Page 74 of Miss Desirable
“Think, Deems. Lady Fairchild alerted you to the threat Armbruster posed, so you took particular notice of anything relating to him. Any scrap of information could be useful—the name of his tailor, a club that would not admit him, a horse he lost in a wager.”
“He curries favor with his mother,” Deems said slowly. “I forget where I heard that.”
“Every son ought to curry favor with his mother.”
“The marchioness pays his lordship’s valet,” Deems said. “Somebody mentioned that over darts. She can’t rely on Armbruster to see to the fellow’s wages, so she pays him directly. Nothing but the finest Parisian gentleman’s gentleman would do for her darling boy, and those fellows don’t come cheap.”
And just like that, the sunshine was more golden, and theclip-cloppingof a passing carriage became a cheerful tattoo.
“The valet isFrench?”
Deems peered at the plain handle of his walking stick. “I believe he is at that, sir. You will call upon the Dornings on Miss Fairchild’s behalf?”
“Discreetly, and your vigilance on the walkway will no longer be required. I will send young Victor to you when I have more to report.”
Deems nodded and turned to go, then eyed Fournier obliquely. “Why’d she sack me?”
Fournier could fashion a lie about years of loyal service deserving a reward or young women taking odd notions. Deems deserved the truth.
“Miss Fairchild’s trust has been sorely abused in the past, and she mistook your vigilance for judgment, or something worse. She is not nearly as self-confident as she appears, Deems, for all that she is brave. Young Harry is struggling to fill your shoes, and if you’d share an occasional pint with him, I’m sure he’d appreciate any wisdom you cared to pass along.”
“Harry’s a bright lad. No harm in a pint on half day.”
Deems touched a finger to his hat brim. Fournier bowed slightly and then turned in the direction of a certain coffeehouse in Soho favored by Frenchmen in service to lordly English households.
* * *
“I have bested the great Worth Kettering at strategy,” Sycamore Dorning said, raking in a pot of chips. “My fortune has become bottomless.”
Casriel tossed down his cards. “We play for farthing points, Sycamore.”
“Victory is still sweet,” Sycamore replied. “The question of the moment is how we are to see Catherine victorious over her foe. I’m for a pointed discussion with Armbruster in a dim alley.”
“You and your knives,” Ash Dorning muttered. “This is serious, Sycamore. Catherine has finally given us leave to assist her, and you speak of larking about after dark. I want to hear what Fournier has to say.”
As did Kettering.
Having been raised with only a single, rather reserved brother, Worth Kettering had learned to appreciate his Dorning in-laws as one would appreciate a performance at Astley’s. The conversational brawling, verbal dueling, ribald humor, and silent glances wove layers of meaning and significance Kettering still found mostly baffling.
These people understood one another, while Kettering could translate only the most obvious aspects of their familial patois. They loved fiercely, differed fiercely, and were fiercely loyal. Beyond that, he relied on his darling Jacaranda to parse the subtleties of her family’s interactions.
“Fournier,” Casriel said, “you have the floor.”
“Merci.” The Frenchman passed Kettering his cards as coolly as if this was not a counsel of war, but rather, just another desultory hand in an evening of tedious play. “To ruin Armbruster is possible. Even his valet’s wages are late, and that fellow is paid by the marchioness. The whole family is in difficulties.”
Kettering, by virtue of lurking about on ’Change and sending his clerks to share a pint with other clerks, had taken two weeks to reach the same conclusion. “Late wages can be bad management rather than insolvency.”
Fournier ran a fingertip around the edge of his brandy glass. “Oui, but Colonel Goddard and I have both been on the wrong end of commercial transactions with the marquess’s household. We had the usual quiet conversations with our fellow merchants and decided to cut off his lordship—and his sons—rather than put vanity before common sense.”
“So you can buy up Armbruster’s vowels and send him fleeing to Calais in the grand tradition,” Sycamore said, shuffling the deck deftly. “Not very original, but effective.”
“I will not buy up his lordship’s debts,” Fournier said, “and I ask that you gentlemen refrain from doing so.”
Kettering took a minute to sort out that logic. “You want all of Bond Street, Piccadilly, and the Haymarket to come after him.”
“All of Mayfair too,” Ash Dorning said. “Armbruster has personal obligations, old wagers, and debts of honor. He’ll have just got his quarterly allowance and paid most of those off.”
Fournier gave a slight shake of his head, the gesture somehow Gallic. “Armbruster’s valet informs me that his lordship is sending an inquiry agent to France. That exercise will cost money, as spying on Miss Fairchild has cost money. The inquiry agent is to travel quickly rather than cheaply.”
