“What is your game, Captain? If you came here on George’s behalf, do not waste your breath. I have nothing. And if he accosts Nellie again, I’ll . . . Well, he will regret it.”
I regarded him in surprise. “I do not go in for blackmail, sir. Do I take it that your brother does?”
Franklin’s rage faded, and he shook his head. “I do not know why George expects that I’ll give him money. He needs money, you know, to cover his gaming debts, of which there are always so many. Last night, when I refused to give him anything, he went to Nellie and tried to frighten her.” Franklin shot me a smile. “My Nellie doesn’t frighten so easily.”
“So I noticed,” I said dryly. After a moment I said, “You love her.”
“God forgive me, but I do. Her husband is a brute, and I can’t . . .” He sighed. “I can only do for her what I can.”
I rose. “Please give Nellie my best wishes.”
He got to his feet with me. “But why did George send you to her? Not for money?”
“Your brother mislaid his walking stick. Did he leave it with you?”
“Walking stick? No. But I remember him having it. He waved it in my face. It had a gold head. And he was trying to touchmefor money.”
I nodded, believing him. “Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Summerville. It was much needed.”
I took leave of him and hobbled away to find another hackney, my limp more pronounced than when I’d arrived.
I thought knew now where the walking stick was. I was half tempted to leave it there and fetch it tomorrow, after a bath and a long night’s sleep, but I wanted to be finished with Summerville. I wanted to face Lady Breckenridge—the lady of blunt observations and bottomless blue eyes—without the distraction of him.
***
The next name that graced my list was a gaming hell in St. James’s Square called The Nines. The Nines was owned by a man called Bates and an aging courtesan by name of Mrs. Fuller. The house catered to the upper classes who strolled to it from White’s and Brooks’s, but in truth, it admitted anyone Bates thought might drop a sufficient amount of cash. Men played against the house, and the house mostly won.
I’d been here before, with Grenville. I’d kept my bets modest and so had Grenville—modest for Grenville, that is—but we’d watched a young man lose seven thousand pounds on one throw of dice and be turned out of the house, ruined.
The doorman let me in from the darkening street without question and ushered me upstairs to Mr. Bates’s private office. I knew that Bates admitted me and greeted me courteously not only because of my connection with Grenville but because of my growing connection with Viscountess Breckenridge.Feet firmly under the table,was a phrase I’d heard used about me. Bates was marking me as a person to fleece in future.
“I never saw Summerville with a walking stick,” Bates said. Bates was such a tall, healthy-looking man that one would never imagine he spent most of his waking hours indoors, bent over gaming tables or counting money from said tables.
“With a gold head, you say?” he asked. “I’d have taken it from him if he’d brought such a thing. Summerville slipped out last night without paying what he owed—close to three hundred pounds it was. If he does not return with the money, I’ll have the bailiffs on him.”
The haze surrounding my memories of Summerville cleared still further, to remind me that Summerville had been good at losing money and equally skilled at touching others for more. He’d been ingenuous, warm, and laughing about it, but never once during those years had he paid the money back.
“Mr. Summerville is about to be married,” I said. “To a young lady heiress. Perhaps he will pay his debts after that.”
Bates gave me an aggrieved look. “Her father might not be foolish enough untangle the money for Mr. Summerville’s use. Marriage settlements can be tricky. Please tell Mr. Summerville that if he continues to be careless, he’ll spend his wedding night in the Fleet.”
I thanked Bates for his time and took my leave. Outside, what light had touched the evening had gone, the rain poured down, and wind gusts sent the cold straight through me. I pulled my greatcoat closed against the weather and climbed into yet another hackney.
***
My list bore one more address, an equally notorious hell in Pall Mall, but I did not bother with it. I made my way back to number 20, Bishop’s Lane, and presented my card to John when he opened the door. He took me upstairs right away, at least, and did not make me stand out in the rain.
I waited a full half hour before Mrs. Chambers entered her sitting room. She was dressed for the evening in a gray silk gown that bared her shoulders and much of her plump bosom. Wherever she intended to go, I predicted that she would eclipse every woman in the room.
“Captain?” She peered at my bruised face and torn coat in concern. “Are you well?”
“No.” I made a formal bow. “Mrs. Chambers, I will just take the walking stick and go.”
Her color rose. “Walking stick?”
“You have it, do you not?”
Mrs. Cambers gazed at me for a long moment, then she turned and rang the silver bell. In a few moments, a footman appeared—not John this time.
