An Unwilling Conquest (Regencies 7)

She had gone beyond impatience, even beyond chagrin—she was now in the grip of a deadening sense of the inevitable.

Lucinda summoned a smile and gave her hand to Mr Drumcott, a not-so-young gentleman who had recently become betrothed to a young lady in her first Season.

“I beg you’ll do me the honour of dancing this quadrille with my poor self, Mrs Babbacombe.”

Lucinda acquiesced with a smile but as they took their places she caught herself scanning the crowd—and inwardly sighed. She should, of course, be glad Harry had not arrived this evening to escort them here—that, she was convinced, would have been the last straw.

That he intended making her his bride was patently clear—his likely motive in underscoring that fact publicly was what was dragging her heart down. The memory of his first proposal—and her refusal—haunted her. She hadn’t known, then, of Lady Coleby and her earlier rejection of Harry’s love. Her own refusal had been driven by the simple belief that he loved her and would, if pushed, acknowledge that love. To hear the words on his lips was something she craved, something she needed. But not, she was increasingly certain, something Harry needed.

She couldn’t rid herself of the idea that he was painting her into a corner, that his present behaviour was designed to render a second rejection impossible. If, after all his studied performances, she refused him again, she would be labelled cruel-hearted, or, more likely, as Sim would put it, “dicked in the nob”.

Lucinda grimaced—and had to hurriedly cover the expression with a smile. As they embarked on the final figures of the quadrille, Mr Drumcott blinked at her in concern; she forced another smile—a travesty considering her true state. If Harry kept on as he was, when next he proposed, she would have to accept him, regardless of whether he offered his heart along with his hand.

The quadrille ended; Lucinda sank into the final, elaborate curtsy. Rising, she straightened her shoulders and determinedly thanked Mr Drumcott. She was not, she told herself, going to dwell on Harry’s motives any longer. There must be some other explanation—if only she could think what it was.

At that precise moment, the object of her thoughts sat at the desk in his library attired in long-tailed black evening coat and black knee-breeches, garments he considered outmoded in the extreme.

“What have you learned?” Harry leaned both arms on the blotter and pinned Salter with a steady green gaze.

“Enough to make my nose quiver.” Salter settled himself in the chair before the desk. Dawlish, who had shown him in, closed the door; folding his arms, he leaned back against it. Salter pulled out a notebook. “First—this Joliffe chap is more of a bad egg than I’d thought. A real sharp—specialises in ‘befriending’ flats, preferably those who come fresh on the town, gullible and usually young, though, these days, as he’s no spring chicken himself, his victims also tend to be older. Quite a history—but nothing, ever, that could be made to stick. Lately, however, quite aside from his usual activities, Joliffe’s taken to deep play—and not in the hells either. Word has it he’s heavily in debt—not to his opponents—he’s paid them off—but the total sum amounts to a fortune. All evidence points to Joliffe being in the clutches of a real bloodsucker—a certain individual who works out of the docks. Don’t have any information on him except that he’s not one to keep dangling too long. A mistake that often turns fatal, if you take my meaning.”

He lifted his gaze to Harry’s face; his expression grim, Harry nodded.

“Right then—next up i

s Mortimer Babbacombe. A hopeless case—if Joliffe hadn’t picked him up one of the other Captain Sharps would have. Born a flat. Joliffe took him under his wing and underwrote his losses—that’s the usual way these things start. Then, when the flat gets his hands on whatever loot is coming his way, the sharps take the major cut. So when Mortimer came into his inheritance, Joliffe was sitting on his coattails. From then, however, things went wrong.”

Salter consulted his notebook. “Like Mrs Babbacombe told you, it seems Mortimer had no real understanding of his inheritance—but Charles Babbacombe had paid off his debts annually, to the tune of three thousand at the last. Seems certain Mortimer assumed the money came from his uncle’s estate and the estate was therefore worth much more than it is. My people checked—the place can’t make much more than expenses. It’s apparently common knowledge up that way that Charles Babbacombe’s money came from Babbacombe and Company.”

Shutting his book, Salter grimaced. “That’s all right and tight—and a nasty surprise it must have been for Joliffe. But what I can’t see is why he’s gone after Mrs Babbacombe—knocking her on the head isn’t going to benefit them. Joliffe’s more than experienced enough to work that out—some old aunt of hers is her nearest kin. Yet they’re keeping constant watch on Mrs Babbacombe—and not as if they’ve got anything cordial on their minds.”

Harry stiffened. “They’re watching her?”

“And my people are watching them. Very closely.”

Harry relaxed. A little. He frowned. “We’re missing something.”

“Precisely my thought.” Salter shook his head. “Operators like Joliffe don’t make too many mistakes—after his first disappointment with Mortimer, he wouldn’t have hung around unless there’s a chance of some really rich pickings in the wind.”

“There’s money all right,” Harry mused. “But it’s in the business. As you know, Charles Babbacombe willed that to his widow and his daughter.”

Salter frowned. “Ah, yes—this daughter. A young chit, barely seventeen.” His frown deepened. “From all I’ve seen, Mrs Babbacombe’s no easy mark—why pick on her rather than the daughter?”

Harry blinked, somewhat owlishly, at Salter. “Heather,” he said, his tone oddly flat. After a moment, he drew in a long breath and straightened. “That must be it.”

“What?”

Harry’s lips twisted. “I’ve often been told that I’ve a devious mind—perhaps, for once, it can be of real use. Just hear me out.” His gaze grew distant; absentmindedly, he reached for his pen. “Heather is the one they could use to milk the business of cash—but—what if Lucinda is Heather’s guardian, as well as Heather’s mentor? In either role, Joliffe and company would have to get rid of Lucinda to get to Heather.”

Slowly, Salter nodded. “That’s possible—but why try that ramshackle business of sending Mrs Babbacombe to that fancy orgy palace, then?”

Harry hoped Alfred never heard of his ancestral home referred to in such vein. He tapped the blotter with the pen. “That’s what makes me so certain Heather’s guardianship must be the key—because in order to get rid of Lucinda for such purposes, showing her as unfit to be guardian of a young girl would be sufficient for Mortimer, who is Heather’s next of kin, to apply to overturn Lucinda’s guardianship in favour of himself. Once that’s done, they could simply cut all contact between Heather and Lucinda—and use Heather to draw funds from her half of the investment.”

Gazing into space, Salter nodded. “You’re right—that must be it. Roundabout but it makes sense.”

“And now they’ve failed to paint the lady scarlet,” put in Dawlish, “they’re planning to snatch her up and do away with her.”

“True enough,” agreed Salter. “But my people know what to do.”