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  For Debbi Martin, whom I have never met,

  but who is a loyal friend,

  a devoted reader, and the hard-working

  president of my fan club.

  1

  May, 1818

  The day had been unseasonably chill for May, and late that evening fog began to swirl about the streets and squares and parks of London, muffling the sounds of the great city. In the hallowed portals of White’s lounge, however, all was jollity, for two friends had encountered each other after a long separation. Their reunion was boisterous and enthusiastic, and became more so when they were joined by a third gentleman. Many amused glances came their way, glances not untouched by admiration, for they presented an attractive picture. Jocelyn Vaughan, who had fought with Wellington’s peerless cavalry on the Peninsula, was very much the light-hearted, devil-may-care Corinthian; Valentine Montclair was of slighter frame, his rather drawn sensitive face lacking the glow of health that marked Vaughan’s, but they both were judged very good-looking young men, and were as dark of hair and eyes as the third member of their group was fair. Alain Devenish lacked a few of the inches of his friends, but was so handsome as to arouse immediate animosity in other men, and adoration in women, which—combined with a rather volatile disposition—had caused his life to be an eventful one.

  Delighted by this unexpected meeting, and full of youthful high spirits, they momentarily forgot their surroundings, their voices rising until some of the members began to frown in their direction. Devenish, his blue eyes alight with mischief, suggested in a stage whisper that they adjourn to his rooms in Stratton Street.

  “Your rooms!” exclaimed Vaughan, indignant. “They’re mine, you rogue!”

  “Are they?” As they left the lounge, Montclair glanced curiously from one friend to the other. “Did you remove, Dev?”

  “To Gloucestershire, old lad. Should’ve ridden up to see you long before this. Moved over a year ago.”

  “Did you, by Jove! Then you married your fair Yolande and are now—” Montclair paused. Devenish’s handsome face had become very still, and Vaughan’s gaze held a warning.

  “Might we perhaps be granted a little QUIET, gentlemen?” Admiral Peterson’s bushy eyebrows bristled over the top of The Times.

  “Whoops!” muttered Vaughan, sotto voce. “Sorry, sir. We’re leaving.”

  “Good,” said the Admiral testily.

  Devenish bowed his curly head and whispered, “Discretion being the better part of valour…”

  Grinning like mischievous schoolboys, the three friends tiptoed to the cloakroom. They were putting on long caped coats and taking up hats, canes, and gloves, when Devenish was hailed by another acquaintance. Making no bones about the fact that he considered this new arrival a good fellow but a regular windy wallets, Vaughan hurried Montclair into the street.

  “Oh, Lord,” he grumbled, peering through the fog. “Only look at this beastly stuff.” And because he had noticed his old school friend was not in good point, he said airily, “I’ll call up a hackney-carriage.”

  There was no such vehicle in sight, however, and the porter conveyed the information that they were scarcer than hens’ teeth tonight.

  “Oh come on, Joss,” said Montclair impatiently. “Let’s walk.”

  Having instructed the porter to tell Mr. Devenish to find a jervey and pick them up along the way, Vaughan hailed a hovering link boy, and they started off.

  They had much to talk about, and despite the chill clammy air, the moments passed pleasantly enough, the link boy trotting ahead of them, his torch bobbing as he guided them unerringly along Piccadilly. Laughing at one of Vaughan’s questions, Montclair conveyed the information that he was most definitely not in the petticoat line; and Vaughan, when asked in turn, admitted he had not married the beauty he’d been so enamoured of the last time Montclair had seen him. “Felicity married Rich Saxon,” he said with a sigh.

  “What—that wild man?” Montclair grinned. “Poor Joss. But you don’t seem about to put a pistol to your head. Another lady?”

  “Oh, any number, old fellow. I was mad for Alicia Wyckham for a whole year. Really thought I’d found my once-and-forever. But—to say truth, I begin to think I’m just not inclined to become a Benedick.” He gave Montclair a sly nudge and said laughingly, “They’re all so deuced lovely, y’know.”

  “I see. And—er, Dev? I collect I put my foot in my mouth just now.”

  Vaughan sobered. “Yes, you did rather. I thought everyone knew Yolande had jilted him. But, of course, you will persist in rusticating out there in Gloucestershire all year round and likely hear nothing of what goes on.”

  “Jilted Dev? You never mean it! He was always mad for her!”

  “Astonishing, ain’t it? She married his cousin. Some Canadian fellow.”

  Surprised, Montclair exclaimed, “Not Craig Winters? I’ll be dashed! Dev and Craig visited me at Longhills a couple of years ago. Winters is a fine fellow. Cannot touch Dev for looks, of course, but he was at Waterloo, you know. A major with the Scots Greys. Still … Miss Drummond and Dev had been betrothed forever. I fancy Dev called him out, no?”

  “No, as a matter of fact. Took it very hard, poor fellow, but seems to be making a recover. Now—enough of all this chitchat. Tell me of yourself. I—” They had turned into a silent and deserted Stratton Street, and Vaughan grabbed Montclair’s arm as his friend staggered, and steadying him, peered at the pale face and said anxiously, “You all right, old lad?”

  “Perfectly … fine…” said Montclair, sounding breathless. “Must have just … stumbled over … a paving stone or something.”

  Vaughan frowned into the night, but said only, “Oh. Still at your music? I fancy you’re a famous composer by this time?”

  “I’ve a few things completed. My uncle, of course, throws up his hands in horror at the thought of publication.” Montclair gave a contemptuous snort. “Bad ton, he says.”

  “Good God, never say old Selby Trent still sponges off you? What became of Lord Geoffrey? Ain’t he come home yet?”

  “No, my brother’s off in India. Hasn’t been in England since Waterloo. I wish to God he’d come back so I could kick Trent and his—” He bit off the words hurriedly.

  “D’you mean to tell me,” said Vaughan, horrified, “that Geoff has abandoned you there with that nest of vipers while he cavorts off to hunt tigers or whatever?”

  Montclair chuckled. “Oh, Barbara’s not a viper, Joss.”

  “True. But—your uncle … and Lady Trent … and Junius!” Vaughan shuddered. “Get rid of ’em, Val. That’s my advice. Quick!”

  His voice low-pitched and bitter now, Montclair said, “Do you fancy I wouldn’t have done so years ago, if it was possible? When my mama appointed Sir Selby to administer the estates, it was so worded that I can’t kick the—I can’t force him to leave Longhills without he does something criminal, or until Geoff comes back to take
control.”

  “But—my dear fellow! The man’s a wart. No, really Val, I’m sorry, but he is! And that aunt of yours scares me to death! Does Sir Selby interfere much in running the estates? I’ll lay odds he does, the old skinflint!”

  “My revered uncle,” began Montclair grimly, “strives to—” He was never to finish the remark.

  The link boy whistled shrilly, then took to his heels.

  They came out of the blackness like flying wraiths. Four of them, with shabby caps drawn low over masked faces, dark coats with collars turned high, and the diminishing glow from the link boy’s torch reflecting on the blue gleam of steel. With not an instant’s hesitation the two friends leapt to meet the attack. They were unarmed, but both carried walking canes as was the fashion, and they wielded them as though they held sabres, meeting slash with parry and swipe with thrust, holding their own with the fierceness of desperation, until the clip-clop of hooves echoed through the dimness. “Dev!” shouted Vaughan. “À moi! À moi!”

  A distant voice roared, “Spring ’em! Over there!”

  The end of Montclair’s cane rammed into a large shape, drawing forth a wheezing profanity. A gleam was flying at his throat, and he whirled aside, feeling the razor-sharp steel brush his shoulder. His left connected hard with a nose. A dark form reeled back, howling, but another was there at once to take his place. Montclair ducked as a club whistled at his head. It would have brained him had it landed squarely. As it was, the night was scattered into a thousand crazily whirling fragments …

  * * *

  “I shall move!” Jocelyn Vaughan sat at the parlour table in the flat he had taken over when Devenish left it, clutching his wrist and watching Devenish bathe the gash over Montclair’s right ear. “A fine neighbourhood you chose for me, Dev!”

  Devenish paused an instant. Montclair sat bowed forward, his crossed arms on the table. His eyes were closed, his brows and lashes startlingly dark against the deathly pallor of his face. Devenish touched his shoulder very gently, and the dark eyes blinked open. The amber flecks in them that were a fair reflection of his mood were dulled, but the pale lips curved to a grin. “Jolly good … turn-up,” he said faintly, then propped his chin on the palm of one hand and closed his eyes again.

  Devenish exchanged a troubled glance with Vaughan. “I think you’d best send the porter for an apothecary, Joss. Val caught a proper leveller.”

  “What, at this hour?” Montclair forced his head up. “Devil a bit of it. I’m—perfectly fine. If you’ve a—drop of cognac perhaps…”

  “Not after being popped on the noggin, old lad,” said Vaughan. “I’ve got the kettle on the hob. Have a cup of tea for you in a trice.”

  “Splendid…” Montclair realized they were both watching him uneasily. His head hurt so badly he was half blinded, but he said, “Look at you. A fine pair! Dev, you’ll have a black eye for sure. And—is your wrist broke, Joss?”

  Devenish gave him a pad to hold against the cut and turned his attention to Vaughan’s damaged wrist. “They caught you properly,” he said, inspecting the vivid swelling that was already starting to purple.

  “Dropped my cane,” grumbled Vaughan. “And it was brand new, and amber to boot!”

  Devenish explored, and Vaughan cursed gaspingly. “Blasted damned Mohocks! I thought London was free of that scum.”

  “I can’t tell if any bones are broke, Joss. You’d as well have an apothecary look at that in the morning. Did they get anything from you, Val?”

  “Thanks to you—no,” said Montclair.

  “Nor from me.” Vaughan rolled down his sleeve and muttered thoughtfully, “Funny thing. When I went down, I took one of the bastards with me. But the other fellow didn’t attempt to take my purse. He went straight to help his cronies. Odd behaviour for that breed.”

  “Jove, but that’s right,” said Devenish, drying his hands. “When we drove up there were three of ’em having at you, Val.”

  “I’m only grateful you came when you did,” sighed Montclair.

  The kettle began to whistle and Vaughan came to his feet. “Come on, Val. You can rack up here for the night. Use my man’s room, since he’s off to Cardiff ’til Monday.”

  Montclair offered little argument, and stumbled away, having said his good nights to the wavering shape he vaguely supposed was Devenish.

  When Vaughan came back into the cozy parlour carrying a teapot, Devenish was stretched out in an armchair, his feet propped on an occasional table. He opened one eye and asked drowsily, “You give Val his tea?”

  “He was asleep before I got him into bed.” Vaughan waved the teapot. “Want some?”

  Devenish looked at him.

  Vaughan grinned and went to fill two glasses at the sideboard. Carrying one to Devenish with his left hand, he returned to claim his own cognac, then sat on the littered sofa and stared at the fire. “How long must we wait for the Runner? I thought you sent the jervey off after him?”

  “Did. And I don’t mean to wait all night, I can tell you.” After a minute he asked quietly, “What’s the matter with him, Joss?”

  Vaughan shook his head. “Don’t know. Trent-itis, probably.”

  “Good Lord! Is he still playing host to that unlovely crew? Where’s his noble lordship? Womanizing in France still?”

  “Geoff’s in India, Val thinks. And he can’t kick his uncle out ’til Lord Geoffrey Montclair comes home and claims his rights. Poor old Val. Well—it’s a big house, that’s one thing.”

  Devenish grimaced. Longhills Manor was very large indeed, and famed as being one of the loveliest of England’s many lovely great homes, but he said, “If it was Versailles it wouldn’t be big enough. I wonder he doesn’t just leave.”

  “Can’t do that, dear boy. His charming uncle would have a free hand with the estate. Val may bury himself in his music and not know half the time whether it’s Monday or last Spring, but he loves Longhills. He’ll fight Selby Trent every step of the way before he’ll turn tail and run.”

  “As Geoff has done,” said Devenish rather grimly. “Val’s stuck there with that loathsome crew, trying to protect estates he’ll never inherit, and damn near isolated into the bargain. No one in his right mind would set foot under a roof with the Trents in residence!”

  “Pity,” nodded Vaughan. “Val should’ve been the heir.”

  Devenish smiled faintly. “He’d give you an argument on that one. Don’t want it. Besides, he thinks the sun rises and sets on his big brother.”

  Vaughan said, “Perhaps it’s just the strain of all the argumentations.”

  “No, it’s more than that, Joss.” Devenish frowned. “He’s definitely down-pin. Looks awful. Didn’t you notice?”

  “I noticed when he almost measured his length on the flagway. Said he tripped over a loose stone or some such thing. Wasn’t no loose stone.”

  There was a brief silence. Devenish broke it. “They weren’t Mohocks, of course. They were after Val.”

  “Plain as the nose on your face. But—why?”

  “Has he any enemies?”

  “The man that don’t has to be a clod. And old Val’s temper ain’t always—er— But—murder…? No, I doubt that.”

  Another pause. Then Devenish said reluctantly, “If Lord Geoffrey should die—Val would come into the title and fortune, I fancy.”

  Vaughan nodded. “But the Trents ain’t next in line, if that’s what you’re thinking. Four or five before them, as I recall. To pop off that many would be stretching credibility more than a little, eh my tulip?”

  “Hmm…” muttered Devenish. There was a long silence broken only by the tick of the clock on the mantel.

  “The devil with this! That rascally jervey likely never went after the Runner at all!” Devenish stood, touching his lurid eye with an investigative hand. “My poor orb is complaining, and I’m for my cozy bed at the Clarendon. I shall leave you, my pippin, to the joys of my former home!”

  “Wait up a bit.” Vaughan went into the kitchen a
nd began to rummage in the small pantry. “I’ll see if I’ve a beefsteak for that eye.”

  Devenish trailed after him. His eye felt twice its size and a few minutes’ delay would be worthwhile.

  Vaughan turned, peering dubiously at the small package he was unwrapping. “Don’t have any steak, I’m afraid. D’you suppose this trout would fit the bill? It ain’t too ancient, and we could cut it open and clap it on—” Blasphemously interrupted, he listened until Devenish ran out of breath. “Trouble with you, Dev,” he pointed out, “is that you want for a proper sense of gratitude.”

  * * *

  The Bow Street Runner arrived late next morning, just after Devenish had joined his friends, and was bedevilling them with the details of the excellent breakfast he had enjoyed at the Clarendon.

  The Runner, a ponderous gentleman who introduced himself as Mr. W. Wilkins, adopted a no-nonsense air, and demanded the details of the previous evening’s mayhem. His manner underwent an immediate thaw when Devenish asked if he was acquainted with Major Paisley, and if he knew how the major went on.

  “He is quite recovered, sir,” said Mr. W., sketching a bow. “Very busy, in fact, sir. Account of this here Masterpiece Gang. Hot after ’em, he is, by what I hear.”

  “Masterpiece Gang?” echoed Montclair.

  The Runner stared at him.

  Vaughan said excusingly, “Mr. Montclair lives in the country.”

  “Oh. The country.” The Runner nodded his understanding of such desolations, and explained ponderously, “Well, they’re a gang of very clever thieves, sir, what specializes in, as you might say, masterpieces. National treasures, some of ’em. Items of rare and partic’ler value took from the homes of peers and such like, or from museums and galleries. Paintings, sir. Works o’ art in gold, silver, crystal; what, as you might say, have you. They won’t take nothing but the best. Pass over shelves of silver and gold, and take only the cream, as you might say, of the crop. So the Powers that Be are, if you’ll forgive the expression, a’burning of their crumpets! And when there’s crumpets burning at the top, down comes the smoke to Bow Street. And poor Major Paisley, he gets proper smoked out, as you might say. What with all this here vicious smuggling getting worse day by day, and the Masterpiece Gang, upsetting of His Royal Highness, and the Quality. To say nothing of attacks on fine gentlemen like yourselves, sir, on London’s very own thoroughfares! Terrible the crime is nowadays! Fair terrible!”