“Before she’s married—preferably before she even accepts an offer. We don’t need any legal complications.”
Mortimer was frowning. “Complications?”
“Yes, damn you!” Joliffe struggled to mute his snarl. “If the damned woman marries, the guardianship of her stepdaughter passes into her husband’s hands. If Harry Lester takes the reins, we can forget getting a farthing out of your lovely cousin’s estate.”
Mortimer’s eyes widened. “Oh.”
“Yes—oh! And while we’re on the subject, I’ve a little news for you—just to strengthen your backbone.” Joliffe fixed his eyes on Mortimer’s wan countenance. “You owe me five thousand on a note of hand. I passed that vowel on, with one of my own, to a man who charges interest by the day. Together, we now owe him a cool twenty thousand, Mortimer—and if we don’t pay up soon, he’s going to take every pound out of our hides.” He paused, then leaned forward to ask, “Is that clear enough for you, Mortimer?”
His face a deathly white, his eyes round and starting, Mortimer was so petrified he could not even nod.
“Well, then!” Scrugthorpe pushed his empty tankard away. “Seems like we’d best make some plans.”
Joliffe had sobered dramatically. He tapped the tabletop with one fingernail. “We’ll need information on her movements.” He looked at Brawn but the boy shook his head.
“No good. The maid won’t talk to me again, not after the roasting that groom gave her. And there’s no one else.”
Joliffe’s eyes narrowed. “What about the other women?”
Brawn’s snort was eloquent. “There’s a few o’them all right—but they’re all as sour as green grapes. Take even you till next year to chat ’em up—and they’d likely refuse to talk even then.”
“Damn!” Joliffe absentmindedly took a sip of his porter. “All right.” He set the tankard down with a snap. “If that’s the only way then that’s the way we’ll do it.”
“How’s that?” Scrugthorpe asked.
“We watch her—all the time, day and night. We make our arrangements and keep all in readiness to grab her the instant fate gives us a chance.”
Scrugthorpe nodded. “Right. But how’re we going to go about it?”
Joliffe sent an intimidating glance at Mortimer.
Mortimer swallowed and shrank in his chair.
With a contemptuous snort, Joliffe turned back to Scrugthorpe. “Just listen.”
Chapter Fourteen
Five nights later, Mortimer Babbacombe stood in the shadows of a doorway in King Street and watched his aunt-by-marriage climb the shallow steps to Almack’s unprepossessing entrance.
“Well.” Heaving a sigh—of relief or disappointment he was not quite sure—he turned to his companion. “She’s gone in—no point in watching further.”
“Oh, yes, there is.” The words came in a cold hiss. In the past five days, Joliffe’s polite veneer had peeled from him. “You’re going to go in there, Mortimer, and keep a careful eye on your aunt. I want to know everything—who she dances with, who brings her lemonade—everything!” Joliffe’s piercing gaze swung to fix on Mortimer’s face. “Is that clear?”
Mortimer hugged the doorframe, his relief rapidly fading. Glowering glumly, he nodded. “Can’t think what good it’ll do,” he grumbled.
“Don’t think, Mortimer—just do as I bid you.” In the shadows, Joliffe studied Mortimer’s face, plain and round, the face of a man easily led—and, as was often the case with such, prone to unhelpful stubbornness. Joliffe’s lip curled. “Do try to recapture a little of your earlier enthusiasm, Mortimer. Remember—your uncle overlooking your claim to be your cousin’s guardian and appointing a young woman like your aunt instead is an insult to your manhood.”
Mortimer shifted, pulling at his fleshy lower lip. “Yes, it is.”
“Indeed. Who is Lucinda Babbacombe, anyway, other than a pretty face smart enough to take your uncle in?”
“Quite true.” Mortimer nodded. “And, mind, it’s not as if I’ve any bone to pick with her—but anyone would have to admit it was dashed unfair of Uncle Charles to leave all the ready to her—and just the useless land to me.”
Joliffe smiled into the night. “Quite. You’re merely seeking redress for the unfair actions of your uncle. Remember that, Mortimer.” He clapped Mortimer on the shoulder and waved towards Almack’s. “I’ll wait at your lodgings for your news.”
Mortimer nodded. Straightening his rounded shoulders, he headed for the sacred portal.
Deep within the hallowed halls, Lucinda nodded and smiled, responding to the chatter with confident ease while her mind trod an endless trail of conjecture and fact. Harry had driven her in the Park on the past five afternoons, albeit briefly. He had appeared every evening, unheralded, simply there, waiting when she descended the stairs to escort them to the balls and parties, remaining by her side throughout but saying not a word as to his purpose.