“No need, Jackson. The swelling will go down in time. I believe your man set the bone correctly.”
John “Gentleman” Jackson, that renowned pugilist and famed instructor of the science of boxing to half the men in the ton, the man who won the championship when he beat the infamous Mendoza senseless, watched with worried eyes as the Black Earl tipped his head back to allow his neck cloth to be tied.
“I’d never have suggested you go against young MacDonald, my lord, if I’d thought he would give you a pasting.”
Weston flinched, but Jackson wasn’t sure if it was due to the injury or the reference to having been bested in the ring by a much younger, and less skilled, man. “You’d best put something cold on that until the swelling goes down.”
Lord Weston nodded stiffly, muttered something, and left the establishment, Jackson sighed with relief as the earl departed.
“Did you ever think you’d see the day?” his man asked, peering out the window to watch Weston get into his carriage. Jackson shook his head. He never wanted to see such a day again.
“The Black Earl taken down by a mere pup,” the man said in an awestruck tone, loudly sucking his tooth. “What was it he said to you as he was leaving?”
Jackson’s lips twitched. “He asked how the hell he was going to explain to his wife that he’d broken his nose.”
“Do you think she’ll come?”
Lord Carlisle looked at the smaller man standing so arrogantly before him and wondered for the hundredth time what his motive was for involving himself in the affair. He shrugged. “I have no idea. He might be keeping her prisoner in the house. I heard they had a terrible row, and Weston threatened to send her away.”
“If she comes, you know what to do.”
“I shall do what I think best,” the earl said with a frown. Upstart; who did he think he was to order his betters around?
“Yes, yes, certainly, I don’t question that it will be for the best, but if you really wish to keep him from harming her, it might be better to move up our plans.”
Carlisle’s frown deepened. “That won’t be necessary. I told you I was meeting with Weston in the morning. I’ll take care of the murdering whoreson then.”
“Yes, there is that. Ah…is that the time? Should you not be on your way?”
Carlisle swore. “I don’t need you acting the mother hen. I will be there on time.”
“You’re in a prickly mood today — I was simply trying to be helpful. I wouldn’t want you being late. I doubt if the lady will wait for you.”
“I’ll be there,” Carlisle ground out, and deliberately turned his head away from the garish figure. Why was the little man so interested in helping Lady Weston?
“Good lord, man, what happened to you?”
“Nothing, Harry. What news do you have?”
“Hmmm?” Rosse stared at Noble’s swollen nose that had all the earmarks of a break. “Oh, nothing other than the fact that Mariah is no longer with Sunderland. She’s disappeared again, it seems.”
Noble rubbed his head wearily, taking care not to touch his nose. “Why do I feel as if I’m running in circles, Harry?”
The marquis smiled. “Might be the result of the beating I suspect you took at Jackson’s. Come.” He stood up and clapped his old friend on the shoulder. “What you need is a bit of air to clear your head. Come along with me and we’ll take a ride through the park while we discuss the problem.”
Nick scooted over to the window seat and peered out the window at the mews. Normally the yard would be busy, but it was teatime, and most of the servants were in having their tea. He watched idly as a gray stable cat sat in the dirt lane and washed his tail.
“Nick…ah…Nick?”
Nick ignored his tutor.
“Come, my lad, just one word. Just a hello? My name? How about a greeting to that hound, there?”
Nick watched the cat finish his bath, stretch, and saunter off past the stable.
“Nick, I know you spoke. I heard you quite plainly. Now, if you could do it once, you can do it again. I’m thinking only of how happy your father will be, my boy.”
Nick turned his head and gazed at his tutor with steely silver eyes. Rogerson blinked and rubbed his jaw. “I could have sworn you said…maybe I imagined it. Perhaps I just thought I heard you say it.”
Nick looked back out into the yard and was surprised to see someone climbing down the water pipe that clung to the corner of the house. A strand of fiery red hair dangled down from the back of the dashing little hat with the long pheasant feather that complemented so charmingly Gillian’s green riding habit. Nick jumped up and tugged on his tutor’s sleeve, then pointed to the clock.
“Eh? Oh, yes, yes. I did promise you a visit to the park. Capital idea. Just what we both need — a bit of air to clear away the cobwebs. Come along then; let us be on our way.”
“I don’t understand your sudden desire to go for a stroll in the park, Charlotte, but I’m excessively pleased Mama said I might join you.”
“ ’Tis a bit of a mystery, is it not, Caroline?”
“A mystery?”
“Yes, a mystery. You know — something mysterious. Something dark, and secret, and fabulously thrilling!”
“And a mystery is a good thing?”
“It is wonderfully good, Caro. Haven’t you read any novels with vengeful ghosts, mad men locked in towers, mysterious rooms with secret panels, poisoned wine, ghastly family curses, and frigid, sepulchral hands reaching through the bed curtains in the very dead of night?”
Lady Caroline looked horrified and glanced behind her to where their maids were following. “No, certainly not. Mama would never countenance my reading something so very provocative!”
Charlotte shrugged. “Your loss, Caro.”
“But — but this mystery we are going to see in the park — it is nothing that has sepulchral hands?”
“You’re a bit of a ninny, aren’t you, Caro?”
“A ninny?”
“Never mind. Just come with me. I promise you’ll enjoy yourself.”
“With the mystery? Or with Hyde Park?”
“Saints preserve me from ninnies!”
Gillian sidled into the stables and looked around carefully. The stableboys and grooms were at tea. Excellent. It took her little time to get Ophelia saddled and slightly longer to convince her to stand still while she climbed up the mounting block, but all in all, she felt she was on schedule when she directed the mare toward Hyde Park. She sincerely hoped she could count on Charlotte’s overwhelming curiosity to witness the scene with her and Lord Carlisle. Ladies, she knew, did not go riding without grooms in attendance, and she was more than a bit nervous about meeting the Scottish speeler by herself. Although if what the note Charlotte had included said was true, she would have a few choice things to say to him, things better said in private.
“Here, isn’t that Lady Weston?”
“Wot? Where?”
“There, riding off on that white mare.”
“Bloody ’ell, it is! Get Johnson. ’Is bleedin’ lordship’ll skin us alive if’n we let ’er go out unprotected.”
“Lord Carlisle!”
“Ah, Lady Weston. I wasn’t sure you would answer my summons. No footmen? No Crotch? No hounds or cousins or any of the army of attendants you seem never to be without?”
“No, my lord, it is just me today, but I will mention that I am here against my husband’s wishes, and so desire you to be as quick as possible with what you have to say.”
The earl made a slight bow and offered his arm. “Perhaps we might walk that way, away from the crowds?”
Gillian hesitated, and then took his arm. “Your letter was quite intriguing, my lord. You say you know the truth of what happened the night the late Lady Weston died, yet your brief narration of the events does not make sense.”