Page 11 of Tempting a Lonely Lord (The Rakes of Mayhem #6)

Cliffton Abbey

“Patrick, I will require your assistance putting on my disguise,” William said.

“I haven’t seen that wig since France,” his valet said, retrieving a cotton cap from the drawer.

Patrick had been William’s batman during his time in the military.

William appreciated Patrick’s skills with theatrical makeup—he had secured a theater job he held for a short time after his release from the military.

“Light on the makeup. All right?” he said, fidgeting as Patrick pulled out his kit.

“Ye don’t want to be recognized, do ye?” Patrick said, applying some cream. He withdrew the wax they had fashioned into a scar and adhered it to William’s forehead just above his brow. “If we allow a fringe of hair to hang over the scar, it’ll give ye a bit of a rogue effect. The scar will help.”

William groaned. “I was thinking a mustache and pair of glasses would work fine.”

“It’s a small scar,” Patrick said, withdrawing a pair of spectacles and ignoring William’s irritation.

“Don’t worry. These spectacles have no prescription, my lord.

I picked up several new pairs from a shop near one of the theaters in London that are different from the pairs you’ve worn in the past.”

William nodded. “Thank you. I hadn’t expected the need to wear another disguise, given that I am no longer on active duty, but there’s a man I need to follow. He’s already met me as Lord Dudley. I need to make sure he doesn’t recognize me.”

“I’ll make sure of that, sir. I have one more thing to do… and I’m done.” Patrick held up a looking glass to William’s face.

William regarded his reflection, tugging a little on the wig over his ears. “I always forget how itchy it is.”

“Yes. The wig is horsehair. I should have gotten a better one for you, but unfortunately, the shop I visited didn’t have any alternatives,” Patrick said.

“I’m sorry, my lord. I’ll correct that problem as soon as I can, so if ye require a disguise in the future, ye will have a wig that will not cause itchiness. ”

“I don’t recognize myself,” William said.

“You’ve done well, Patrick, thank you. It’s dark, so I’ll take my leave through the secret exit you discovered when we first arrived.

It’s hard to believe there are so many secret passages.

I spoke with Franklin earlier and he should have brought the small carriage around by now. The unmarked black one.”

“Ye think the earl will lead you to what ye’re looking for tonight?” Patrick asked.

Not expecting the question, William paused and thought about it. “I’m not sure what I’ll find, but I can’t shake the feeling that I need to do this. The man was acting extremely strange. I don’t know the what or the why, but I feel it’s important.”

“This part of England has periodically been ripe with pirates and smuggling,” Patrick said.

“The house has been here for a while, and many were probably been built out of the needs of the occupants. The secret passage that leaves from yer rooms hasn’t been used in years, based on the vermin and spiders I found in there. ”

“Damn convenient to have that passageway. I appreciate your foresight in making sure no other servants became aware of it,” William said.

“Think nothing of it. Besides, Harlow took care of that for me. The man’s great with the staff. From what I saw, a labyrinth of tunnels exists below the manor; I’ll be happy to help ye explore them when the time is right.”

William appreciated Patrick’s skills and forthrightness. The man had been with him throughout his years in France, and he trusted him completely. “You know I’ll do better if I don’t concentrate on the spiders,” he said, chuckling.

“I think they’ll be trying to avoid you, my lord,” Patrick returned, equally mirthful.

“One can hope,” William said with an arched brow.

“I should be going.” He stood. “Thank goodness Michael fell asleep quickly. But he’s gotten a taste of the stables, and we both know how much he likes animals.

It would not be unheard of for him to slip out to the stables.

Please remind Mrs. Randal to keep an eye on him—remind her he’s been known to walk in his sleep.

I plan to spend more time with him, teaching him to ride and fish, things his father might have done. ”

“Certainly. I’ll take care of it. You be careful,” Patrick said, as William strode to the bookcase in his room.

He took a deep breath. “I’m off—this time, I promise.” He reached for a worn, leather-bound edition of Shakespeare’s complete plays, triggering a secret hinge that smoothly opened the bookcase to reveal a narrow passageway. He lit a lamp and stepped out, closing the bookcase behind him.

~*~

Dressed in dark clothing, William easily hid in the shadowy confines of his carriage, a short distance from the Bridgewater house.

By nightfall, a thick fog had rolled over the area, making it unnecessary for Franklin to extinguish the carriage lanterns while they waited to see if the earl would leave.

Everything was going well except for the damn wig.

He wondered if the itchy feeling was due to more than just the horsehair, but decided not to dwell on that.

He’d ask Patrick to add a human-hair beard to the list, as well as the wig.

The only things that didn’t itch were the wire-rimmed spectacles.

Within thirty minutes, a black coach exited the Bridgewater estate, turning right and heading into the town of Dover. William knew little about the gaming rooms in Dover but felt confident he could shadow the activities of the Earl of Bridgewater.

About twenty minutes later, the Bridgewater coach stopped in front of the Winking Mariner, a tavern well known for the questionable activities that took place within its walls.

He watched the earl enter and waited fifteen minutes before leaving his carriage, then instructed Franklin to wait with the other carriages along a side alley.

William squinted against the haze of smoke that clung to the air like a suffocating fog.

As his eyes adjusted to the murky gloom, he took in the dreary interior of the tavern.

The low ceilings pressed down on the space, their beams blackened with soot from countless tallow candles, which flickered weakly against the oppressive darkness.

Single sconces hung unevenly on the dark-paneled walls, their feeble flames casting a faint, flickering light that seemed to deepen the shadows rather than dispel them.

In the corners, where the light barely reached, dubious figures huddled over tankards, their voices lowered to conspiratorial whispers.

The smell of stale ale, damp wood, and unwashed bodies permeated the room, an odor that clung to the nostrils like a bad memory.

The floor beneath William’s boots was sticky with spilled drinks, crushed straw, and dried mud.

As he reached the bar, he looked around the room, searching for more than just the source of the muffled tension that seemed to emanate from every corner.

This wasn’t just a place to drink—it was a haven for secrets, where men traded more than coin and risked far more than they could afford to lose.

“There’s a table in the back,” a buxom blonde barmaid said as she edged past him with practiced ease, carrying a tray with sloshing tankards of ale and glasses of gin through the crowd.

Bridgewater wasn’t in this room, which meant he was probably already in a game somewhere in the tavern.

The centuries-old building appeared to sprawl unevenly, its layout betraying the haphazard nature of rough-hewn additions tacked onto the back over the years.

Narrow hallways disappeared into the shadows, suggesting a maze of dim, ramshackle extensions that had been built with little regard for form or function.

“I’ll have an ale,” William said as he leaned against the bar.

The bartender narrowed his eyes, his gaze sharp and assessing, as he turned to the barrel behind him.

With practiced efficiency, he pulled the spigot, filling a dented tankard until the froth threatened to spill over.

Then, with a flick of his wrist, he slid it down the scarred bar top, the vessel skimming over the worn wood before coming to a halt with a dull thud. “Ye’re new.”

William paid for his drink and took a sip. “I am supposed to meet a friend in the game room.”

“What games are ye looking to play?” the bartender asked, a hint of suspicion in his tone, as he picked up the coin William had left on the counter.

“I’m not particular,” William said with casual nonchalance, withdrawing a pound note from his pocket and handing it to the bartender. He used a practiced, rustier tone—one he often adopted when in disguise. “I’m looking for a game… Something to help me unwind from a long day.”

“Upstairs. Take the second door,” the man said, nodding at the stairwell in the corner, swiftly tucking the bill in his worn apron pocket.

Picking up his drink, William thanked the man and made his way up.

The sprawling room was even drearier than downstairs.

In one corner was a spirited game of cribbage—the wall behind them bore the marks of their competition, with chalk tally marks etched in uneven lines.

In the center of the room was a table for six with a card game underway.

Five men were playing and there was one empty chair.

William recognized the earl among the players.

From observing the man’s body language, it appeared he was losing.

The only person that seemed to be pleased was the man seated across from Bridgewater.

Behind them, a few bystanders huddled, watching with keen interest.