‘Bart, I didn’t think I’d see you in Rotten Row today.’ Richard, Bart’s eldest brother, the heir and the only Dyer son who could do no wrong in their father’s eyes, laughed as he manoeuvred his horse beside Bart’s. ‘I didn’t think you one for the fashionable hour.’
‘I’m not, but I ride here from time to time to meet with clients.’ Court business didn’t bring him here tonight. He sat on his mount off to one side of the crowded Row and watched the merry parade of titled men and ladies to see who was meeting with whom and the connections they revealed. With the Rouge Noir planning something, the members might be working to recruit more converts or make arrangements with one another. Rotten Row was a good place to do both. So far, he’d seen nothing but an overabundance of velvet and horse droppings.
‘Mother said she hasn’t heard from you about coming to their soirée the night after tomorrow,’ Richard chastised, his horse shifting position. It blocked Bart’s view of the Row at the same moment the Comte de Troyen entered in his red phaeton, his pretty, brown-haired daughter, Marie, on the seat beside him. The French émigré enjoyed the top place on Bart’s list of suspicious people. The Frenchman had been observed meeting with the young Marquess of Camberline more than once over the last few days in parks or on street corners when they thought no one was watching. Bart’s men had noticed, but none of them had been able to get close enough to hear what the two men discussed.
‘Mother hasn’t heard because I haven’t responded.’ Bart clicked his horse to one side to watch the Comte as his carriage paused. A man approached the Comte’s conveyance, a beggar to all assembled, one of the many who lingered by the gates in search of a penny, but Bart wasn’t fooled. The man’s quality breeches beneath his dirty coat betrayed his disguise. These two were meeting about something and Bart needed to find out what.
‘Mother will be disappointed if you aren’t there,’ Richard pressed.
‘And Father will be disappointed if I am.’ Bart’s father’s concern for his sons decreased the further down the line they were from inheriting the title. It was a wonder his father even knew the names of his last two progeny. ‘He doesn’t want to pollute his drawing room with a mere barrister.’
Bart watched as the Comte slipped the beggar a piece of paper Bart would bet his horse was a note. He needed to discover who it was for and what it contained.
‘Father doesn’t disapprove of what you do, but he would prefer it if your cases were not so well known,’ Richard continued, trying like their mother often did to mediate between father and son.
‘If Father wants me to have quieter cases, he should tell his aristocratic friends to stop trying to swindle widows out of their inheritances. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’ Bart kicked his horse into a trot and rode over to one of the benches lining the row. The man sitting on it and reading a newspaper looked up over the top of the print at Bart. ‘Follow the beggar walking away from the Comte de Troyen’s carriage, the one with the stained coat and fine breeches. See where he goes and who he might meet with. Get a look at the letter the Comte gave him if you can.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Joseph, one of Bart’s best men, folded up the newspaper in his fine hands. He was the kind of man blessed with the ability to blend in and deal easily with the merchants he sometimes impressed or the dockworkers he might drink with. Joseph tucked the paper under one arm and made for the beggar, following him at a discreet distance as he left the gates of the park and blended into the crowd in the road.
The Comte manoeuvred his phaeton into the endless stream of riders and conveyances. He drove at a leisurely pace, casually offering waves and greetings to many of the people he passed. Bart wasn’t among those. They’d never been formally introduced and he couldn’t simply approach him or his daughter and strike up a conversation. The most he could do was follow him and see who else he spoke with. Bart raised his feet a touch, ready to tap his horse into a walk and get closer to the Comte, when a female voice stilled his boots in the stirrups.
‘Mr Dyer, I didn’t think you one for Rotten Row.’
Bart shifted in his saddle to watch Lady Rexford bring her piebald mount up beside his with the admirable skill of a woman accustomed to riding. She wore a deep blue velvet habit, the skirt of which draped her curving legs where they arched over the pommel before flaring out to cover the saddle and the back of her horse. Across the front of the bodice, gold cord in a military style broke the severity of the blue and drew his attention to the swell of her pert breasts and the hollow of her neck visible above the collar. A short top hat set at an angle over her blonde hair cast a shadow across her nose and cheeks, but it didn’t dampen the twinkle in her eyes. The sight of her startled Bart as much as her smile. It was a radical change from the way she’d greeted him this morning. ‘You and my brother are of the same opinion.’
‘I’m not usually one for it either, but I’m here in London to re-enter society and so here I am.’ She opened her arms to the mash of people around them.
‘Here you are. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?’ She’d been eager to see him gone this morning and yet she’d approached him voluntarily now. She wanted something, he was sure of it. It was too much to hope she’d changed her mind, but Bart was an optimistic man.
‘I wish to ask you something, an idea I’ve been considering since you left us this morning.’ She nudged her horse closer to Bart’s. Over the smell of the grass and the sweat of horses, he caught a hint of her lilac perfume. With it came the memory of her in his arms at Lady Greenwood’s ball, her lips as sweet as her voice and the small peals of laughter he’d drawn from her with jokes and flattery. Her laughter and grace had been a relief after the difficulties of war and the endless haranguing by his father about his decision to become a barrister. Then the aunt had ended everything and Lady Rexford had allowed it.
Bart adjusted his grip on the reins, this fact as difficult to ignore as her while she watched him from atop her horse. The height of her animal brought her closer to him, allowing him to study the pretty face which had not been marred in the slightest by widowhood.
‘It’s about Freddy,’ she clarified.
Bart nodded. ‘I’m sorry. I hadn’t realised until this morning how much he’d changed.’
‘Few have. We stayed in the country because Aunt Agatha was afraid people might talk of madness if they saw how dark Freddy’s grief was for Helena and she was determined to keep it a secret. It was the same way with my father after my mother died. She feared people would think madness ran in our family and it would prevent Freddy or me from making suitable matches.’
He ignored the uncharitable thought of how unsuitable her match to Lord Rexford had been and nodded his understanding of the danger of allowing people to believe madness ran in a family. He’d once defended a widow from losing her inherited lands to Lord Hartmore, her late husband’s brother, when he’d tried to brand her a lunatic just because her father had been afflicted with madness.
‘Like Father, Freddy was so deeply entrenched in his grief,’ she continued, ‘he lost interest in everything after she died, his estate, his son, but he’s finally coming around.’
‘With a great deal of your help, I’m sure.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. He deserves your care and concern.’ Bart flicked a speck of dirt off his thigh, conscious of how much he’d failed his friend who’d done a great deal to help stop the assassination plot. On the battlefield, he’d excelled at keeping his soldiers safe and in court he was victorious when defending the weak against those attempting to twist the law to their advantage. When it came to those closer to him, despite his best efforts, he sometimes fell short. ‘He deserves happiness instead of misery.’
‘What