Page 20 of To Tempt a Troubled Earl
“His lordship works,” said Jasper mulishly.
“At what?” Kit’s voice was full of scorn. “Maintaining his golden locks? Counting his money? Booting men out of his house? Or, let me guess, does he roll up his sleeves and plough the fields during harvest?”
“Keeping a whole village happy. Even when he’s not.”
Kit jumped down and threw a coin to the pitiful pile of bones begging outside his lodging. “One day, I’m going to find someone with something bad to say about him.”
Jasper chuffed. “Let me know when you do.”
Kit’s custom was to approach his abode via a circuitous route to be sure he wasn’t spotted. A murky covered alley ran down the side of the boarding house, hiding a side entrance leading into it. Kit found approaching from the rear and entering that way more to his liking than advertising his presence at the front door. Regularity was what got people caught. Who knew how much time and effort a frustrated Clark had been expending trying to find him?
Today, he crossed his fingers in the hope that Clark had taken his dogged efforts elsewhere.
Kit’s lodgings were cheap, which was about the kindest thing he could say about them. What little money he’d inherited on his father’s death, combined with his secretarial work for Sir Brandon, had covered the doctor’s arrears and a roof to go over Anne’s head until Uncle Charles took pity on her. Sir Brandon’s untimely death from a sudden attack of septic quinsy left Kit without decent written references, hence he’d resorted to card sharping and petty theft. Which were all well and good but did not provide a regular income.
Kit’s heart sank as he opened the door. All his fears that Clark, the Bow Street runner, might know his name and address were confirmed. He hadn’t realised he possessed enough belongings to cover the floor of his humble room, but apparently, he had. Underclothes, cravats, books, and papers had been tossed over every available inch of space. And not too carefully either. A cushion ripped apart and a jagged split down the centre of his thin mattress told their own tale.
The pilfered trinkets were nowhere to be seen.
Kit sagged against the doorframe, a young man without honest employment and prospects. And now penniless too.
At that moment, the earl and his lavish homes, his deadly flirtatiousness, and Kit’s new clothes seemed very far away. Even his ire against Gartside paled. And yet somehow, in a few minutes, he’d have to compose himself, gather what little he had left into a carpet bag, and saunter back to that stylishly upholstered carriage and its suspicious driver as if his world couldn’t be pleasanter.
If the earl knew about his shady dealings, or, heaven forbid, Clark discovered his association with the earl, it would ruin everything.
Chapter Eleven
UNSAVOURY DARKNESS LURKEDin all corners of Drury Lane, but never more so than during the lull before a matinee performance. Thetonwould be appalled if they unearthed Lando’s destination at such a God-fearing time of day. Add in the threat of fire, robbery, and the infamous attempted shooting of one of the players several years earlier, and it was no wonder Pritchard was reluctant to venture within a mile of the place. Thus, he was hugely put out when Lando dragged him along to guard the curricle whilst he went inside.
“I’m your indispensable valet, my lord,” he squawked as two urchins immediately closed in on the smart carriage. “I’m hardly going to beat off these ruffians with a pocket square and my clothes brush, am I?”
“Half a crown should do it, though,” answered Lando with a grin. A grin which had hardly left his face since his wonderful journey with Mr Angel. “And tell them there’s another one if they prevent that enormous rat hiding over there from crawling up the rear axle and scurrying across your feet.”
With Pritchard’s squeals ringing in his ears, Lando disappeared through an unobtrusive side door and into the murky depths of the theatre.
Locating his quarry by sound alone, Lando picked his way through a series of dust-sheeted rooms, drawing closer to the source of the godawful racket otherwise known as Tommy Squire’s singing voice. His final obstacle course, a mountain of costumes, hats, props, and other theatrical accoutrements, made up the clutter in the actor’s dressing room.
Applying face paint whilst belting out a bawdy tune, Tommy Squire peered into a gilt mirror perilously balanced on even more colourful garments. A dozen thick candles dotted haphazardly around the room assisted him in his delicate task. The faint odour of greasepaint wafted under Lando’s nose. Goodness knew how the magistrates had never ascertained a cause for the great Drury Lane fire of 1809; the likely reason was staring Lando in the face.
“From a little spark may burst a flame,” he murmured so as not to startle his old friend and set the whole place alight. Sweeping the room with a glance, which was about as close as it would ever come to being tidied up, he braced for Tommy’s reaction. “A quote from Dante Alighieri, darling, circa early fourteenth century, in case you were wondering. Although I don’t believe he meant it literally. More allegoric, really.”
“You’re back! His lordship’s back!”
Tommy leaped across the room, and Lando found himself crushed against a makeshift clothes horse and a wriggling, delighted…Dick Turpin, judging from the jaunty tricorn hat atop Tommy’s head. “The gods be damned! His lordy’s bloody back!”
With a second set of male arms wrapping about his person in as many hours, Lando felt his chest expanding, his heart soaring, his soul singing. He feltalive.
“Yes, I…I do believe I am,” he answered with a little laugh. “And this time, Tommy, I’m…I’m quite recovered. Unless you persist in squeezing the living daylights from me.”
“God, it’s been too long!” Tommy finally put Lando down to look at him properly. “Yes, you are recovered! You look in fine fettle, my lord.”
“Thank you.” Lando had a ridiculous urge to give a little twirl. “So do you. Thespian life must suit you.”
Tommy still drank Lando in. “Yes, but not for much longer. Got my eye on another gaming room. The first one’s started turning more than a few bob.” He tapped his nose mysteriously. “And the betting stands are multiplying. This is my last run treading the boards, I reckon.”
“If anyone could do it, I knew it would be you, Tommy.” Lando beamed with delight.
From the time his path had crossed Lando’s more than fifteen years ago, Tommy had dreamed of owning and running gambling hells. But unlike most folk with big dreams, Tommy also had a strategy, buckets of determination, and a miserly attitude. And, as Lando teased, friends he viewed more as opportunistic acquaintances.
