Page 10 of To Tempt a Troubled Earl
“Ah.” Robert winced. “I have good news and bad news in that regard.”
With maddening slowness, he poured himself tea from the fresh pot. “Turns out he’s quite an interesting fellow. Your Mr Angel is indeed a crook. But only a petty thief—a pickpocket—and currently sought after by a keen Bow Street runner by the name of Clark. He’s wanted for a whole host of small crimes against the careless well-shod, a couple of whom insist the devil be brought to heel.”
Robert examined the rim of his teacup. “Unknown to them, Mr Angel nudges around the edges of society. He slips his light fingers into coat pockets and reticules when their masters and mistresses are otherwise occupied. Brooches, silk pocket squares, buttons, and the like. Sells bits forward. When Angel’s not engaged in that, he counts cards. And he’s damned good at it. He hasn’t worked any establishments thetonvisits. Not yet, anyhow. Earns enough blunt to keep a roof over his head. He’s been at it for two or three years.”
Since Charles passed, Lando thought. No wonder the youth had been imprecise as to how he supported his sister. “Good heavens,” he exclaimed, not sure whether to be impressed or dismayed. “Should I be locking away the Rossingley diamonds?”
Robert cocked his head. “On balance, I think not. Whilst he is sought after by this Clark fellow, it is my understanding the magistrates only have a woolly idea of his identity. Stealing from you would expose him and his sister, too, about whom he cares a great deal.”
“So she is his sister? That part isn’t a lie?”
“’Fraid not. The Angels are from a moderately genteel family, hailing from Kent. Following the untimely demise of their parents, they fell on hard times. Their mother died from an unspecified illness many years ago. Their father returned early from the war, much weakened, and never regained full strength. Their uncle, Captain Charles Prosser”—at this Robert’s eyes flicked up to Lando’s—“did indeed act as a conscientious ward for his sister.”
“Not a liar, then,” confirmed Lando with a touch of relief. “I don’t know whether to be pleased or otherwise. You haven’t made mention of women. He’s not a…a rake either?”
With a huff of laughter, Robert shook his head. “No. I couldn’t confirm—my acquaintances don’t run in those circles—but I am of the opinion your Mr Angel is very discreet regarding his intimacies.”
Lando’s mind flashed back to their altercation at the stable, to the sensation of Mr Angel’s taut body straining under his own. To an unexpected look of something in the man’s eyes he’d interpreted many times as only a man of his proclivities could. And, though Lando had hidden it, he’d been most shocked.
He took a delicate bite of iced fancy, meeting with his stomach’s approval. “This Clark fellow, the runner. Is he actively seeking him?”
Robert considered it. “Yes. He’s a tenacious sort and will be paid well for his efforts. Though the trail has run cold, they’re keeping a weather eye open, that’s for sure.” He grinned. “If you’re worried that they’ll track him here and arrest you for collusion, don’t be. He’s not that important.”
Lando had no desire to unearth how Robert came by all his information. All he knew was that his brother cultivated mysterious friends in a host of peculiar places. Singling him out to his government pals, the late tenth Earl of Rossingley had his illegitimate son off to war for a few years. Reluctant to ever divulge precisely where and in what role he’d participated in the effort, Robert had returned home to take up a quiet farming life, marry, and impregnate his wife many times over. Lando deduced it had been Important And Classified Government Business; he was awfully proud of him.
“And Gartside,” prompted Lando. “Does your reach extend to news of his vile doings?”
Robert grimaced. “I regret to inform his lordship that one’s reach doesn’t have to be very long at all to discover those. The man is currently staying in town and is a cad of the highest order. In the last month, he has discomfited Lord Cobham’s daughter most disgracefully by calling off their engagement, snubbed the Marquis of Didlington’s wife more times than I care to mention, and if he doesn’t change his ways, will lose his substantial inheritance hand over fist at cards. Any one of those reasons would be enough to call him out.”
“I believe his estate next to mine is not entailed,” said Lando thoughtfully.
“No,” agreed Robert. “His grandfather won it in a duel, if I recall. The entailed family seat borders Scotland; Sir Ambrose rarely visits. By the skin of his teeth, he still has the town house, though minimal staff. Recently, his finances have become sketchy on account of his determination to own a bigger stable than the Duke of Ashington.”
“Horseflesh is an awfully expensive hobby,” remarked Lando. “And Benedict Fitzsimmons, the new Duke of Ashington, has very deep pockets.”
Ambrose Gartside had been hopeless at cards as far back as their Oxford days. He’d a fondness for horseflesh too. But as for the rest… Lando could only deduce that the death of his father and the taking up of the heirdom must have gone to his head.
He frowned as a thought struck him. “You mention that he has slighted Lord Cobham’s daughter? Isn’t Cobham dead?”
“A fit of apoplexy, which he survived,” corrected Robert. “Though he’s not well. I’ll wager he’ll have another one any day now, especially after Gartside’s interference. In the limited time remaining to him, Cobham’s out for his blood. You really haven’t been keeping up much, have you?”
No, agreed Lando silently. Grief had left precious little room in his head for anything else. “Perhaps I should make more of an effort.”
Robert gave him a fond look. “You should. It might do you some good. When did you last entertain?”
“I’m hugely entertaining,” replied Lando, affronted.
Robert laughed easily. “You could always make a start with Mr Angel. What better way to reaccustom yourself to conversing with other gentlemen than practising with one over a few glasses of wine in the comfort of your own home?”
Lando examined his neat, polished nails. “That sounds such a bore, Robert.”
“And you have a ready topic of conversation,” Robert pressed, ignoring Lando’s feigned apathy. “Your mutual axe to grind regarding Gartside and his nefarious activities.”
“Yes,” Lando acknowledged with a sigh. “I suppose we do have that.” He continued to muse, chewing ruminatively on a second iced fancy. “Gartside always had something of the weasel about him.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you. The man needs taking down a peg or two.” Robert scratched his head. “If only I knew a person smart enough and connected enough to do it. Someone with time and money. Someone respected, dignified. And so above reproach, yet soidlethat no one would ever suspect them capable of planning anything more sophisticated than an evening soirée.” He finished by winking at Lando rather audaciously for a tenant farmer.
“I object to idle,” protested Lando, biting back a smile. “I preferbrooding.” He stroked a contemplative hand across his smooth chin. “Or even mysterious, at a push. A man possessed of depths ordinary men fear to plummet.”
