Liverpool, Bristol, and the New World to the west.

He rode into the stable yard and shouted for an ostler. A young boy appeared and obligingly held the horse's head as Jack dismounted.

“Do you have rooms to let, lad?” he asked, his voice cracked with cold and lack of use.

“Yes, sir. I'll take care of your horse. You go on in.”

Jack bestowed a small coin on the boy and headed into the house, which was blessedly warm. The taproom appeared empty, but when he banged on the bar, a man who bore a striking resemblance to the boy who'd taken his horse emerged from the cellar and looked Jack over.

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“Good evening, my name is Smith. I'd like a room and a good dinner.”

“That we can do, sir. Will Ferrers, landlord, at your service. Do ye have any baggage?”

Jack pointed outside. “It's with my horse.”

“Tom will bring it in for ye then. Would ye like a drop of warm ginger punch before ye go up?”

“That would be most welcome. It is rather chilly out there.”

The landlord warmed a bowl over the fire and the fragrant scent of ginger, rum, and honey tantalized Jack's nose. Tom burst into the room with Jack's modest baggage and was bidden to take it up to the best bedchamber.

Jack followed soon after, a pitcher of warm punch and a flagon in one hand. At the top of the stairs, he bumped into a comely woman he assumed was the landlord's wife, which was a pity because he reckoned she'd make a cozy armful on a cold night.

“I've aired the bed for you, sir, and made up the fire.” She hesitated by the open door. “Will you eat up here or come down to the parlor?”

“I'll come down.” Jack bowed low, and her eyes widened. “Thank you, ma'am.”

She patted her lush bosom. “I'm no ma'am, sir. I'm Mr. Ferrers's sister. His wife is busy in the kitchen cooking your dinner.”

“How kind of her.” Jack smiled slowly. “Then I will definitely come down so that I can give her my thanks.”

She batted her eyelashes at him and proceeded down the stairs, her hips swinging while Jack watched appreciatively. His smile faded as soon as he shut the door and viewed his comfortable surroundings. He sternly reminded himself that in his current persona, he couldn't take advantage of any woman, even a willing one. It would not be in character.

With a groan he sat down and pulled off his boots unaided. As he hadn't traveled with a servant of any description, it was a good thing he was used to doing for himself. He poured a mug of the hot punch and drank it as quickly as he could, murmuring his appreciation as the spirits warmed and soothed the back of his throat.

Within half an hour he was in the best parlor in front of a crackling fire, eating a remarkably good dinner. The landlord offered him a decent bottle of claret and Jack accepted, with the proviso that his host join him. After a shared bottle, Mr. Ferrers was inclined to be more confiding, which suited Jack perfectly.

“So what brings ye to our village, sir?” Ferrers asked as he opened the second bottle.

“Business, Mr. Ferrers, business.”

“Out here? Are you a land agent, or a buyer of wool?”

“No, I'm a private secretary.”

“And what does that entail?”

Jack polished his spectacles. “I answer my employer's correspondence, help him write his speeches for the House of Lords, organize his staff at his various houses, and keep an eye on the butler and the household accounts.”

“The man is too busy to see to these things himself, is he?”

“Indeed. My employer is an extremely active man in the government of this great nation.”

“Does he have property around here, then?”

“I believe so. That is why I'm here.”

Ferrers scratched his head. “Now, where would that be? There's the vicarage and the Grange on the hill, but apart from that...”

“The property is called Pinchbeck Hall. Do you know of it?”

“Pinchbeck Hall?” Ferrers shook his head. “Nay, that can't be right. That's the Earl of Storr's family seat. My cousin works up there as the housekeeper.”

“Perhaps I work for the Earl of Storr?”

“Nay, how could ye? The man just died!” Ferrers roared with laughter and slapped his knee. “No disrespect to the old codger, mind.”

“I am aware that the old earl passed away. I happen to represent the new earl.”

His companion's jaw dropped. “The new one?”

“It is the way of the world, Mr. Ferrers. The old order passeth to make way for the new and all that.”

“But—”

“I intend to present myself at the house tomorrow. Did you say that your cousin was still in residence? Perhaps she will be able to assist me in my perusal of the estate accounts, and give me a tour of the house.”

“She is still there, sir, but so are the family.”

“I'll deal with them when I see them. I have my instructions from the new earl. No one will be turned out, or left homeless.”

“Well, I'm glad to hear that, sir, seeing as how things are up there.” Ferrers frowned. “Are ye quite certain your employer is the new earl, sir?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I didn't think things had been settled yet.”

“Indeed.” Jack studied the landlord's dubious expression. “Is there another claimant to the title?”

“That's difficult to say yet, sir, isn't it?” Ferrers stood up and bowed. “I think I hear someone calling me in the public room. If you'll excuse me, I'll go and attend to his needs.”

Jack contemplated the fire for a while and considered Ferrers's cryptic comments. There was definitely something not right up at Pinchbeck Hall, but he still wasn't clear exactly what was going on. Had somebody else claimed the title? Would he find an imposter in his place? His anticipatory smile turned into a yawn and he stood up. After his day in the saddle a good night's sleep seemed a just reward.

He made his way back up the stairs and found his door ajar and the very helpful Miss Ferrers turning down his bed. She smiled as he came into the room and he smiled back. Perhaps the new earl's private secretary deserved some reward for doing his duty after all....

 

A cock crowed, waking Jack from his slumber, and he shouted down for some hot water. It didn't take him long to shave, dress, and pull on his newly polished boots. He descended into the parlor to devour a plate of ham and eggs while getting directions to Pinchbeck Hall. Within an hour he was on his way along the narrow country lanes with their high hedges. The sun peeked out from behind the clouds bathing the sullen landscape with light and reminding him of the paintings he'd recently seen by a Mr. J.M.W Turner at the Somerset House exhibition.

It didn't take him long to reach the walls of the estate and halt his horse. The high iron gates emblazoned with the Storr crest were open. The stone gatehouse appeared to be uninhabited but not neglected. Jack headed up the long elm tree-lined driveway, pausing occasionally to admire the view through the trees and try to catch a glimpse of the approaching house.

He spotted the high Tudor chimneys first and so wasn't surprised that the house turned out to be large and rambling in a typical black-and-white-timbered Elizabethan style. At one end stood a stone watchtower, which leaned awkwardly against the more traditional structure. It certainly wasn't a classically beautiful house in the current style, but it had a certain charm all its own. Despite its age, it looked to be well maintained, which confirmed Mr. McEwan's remarks about the estate being in excellent condition.

There was no one in sight. He rode up to the arched oak front door with its two sunken steps and dismounted before banging hard on the already dented wooden panels. He heard faint footsteps and the withdrawing of a creaking bolt. When the door opened, he fixed a pleasant smile on his face.

“Good morning, I've—”

The man who'd opened the door scowled at him, and flung the door wide. He wasn't dressed like a servant, and appeared to be a country gentleman.

“Come in.”

Jack raised his eyebrows in mild surprise and followed the man into the hallway. The space was vast and betrayed its medieval origins with a high hammerbeam ceiling and rusted suits of armor. He wasn't given the opportunity to appreciate the sight for long as he remembered his primary business.

“May I ask whom I have the pleasure of speaking to, sir?”

The man swung around. “You should damn well know that before you come skulking up here with your lies.”

Jack held his ground. “I assume Mr. Ferrers sent a message ahead of me, then?”

“Of course he did!”

“Which is supposed to account for your unpleasant reception?”

“You think I'm being unpleasant? Perhaps you might reconsider that after you meet my sister. Come into the drawing room.” He stalked down the hallway, Jack at his heels, opened a door, and stepped inside. “The Countess of Storr.”

Jack took off his hat and advanced toward the diminutive lady who reclined on the couch. She gave a little cry of distress and struggled to rise. It was Jack who reached her first and tenderly assisted her to sit up. He found himself looking into a pair of big brown eyes filled with a hint of wide-eyed terror and a suggestion of tears. Her face was heart-shaped and framed with artfully arranged golden curls.

“Oh my, have you come to throw me from my house in my condition?”

Jack forced his gaze from the beauty of her face, down over her fabulous bosom and finally to the swell of her belly clearly outlined against the black silk of her high-waisted gown.

“Ma'am?”

She clasped his hand in hers. “It's true, isn't it?”

Jack carefully disengaged himself from her frantic grasp and stepped back. “I have no idea whom I'm addressing, ma‘am. Perhaps I should start by making myself known to you. I'm—”

“We know who you are.” The male sibling interrupted Jack and came to stand by his sister's side. “You're an imposter.”

Jack fought down an absurd desire to laugh. “I assure you, I am not. My name is John Smith.”

“Then you are not the scoundrel who claims to be the new earl?” the woman whispered.

He bowed. “Didn't Mr. Ferrers tell you? I am the private secretary of the man who
expects
to be the next earl. May I respectfully inquire who you are?”

The lady glanced at her brother and exhaled. “Oh love, it's not as bad as we feared at all! I'm sure Mr. Smith is a reasonable man, and will soon understand why his employer is mistaken in his beliefs.” She smiled brilliantly up at Jack. “Your employer cannot
possibly
be the new earl.” Her hand curved over her belly.

“I'm not sure I understand, ma'am.”

“I am the current, or should I say,
dowager,
Countess of Storr, and my child is not yet born.” She raised her chin. “Your master cannot possibly claim the title until
my
child is delivered. And if it is a boy, as I believe it will be, then the title will never be your employer's.”

Jack abruptly sat down.

“You
are the Countess?”

“The Dowager Countess.” She opened her eyes wide at him. “Obviously.”

“The Lennox family solicitors made no mention of the last earl being married.”

She bit her luscious lower lip. “I suspect that was Jasper's little joke. He was known to be rather secretive about such things.” She reached out a hand to the auburn-haired man standing beside her. “My brother, Simon, has been a rock in this time of trial. I am so lucky to have him.”

Simon's face softened as he looked down at his sister. Jack took stock of the tall redheaded man and the petite blond woman. They didn't look at all alike, but there was an obvious bond of affection between them. And why was he worrying about that when there were other, more important things to concern him? Like the fate of his inheritance? He hardened his resolve. He'd be damned if he'd let it slip away again.