Beware Of Virtuous Women. Kasey Michaels
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we’ll begin,” he told her as the coach stopped, then started off again at a near crawl, caught in the crush of early-evening London traffic. For a woman who’d professed an interest in the London sights, Eleanor Becket seemed content to have the shades drawn tight on the coach windows. Just a naturally secretive little thing, wasn’t she? Or she liked sitting in the half dark, which was silly, because she wasn’t a bad-looking woman.
“Yes, Jack, tomorrow will be soon enough. How do you plan to begin?”
“With Lady Beresford. We may not be in London long enough to take advantage of the association, get out into wider society at all. I hope not, frankly. But I’ll present Ethan’s letter to her anyway.”
“A bit of honesty covers many a lie, Papa says. At the very least, you could then honestly drop her name into the conversation as you ratchet up your pursuit of the men you mentioned at Becket Hall.” Eleanor spoke each word carefully, not wishing too appear too anxious to hear about the men…the man.
“Yes. But remember, I’ve already begun with Harris Phelps, as he frequents several gaming hells on the fringes of Mayfair. Gilly—that’s Sir Gilbert Eccles—is more of a cipher, I suppose you’d say, definitely a follower and not a leader. Where Phelps goes, Eccles will follow.”
Eleanor wet her lips, swallowed. “And the third? I believe you said he was an earl?”
“Earl of Chelfham, yes. The estimable Rawley Maddox. He’s the oldest of the trio by a good twenty or more years, as I already told Ainsley, and definitely the smartest. He’s why I’m bothering with Phelps and Eccles at all—they’re to be my way in to Chelfham. It’s his bride I’d most particularly hope you can cultivate. She’s Phelps’s sister, which may explain why Chelfham bothers with him. She’s also young, probably not more than a few years older than you, in fact.”
“Really? How…interesting.”
“Not really. He’s trying for an heir is how I heard the story. His first wife died in a fall down the stairs, the second in childbed. If Chelfham dies without issue, I believe the earldom goes vacant.”
Eleanor’s head was spinning. “I believe the proper term is extinct, if all possible heirs have died. A title is dormant if no one claims it or his or her title can’t be proved, and in abeyance if more than one person is equally qualified to be the holder.”
Jack shook his head. Listening to this woman was like being back in class with his tutor as he reeled off dry as dust facts and expected Jack to care. “Is that so?”
“Oh, yes, at least I think so.” She smiled at him, and Jack felt an unexpected punch to his stomach. She was such an odd little creature, all prim and proper, yet also so anxious to please. “Papa has a rather large library, and I have quite a bit of time.”
“You said her. His or her title. It would be interesting, wouldn’t it, if Chelfham’s bride presented him with only daughters.”
Eleanor made a great business of inspecting the seam on the thumb of her right glove. “Some peerages can be inherited by females, although their number is very limited. And, of course, private fortunes and land not entailed can be given where one wishes.”
Jack sat back against the squabs, more than a little surprised. Then again, what did he care for peerages? And, if he was right, and had his way, the Earl of Chelfham wouldn’t have to worry about them, either.
“Rather a fountain of possibly useful information, aren’t you? I can see where you are a good choice for my small project, in any case. A lady, and an educated lady at that. I imagine everyone will be wondering why such a fine and refined creature as yourself would agree to leg shackle herself to such a rough character as myself.”
Eleanor looked at him quizzically for a moment, then dropped her gaze. What had just happened? What had he just said? How had he said it?…such a fine and refined creature as yourself.
No, it wasn’t actually the words he’d said, but the way he had said them. And he’d said them with this sudden lilt in his voice. Why had he suddenly reminded her of Paddy O’Rourke, from the village? He was English, not Irish. Everyone knew Jack Eastwood was English. Born in Sussex was what he’d told them. Yet Eleanor was sure she’d just heard a faint hint of Ireland in the cadence of his last statement.
It had been there, hadn’t it? Just for a moment?
She closed her eyes, calling herself silly. A life spent not trusting outsiders had made her skittish, and much too suspicious. Her papa trusted him. Court and the others trusted him. She hadn’t even thought about trust, fool that she was, too dazzled by Jack’s effect on her.
Well, that particular foolishness needed to come to a quick end. She was a Becket first, and female only second.
Much as she longed to see the Earl of Chelfham, much as she was determined to help Jack Eastwood uncover the identity of the leaders of the Red Men Gang who had threatened the Beckets’ very existence, she would remember to keep her faith in herself, and not in anyone else, even Jack Eastwood.
Eleanor’s life, that had seemed much too tame to her only a few days ago, was suddenly crowded with too many possibilities for disaster….
CHAPTER THREE
“ABOUT TIME IT WAS you lugged that great big simple self of yours back here, boyo. I was about to give you up.”
Jack turned, still in the act of sliding off his neck cloth, to see Cluny Shannon sprawled on the lone chair in his dressing room, a half-empty glass hanging from his fingers.
It was always a half-empty glass with Cluny, who never saw the sunshine without mentioning the clouds.
“My apologies, old friend. I didn’t notice a candle in the window. Were you pining for me?”
Cluny finished off his drink, obviously not the first or even the fourth of the evening, and carefully got to his feet, holding the glass in front of him as he advanced on Jack. “Thinking of where to lay off the silver, to tell you the truth. I could turn a pretty penny just for that behemoth you’ve got sitting on the table in the dining room. Now that I think on it, it’s a shame you made it back. Go away again, get yourself lost, and I’ll be a rich man.”
Jack unbuttoned his waistcoat and shrugged out of it, then began on the buttons of his shirt. “You’re getting soft in your old age, Cluny. Ten years ago, and you’d have had the silver before I was halfway to the coast. Have you sold off my clothes to the ragman, or do you think my dressing gown is still here somewhere?”
“I’m supposing you want me to fetch it for you now, don’t you?” Cluny put down the glass and navigated his way to one of the large clothespresses, extracting a deep burgundy banyan he then tossed in Jack’s general direction. “Here you go, boyo. Cover yourself up before I lose my supper.”
“Which you drank,” Jack said, snagging the dressing gown out of midair and sliding his bare arms into it, tying the sash at his waist. “I need you sober now, Cluny. We’ve got us a fine piece of trouble.”
The Irishman settled himself once more into the chair. “True enough. I saw her when you brought her in. A fine piece indeed, but what in the devil are we supposed to be doing with her?”
Jack shook his head at his friend’s deliberate misunderstanding and headed back into his bedchamber, Cluny on his heels. “That, my friend, is no piece, fine or otherwise. She’s Becket’s daughter, so if you want to keep your liver under wraps you’ll be very careful what you say, and what you do. Understand?”
“Not even by half I don’t,” Cluny said, pouring wine into two clean glasses. “Becket’s girl, you say? So you brought her up to town as a favor to the man?”
“No,” Jack said, accepting the glass Cluny offered, “I brought her up here as my wife.”
While Cluny coughed and spit, wine dribbling from his chin, Jack eased his length into a leather chair beside the small fire in the grate