‘Middleton! Come and join us,’ a man called, attracting his attention.
David Middleton frowned. Sir Henry James was a friend. He had won two thousand guineas from him a few days previously and could hardly ignore his invitation, for he must give him a chance to recoup. It meant that he would have to sit down with Collingwood, which he would have preferred not to do, but in the circumstances he had no choice but to accept. He walked towards the small group of gentlemen seated at the table. He would play a few hands and then make some excuse to leave.
Reaching the others, he pulled out a chair and sat down. Collingwood nodded and began dealing the cards, someone mentioned the stakes of a hundred guineas a hand. David reached for his cards.
‘You wear an unusual ring, Middleton,’ Collingwood said. ‘You would not care to hazard it against the cards?’
‘No, I should not. It was a gift…’ Despite himself, he could not keep the emotion from his voice, and, looking up, saw that Collingwood’s eyes were upon him, intent, mocking—as if he had already known.
‘From a lady, I dare say?’
‘That is my business.’
‘So she is married,’ Collingwood sneered. ‘I dare say one might hazard a guess…’
‘Damn you, sir! I will hear no more of this.’ David pushed back his chair, on the point of leaving.
‘Sit down, Middleton,’ Sir Henry said. ‘You can’t leave now, the cards are dealt. Collingwood meant nothing. It was merely a jest.’
For a moment David glanced across the table, meeting Collingwood’s eyes. Some inner instinct warned him to get up and walk away immediately, but his friend was speaking again, telling him that he was glad of the chance to recoup his losses, and David knew it was too late. He must play, even though a sixth sense was warning him that he had been drawn into the spider’s web.
Chapter One
Jack Harcourt, sometimes known as Captain Manton and various other aliases, lately of His Majesty’s Dragoons, secret agent and aide to Wellington for some years, sat in the library of his London house, staring moodily into the empty wine glass in front of him. Had life no more to offer than this? A full bottle that was there for the drinking, and an inner emptiness that would be eased only by refilling the glass and swallowing its contents again and again, until he could no longer feel the pain.
As Captain Manton, Jack had helped to defeat Napoleon Bonaparte; he had battled against spies and enemies of the state, but this bitterness, the bleakness that had come upon him of late, was harder to fight. He was a peer of the realm, wealthy enough for his needs, an attractive man in the best of health—but he had tasted wormwood too often and, at this moment, he wished that he had died on the bloody battlefields at Waterloo. Instead of that, he had been heaped with praise and honours, received by the Regent privately, and told that he was the backbone of England, a man the prince was proud to shake by the hand—but nothing had eased the deep grief that lived within.
‘Why was I not here when you needed me, David?’ he spoke the words aloud. ‘Why did I not hear as you lay in a ditch, bleeding of a fatal wound, alone and friendless?’
In life a man might count his true friends on the fingers of one hand. Jack had other friends, men he valued, but there was a special reason why David Middleton’s death had affected him so deeply. It was a cruel fate that had led to his friend dying at the roadside, a victim of a highwayman, robbed of the personal possessions he valued most. Jack could not put the picture from his mind, for it haunted him day and night, and he seemed to hear David’s voice calling out for justice. But it had happened some months ago, when Jack was in France fighting for his country, and he had known nothing until his return. At the moment he had no leads, nothing to help him discover the truth. The frustration of being so helpless, together with the knowledge of the pain David’s death had brought to another, had left him feeling deeply at odds with himself. His hand was reaching for the wine decanter when a knock at the door halted him.
‘Come!’ he barked and the door opened to admit his butler.
‘I am sorry to disturb you, my lord, but there is a letter.’
‘At this hour?’ Jack’s brows rose. ‘Who brought it?’
‘I am not sure, my lord. It was given to the maid Rose, as she went into the street to buy some eggs from the dairymaid.’
‘Very well, you may leave it, Henshaw.’ Jack dismissed it with a flick of his hand. ‘I may read it later…’
‘Rose was told it was urgent, sir.’
‘Was she, indeed?’ Jack picked up the note, which was sealed with wax but did not bear the signet of any man. He was frowning as he broke the wax and unfolded the paper, reading what was written there. ‘Good grief!’ he shouted and jumped up, striding over to the window to look out. However, the street was ill lit and he could not see beyond the pool of light outside his house. He turned to look at his butler, who still hesitated by the door. ‘Fetch Rose to me. I would hear more of this messenger.’
As the man went off to do his bidding, Jack read the few brief lines again, frowning over their meaning.
If I came in person, you would not see me—but I know David Middleton was a friend you valued. If you seek his murderer, you need look no further than Sir Frederick Collingwood. Collingwood is a cheat at the card tables and Middleton found him out after losing to him. This much is certain, for it is well known. I can give you no proof, though I am sure of Collingwood’s guilt. There may be more to this, a deeper motive, but for the moment all I know is that the murder lies at Collingwood’s door. The rest is up to you, Harcourt. This warning comes from someone who was once proud to be your friend.
The letter was unsigned, and might be malicious, but somehow Jack sensed that it was genuine. He knew his friend well enough to be sure that if David had discovered he had been cheated, he would not slink away with his tail between his legs. He would publicly denounce the man who had cheated him. It was very possible that he had been murdered to stop him doing just that…and yet the letter hinted at something further—a more sinister reason for his friend’s murder. Yes! Jack had not been able to accept the facts of David’s death, and the letter confirmed that he was right to be suspicious. He got to his feet with a new sense of urgency; his mood of despondency had lifted as swiftly as it had come to him that night.
He would think no more of seeking solace in a bottle of wine. He had been given what he needed. If this message were true, he would seek out the murderer and bring him to justice one way or the other. He wondered who had sent the letter…it was not a close friend, for it had said that he would not see the writer in person.
Jack frowned, because it might well be a false trail, but something was telling him it was not. The writer might be someone who felt that he owed Jack something…someone he had helped at some time. It did not matter! He would seek for the truth of his friend’s death first, and discover the identity of this mysterious writer after…
‘Mama! There is a letter for you.’ Lucy Horne ran into the parlour where her mother and great-aunt were sitting at their embroidery. ‘It is from Marianne!’
‘I have been expecting it,’ Mrs Horne said, looking fondly at her youngest daughter. Lucy was eighteen now, a beautiful, sweet-natured girl who asked for very little except to be with her family. She took the letter, breaking the impressive seal that her eldest daughter was, as the Marchioness of Marlbeck, entitled to use. She scanned the few lines Marianne had penned and smiled. ‘It is as I thought, Lucy. Your sister agrees that it is time for your come-out. She suggests that we all go to stay with her and Drew for the christening of their daughter—and then she and Drew will