Mary Nichols – Lord Portman's Troublesome Wife (страница 2)

‘Love, Rosie? Can you afford love?’

The question was a brutal one, but Max had never spared her feelings, and he was right. ‘No, but finding a husband in a fortnight when I have nothing to offer is surely outside the bounds of possibility.’

‘I could perhaps rake up a small dowry so you don’t go empty-handed.’

‘If you can find money for a dowry, then give it to me. I can use it to set up a little business.’

‘Now who is not being realistic! What do you know of business? All you are capable of is keeping house.’ He stood up and went to the mirror to straighten his wig and tweak his black silk cravat. ‘The trouble is that time is not on your side. But leave it to me, I may yet come up with something.’ He strode out of the room and back to the mourners, followed by a very dejected Rosamund.

She was too numbed by Max’s revelations to attend to their guests as she should, but Max made up for her deficiency, exhorting them to take refreshments, and conversing amiably about the deceased, telling stories about his life, listening to them recount theirs. At last, realising there was nothing more to be learned, the guests departed, leaving Rosamund to sit down, surrounded by the debris of plates, cups and glasses, half-empty bottles of wine, stewed tea and crumbs. Max, clutching the canvas bag, was last to leave, together with his wife and noisy children who would not have normally been allowed to come, but they were thoroughly spoiled and their demands acceded to if they were loud enough. Rosamund hardly noticed them go. Janet came in to clear away and tidy the room, a task Rosamund would normally have helped her with, but she could not raise a finger.

She mourned the passing of her father, but she was also angry with him for being such a gullible fool, and even more angry with those so-called business associates who had sold him useless shares and ruined him. And who had given him that bag of counterfeit coins? Why had her father kept it instead of bringing the criminals to justice and obtaining some restitution? He must have realised they were counterfeit or he would have used them to pay his debts and buy them a little extra comfort. But supposing he had, supposing he had already spent some of them? Would she have angry tradesmen on the doorstep, demanding proper payment? Or worse, a constable or a Bow Street Runner with a warrant for her arrest? Would pleading ignorance save her? She needed to know, but she would have to be careful in case she uncovered something not to her father’s credit. She prayed that was not so and he was entirely innocent.

Max was disinclined to do anything about it.

The only other person who might be able to help her was Mr Tetley, so she set out next day to ask him.

‘My dear Miss Chalmers,’ he said, when she was shown into his office and offered a seat. ‘May I offer my condolences on your loss? I am sorry I did not have the opportunity to do so yesterday, but business had to prevail and you were engaged with your relations. And no doubt your brother explained matters to you.’

‘He did, but I should like to hear it from you.’

Mr Tetley sighed, but patiently went over everything, exactly as Max had explained it. ‘I am unconscionably sorry that you cannot be given more time to order your affairs, ma’am, but my best endeavours failed to allow you more than two weeks to quit. No doubt Sir Maximilian will look after you.’

Hearing her brother spoken of as Sir Maximilian brought her loss home to her more effectively than anything else and she had to force herself not to cry. There were things more important than tears. ‘Thank you, Mr Tetley.’ She paused to gather herself. ‘I am mystified by that bag of gold coins my brother showed me. How did my father come by it?’

‘I have no idea. I knew nothing of it. It was your brother who found it locked in a cupboard in Sir Joshua’s library. I am afraid he was angrily disappointed when I told him they were all counterfeit.’

‘So you cannot throw any light on it?’

‘No. I can only suppose your late father sold something, a picture or jewels or something of that sort, and that was the payment he received.’

‘Then those responsible should be brought to book and forced to pay good money for whatever it was.’

‘But we have no idea who they might be. And such men are dangerous. I would not like to confront them. No, my dear Miss Chalmers, I advise you to leave well alone. Take the bag to a magistrate, say you found it, wash your hands of it.’

‘My brother has it and he will do what is necessary. But can you tell me anything about the shares Papa bought that were worthless?’

‘There is nothing you can do about those either if they were sold and bought in good faith. Playing the ’Change is a gamble at the best of times.’

‘Could the two things be connected? The buying of shares and the mutilated coins, I mean.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘But you must know the names of those who sold my father the shares. You were, after all, his legal adviser.’

He grunted a laugh. ‘When he decided to take my advice, but very often he ignored it, as he did in this case.’ He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a folder tied with red ribbon. He untied it and laid the folder open. ‘The name of the organisation is the Barnstaple Mining Company.’

Rosamund gave a brittle laugh. ‘Mining gold, I suppose. What is the name of the signatory on that document?’

He consulted the paper. ‘Michael O’Keefe.’

‘That sounds Irish. Do you know anything about him?’

‘Nothing at all, Miss Chalmers. It might not even be his real name.’

‘And where is the office of this company?’

He looked at the papers again. ‘The only address I have is the Nag’s Head, Covent Garden. It is unlikely to be a bona fide address. I advised Sir Joshua against investing, but he would not listen.’

‘I cannot believe my father would be so gullible. The whole thing is decidedly smoky.’

‘So I told him.’ He paused. ‘Miss Chalmers, what are you intending to do?’

‘I do not know yet.’

‘Do nothing, I beg you. You surely have enough to occupy you, ordering your affairs before moving out of Holles Street.’

The meeting of the Piccadilly Gentlemen’s Club at Lord Trentham’s London mansion was drawing to a close. It was no ordinary drinking and gaming club, but one dedicated exclusively to the tracking down of criminals and bringing them to justice. Officially designated the ‘Society for the Discovery and Apprehending of Criminals’, its members were all high enough in the instep not to require paying for their services. Not for them the taking of bribes as other thieftakers were known to do; they did it for the love of adventure and to make the country a safer place for its inhabitants.

Set up ten years before by Lord Drymore, then simply Captain James Drymore, its other members were Viscount Jonathan Leinster; Harry, Lord Portman; Sir Ashley Saunders; Captain Alexander Carstairs and Sam Roker, James Drymore’s servant and friend. Each had their own area of expertise, but this year they were especially concerned that the wedding of George III to Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz on 8 September, and their coronation two weeks later, should not be marred by more crime than usual. They were, among other matters, on the look out for pickpockets and criminal gangs who might be planning to take advantage of the crowds come to witness the processions and take part in the celebrations afterwards.

Harry’s particular interest was in counterfeit money and he had been instrumental in bringing several gangs before the courts. But there were always more to take their place and what better opportunity for passing counterfeit coins could there be than among the crowds flocking to see the processions? He was indefatigable in pursuit of these types of criminals, though you would never think so to look at him. He wore a full-skirted coat of amber silk embroidered with gold thread. Lace flounces fell over his hands from the wide cuffs. His embroidered waistcoat had a long row of pearl buttons from the neck right down to his knees, though only half of them were meant to be fastened. His cravat was starched and frilled within an inch of its life and his breeches and stockings were white, tied at the knee with yellow ribbons. His pose was relaxed, the long fingers of his left hand, loaded with rings, lay idly on the table. The other fingered his quizzing glass on its ribbon about his neck. To anyone who did not know him, he was a macaroni of the first water.

‘I’m off to the Old Bailey,’ he said, when the business of the day was concluded and everyone was preparing to leave. ‘The Dustin Gang are on trial and I would know the outcome.’

He picked up his tall hat from the floor at his side and stood up. The high red heels of his shoes and the height of his white wig made him seem at least six inches taller, even though, at five feet eleven, he was by no means short. Most men of his acquaintance found it more comfortable to shave their heads for wearing a wig, but as he often needed to go out and about without one, he put up with the discomfort to appear the fop. The real Harry Portman was a person very few people knew.