Scandalous Regency Secrets Collection. Louise Allen
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lead, all right?”
“This should prove interesting,” Gabe said, lifting his hat to slide his fingers through his blond hair. “Am I presentable enough to pass muster for a marquis’s majordomo? I’ve been on the road all day.”
Coop smiled, as he was sure he was supposed to do. “Just stay clear of the light, and we probably won’t be sent around to the tradesman’s entrance. All right, here we go.”
Coop climbed the marble steps to the impressive front door and lifted the heavy brass knocker. Banged it three times in quick succession, with enough force to have those inside believe they were about to usher the Prince Regent into their humble abode.
And so far, so good. A liveried footman pulled open the door, to reveal an imposing figure who had to be Gabe’s imagined majordomo.
“Step aside, king’s business,” Coop commanded, already advancing into the black-and-white tiled foyer.
The majordomo moved to physically block him, but Gabe could always be counted upon to step into any breech. “Here, here, man, what do you think you’re about? Don’t you know who this is? My lord Cooper Townsend, the hero of Quatre Bras. Oh, and I’m Gabriel Sinclair, heir to the Duke of Cranbrook, not that I believe that’s of any real import at the moment. I am here only at the request of Lord Townsend. Now—step aside.”
“Your pardon, my lord, sir,” the man implored, clearly impressed.
Coop took a moment to feel comforted that he was finally getting some sort of benefit out of being the hero of Quatre Bras.
“Very well, but step lively, my man. As I said, I am here on the king’s business. Show me to your employer’s private study. Come on, man, don’t dawdle.”
“But...but to his lordship’s private study? If I may be so bold as to ask why, my lord?”
“You most certainly can do that. Gabe, summon the guards from outside if you please, and have them escort this inquisitive fellow to— Well, no names need be mentioned.”
“Certainly,” Gabe said, already turning for the door.
“No! Wait! I’ve read the chapbooks,” the majordomo rushed on, nearly breathless. “I know you serve the Crown, my lord. I... I... Forgive me. If George here can be allowed to relieve you gentlemen of your hats and gloves?”
“Certainly.”
Lying becomes easier the more one engages in the practice, Coop realized as he stripped off his gloves and handed them to the young footman. I imagine Dany could have told me that. I’ll have to warn her that I’m fast becoming more proficient in the practice.
The majordomo preceded them down the wide hallway to the rear of the mansion, the typical location of private studies.
Although Ferdie’s study’s decorations were not as ordinary. The leather couches were there, the bookcases, the large, intricately carved desk, a well-stocked drinks table. But rather than globes and busts of ancient Greeks, the marquis had chosen to display an array of brass and stone carved nudes, a few of them faintly artistic in nature, but for the most part rather grotesquely enlarged in certain areas, very nearly cartoonish.
“Suits the man,” Gabe said quietly. “All that’s missing is an assortment of riding crops hanging in pride of place on the wall.”
The majordomo had remained in the open doorway. “If I might be of any further assistance...?”
“You can’t,” Coop told him, closing the door on the man’s face, and then leaning up against it, to grin like a schoolboy who’d just made off with his father’s pipe and tobacco.
Gabe had already begun searching the bookshelves, to be sure none of the decorative boxes held the letters. “Did you imagine it would be this easy?”
“No. But I had hope. Minerva sails through life like a man-of-war, and for the most part everyone she encounters is quick to hasten out of her way. I merely tore a page from her lesson book. I’ll take the desk.”
He pulled out the chair and sat down, opening one drawer after the other until he realized one of them bore a keyhole. Locked, of course. “Gabe, do you have a knife?”
“You mistake me for Darby. Here, try this letter opener.”
“There’s no need for that, gentlemen.”
Coop froze where he was, as did Gabe, and they watched as a not too tall, not homely nor handsome—indeed, a totally unmemorable—young man entered the study via the French doors that led out to a balcony.
“You,” Coop said, careful to keep his hands still until he saw that the man’s hands were empty. “You’re the one from the jewelry shop.”
The man bowed. “One and the same, yes, for my sins. Allow me to introduce myself. I am William Bruxton, brother to Miss Sally Bruxton, who is soon to be wed to the marquis. If I don’t kill him first. Now, who are you?”
“We’re here on the king’s business,” Gabe said, surreptitiously sliding his fingers around a slim bronze statuette and slipping it behind his back.
Bruxton smiled. “No, you’re not. You’re here to find Ferdie’s latest incriminating manuscript. You’re too late. He had me deliver it to the printer this morning.”
“Just as he had you take the garnets to the jewelry shop.”
“As you say, yes. I recognized you that day, which is why I hid my face as I rushed past. Not that anyone ever remembers my face. It’s both my curse and my blessing.”
Coop stood up. He felt more comfortable, standing. “So you’re in league with your soon-to-be brother-in-law.”
“Hardly. Like my sister, and courtesy of our gambling-mad father, I am firmly held beneath the thumb of my soon-to-be brother-in-law. There is a discernible difference, if one cares to look.”
“I do. The jewelry you attempted to sell. That wasn’t your first visit to the shop to do such business.”
“No. The other visits were to deliver minor pieces of the Lanisford family’s enormous collection, to have the larger of the genuine stones popped out and replaced with glass.”
“Why would he do that?” Gabe asked, relaxing enough to put down the statuette and take up his position, seating himself on one edge of the desk. “Ferdie’s rich as Croesus, last I heard.”
“The late marquis’s will left several of the minor, unentailed pieces to his late wife’s sisters and nieces. Ferdie figured out that his father’s will did not demand they be given in their original condition.”
Coop actually saw the humor in that. “Sounds just like the man. What is that Irish saying? Oh, yes—‘If he had only an egg, he’d give you the shell.’ Now tell me why you continue to cooperate with him—and if you were the man who shot at me today from the trees.”
“You might still be able to stop publication if I tell you the address of the printer,” Bruxton said, which fairly well answered Coop’s question.
“That information won’t save you. The chapbook is already in our possession. You shot my tiger. You could have killed my fiancée.”
“I could have hit you squarely in the back of your head,” the man said, actually boasted. “Instead, at the last minute, I came to my senses, and shot low, knowing I had to hit something, or else you might not even realize your life was in danger. My apologies to your tiger. It was only a graze.”
“That graze cost me a pony, the four-legged kind. So now you’ve come to your senses. Why?”
Bruxton pointed to the drinks table. “May I?” He walked over and poured himself a glass of gin, downed it and then poured another. “Do you know what it’s like to be poor, my lord? Poor, after years of not being poor? I think that’s even worse, because you’ve known better, and don’t precisely