Page 62 of Murder on Black Swan Lane
Grasping at shadows. Or so it felt. Perhaps by luck he would pull a clue from out of the dark.
Sheffield shrugged. “No more than most of us. At least, not that I know of. He’s been known to rack up large gambling debts, and be late in settling them. But I, of all people, understand the travails of being a younger son—it’s hellish hard trying to live the life of a buck of thetonon a pitifully small quarterly allowance.”
“I see,” said the earl neutrally, sensing that his friend might be exaggerating the amount of the debts. Most every gentleman gambled. It wasn’t likely that Davy and the board of governors of the Royal Institution would entrust the job of superintendent to anyone whose reputation might be in question.
“Forget I mentioned it,” grumbled Sheffield, as if reading his thoughts. “I’m simply in a foul temper over my own execrable performance at the tables last night. And misery loves company.”
“Learn to count,” advised the earl.
“Ha, easy for you to say.” Sheffield slouched lower in his seat. “I am not blessed with intellect.”
“Like any muscle, the brain needs exercise to toughen it up.”
That drew a reluctant grin. “Touché.” As Sheffield shifted, his eyes suddenly narrowed. “Lowell may be a perfectly fine fellow, but the man sitting to his left—see there, deep in the shadows—is St. Aubin. A thoroughly dirty dish.”
“So you implied.” Wrexford inched forward in his seat for a better look at the man. “That surprises me. I’ve heard no hint of dark rumors about him.”
“You don’t circulate in the same dens of iniquity as I do on occasion,” replied Sheffield, dropping his voice to a whisper. His expression, normally one of cheerful cynicism, hardened to one of grim-edged anger. “He may look like an angel, but word is, he’s not welcome at some of the discerning brothels. The madams hate turning away money, but it’s apparently not worth the damage to their girls.”
He darted another glance at St. Aubin’s smoothly handsome face. Who would guess it to look at him? His gaze lingered, noting that the man’s carefully combed hair, cut in the latest a la Brutus fashion, was a light enough honey hue to be considered golden.
“It’s also said that he was encouraged to resign from his regiment,” added Sheffield. “There were rumors about cheating at cards, and though no formal accusations were made, his fellow officers didn’t trust him.”
Lordly privilege could cover a multitude of sins, reflected Wrexford. Some highly respected families boasted naught but a centuries-long line of scoundrels and wastrels. Glitter and glamor cast a bright enough sheen to disguise the rot beneath the surface.
“And yet he’s welcome within the highest circles of Society, and considered a catch on the marriage mart.”
“Yes. In fact, he’s courting the Marquess of Greenfield’s daughter.” His friend’s eyes had now darkened to the same gunmetal grey shade as a thundercloud. “I’ve known Harriet since we were children. She deserves better—much better. And now she will have a chance to find a more suitable husband.” A harsh exhale squeezed from his lungs. “It may be an unspoken rule among gentlemen that we don’t tell tales on each other’s foibles. But in this case it would have been dishonorable to remain silent.”
“You spoke to Greenfield?” asked Wrexford. He suddenly thought of Charlotte, and how many women were at the mercy of men like St. Aubin. They could, quite literally, get away with murder.
“Of course I did,” said Sheffield. “Ye god, how could I have lived with myself if I hadn’t done my best to protect a friend.”
A smile touched Wrexford’s lips. “Perhaps we are both not quite the devil-may-care rogues that most people assume we are.”
“Hell’s bells,” Sheffield gave a mock shiver. “Don’t letthatcat out of the bag.”
Wrexford darted another glance to the far gallery. “Any idea of the connection between St. Aubin and Lowell?” It seemed an unlikely friendship, given what he had just heard.
His friend thought for a moment. “I believe they know each other from Eton.”
Ah, the innocence of youth. Schoolboy bonds could be lasting, no matter how much a fellow might change.
“I wonder what brings St. Aubin here?” he mused. “To my knowledge he has no connection to the Institution. And somehow I doubt he has an intellectual interest in science.”
“Perhaps he’s stalking a new victim,” muttered Sheffield. “As you see, most of the leading ladies of thetonare attending.”
“Do me a favor, Kit, and see what more you can learn about St. Aubin’s activities from your sources. Let’s see if he does indeed have any connection to Holworthy.”
“With pleasure.” Sheffield shifted in his seat. “Though I’ll need another infusion of funds. I was bled dry last night.”
“God Almighty. No wonder your father longs to disown you.”
Before Wrexford could add any more barbs, the lecture ended to a loud and lengthy applause.
Davy exited the stage, and as the audience began to rise and make their way out of the lecture hall, Lowell reclaimed the earl’s attention. The superintendent had moved smoothly to the archway of the gallery in order to greet the spectators who were filing out. He watched him exchange words with the dowager Duchess of Ayrthorpe and her granddaughter. The ladies laughed at something he said, and allowed themselves to be led to a private salon off the lecture hall, where refreshments were being served to a select group of important guests.
Gracefully done, thought the earl. Lowell had the well-mannered ease of someone born into a world where style and charm counted for more than substance. And unlike most gentlemen of the aristocracy, he had found a way to use his talents to do something useful.
