Claridge came in, placed a tray on the desk in front of Kate. ‘Thank you, Claridge, that will be all. Tea, Henry?’ she asked sweetly as the door closed.
‘Damn the tea.’ He watched, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair, while she poured herself a cup, taking her time. She pretended to hesitate over a choice of scones until he demanded, ‘What do you want?’
‘I’ve come about the blackmail, Henry. It has to stop.’
‘What blackmail?’ He tried to look haughty and affronted.
‘Don’t pretend, Henry. You have been extorting money from Lord Baybrook. It is immoral, illegal and probably dangerous. His father-in-law won’t live for ever and when he dies Baybrook is going to be a very rich man.’ She took a sip of tea and was proud that her hand was rock-steady. ‘Rich enough to take revenge on you in any way he chooses. Legal or illegal.’ Was it her imagination, or had Henry gone pale?
‘What do you want?’
His immediate move to negotiation made her wary. She had expected counter-threats, or, at the least, bluster. ‘For you to stop demanding money. Write to Baybrook, tell him that no more will be asked.’
‘Is that all?’
Of course it was not all. He was still being too accommodating, too calm. ‘And you will return all the money you extorted.’ Henry’s jaw dropped. ‘Just how much did you receive, Henry? How much did you demand from Baybrook every month?’
‘Two hundred,’ he snapped.
‘Two hundred pounds? Two thousand four hundred a year. My goodness, that was ambitious, Henry.’
‘He can afford it. And it is guineas, not pounds.’ He smirked, obviously counting the golden treasure in his mind.
‘Two thousand five hundred and twenty pounds,’ she amended. ‘A mistake to gloat about the guineas. That’s an additional one hundred and twenty you are going to give me.’ Could she convince him his only hope was to give her the money, or would he call her bluff?
‘Give you the money? Are you insane? Why should I do a damn fool thing like that?’
‘Because I’ll see you in gaol if you don’t, brother dear. My child, my fear and danger, my near disgrace. I think I have earned it, don’t you?’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Grant held the hired hack to a controlled canter as he entered the village of Hawkwell. He had made good time, leaving London by post-chaise for Rayleigh as soon as Martin’s assistant returned. Kate might have had a fast passage by the steamer, but he would be close on her heels.
‘I couldn’t do as much as I’d like, sir,’ the man had explained, passing the notes across. ‘But there’s the address. In Rayleigh he’s run up a fair amount of debt and they say he’s a spendthrift on his own pleasures. His wife doesn’t spend much at the local dressmaker or milliner, though. They think he keeps her on a pretty tight string and there are rumours he’s not above knocking her around when he’s in his cups. He also has a bit of a reputation for gambling—cock fights, the local card school, that sort of thing. The merchants I spoke to didn’t have much of an opinion of him as a landowner. They say he leaves it all to his bailiff and he doesn’t pay enough to get a man of the right calibre to do that wisely. I’ve made a note of the major debtors, sir.’
Now Grant drew rein in front of the church lychgate as a thin man in a clerical collar and bands came out and closed it with care behind him.
‘Good day, Reverend.’
‘Good day, sir.’ He smiled up at Grant. ‘Have to take care or we get straying sheep in the churchyard and the silly creatures poison themselves on the yew. One could wish the Good Lord had given such useful animals more intelligence, but one cannot question His ways. May I assist you in any way, sir?’
‘I am looking for Sir Henry Harding’s house. Belchamps Hall, I believe.’
‘Yes, indeed.’ Was it his imagination or did the vicar’s smile become less genuine? ‘You have the right road. Just continue through past the green, take the second on the left and it is rather under a mile.’
‘Thank you.’ Grant touched his whip to his hat brim and urged the hack into a trot. So, debts, a reputation for gambling and not the vicar’s favourite member of his flock. If Sir Henry was a churchgoer at all.
*
The clergyman’s directions were accurate. Grant came alongside a high brick wall at about three-quarters of a mile from the village and then slowed as he saw a hired vehicle standing on the driveway. A postilion was perched on a low wall smoking a clay pipe and, clearly visible through the window of the vehicle, was the face of his own footman.
‘Giles.’
‘My lord!’ The footman threw the carriage door open.
‘Is her ladyship inside?’
‘Yes, my lord. She went in three-quarters of an hour ago. My lord—’