The Diamond Key, page 2
“Please do not concern yourself, my lady. Your daughter’s well-being is reward enough.”
“No, you must stay. I insist.”
Wynn recognized the same implacable air of authority and the same determined chin he’d noted in Lady Victoria. If the daughter resembled her mother in other ways, he considered, the girl was indeed an exquisite. Countess Duchamp was an elegant, graceful woman with reddish hair under a scrap of lace. She barely seemed old enough to be the mother of a marriageable chit. He choked on the mental mention of the word marriage, and Lady Duchamp pounced on the sound.
“There. You need a restorative. I should have offered sooner.”
“No, ma’am. I would not wish to be in the way at this time of great concern.”
“I will not hear of your leaving, and that is the end of it. Lady Ann, my sister-in-law, can look to your needs while I see to Torrie.” She nodded toward the frowning, black-gowned female who remained in the hall near Wynn, as if checking to make certain he did not make off with any of the silver. The aunt’s glare was so chilling, Wynn could feel his spine shivering. He never thought he’d miss the heat of Bombay, either. If Lady Torrie resembled this old dragon, it was no wonder she was unwed. Before Wynn could make a dash toward the front door, Lady Duchamp concluded: “Besides, you will have to wait for your coat.”
Wynn did not fancy traipsing through London in his shirtsleeves, in fact, nor walking back to his lodgings in Kensington. Boyce’s carriage had driven off, and Wynn would never ask to borrow a Duchamp coach. He could not hire a hackney, though, not while his purse was in the pocket of his jacket, which was even then disappearing around a corner, still wrapped around Lady Torrie. One of the maids was tucking a blanket around her, but not before he caught a glimpse of one dainty ankle.
The aunt cleared her throat and scowled at him, making him feel like a spotty-faced youth caught with his hand up a milkmaid’s skirts. “Perhaps a dish of water for my dog, then,” was all he could think to say.
Lady Ann sniffed and led the way down the hall to an opulent white-and-gold parlor. She gestured toward a tray of decanters and glasses while she gave orders to the butler, but Wynn did not stray from the entrance to the lavishly decorated room. In his present filthy state he was not fit for the intricately carved moldings, painted ceiling, and priceless works of art in every niche. In fact, he did not belong in any part of this magnificent home, and never would no matter how he was dressed. As soon as Lady Duchamp realized who he was, or her husband the earl returned, they’d be glad to see the back of Wynn Ingram quickly enough. He ought to leave before they were forced to be polite to such a pariah. He could wash up in the kitchens and perhaps have a glass of ale.
It was too late, for Homer was lapping at a crystal dish a servant had set on the floor. The little dog barely looked civilized on his best days, and this was not one of those. He appeared more black than his usual tan, and bits of cinder and strands of thread were matted onto his short curly coat. One side of his mustache must have been singed off, leaving him lopsided and more vagabondish than the viscount himself. At least Wynn did not slosh his drink on the fine Turkey carpet.
“I should leave,” Wynn told Lady Ann, who was still frowning her disapproval. Most likely her face was frozen that way, he decided. “I doubt my coat can be worn again, anyway.”
She was holding out a dampened cloth. “Did you really rescue my niece from the fire?”
He nodded yes. “But it was Homer who heard her calls and led me to her.”
Instead of handing Wynn the linen, the earl’s sister bent and started wiping at the dog. “I love my niece,” the dragon murmured, dampening Homer more with her tears than the towel. “She bears my name as her middle one. Thank you.”
Homer wagged his tail and went back to the water dish.
Lud, now Wynn was alone with a starched-up female who was old enough to be his mother—except his mother had never cried over him, not even when he left England, never to see her again. Wynn hoped Lady Torrie appreciated what she had: so many people to care about her welfare, to worry about her, to love her.
He had his dog.
* * *
Chapter 3
“Torrie? Where is my girl?”
Wynn could hear the frantic calls even through the thick oak door of the parlor.
The earl had returned from his club, having received the news of a fire. As Lord Duchamp pounded up the stairs, Wynn could hear him calling to his wife, “Maggie, where are you?” And to the butler, “Mallen, she is all right, isn’t she? Tell me my little girl is all right.”
Again, Wynn felt that wrench on his heartstrings at the love in this family.
“I’ll be leaving now,” he told Lady Ann. “Company is decidedly de trop at a time like this.”
“You will stay and be thanked like the proper gentleman you were raised to be,” the old woman told him.
No one had spoken to Wynn like that in over six years. He had braved barren wildernesses and sailed most of the seven seas. He had made his fortune in a harsh, empty land, and another in a harsher one that was teeming with life. He owned a fleet of merchant ships and held shares in a myriad profitable ventures, with more men dependent for their livelihoods—if not their very lives—on him than lived in many English towns. He’d even found time to assist the Crown with delicate financial negotiations, which was how he dared show his face in town again. He was a man now, nearing his thirtieth year.
He had wealth.
He had power.
He sat back down on the brocaded sofa.
Just to prove that no maiden aunt was going to intimidate him, Wynn raised one dark eyebrow, then lowered it when he saw that Lady Ann was too busy feeding shaved ham to Homer to notice.
At least they were both somewhat more presentable now, he and his dog. After a long drink—water for Homer, cold lemonade, then brandy for Lord Ingall— the dog had been wiped clean, and Wynn had been taken in hand by the butler, Mallen, himself. His coat had been restored, sponged, and brushed. It would never pass muster, nor would his limp neckcloth, his scuffed boots, or his stained fawn breeches, but he did appear more the gentleman and less the chimney sweep. He was almost comfortable sitting on the gold brocade furniture.
He got to his feet when he heard footsteps approach the parlor door. He would bow, refute any hint of heroism, and be gone. At last.
The major domo was also restored to his proper butlerish mien, with no traces of tears or trembling hands as Mullen regally announced, “His lordship, Earl Duchamp.”
Wynn started his bow, but the earl was having none of it. He was not going to settle for a polite nod, nor even a formal handshake, not from the man who had rescued his only daughter, the light of his life, from a fiery death. Or a smoky one. Lord Duchamp did not have all the details yet, but one thing was certain: he owed this gentleman an enormous debt, one he would happily discharge. He rushed across the carpet and enveloped Wynn in a fierce, back-slapping hug.
What happened to unemotional British stoicism while he was gone? Wynn wondered, locked in this stranger’s embrace with no polite way of escaping. He could not recall his father touching anyone, his heir or his wife, much less the useless second son. The earl, though, was red-eyed from crying, but beaming now. Perhaps the volatility was a relic of Duchamp’s French ancestry, for otherwise he was the pure British squire, ruddy cheeks, square jaw, thin sandy hair—and bulldog determination to pound his joy and gratitude into Wynn.
Only Lady Ann’s caustic “You are embarrassing the boy, Daniel,” made the earl drop his arms and step back. He wiped his eyes and blew his nose, then waved the butler forward with his tray of champagne glasses.
“A toast!” Duchamp declared, to Wynn’s relief. One drink and then he could leave.
When they had each been served, a saucer on the floor for Homer, the earl held his glass high. “To you, brave lad.”
“To your daughter’s health,” Wynn quickly appended.
“And to her future happiness,” the earl said with a wink. “But we will speak more of that at a later date, eh? Torrie told me about her vow.”
Now Wynn’s neckcloth had wine spots on it, from where he choked on the champagne.
The earl handed him a napkin. “They’ve given her laudanum, so I’ll hear all the tidbits in the morning, but I could not be happier, my boy.”
Wynn could not be happier, either—not unless he was boiled in oil, stretched on a rack, or hung by his thumbs. Those were preferable fates. Before the earl could post the banns, Wynn hurried to say, “You must ignore the lady’s so-called vow, my lord. I fear she was in shock. Any other woman would have been suffering paroxysms”—to which, thank goodness, Lady Torrie had not subjected him, only this ninnyhammer’s notion of a wedding—”but she could not have been in her right mind.”
The earl’s smile faded as he sipped his champagne. “Still, never known m’girl not to know her own mind. I would have seen her shackled a hundred times over, otherwise, these three years past.” He brightened, even as Wynn’s hopes of avoiding an awkward situation dimmed. “It’s early days yet.”
Wynn carefully placed his empty glass on the tray.
“Quite. But this one grows late, sir, so you will have to excuse me.” From another drink, from a daft damsel’s pledge, and from the earl’s embarrassment when he heard the gossip about Wynn’s name. The viscount was determined to take his leave.
“Of course, of course. Not every day a fellow gets to play Sir Galahad, eh? Wearisome business, rescuing maidens, eh?”
He’d never know how wearisome. The last one had cost Wynn six years. He stepped toward the door.
“But what can I do for you in the meantime, sir?” the earl insisted, following him. “A horse? No, I am sure Mallen will already have my carriage waiting to see you home. My tailor’s direction? You’ll send the bill for a new coat to me, of course.”
“No, truly, I need nothing.” He nodded toward the earl’s sister. “Lady Ann has been everything kind.”
“Surely I can do something for you. My gal means everything to me, you know.”
Wynn knew. He also knew how the earl’s stance would change when he learned about the old scandal. “No, nothing. Seeing the lady restored to her loving family is ample recompense for what, in truth, any man would have done.”
Lady Ann made an unladylike noise. “George St. Brenner did not so much as soil his gloves.”
“What, that man-milliner was at the dress shop? Likely having lace sewn on his unmentionables.” The earl dismissed Lord Boyce with another swallow of champagne, but returned to his resolve to reward Wynn somehow, “I know. I’ve never seen you at White’s. I shall put your name up at my clubs.”
Wynn could not let this kind man suffer the ignominy of having his protégé blackballed. “Thank you, but I doubt I will stay in London long enough.” He studied his ruined boots, understanding that the earl would not wish to be so indebted to another man. “You could ... you could give me the name of a reputable employment agency. I fear my new valet will give notice after this day’s work.”
* * * *
He did. The third valet in a week left Wynn’s employ. The first one, Nolan, was so old his hands shook, not something one could overlook while being shaved. The next, Andrews, was too short. He could barely reach to adjust Wynn’s neckcloth, and there was something about the petite chap’s poetical dark looks that did not feel right in a gentleman’s boudoir. This last one, Herne, Wynn thought his name was, had the airs of a duke. Dog hairs sent him into a tizzy, but the afternoon’s grime had him throwing his hands in the air. This was not what a gentleman’s gentleman had the right to expect, he announced on his way out the door, leaving Wynn in the same sorry state as when he entered his Division Street lodgings in Kensington.
Viscount Ingall had a fine town house in fashionable Mayfair, fully staffed, he was certain, from the size of the household accounts. Any number of footmen could have served to help him dress. The butler could have shaved him. The potboy could have polished his boots. Why, his deceased brother’s valet might yet be on the premises, the salaries at Ingram House were so extensive. Unfortunately, his deceased brother’s widow, Marissa. was most likely also in residence. Wynn had not checked. He preferred his modest rooms away from his sister-in-law and away from the ton—until it came time to hiring a valet. The premiere valets refused to take up such an unfashionable address, with so few under-servants. High-nosed Herne had been the last man on the nearest personnel agency’s list.
“At least I got the name of a new employment service,” Wynn told his man-of-all-work, who never seemed to work at all. “With the earl’s recommendation, they are bound to send over a reliable, respectable man at last.”
Barrogi grunted. “Your fancy neck pieces need a snake charmer, not a caper merchant, padrone, they have so many ends.”
Wynn held the soiled one he was unwinding from his neck. It had a beginning and an end, that he could see, but Barrogi had never mastered the knack of tying a proper cravat—on purpose, Wynn suspected. He never managed to get a shine on a pair of boots, either. A world traveler whose mostly Italian ancestry was as muddled as that of Homer the dog, Barrogi could speak thieves’ cant in six languages, and knew the back alleys of at least twenty foreign cities. The short, broken-nosed man might be a fugitive from justice in all twenty, but he’d proved invaluable to Wynn the past few years, especially at gathering information.
The viscount intended to send Barrogi out again, this time to discover what he could about Lady Victoria Ann Keyes, Lord Boyce, and Madame Michaela’s dressmaking shop, but not until Barrogi stopped at the Day & Day Placement Service, and not until Wynn had a bath.
“Hot water, she is not good for a man,” Barrogi grumbled as he hauled the cans of water. “Softens him, like a Chinook about to be plucked.”
“A salmon? Don’t you mean achicken?”
“Nondimeno. Same difference.”
Wynn did not care. The hot water felt heavenly, especially when he added a drop of that oil the smooth-skinned little valet had left. It felt even better when he leaned back in the copper tub, a glass of brandy in one hand and a cigar in the other. He had not realized how sore his muscles were from the rescue, nor how many cuts and bruises and burns he’d accumulated without feeling them at the time. He hoped Lady Torrie was not so afflicted. It would be a crime to mar the perfection of that pale skin he’d caught sight of.
Maybe the steam was melting Wynn’s brain after all, making him think warm thoughts of the earl’s disturbing daughter. Hell, he already had more women in his life than he knew what to do with.
He had a former mistress who was breeding and wanted to marry him to give another man’s child his name.
He had another former mistress who was outrunning the duns and wanted to marry him to pay her bills.
He had a former sister-in-law—he supposed his brother’s widow was still his sister-in-law, unfortunately—who wanted him dead. Barring that, Marissa wanted him respectably married, thus restoring luster to the tarnished family name. Not surprisingly, she had an impeccable candidate for his bride already selected: her cousin.
No, the last thing Viscount Ingallneeded was another woman trying to push, poke, or prod him into parson’s mousetrap. No matter how pretty he imagined her to be.
* * *
Chapter 4
Barrogi returned with information and a valet, thank heaven and the earl’s intercession. The gentleman’s gentleman was a strapping fellow, as big as a Canadian moose, and he obviously took pride in his calling. After introducing himself, he walked around the viscount, then declared Lord Ingall a well-set-up cove who would advance his, Larsen’s, reputation. The weathered complexion would fade, he allowed, and, of course, a suitable wardrobe would have to be ordered, one befitting a viscount, not a vagrant. Wynn’s fumbling, out-of-practice attempt at tying his own neckcloth was instantly replaced with something Larsen termed the Triple Crown, which was certain, Wynn knew, to impress the most discerning eye. He was sorry to tell poor Larsen he’d merely be dining at a dark coffeehouse with some business associates, not Carlton House with the prince.
Larsen shrugged as if to say a pub today, a palace tomorrow, and immediately set to inspecting Wynn’s meager wardrobe and rearranging his bedroom.
Wynn happily left him to it, joining Barrogi in the sitting room to hear his tidings. His right-hand man had his left hand wrapped around some of Wynn’s best port, and he was lounging in the most comfortable leather armchair the room offered.
Wynn poured himself a glass of wine and raised his brow. “Odd, I thought you were an employee here, not a guest,” he hinted.
“You want my news or not, padrone? You seemed panting like the dog to learn more about the, how they say it? The gentry mort before.”
Wynn took a seat on the couch, and Homer jumped up next to him to have his ears rubbed. “That’s a lady we are talking about, my friend.” A seat and a sip were one thing, a gentlewoman was another.
Barrogi nodded, heeding the warning. “I had to lay out much of the denaro to get the details so fast. No time to befriend the servants.”
Wynn nodded. “You will be repaid, as always.”
“Just checking, padrone. Now that you are wrapped like a present and smelling sweet as roses, I wondered.”
Wynn loosened his neckcloth. The Triple Crown was now a Double, more fitting for a merchants’ meal. “Go on.”
Barrogi’s information only confirmed what Wynn already knew or suspected: Lady Victoria Ann Keyes was the belle of this London Season, and had been for the last three. She was pretty as a picture, well educated at a fancy finishing school, and wealthy in her own right from an Irish laird grandfather’s bequest, to say nothing of the handsome dowry her father offered.
The Duchamp earldom would fall into abeyance with her father’s passing, but the lands and fortune were not entailed, so Lady Torrie, as she was called, stood to be one of the richest heiresses in the kingdom. She would bring to her marriage more money than a man could spend in a lifetime, and more than any one man deserved. Besides the blunt and the breeding, her strawberry-blond looks and her father’s influence, the female could ride, sing a sweet tune, dance like a dream, and stay on the good side of all the old biddies. “A regular paradox,” according to Barrogi.
