Vanity (30 page)

He didn’t look in the least like a gentleman who could guarantee a twenty-thousand-guinea profit on an investment of ten thousand.

“Ned, fetch wine,” their host commanded. “We’ll drink to our venture, gentlemen. Come you in, now. Come you in and feel the fire. It’s cold as charity in here.
Always the same, rain or shine. The river damp gets into the walls.”

He came toward them, hand outstretched in welcome. A jagged scar ran down the length of one cheek, pulling up his hp in a grotesque grimace that was exaggerated when he laughed, as he did now, reading their expressions.

“Not quite what you expected, eh, gentlemen? Well, I’ll tell you, we don’t want to draw attention to ourselves. We don’t want to be easily found in our business, sirs.” He shook both their hands with a vigor that surprised them both. “Come to the fire. Ned, where’s that wine?”

He pushed them into two straight-backed chairs beside the stove. The leg of one of them cracked ominously under Hector’s not inconsiderable weight.

“Here we are … here we are.” Rubbing his hands with the muffled sound of rasping wool, their host poured three glasses of wine from a dusty bottle. He raised the bottle and sniffed at the neck. “Passable … passable, I think you’ll find.”

He handed them their glasses and then stood watching attentively as they sipped, his gray eyes eager for their opinion. “Good, yes … you find it good, sirs.”

“Thank you,” Dirk said. There was nothing the matter with the wine, but his glass was dusty and smudged with grease.

“So Lord Rupert said—”

“No names, gentlemen,” their host interrupted with an expression of horror. “We keep the names of our associates close in this business. I honor the privacy of my investors, as I trust they honor mine.”

“But we both know Lord Rupert Warwick,” Dirk stated tartly. “There’s no need to pretend otherwise.”

“Maybe not … maybe not.” Their host pulled a chair over and sat down beside them. His voice was suddenly brisk and authoritative. “Now, as I understand it, you’d be interested in making a small investment in this project we’re developing in Clapham.”

“If we’re satisfied with the conditions,” Rigby said.

“And what would satisfy you, sir?” Their host rocked
back in his chair, regarding Rigby with a quizzical air. “A hundred percent return on capital? Two hundred? Five hundred, perhaps?”

“You could guarantee that?” Hector breathed, his eyes lighting with an almost fanatical glitter.

“Perhaps … perhaps.” Their host got up and went to an old cupboard in the far corner of the room. He rummaged for a minute, then came back with a parchment.

“Here, let me show you. You, sir, if you’d just take that corner … that’s it.” The sheet was spread out between them, revealing an architect’s plans.

“These are the houses we’re building. Three of them are already built, awaiting occupation. Their owners are very eager to move in.” He chuckled. “These three, however, have still to be completed. They are open for investment at this stage.” He indicated the three imposing-looking buildings at the right-hand side of the plan. “What do you think?”

“I don’t think anything,” Hector said. “Where does the return on investment come in?”

“Ah … well, it comes in bricks and mortar, you see.” Their host jabbed at the paper with a forefinger. “Bricks and mortar and fittings. People want only the best, when they’re setting themselves up to be better than their neighbors.”

He laughed, but there was an odd tinge of menace to the sound. “We promise only the best. On the surface they see only the best. Satisfies them, satisfies their neighbors. But beneath … ah, well, that’s a different story.” He folded up the plan.

“Oak floors are very expensive, gentlemen. Oak veneer on plain pine costs next to nothing. But when it’s well waxed, who can tell? At least not for a few months.”

“Are the houses safe?” Hector asked.

His host shrugged. “Safe as a house of cards, dear sir. Safe as a house of dreams.”

Dirk sipped his wine. “And you can guarantee our profit?”

“Certainly. Safe as houses. Ah, that’s an infelicitous
metaphor!” He laughed uproariously, rocking back on his chair again. “No, to be quite serious, gentlemen. I already have deposits for these three houses … buyers are falling over themselves for these and more. You invest in this stage of the project, and I can guarantee that within six months you’ll have trebled your investment.”

Hector’s tongue darted over his lips with an asp’s flicker. “How much would you expect for an initial investment?”

“Ten thousand guineas apiece, sirs.”

“And what guarantees do we have?”

“We draw up all the documents, all right and tight,” their host said, rising to his feet again. “I’ll show you the kind of agreements, all signed and sealed by the lawyers. I’ve many investors, gentlemen. All very satisfied people.”

He went back to the cupboard and drew out a folder. “Take a look through there.”

The two men examined the sheaf of legal documents. “This is your name … Thaddeus Nielson?” Hector tapped the signature that occurred on the bottom of all the papers.

“That’s me, sir.” Thaddeus nodded, linking his hands across his ample belly beneath a shabby gray waistcoat. “Thaddeus Nielson, builder of elegant properties for the rising merchant. As elegant as anything you might find in Grosvenor Square or Mount Street.”

“And you pay dividends every quarter?”

“Just as it says there, sirs. You’ll see the committee members on our little project are gentlemen of considerable substance. Banker Moran, for instance. Lord Chief Justice Greenaway.” He leaned over to indicate these signatures. “Board meetings once a month. You’d be welcome to attend, of course.”

He drew a clay pipe from the pocket of his waistcoat and busied himself tamping down the tobacco before sticking a spill into the candle flame and lighting the pipe.

The smoke curled blue in the dank air. “Of course, most of our gentlemen prefer to keep themselves to themselves,” he added, puffing reflectively. “But they make an
exception for board meetings. And we prefer to keep the number of investors to a minimum. Greater profits that way.”

“Quite so.” Dirk stared down at his highly polished shoes; their silver buckles winked in the grimy dimness. Rupert Warwick had vouched for Thaddeus Nielson. Rupert Warwick lived very high on the hog. Only the other evening they’d all seen him tip a mound of guineas into Margaret Drayton’s reticule just for the amusement of it. Ventures such as this one could only thrive under the table.

“I think we should see these houses you’re building?” he said after a minute.

“But of course. You’ll find them on Acre Lane. By all means take a look at them. You wouldn’t want to buy a pig in a poke.” He smiled, his scar twitching, and puffed serenely.

“We’ll let you know if we’re interested in investing after we’ve seen them.” Dirk looked for somewhere to put his empty glass, found only the floor. He put it down and stood up.

“Oh, yes, take your time,” Thaddeus said, still puffing, making no attempt to rise with them. “Ned, show these gentlemen out. And you’d best stay below, since I’m expecting some more visitors.”

“More potential investors?” Hector asked sharply.

Thaddeus shrugged. “There’s no shortage. I can take my pick. You worry about your business, my dear sirs, and I’ll worry about mine.” He didn’t turn from his contemplation of the stove.

His visitors stood for a minute uncertain, weighing up his last words. Dirk looked as if he would say something further, but Hector touched his arm, nodding significantly toward the door. They left, accompanied by the shuffling Ned.

The man they’d left behind listened for the clanging of the outside door behind them; then he stood up with a lazy grin. He tapped the bowl of his pipe against the side of the stove, shaking out the glowing contents, then stretched before
slipping a hand beneath his waistcoat and pulling out the small pad of wadded material that formed his belly.

“Eh, right pair of ninnyhammers,” his companion announced, stomping back into the room. His back was suddenly straight, his eyes alert, the aged and infirm retainer transformed into a vigorous, powerful man of middle years.

“Greedy ninnyhammers, Ben. Bring me some hot water and a cloth.” Rupert bent toward a spotted-looking glass and touched the livid scar. “It works rather well, don’t you think?”

“Aye.” Ben took a kettle from the stove and poured water into a small bowl. “You want me to do it for ye?”

“No, I can manage, thanks.” He dipped the cloth into the water and scrubbed at the painted scar.

“Think they’ll be back?” Ben picked up the discarded glasses from the floor.

“Oh, yes. In fact, I imagine they’ll be back before the evening’s half-done. I really alarmed them with the thought of a line of rival investors beating a path to this door. I’d like you to stay here and take a message when they return. Set up another meeting for Friday evening. Tell them it’s a board meeting and they’ll be able to meet the other members of the committee when we discuss how business is going.”

“And who’ll ye be gettin’ fer this committee?” Ben raked through the embers in the stove, spreading them so that the fire would die more rapidly.

Rupert chuckled. “Old Fred Grimforth and Terence Shotley will be glad enough to play a part for a consideration.”

Ben grinned. The Royal Oak had many customers adept at a variety of performances. “I’ll stay ’ere fer a bit, then.”

“Thanks.” Rupert took off the tatty white wig and smoothed down his hair. He threw off his seedy garments and dressed again in his own britches and coat.

“I think that for the board meeting I shall don a frock coat and hedgehog wig. Show our potential investors that
look as well-to-do as the next man in the right circumstances.”

“Even if’e does look a right villain.” Ben commented, picking up the discarded clothes and shaking them out. “That scar’s enough to make a grown man turn in ’is grave.”

“Our friends expect a villain, Ben, so we must give them one. I’m sure they’d never believe in the authenticity of such a diabolical scheme if it was perpetrated by a man in court dress. Rogues and extortionists couldn’t possibly look like themselves.” His voice dripped sarcasm like honey off the comb.

“Aye,” Ben agreed dourly. “If’n ye says so. I wouldn’t know.”

Rupert made no reply. He took one last look at himself in the inadequate mirror before fetching his hat and a slender cane from the cupboard. He pressed a cunning little knob in the handle of the cane, and a wicked blade sprang forth.

“Expectin’ trouble?” Ben inquired laconically.

“Around here it pays to be prepared.” He pressed the knob again and the blade retracted. “I’m late and it’s a court day. Octavia will be ready to slice off my ears and feed them to the crows if I’m not there to escort her.”

“Doesn’t sound like you, Nick, to let a woman rule the roost,” Ben grunted, following him down the stairs.

Rupert smiled. “Oh, that’s not how I would describe Octavia’s methods for getting her own way, Ben. She doesn’t force her own opinion exactly, she simply ignores the opposition if it’s inconvenient.”

“Meaning you, I suppose.”

“Meaning me,” he agreed. He turned at the bottom of the stairs to a small door built flush into the riverside wall. He pulled back on the heavy bolts, and the door swung open onto the river. A flight of weed-slick steps led down to the water, where a scull bobbed, fastened to a ring set in the wall.

“Not like you to work with someone else,” Ben persisted, leaning sideways to unfasten the scull’s painter. “Particularly
a woman. Thought you didn’t hold with women, ’ceptin’ in bed or the kitchen.”

“A man can change his views,” Rupert pointed out. “Octavia doesn’t fit usual categories.” He stepped into the scull and fitted the oars into the rowlocks.

“You reckon she’s reliable, then?” Ben dropped the painter into the boat. “Only Bessie was askin’.”

“Was she, now?” Rupert raised his eyebrows and rested on the oars, peering up at Ben in the dusk. “Well, you tell Bessie to mind her own business, Ben. Much as I appreciate her concern, when it comes to Miss Morgan, I know my own business best.”

“No offense meant.”

“None taken. Send me a message to Dover Street when you’ve spoken with our friends again. And I’ll see you here next Friday.”

“Yes … oh, about that business on the ’eath the other day.”

Rupert shipped his oars again. He’d very casually mentioned to Ben the unexpected appearance of Bow Street Runners with the mail coach, and Ben had made no comment.

“I’ll be ’avin’ a word with Morris, I reckon. Mebbe get a few folks to keep an eye on ’im. What d’ye think?”

“I think I don’t want another such surprise,” Rupert stated. “And most particularly not when Octavia’s with me.”

“She was on the road wi’ ye, again?” Ben stared down at him in astonishment.

“Yes. One of those occasions when she chose to ignore the opposition,” Rupert responded with a rueful sigh. “And since I imagine she’ll continue to ignore it on such occasions, I want no more unwelcome surprises.”

“Well, I never did.” Ben scratched his head. “The road’s no place for a woman.”

“Don’t I know it, Ben. Don’t I know it.” Rupert flashed him a smile of resigned self-mockery, then pulled strongly away from the stairs, turning the scull into the
current as he rowed across the river to a flight of steps set into the opposite embankment.

His attempt to forbid Octavia ever again to follow him to the heath had failed miserably. She had simply refused to listen to him. He could see her now, sitting at the dresser, delicately paring her fingernails, listening with every appearance of docile submission to his forceful speech. But when he’d fallen silent, she’d said smilingly he wasn’t to worry about anything. She knew exactly what she was doing, and since she’d been very useful on the two occasions she
had
followed him, he should be glad of her help in the future. It remained her contention that since they both enjoyed the fruits of the road, they should both take its risks.

There was something about her cheerful assurance and sunny obstinacy that had made him want to laugh. She partnered him beautifully in every other aspect of their deception, and she was no delicate flower to be gently introduced to a life of crime. Octavia had embraced such an existence long since. So he’d settled for a promise of absolute obedience when they were engaged in highway robbery, and yielded the issue. However, until he’d identified the spy at the Royal Oak, if there was one, he had no intention of risking either of their necks on the heath again.