Scandalous Regency Secrets Collection. Кэрол Мортимер
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of the square and directed that he be taken to the Pulteney.
As arranged, Darby and Rigby were waiting for him in his rooms, joined there by Sergeant Major Ames, the trio looking relaxed and comfortable, rather sprawled across the couches and chairs, drinks in their hands.
“Sir!” Sergeant Major Ames said, leaping to his feet to salute his employer. “We were just reminiscing about Champaubert. Fine mess that was. Called for a toast to the viscount’s dimmed eye, you understand. I’ll go now.”
“Yes, thank you, Ames,” Coop said, looking to Darby. How did the man do it, turn his injury into countless jokes at his own expense, even make it easy for the sergeant major to comment on it? The thing was, it was one thing to sacrifice an eye in battle, but quite another to lose it in a totally unnecessary defeat brought on them by that damn Russian general, Olssufiev.
“Are you all right?” he asked his friend after Ames had quit the room, no one commenting as he picked up one of the bottles and took it with him. It would be an hour or two of singular reminiscing for the sergeant major before he’d find sleep, Coop knew. Their losses at Champaubert, followed by their months of captivity until the deposed emperor was caught and put in a cage, had changed all their lives.
Their friend Gabriel Sinclair, his skull nearly bashed in by a French soldier’s rifle butt, had gone into a funk, blaming himself for events he couldn’t have changed, even though he’d felt certain an attack was coming. Coop himself had taken a ball in his side, and been little use to anyone when his wound had become infected. If it weren’t for Ames’s rough nursing and Rigby’s suddenly discovered talent for finding food where none seemed to exist, things could have ended much differently for him. And Darby had lost the vision in his left eye.
Four schoolboy friends, now bound together more tightly than many brothers. They’d managed to return to their former lives, pick up the pieces and move on. But never alone. When Gabe had asked for their help, they’d come to him at once, fully prepared to make utter cakes of themselves with those damn birds. Now they were here for him, no questions asked, willing to do anything he needed of them.
“Did anyone hear from Gabe?” he asked now as he picked up one of the bottles and drank from it, not bothering to use the glass that had been placed next to it.
“I had a note from him this morning,” Rigby said. “He hopes to return to town soon, sooner than that if you need him, if possible. He’s still sweeping up after that little adventure last week, I’m afraid, dealing with what his Thea believes are her new responsibilities.”
“In other words, hiding themselves away until the scandal is replaced by something more interesting,” Darby added. “Unless we get luckier than we were tonight, you might be able to help Gabe out in that quarter.”
“So neither of you saw anything?” Coop had harbored a faint hope all the way back to the Pulteney, but it had been just that, faint.
“Au contraire, mon ami,” Darby said, saluting him with his wineglass. “Being of a vastly superior intellect, I immediately realized a hackney had no business heading down the stable row behind the mansions. Therefore, still judiciously concealing myself, at great personal danger, may I add, within a mass of prickly shrubberies, I watched its approach and then, quick as a startled hare, jumped out into the alleyway just as some numskull—no names, please—whistled loud enough to bring down a mountain and the occupant of said hackney cowered into the darkest reaches of the vehicle.”
“Wonderful. Even when my luck is in, it’s out,” Coop said in disgust.
“Not entirely. If I might return to my storytelling? The nag in the traces took umbrage at the whistle, reared up—chasing me back into the briars, may I add, so that I wouldn’t end my evening with a stomping—but I managed to reemerge in time to use my knife to inflict a fairly long slice in the rear canopy of the hackey.”
“Hopefully rendering it recognizable in the daylight,” Rigby supplied in some awe. “That’s more than I could do, I’m afraid. The hackney was on me before I could do more than realize I’d never be able to catch it, and then it was gone. Except—and you’ll pardon me for this, Darby—that wasn’t a hackney.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Rigby took a sip of wine, clearly to delay his explanation until he was certain he had all attention on him. “It was meant to look like a hackney, but the horseflesh was straight out of Tatt’s or I’m a monkey.”
“You’re a monkey,” Darby said flatly. “But you know, thinking back on it, and considering I was more intent on keeping my one eye on the occupant, you could be right. The animal was nervy, wasn’t it? Hackney nags don’t move beyond a lazy walk if a cannon goes off next to them.” He looked at Coop, who was gnawing on his bottom lip, deep in thought. “What do you think? Nothing blends in more on the streets than a hackney. Is our blackmailer, far from being pinched for pennies, only masquerading as someone less than affluent?”
“Or well placed,” Coop said, mentally combining this news with the proper spelling and phrasing in the notes, the chapbooks. “Who better to move among the ton than a member of the ton. Oh, and from deductions I made tonight, this person might also be female. Or a short male. Or,” he added, sighing, “a lad hired from the streets.”
“Multiple-choice deductions now, Coop?” Darby teased. “Tell me again about this blackmailer of yours. Precisely what is he—she, or possibly them—threatening to reveal to the world?”
“I won’t tell you again because I didn’t tell you in the first place, although I commend you for trying now, when I’m clearly in a weakened state. Which you would be, as well, I should point out, if you’d just spent the past several hours in Miss Foster’s company. So you can sit back again, Rigby. I’m not about to bare my soul to either of you.”
“Well, that’s too bad,” Rigby said. “I rather promised Clarice I’d have news for her tomorrow when I pay my daily morning visit to Grosvenor Square. She’s particularly interested in those several hours you just mentioned.”
“Ah, the beauteous and finely dimpled Miss Clarice Goodfellow, soon to be Lady Clarice Rigby, your blushing bride. It occurs to me that I’m the only one of us left.”
“Left for what, Darby?”
“Left unattached, Rigby. How badly has infatuation fuddled your brain?”
It took a moment for Coop to digest Darby’s initial remark, as he was still attempting to conjure up a mental picture of the person he’d seen in the alleyway. “What? How would you be the only one left?”
“You’re engaged to Miss Foster, Coop,” Darby pointed out, shaking his head. “How soon they forget.”
Rigby’s shout of laughter did nothing to make Coop feel any better. “It’s so immensely gratifying to see you’re both amused. I’ve left her with the option of tossing me out on my ear once all this is over.”
“Dare I say she’s being a really good sport about ‘all this’?”
“Yes, Darby, you could. Although there’ll be no decision to make if I can’t stop the blackmailer before he publishes. She’d have every reason to cry off, and everyone’s sympathy, to boot.”
“Now, Rigby, why do you suppose I’m suddenly wondering if our friend here is more upset about the prospect of Miss Foster crying off than he is being of exposed as a— Damn, Coop, couldn’t you tell us something? Just one small something?”
“May I remind you that I’m sworn to secrecy?”
“From us? We who are selflessly flinging our lives on the line for you? Oh, shame, Cooper, shame,” Rigby said, and then winked.
“Tell you what,” Coop said, considering the thing. “Ask me questions. I’ll answer yes or no. Three questions, and that’s all. Agreed?”
“That seems fair, doesn’t it, Darby? All right, here we go. I’ll go first. Coop, what’s