Page 40 of To Tempt a Troubled Earl
“Of the highest,” he agreed, feeling nauseous. “As are Sir Richard and Lord Cobham. Although…” He broke off, pressing his lips together as if he’d said too much.
“Although what?” Gartside’s tone was sharp.
“Although…” Kit attempted to appear discomfited. “I take my position of being in the earl’s confidence very seriously, Sir Ambrose. Thus, one does not wish to speak out of turn or on behalf of another.”
“There’s no one to overhear. Say it, man. I insist.”
Wincing, Kit directed the grey mare closer to Gartside’s and dropped his voice. “I only wish to say, in order to further your own interest in the matter that…” He hesitated again.
“Yes?” Gartside huffed with impatience.
“I have made the reasonable observation that Lord Cobham is in poor health. And whilst he has shown excellent financial prudence in the past, I fear his health matters may, shall we say, override his ability to manage his affairs if they were to deteriorate further. And I am of the opinion the earl shares similar reservations.”
“Does he now?” Gartside nodded once more. “Rum fellow, Rossingley. Sharp as a tack but rather too fond of peach flowery waistcoats for my liking, if you get my drift.”
It was all Kit could do to prevent himself from bursting into laughter.
“Nonetheless, one would do well not to underestimate him,” Gartside added with relish. “Man owns half of bloody Mayfair as far as one can tell. And much of Wessex. Wasted on a dandy like that. Bloody good at holding onto his money.”
“He is,” agreed Kit, like the diplomat he was pretending to be. “One would do well to side with him.”
“Sir Richard is of the same opinion,” grumbled Gartside. “Though God knows why Rossingley is considering him. Man’s a coward and a dimwit. Can’t even bloody speak properly.”
“Mmm,” Kit concurred, hating himself. Of all the people they were hoodwinking, that Sir Richard was one of them bothered him the most. Quiet and affable, Kit rather enjoyed his company.
Pressing further, he added, “Of course, my role is only to advise. Ultimately, the decision will rest with the earl. But, if I could be so forthright, having been in his acquaintance for quite some months now, I do believe I have his ear. It wouldn’t be beyond the realm of possibility for me to find myself, if sufficiently incentivised, in the position of being able to…sway him.”
He finished with a long, hard look at Gartside, praying he hadn’t gone too far yet also hoping he’d gone far enough, given the man’s below-average intelligence. As it was, he could almost hear the cog wheels chugging.
They reached another fork in the road. Two dashing young fellows in a yellow phaeton were signalling for Gartside’s attention.
“Ah, there they are,” he said. “Beefy Allington and Poodle.”
Poodle. Daft buggers, these aristocrats never grew up. As Kit drew up his horse, Gartside threw him a distracted wave, already dismissing him for acquaintances with more merit. “My route takes me this way, Sir Ambrose,” Kit declared to his companion’s half-turned back. “So I’ll bid you farewell. I have a stack of papers to read through on my return to the earl’s residence.”
“You are still his guest?”
“I am, indeed. Until our meeting at the end of the week. Most afternoons, I am alone in the library while the earl conducts his business elsewhere.” Kit tipped his hat. “Good day to you.”
Chapter Nineteen
KIT GLADLY ESCAPEDGrosvenor Street the next morning, even if it was only a trip to his old lodgings. In the eleventh earl’s absence, with much to say and no one with whom to share it, he wandered aimlessly, his feet echoing along the hallways and stairways of the enormous residence.
Like motes of dust trapped in candlelight, everyone shone a little brighter in Lando’s presence, Kit decided. The lavish breakfast had tasted less pleasing without the beguiling earl curled up in his lap, and even the rose bushes in the stone urns either side of the imposing front door appeared to bloom less enthusiastically. As he made his way down the wide stone steps, the majestic linden trees across the square seemed to no longer care whether they gathered their leaves about them or let them sail away on the breeze.
He headed towards Bond Street to hail a hansom. His restlessness had a name.Love, and it disrupted his thoughts like a troublesome toothache.Kit held it responsible for every single one of the poetic flights of fancy cramming his head when he should be concentrating on his future. It was the reason for his stumble over a loose cobblestone, for failing to hail a hansom and having to hunt for another.Get a grip, he admonished himself. The roses around the bloody doorstep were fine; they were thriving, as were the lindens. Kit had no idea why he’d bloody noticed them anyhow.
He’d walked halfway to Sindell Street by the time he managed to secure a driver. Which gave him plenty of time to resolve to come clean to Lando regarding the runner, Clark. Shame had prevented him from confessing earlier when Lando first mooted the Gartside plan, shame that Lando would think less of him. Admitting one’s flaws to oneself was painful enough, never mind to a ravishing and wealthy earl with whom one had fallen headlong in love, and who had readily admitted all his weaknesses to Kit. Whether his love for the earl was reciprocated or not, frankly, he was undeserving of it anyhow. If, after the whole farrago was over, he and Lando parted ways, then it would be nothing less than Kit warranted. He’d crawl into the darkest of dark corners, lick his wounds, and if God and the honest employment market were willing, slide back into his appropriate level of society a better, more trustworthy man.
Sindell Street was its usual grimy, bustling, smelly self. Kit used to barely notice, but now he had an urge to cover his nose and block his ears. He’d discarded Lando’s fine clothes for the expedition, not wanting to draw attention to himself, and a jolly good thing too. His new supple leather boots were far too nice to gather muck.
Love andtonliving had made him soft; he hardly bothered to glance up and down the street before crossing over to his lodgings. Having ransacked the place weeks earlier and deduced Kit was not to be found, Clark had hopefully moved on to hound some other poor bugger scratching out a nefarious living. Rather wishing to avoid an unpleasant encounter with his landlady, Kit threw thruppence to a bundle of rags clutching a mangy dog, then slipped down the dank side alley, fumbling in his pocket for the heavy key.
His abode was as depressing as on his last visit. His few clothes and books were still carelessly tossed around the place; Kit didn’t think anyone had been back. And why would they? There was nothing worth stealing. If he was honest, there was nothing worth him coming back for either. Except that his other woollen coat had been passed down from his father, and he had a pointless, sentimental attachment to a dogeared set of playing cards from his youth.
And they belonged to him, dammit. Which was as good a reason as any.
Add in a couple of his favourite books gifted from Sir Brandon’s library, a worn greying towel, a shirt requiring repairs, and two cotton handkerchiefs, it was a pathetic haul to show for three and twenty years. Hefting his small bag across his shoulder, he took a last look around the room. Whilst a week from now he’d face an uncertain future, hopefully not involving Newgate, he knew he wouldn’t be coming back.
