The Spare (12 page)

"I sold them."

His pen stilled, and after a bit he looked up. "Why?"

"Because we needed to eat and pay the rent, that's why."

"All at once?"

"No. A few things at a time. I don't know how they ended up here."

"Where did you sell them?"

"A pawnbroker."

"In Far Caister?"

"No."

"You have the regrettable habit of refusing to answer the simplest of questions." He leaned against his chair. "Where did you sell your things?"

"Carlisle."

"Miss Willow."

"Acton Street. Off Bellby Road." He looked at her with one eye and she could not imagine what had ever possessed her to think he had the smallest amount of mercy. "You said you'd help me."

His lip curled. "Your mistake, if that's what you thought I said."

"You said you'd help me remember."

He tapped one finger on the desktop. After a moment, he looked at her from beneath his lashes. "Not at the risk of a noose around my neck."

"What does that mean?"

He leaned back, elbow on the top rail of his chair. "Exactly what you imagine."

To her horror, she wiped at her cheek and found her hand came away damp. She fumbled for a handkerchief.

"I told you that you would not thank me." His eyes turned a sharper blue than ever. "And now I find myself in the novel position of admitting an error in judgment." He gazed at her. "Either you know what happened and have succeeded in keeping it from me, in which case, I congratulate you, or else there is some true impediment to your recollection. If the latter, the usual procedure will fail me. If the former, some level of coercion would gain me my object. Eventually."

"I cannot live like this. Not knowing."

"There is a thin line, Miss Willow, between what I want from you and what I am prepared to do to get it." His eyes glittered. "I cannot thank you for making me consider using a woman in such a fashion."

"My Lord—"

He slashed a hand through the air with such force she heard the movement of air. "Your permission does not absolve me of the guilt." He rose, planting his hands on the desk. She felt scalded by the heat of his gaze. "Make no mistake, Miss Willow. What's in your head belongs to me, and in due course, I will have it. But not—" His voice fell. "Not at the cost of what little decency is left me." He drew in a breath and sat down. "Now, when I said
good day
, Miss Willow, I was not remarking on the weather. You will kindly oblige me and leave."

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January 18

McNaught braced himself as the carriage navigated the sharp curve away from Pennhyll. Wheezing with effort, he spread a blanket over his employer's lap. Sebastian swept it aside. "Stop your infernal fussing."

"That's a bitter wind outside, my Lord. Your constitution cannot withstand the strain."

"Bugger my constitution."

McNaught withstood the profanity with his usual affectation of deafness. "Where are we going?"

"Carlisle."

The valet blanched at the thought of four hours in a carriage. "I've sent for Dr. Fansher." As if that would shorten their errand.

He gave McNaught an even look. "I never told you not to."

McNaught lifted the curtain and peered out the window, letting in the pale light of dawn. He settled back on the seat. "At least there's decent inns in Carlisle." Frowning, he said, "I wish you'd told me, my Lord. I'd have packed a change of clothes."

"We're not staying the night."

"But we'll be the entire day on the road. Dr. Fansher would never approve of this."

"With Andrew's horses, I expect we'll make good time."

McNaught shook his head. "Worse than a cat after a mouse when you've got an idea in your head, you are."

"My one virtue."

"Small consolation when both man and mouse are dead."

"So long as you bury us both at sea, I don't give a damn." Two hours and a change of horses later, Sebastian washed down a last bite of roast chicken with a glass of surprisingly good Madeira the very color of Miss Olivia Willow's eyes. He didn't know what to think of her anymore. He could not separate his desire for her from the woman herself. His usual methods were out of the question, so he must find another way to jar her memory. He handed the basket to his valet. "You must keep up your strength," he said.

"Thank you, my Lord." McNaught fell to. A trencherman, he was. A piss poor traveler, but a trencherman. The man snored, too, and when he wasn't snoring, he fidgeted and talked. Incessantly.

In another hour and a half, they reached the outskirts of Carlisle. Sebastian tapped on the hatch when the buildings changed from residences to shops. "Slowly," he told the driver. They were in a good district, not the best, but one that would have looked safe to a young woman after riding twenty miles on a nag hired from the Crown's Ease. If she'd not lied about where she went. Trouble was, he didn't think she was a liar.

The coachman directed them off the main street, navigated to Bellby Road, made another turn and came full stop. "Acton Street, my Lord."

Sebastian opened the door, ignoring the waiting groom. Though he stepped onto the walkway without assistance, he winced when he shook out the aches of traveling. To his right an assortment of shops of the nicer sort stretched along both sides of the street. Tea parlor, a lending library, a milliner. To his left, the street narrowed. The shops were less cheerful, the paint not so bright, the bricks not so clean. With McNaught at his heels, he walked left, the way increasingly narrow and dreary. Passers-by gave him wide berth, tradesmen mostly, men with pinched faces and nervous eyes. A few bowed.

Candlemaker, solicitor's office, printer and a glove-maker, but no pawnbroker. Three more shops, and he'd be at the end of Acton Street. He'd have to try the other side. He stopped without being certain why. The hair on the back of his arms prickled. Slowly, he looked up and down the street, eying the doorways and shadows. Nothing. No cutpurse lurking. The window display of the second-to-last shop came into his field of vision. Amid an arrangement of other items including a gentleman's watch, a silver knife and a meerschaum pipe, lay coiled a string of coral beads.

"Wait outside, McNaught."

The proprietor bowed when Sebastian walked in. Smallpox had left his face heavily scarred, but he would not have been a handsome man in any event. He looked Sebastian up and down. "Have I the honor of addressing the earl of Tiern-Cope?"

"Yes." Outside, McNaught paced, an apple with legs, ready to dash to the rescue should Sebastian show signs of incipient collapse.

"My Lord."

"May I ask how you know who I am?" Sebastian surveyed the interior. In the detritus of old clothing, utensils, pots, a flute, battered walking sticks, chipped plates, pens, bowls, shoes, boots and dusty bottles of indeterminate contents, he caught here and there the sheen of silver candlesticks, the glitter of gold leaf on an empty picture frame, an alabaster vase and a porcelain box painted with dainty roses. Set apart from the jumble of clothes, three gowns shone out. All of them of such fine quality any lady might wear them. Draped over a dressmaker's stand was a cashmere shawl and on the floor a pair of dusty satin slippers. Whatever lady had once worn those gowns, she had been of a delicate size. The colors would suit a redhead.

"My Lord." He nearly swept the floor with his nose, he bowed so deeply. "Pardon my saying, but you are the living image of your brother."

"You've seen my brother?"

"A most amiable gentleman, your brother, my Lord," said the shopkeeper, rubbing his hands together. "Most amiable, indeed." He shifted his feet and Sebastian thought if he bowed again, he'd slap the back of the man's head. By God, he would. "An honor, your Lordship, to have you in my little shop. What may I do for you? How may I be of assistance?"

"The coral beads."

"Ah." The shopkeeper hurried to the window, eyes bright. McNaught stared through the window. "Just arrived, my Lord." His head bobbed on his thin neck, still bowing as he reached. "The very finest coral, as you can see." He turned, the beads draped over his hand. "Excellent color. Gold clasp. Suitable for any young lady of quality."

"Who brought them in?" There couldn't be two such necklaces in Cumbria. He could see them even now, around her neck on the very day he first laid eyes on her.

"Ah." The tip of his nose quivered. He hefted the beads, holding them toward the light. "A very pretty gift, my Lord, and a bargain at, ten pounds, shall we say? Shall I wrap them up for you? Discreetly, of course."

"Who?"

"They need restringing. You've a keen eye, your Lordship. Eight pounds? If not these, I have pearls." He reached into another cabinet and took out a pink velvet case that he opened with a flourish. "Perfectly matched. Name your price. Fifteen pounds for both."

Sebastian stared. "If you wish my custom, you will tell me who brought them to you."

His eyes shifted, landing first on the beads, then the pearls, on anything but Sebastian. "A lady of distressed circumstances."

Sebastian recognized the loyalty Miss Willow seemed to engender in so many who knew her. "Red hair?" Copper on fire, curls a man longed to see loose and flowing.

He shrugged.

Sebastian took a crown from his pocket and toyed with it, passing the coin from fingertip to fingertip. The man's eyes followed the movement.

"Perhaps she did have red hair."

"What else did she bring you?"

"Hair combs, earbobs, gloves and such." He wiggled his fingers as if to demonstrate the inconsequential nature of the list.

"Gowns?"

"A frock or two."

"A gold watch, perhaps?" He could see the man considering his answer, and he held out the coin. The shop smelled of dust and overcooked beef.

"Engraved." The coin disappeared into his pocket. "Fine workmanship."

Sebastian held out another coin.

"A medallion, as well. On a gold chain. That was engraved, too." He put a hand perpendicular to his lips so that his index finger rested just beneath the tip of his nose. "Such things, your lordship, as a lady of quality might have and wish to sell if her circumstances were reduced."

"Of course." He brought out a guinea, not speaking until the man's eyes lit with the passion of gold. "What arrangement," he said, "did you have with my brother?" The shopkeeper reached for the coin but with a flick of his wrist, Sebastian palmed it.

"Ah." The man licked his lips.

"Well?"

"I wasn't to let anyone know. Sworn to the utmost secrecy, your worship."

His belly shrank. Jesus. Had they met here, his brother and Miss Willow? Sebastian made the coin reappear and let it rest on his palm.

He snatched the coin. "To purchase, at a favorable price, anything a certain young lady brought in." His tongue darted out, wetting his lips. "And to reserve them for him alone. After that, I sent him whatever she brought me. He always settled his accounts, my Lord. Prompt as you may."

"Indeed."

The man's face lapsed into stillness. "It's not what you might think. I may have misapprehended myself at first. She never brought the sort of things a man gives. She's proud, my Lord, a real lady, but never any airs with her. Always a kind word."

Relief swept through him, surprising him with its intensity. She hadn't lied about selling her things nor, it would seem, her reasons for doing so. "How much did you give her for the beads?"

The shopkeeper's eyes narrowed. "A fair price."

"How much?"

"I'm a man of business." He rubbed his palms together. "I've myself to watch out for. There's not been much call for fine things lately. With the war on, more want to sell these days than buy."

Sebastian held out the last coin he intended to give the fellow.

A grin distorted the pockmarks around the man's mouth and cheeks. "Two pound, my Lord. Two pound."

He took the beads, twining them around his fingers, seeing them looped around Miss Willow's slender throat. "And a fine business it must be."

"My Lord."

"Your arrangement with my brother continues with me. She's not to know."

"Of course not, my Lord." He bowed low.

"Send me everything she's brought you since my brother died. With your bill, of course."

"My Lord."

"Good day, sir."

"My Lord?" he said before Sebastian had quite reached the door.

"Yes?"

"I don't know what he did with what he bought of me." He shrugged. "Like as not she would have sold them again if he'd given them back to her."

"Thank you for your assistance." Sebastian left the shop with McNaught at his heels. He nearly knocked him down when he whirled and strode back. He stopped short of the pawnbroker's and instead threw open the door to the office of Mr. Simon Melchior, solicitor.

A clerk on a high stool slipped off his perch. He kept a hand on the papers piled on his desk. "Good day, sir. How may I be of service?"

He was not recognized here. Andrew was not recognized. "Mr. Melchior, if you please."

"Have you an appointment?"

"No."

The clerk looked him up and down and Sebastian supposed that even serviceable clothes marked him as a higher class of client than usually came to call. "I'll see if he's in. May I tell him who's inquiring?"

If ever his title was to be more than a nuisance and a bother, now was the time. He handed over one of the cards McNaught took care to put in all his coats. His eyes widened when he read the engraved card. "My Lord. A moment only, I am sure."

A thin, hawk-nosed man with steel-gray hair rose from his desk when Sebastian strolled in.

The man bowed. "My Lord."

Sebastian turned. "Outside, McNaught." He waited for his valet to retreat, then closed the door to the inner office and turned his attention to Melchior. "How much did Miss Olivia Willow's uncle steal from her?"

"May I know the reason for your interest?"

"Can you not imagine?" Sebastian flicked out his coattails and sat. "Surely, Mr. Melchior, there can be no harm in telling me what I will inevitably discover on my own. I would prefer not being put to the bother, of course."