‘Give me the diamonds and don’t test my patience. My time is valuable and yours is borrowed.’
The cold directive sliced through the dense fog in the concealment of a cluster of pines at the south end of Hyde Park. The weather and late hour guaranteed their anonymity, yet if unlikely circumstances prevailed and anyone happened upon their circumspect conversation, the two men existed as distant spectres lost in the shadow of overgrown tree limbs.
‘There’s a slight problem.’ Hawkins despised delivering the news and accepting responsibility when Booth’s carelessness had caused the derelict mistake. ‘The package will be detained.’
‘You assured me this matter would be handled without complication. I’m on a schedule and your bloody mistake is set to ruin everything. Get me the diamonds or you’re not going to like the new rules.’
Barely controlled anger edged the words. Hawkins pressed his fingernails into clenched palms, unwilling to show weakness but equally unnerved by the result of the conversation thus far. No one would hear the echo of a pistol shot nor see the slice of a knife. He well understood the stakes of the game played. Yet he needed more time. Given that, he could deliver the diamonds as promised. ‘A minor oversight and no need for alarm.’ His voice cracked and he damned himself with a litany of silent curses.
‘Smuggling and thieving are hanging crimes.’ The rustle of fallen leaves and snapped twigs signalled his lordship’s approach. ‘Not your usual stint in Newgate.’ His presence crowded Hawkins’ peripheral vision, not allowed to turn and face the man who paid for the deed. ‘When the bottom falls out, no one will accept the word of a common dipper over the testimony of a respected member of society.’
‘Understood, sir.’ Then, as an afterthought exposing cowardice more than solution, Hawkins continued, ‘Booth is at fault, but I’ll reclaim the delivery and remedy the situation. He lost track of a shipment.’
‘He lost track of a fortune and I’ve very little time to see it recovered because...’ The low-voiced answer signalled dismissal, the padded sound of departing footsteps accompanied by one last comment. ‘I won’t be the one dangling from the noose if this falls apart.’
Penwick considered the open invitation on his desk. A masquerade at the start of the season was an intriguing proposition, the ideal distraction before leaving for Clipthorne to visit Claire. He tapped the corner of the folded note against the desk top. What were these restless feelings and why had they reared their ugly head all asudden?
His soon-to-be wife deserved better. No matter he was a respectful suitor who as a habit followed etiquette’s rules to the letter, unnerving regrets were still very much with him, anxious to haunt whenever he dared let down his guard. He owed his intended truer commitment. Perhaps he should purchase a gift to prove his devotion. Not that a present would erase his conflicted ennui, but it might assuage his own discomfort. Still, he wouldn’t wish to appear contrite.
Loathing his self-recrimination and unusual contrariness, he flicked the corner of the invitation with the tip of his finger, his behaviour of late out of character and ill-fitted. He’d done little of which to feel penitent, but the very devil, when had he become so indecisive, his mind and heart misaligned?
He rubbed his temples in hope of banishing the unwelcome condition and his eyes returned to the desk blotter where Dabney’s invitation waited. He couldn’t stop living because of an inconvenient irascibility. He was an earl with a world of responsibilities. Besides, a masquerade provided the fortuitous opportunity to practise his waltz and better prepare for his wedding day, all the while disguised. He opened the inkpot and signed his acceptance with a sweeping stroke. Then, with the tilt of the candle at his elbow, he pressed his signet ring into the wax and sealed it done. Hell, he needed to clear his mind of the muddle that somehow had taken hold.
Closing his eyes to summon peace, he relished the dark until an image of the beguiling beauty from the dance studio formed with startling clarity. Who was the lady? Her eyes glittered with delight behind petite, wire-framed glasses, her smile capable of enchantment. He’d never forget the way they’d moved across the dance floor, as if created to exist within each other’s arms. Was she the reason he no longer felt comfortable with his impending future?
He forced his eyes wide and mentally listed Claire’s attributes to chase away a sense of disagreeable guilt. Claire claimed all the required components of an earl’s wife from demure laugh and sharp intelligence to amenable nature. On the best of days this exercise served sufficiently to chase away lingering hesitation on his part. His marriage plans were arranged and settled. Yet he’d never danced with his intended, not having the opportunity as of yet, and knew not their compatibility beyond a formal parlour or arranged social function.
From his understanding of the responsibilities of title, marriages were arranged much like business transactions. He’d already blurred the line of proper courtship by choosing a bride who lacked standing, no matter she possessed innate poise, a lovely face and limitless fortune.
Their relationship had grown beyond friendship to admiration, one of mutual respect after introductions at a charity event where financial status outweighed lofty title. Still discomforted with his newly forced responsibilities, he’d enjoyed Claire’s connection to the alternate and more normal world he’d left behind. And there was no overlooking the wealth her family possessed, her father’s diamond jewellery business highly respected and remunerative throughout England.
With regret, he hadn’t a brother, father or uncle alive with whom to confer concerning his odd view of marriage. No family member remained to offer trustworthy advice and he was too embarrassed to approach Jasper with a subject that should have proven instinctive and ordinary.
With surety, a night of distraction would soothe whatever ailed him. He looked to the seal where he’d pressed his ring into the heated wax, bound by tangible, immovable responsibility. Indeterminate behaviour would rattle one’s brain if left unresolved. Better to ignore the malady until it failed to exist.
He placed the reception acceptance on a silver salver awaiting a servant’s attention. A distorted image of his expression reflected as he performed the task. At the least, certain items remained remarkable and clear. He’d made a commitment to Claire and a gentleman’s word was the very core of civility and integrity. An unexpected beat of melancholy coloured the realisation and he remembered the letters of his past, sentiments and words that lingered within him still. He needed to let go of the past and, most vital, he must cease reading the letters locked in his wardrobe drawer.
At half past eleven and not one minute sooner, for Mr Horne kept a fastidious schedule, Livie approached Lott’s Majestic with the erroneous leather boots, now returned to their original package minus the small burlap pouch. She’d left Dinah sulking in the carriage, unwilling to take the chance someone might spy their entry into the shoe shop and remark during congenial conversation on the occurrence to Wilhelmina, or worse, her sister’s husband, Dashwood. Best to stay as inconspicuous as possible within the morning crowd. With her gaze fixed and making purposeful strides towards the shop door, Livie crossed the street.
Never mind she couldn’t bear for her sister to believe she’d broken her promise. In truth, Livie now worked to right a wrong and return the boots, not the usual objective when she visited the favoured store. She’d left the shoe clips at home, unwilling to part with them just yet. The masquerade this evening provided the perfect opportunity to adorn her slippers and feel a tad regal, even if they served as part of her disguise. She’d send Dinah to return the clips come morning and claim an oversight on her part. She placated her conscience with the plan.
She’d almost reached the store’s entry