Page 24 of Lord Heartless

Carissa sank into despair. She'd never be free of the cloud that was Phillip Kane. Lesley sank back into depravity and debauchery. If Phillip Kane wished to find him, he'd be easy to spot at the clubs, the gaming hells, the low dives. Besides, the viscount had unfinished business.

He was not so lost to sanity that he went unarmed. Lesley did not carry a pistol, since, still seeing double occasionally, he feared shooting Wimberly the butler by accident. Then again ... But he did take his sword stick, and he did take Byrd.

He also took a heavy purse. When he could not wager for what he wanted, he purchased it outright. In a matter of days the viscount had bought up a fortune in vowels signed by Broderick Parkhurst. The holders of the notes were pleased, for they never thought to see a ha'penny of their winnings else. No one knew how large Sir Gilliam's fortune had been, but young Broderick could have bankrupted Golden Ball.

When he had them all, or enough to purchase an abbey, Lesley and Byrd paid a call in Kensington. They went in the morning, without stopping to change their clothes, since that was the only time Parkhurst was liable to be home.

The schoolteachers next door were returning from their morning constitutional, little terrier in tow. They sneered. Leslie let Glad off his lead.

"Damn, Cap'n, I never seen a dog climb a tree that way."

"That isn't a dog, Byrd. It's a fur-ball with feet. Good boy, Glad."

He used the knob of his walking stick to rap on the door of Parkhurst's house, then waited.

"Seems like no one's to home, Cap'n."

"Nonsense.” He rapped again. Carissa wanted this blasted house, and by Jupiter, she was going to get it. She'd never live there, no, and nowhere Lesley wasn't, for that matter, but she should have whatever her heart desired, as he fully intended to do. He no longer wanted a respectable woman to rear his daughter and his eventual heir, a responsible female he could install in the country and visit occasionally. The viscount had finally stopped fooling himself, and none too soon, as Byrd was the first to tell him.

He wanted Mrs. Kane. Not for his daughter, not for Carissa's demure dignity or her daughter, and not because he'd damaged her reputation. He wanted her for herself, for himself. And he wanted her badly enough to move heaven and earth, or that muckworm Mason, out of his way.

"Mr. Parkhurst is not at home,” Mason told them when he got around to opening the door. There were no other servants and the place looked like Parkhurst had tried to ride his horse through it, with about as much success as he usually had atop a horse. The clunch would fall off Blackie, the viscount thought.

Mason was looking out of sorts, as well he might with the house going to rack and ruin after he'd lied and cheated to get it away from Mrs. Kane. Likely Parkhurst had reneged on their agreement about sharing the wealth too, the way he had reneged on paying his gambling debts.

"Oh, he'll be home to me,” Lesley said, waving a sheaf of papers with Parkhurst's signature on them. Mason obviously recognized the writing, for his rat-black eyes narrowed. He opened the door and stood aside for Lesley and Byrd. He shut it again in Gladiator's face.

Broderick Parkhurst was not as inebriated as he wished to be, when Hartleigh entered his bedroom. Byrd stayed by the open door, arms crossed over his massive chest in case Parkhurst decided he'd rather not pay attention to what Lord Hartleigh was about to say, or in case Mason was paying too much attention.

Parkhurst might not have read a hand of cards right in a month, but he could read trouble on Hartleigh's face. “I don't have your woman and I don't owe you anything. Go away."

"You are wrong, as usual.” Lesley tossed the stack of gaming chits onto the bed. There were so many, Broderick's nose barely poked out of the mound. He pushed them away, holding one near his bloodshot eyes with the arm that was not in a plaster cast. “Oh."

"Oh indeed. How did you think you were going to pay all of these? And the tradesmen's bills, your account at Tattersall's, the stables for your breakdowns."

"I thought I'd come about. One big win is all it takes, you know. M'friends thought so, too. Kept finding new places for me to try, to change m'luck, don't you know."

"I know you've been fleeced royally, by every Captain Sharp and ivory tuner in town. That's who I purchased your vowels from."

"You mean they cheated?"

"The same way you cheated Mrs. Kane."

"The housekeeper? Uncle's convenient? Your doxy? What's she got to do with these?” Broderick ruffled some of the papers together.

"Nothing, you jackass, except it was her money you gambled away with your so-called friends. Now it is time to repay her for the wrong you've done. I would strongly suggest you not mention her name so disrespectfully again in my hearing."

Broderick held up his broken arm and looked toward Byrd, standing in the doorway still. “You might as well go ahead and get it over with, beat me to a pulp or whatever you have in mind, ‘cause I couldn't afford to pay for candles, much less this king's ransom. Besides, if you don't kill me, the moneylenders will, or Mason."

"What, not paying your partner his share? No honor among thieves and all that, I suppose. And you've been to the usurers, besides? Lud, how did you survive this long with sawdust for brains? No, don't tell me. I have wasted enough time over this claptrap as is. I have a bargain for you, Parkhurst, so listen carefully. I will make good on your debts, on three conditions. One, you sign over the deed to this house to Mrs. Kane. Two, you sign a statement that you were aware Sir Gilliam had another will. And three, you leave the country forever."

"I say, that's not much of a bargain!"

"On the other hand, I could have you thrown in debtors’ prison for the rest of your short life, claim the house in lieu of my payment, and have you charged with any number of felonies, including the disappearance of your solicitor, Nigel Gordon. Or I could just hand you to Byrd."

None of those sounded too inviting either. “But ... but how am I to live?"

Lesley didn't care. To expedite the transaction, however, he was willing to make a concession or two. “I'll arrange passage for you to America, where I have an interest in a stud farm in Virginia. They are always needing help with the horses.” Lesley didn't say they needed assistance in the stables, shoveling manure, which was as close as this clunch was going to get to any decent horseflesh.

Parkhurst was wise enough to take the deal, after another look at Byrd. Lesley wrote out the documents and Broderick managed to sign them, with Byrd as witness. They left while Parkhurst was on his knees, trying to start a fire to burn the IOUs.

"You might want to help your employer with his packing,” Lesley told Mason on their way out. “And ask him for a reference. I can guarantee Mrs. Kane will not be keeping you on.” He'd made Parkhurst swear not to reveal the incriminating confession, so the magistrate could arrest the butler and search his rooms before he escaped.

Byrd wanted to make sure Cook was managing the painting crew, and Lesley wanted to send a message to Bow Street, telling them he had the proof they needed to get a warrant, so they headed toward Hartleigh's town house.

They could hear the shouting as they crossed the street.

Parkhurst came flying out of the house in his white nightshirt. Mason was close behind him, brandishing a stiletto in one hand, a pistol in the other. Parkhurst ran down the path and into the street, bumping into the Misses Applegate on their way back from the park, the trembling terrier looking both ways from its perch against the elder sister's bony chest.

Parkhurst wove through carriages and wagons in the thoroughfare, Mason on his heels. Broderick, full white bedgown flapping against skinny, hairy legs, leaped in front of a passing horseman. The startled horse reared and the startled rider slid off its back, using words the Applegates had never heard, in all their years of teaching.

Parkhurst grabbed the reins with his one good arm and jumped aboard the crow-hopping horse. Mason stopped his mad pursuit and tried to take aim around the unhorsed rider, the walkers, the wagons, the girl selling violets on the corner, and the neighborhood brats throwing a ball. His first shot hit the streetlamp, which sent glass flying in every direction. The rider kept swearing, the girl tossed her flowers in the air, the children shrieked, one wagon overturned, the Applegates screamed, the terrier yapped—and Glad, covered in dirt, came bounding out of the bushes behind Parkhurst's house, right into the path of Parkhurst on his stolen steed.

The gudgeon's neck was not broken, Byrd declared, though he'd likely have a decided crick to it when he woke up, if he woke up. Mason was not among the crowd gathered around the inert body or huddled along the edge of the road. In all the confusion of the street, Mason had disappeared. Bow Street had his address, though, Lesley knew, so the murderous man-servant could wait. Meanwhile, the viscount was checking to see who else was injured, who merely affronted. He sent for the watch, a physician, the magistrate, and someone to sweep up the glass, shouting to be heard over the melee.

Byrd picked up Parkhurst's unconscious body and was carrying him into Hartleigh's house. “Can't leave him lying in the street, Cap'n. Might cause another accident. Don't think he'd last long at his own place, either, with no help or Mason's. A’ course, I don't blame that Mason for wanting to pop him none, public service, like."

So Hartleigh invited the others in for a restorative and for Cook to extract glass splinters until the sawbones arrived. Before following, Lesley bought up the violets—he offered a bunch to the Applegates and was refused—helped soothe the nervous horses, helped right the tinker's wagon, and chased off the ragamuffins who thought they could help themselves to the toppled tinware.

Finally pouring himself a drink, and incidentally noticing that his hand was cut, Lesley smelled smoke. This was not the usual coal smoke, nor wood-stove smoke, nor London's habitual stink. And it was thick enough to be casting a shadow on Hartleigh's newly painted walls.

He rushed outside again with Byrd right behind him, and Cook with her rolling pin. Everyone else poured out of the little house too, except for Parkhurst, of course, who hadn't regained consciousness.

Parkhurst's house was on fire, with black smoke billowing out the door. Either the nodcock had not placed his mounds of canceled debts in the hearth properly or he had not opened the damper. Or else Mason had decided that if he couldn't have the house, no one could. The antique carpets, the old wood paneling, the brocaded draperies, all went up like tinder while a crowd gathered on the lawn.

But where was Mason?

Lesley handed his coat to Byrd, who shouted, “You can't be thinking of risking your life for the likes of him, Cap'n! He ain't worth it. The bastard will roast now or in hell later, makes no never mind."

But it mattered to the viscount. Holding his handkerchief over his nose, he raced into the house while Byrd kept shouting and Cook cried.

The stair rail was starting to scorch, but the stairs appeared untouched so far. Lord Hartleigh found his way through the thick smoke up to the attics, calling Mason's name. He went down the service stairs to the kitchens, still shouting although his throat was raw. He could hardly breathe through the smoke, or see where he was going. The fire seemed to be spreading outward from three places, leaving Lesley with few escape routes. He could hear bells and whistles from the fire brigade, but they would not be in time to save anything but the brick shell.

Giving up, Lesley staggered out the back door, the one Mason had always thought he should use anyway. Coughing, wiping his eyes, he almost stumbled on Mason's body, half in a freshly dug hole, half in the pile of loose dirt with Gladiator's wide paw prints in it. A dug-up azalea bush lay next to Mason, and the pistol. He'd evidently gone out the back, tripped in one of Gladiator's holes, and accidentally pulled the trigger, killing himself.

Good dog, Glad.

* * * *

"That's it. Pippa and I are leaving. London is too dangerous. Guns and fires and knives and madmen everywhere.” And lots of violets in her lap.

Lesley had a cut on his hand, a burn on his cheek, and a cough. Byrd had a bruised jaw from urging the fire brigade—all fifteen members at once—to enter the house when he thought the viscount might still be inside. Cook was near hysterics, Parkhurst had been hauled away to hospital, and Glad needed another bath. They were in the kitchen of the viscount's Kensington property, where everything was spattered, sooted, and in disarray. One of the messengers had had enough sense to send for Mrs. Kane, along with the authorities.

"It's all my fault,” she declared. “None of this would have happened if you hadn't tried to help me!"

"You?” Lesley lifted the damp towel off his aching eyes. “I was the one who let Mason and the muttonhead burn down your house. Can you forgive me?"

"It wasn't my house, you fool!” Carissa cried. “It wasn't my house."

"Yes, it was. Here's the deed.” He rumbled in his coat, which Byrd had thrown around his shoulders. “I don't think it got near the fire or the water. I'm not sure about the glass or Parkhurst's blood."

Carissa looked at the piece of paper that gave her free and clear title to a burned-out shell of a building, a piece of paper that this impossible man could have died for. “You did that for me?"

He tried to give her the old rakish, raffish smile that had turned women up sweet since he was in short pants. She hit him with Cook's skillet.

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