“Eh? How did ye know m’calling, and who might ye be?” asked Mr. Fowler. He eyed them with open suspicion.
The duke inclined his head. “I am Brock Haydon, Duke of Margate. I have heard that you are looking for land in the vicinity. As it happens, a friend of mine has a parcel that he is thinking of putting up for sale.”
“Is that so? Well, Yer Grace…”
“Come, do sit with us so that we may be private,” the duke interrupted him in his most gracious manner.
“Thankee, think I will,” replied the runner taking up a chair and sinking heavily upon its stiff wood seat.
The duke procured a tankard of ale for the man and took up a chair beside him, noting that Speenham looked uncomfortable. He had to wonder at it.
Mr. Fowler took a long pull of his ale before setting his pewter mug down. “There now, you say this friend of yers has some land?”
“Indeed yes, he is looking to sell off a sizeable plot,” the duke answered auspiciously.
“May I know his name then?” Fowler asked looking at the duke with his narrowed gaze, reminding the duke of a wary cat.
“Of course, though I must caution you that this is most confidential.”
Mr. Fowler acknowledged this by nodding. Alfred Speenham continued to watch in silence.
“It is,” the duke lowered his voice, “the Viscount Skippendon’s land. Though I am not familiar with the terms, I do believe the price may be most attractive,” suggested the duke blandly.
“Is that so? Well, I am most particular about what I want. Looking for something near water, ye see.”
“Just so. This parcel borders the Wharfdale River, you know,” the duke offered enthusiastically.
“Well, well, does it now?” Fowler gave nothing away from his stolid expression. “When I’m ready, I shall be happy to approach him then, I will, but for now I think I’ll jest keep m’eyes out for I’m looking for something in particular.”
“In particular?” Speenham finally spoke.
“Aye, most particular I am,” Fowler said and leveled a curious look at Speenham.
The duke could not help but note that Speenham squirmed in his chair and was surprised by it. Well, well, now what was Speenham hiding? Hiding something he most definitely was.
The duke felt someone approach and looked up to find an elderly and bald man, portly of body and holding a beaver top hat in his hand. He came to take a stand near Fowler’s elbow and cleared his throat. The duke noted that he was clothed in what the he thought of as a cit’s attire, like a man of business and his brow went up to hear Fowler say, “Ah, Mr. Rawlings.”
Well, well, thought the duke, so this was by appointment then—and must be the Rawlings that Mandy had spoken of. What was Agatha Brinley’s banker doing meeting with Fowler?
Fowler got to his feet, drained his tankard and said, “Gentlemen, do please excuse me, as I have an appointment.”
Without another word, Fowler took up Rawlings elbow and led him away. Now this was damned interesting. What the devil did the runner want with Aunt Agatha’s banker? And what was it he had read about this bank in the Chronicle? Why wouldn’t it come to him? Something about the Barings Bank of York…?
“Why on earth did you invite him over here?” Speenham almost spluttered as the words hissed out of his mouth.
“Why? I though it clear. He is looking for land—I offered him some,” the duke answered glibly.
“Indeed, I know nothing about any land that Skippendon has for sale,” Speenham returned indignantly.
“You wouldn’t would you…after all, you and Skip are scarcely friends,” the duke returned as he found he could not keep his lip from curling derisively.
Speenham ignored this and continued, “And he is a runner…after my cousins. You know that and still invited him over.”
“Yes, you are quite right. He is a runner. Why Alfred, are you so suddenly concerned?”
“After all, one doesn’t want one’s own cousins captured by a London runner!” Speenham snapped.
“Indeed—when it was your own father who turned Ned over to the authorities for questioning even before he had instituted an investigation of his own?”