Page 37 of The Derbyshire Dance (Kendall House #3)

Chapter twenty-six

Digby

M r. Childers evinced a good deal of surprise to see the duke in town. “The scandal rags intimated that your grace had been banished to the countryside.”

“Banished by whom?”

“The heartless Lady M., or so my wife informs me.”

“Hmm, well, yes. One could also say I was forced to flee to the countryside due to being hunted by the lady in question.”

“Aha!” said Mr. Childers, eager to have a titbit of news to share later with his wife. “I might have known your grace would have other reasons. Now about that question on the deceased navy man—”

“Yes, yes, you can give me the details on that later. Right now, what I need to know is how much my townhouse is worth.”

Despite his interest in gossip, Mr. Childers was a competent solicitor and more conversant than Mr. Billings with the price of housing in London.

“It’s a fine location you have,” he said cautiously.

“You’ll not find another townhouse so pleasantly situated should you want to take up residency in London again. ”

“But what is it worth?”

“Three thousand pounds and a pile of regret if you sell. If you really need the money, perhaps Lady Louisa and her new husband would buy it from you—keep it in the family?”

“Thank you for your advice, Childers,” said Nigel firmly, “but I have other plans for it. I brought the deed with me. Could I simply give it to…a certain individual as payment of a debt?”

“Yes, you could do that,” said Childers with a sigh, audibly deploring the lengths his client must go to pay his vowels. “Is it too presumptuous to wish that your grace would stay away from the gaming tables?”

“Presumptuous indeed,” said Nigel, “but I daresay my future wife wishes the same.”

“Does your grace mean to be married then?” asked Childers in excitement, hoping to have another piece of exclusive news to bring home to Mrs. Childers that evening.

But Nigel ignored that question, adjusted his cravat, and picked up his cane to leave the solicitor’s office on Jermyn Street. He had instructed Archie to turn him out in the smartest attire possible. After all, if a man were braving his own funeral, he ought to look his best.

From Childers’ office to Solomon Digby’s house in Leicester Square was only a walk of five or ten minutes.

Nigel’s lip curled in disgust as he looked at the tasteless marble columns in front of the house, their fluted Corinthian tops altogether too ornate for the rest of the architecture.

By the side of the house, he saw one of Digby’s muscle-bound minions leaning nonchalantly, hat pulled low over his face.

Nigel was not a small man, but he knew he would have no chance if two or three such fellows cornered him on the street.

He hoped that Digby would simply accept the deed to the townhouse and abandon any grudge.

The butler, an offensively supercilious fellow, kept him kicking his heels in the cluttered entryway for five minutes or more while he alerted the master of the house of his arrival.

Nigel, trying to find a wall to lean against, wondered why Digby felt the need to display three urns on three separate plinths.

Surely, a bench would be more useful in the entryway.

Finally, Nigel was shown into Digby’s study.

“Ah, Warrenton!” said Digby, rising from his desk and moving forward to shake Nigel’s hand. Just as if nothing had ever happened between them. Just as if this were a regular morning call. Just as if he were actually pleased to see him.

“How’s business, Digby?” Nigel asked cautiously. That was all the man usually talked about.

“Can’t complain,” said Digby. He began to speak of a mill he had acquired recently and two others that he had sold for an indecent profit. And then he began to discuss shipping, a pie into which he had inserted a very large finger.

“Shipping’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about,” said Nigel. “But first, that little matter of me borrowing two thousand pounds—”

“Don’t tell me you want to borrow again?” said Digby with a grunt. “I had my doubts if you would ever repay me without a good deal of persuasion. But I suppose you were—in the end—good for it. I might trust you again if we agree on the rates of interest ahead of time.”

“I was good for it?” echoed Nigel stupidly.

“Yes, although I’m not sure why you sent a gel to pay, instead of coming to see me yourself. ”

Nigel pinched himself to make sure that he wasn’t dreaming. “Just when did the girl arrive to pay it?”

“Oh, let me see, it must have been three months ago now. And she had that puritanical Haverstall with her. Said he was her brother. I didn’t know you kept company with the likes of him—or rather, that he kept company with the likes of you!” Digby gave a coarse laugh.

Haverstall? Nigel racked his brain and finally put a face to the name. He had no notion why Ned Haverstall would be interested in paying off his debts. And who was the lady he came with? Nigel strongly doubted that she was truly Ned Haverstall’s sister!

It was possible that Lady Maltrousse would want to buy up his promissory notes so that she could hold them over his head.

But the arrival on Ned Haverstall’s arm surely negated any possibility that the woman was Lady Maltrousse.

The only woman he could think of who might be charitably disposed towards him was the former Mrs. Audeley.

However, he could not imagine Lord Kendall letting his wife anywhere near Solomon Digby’s residence.

And besides, had she not gone to Brighton for her health?

“Did the woman give you her name, or did she keep you in suspense?”

“The latter,” said Digby with a snort. “A typical woman’s trick. And she never removed her veil so I could see if she was even worth looking at. Who was she then?”

Nigel gave a faint smile. “A friend.”

His right hand patted the breast of his coat, feeling the deed to the townhouse still securely tucked away inside. Apparently, he would not have to disappoint Mr. Childers by giving up such a prime piece of property to pay his debt .

“You own several merchant vessels,” observed Nigel.

“Aye, half a dozen.”

“Have you ever had any mishaps with them?”

“Not for half a dozen years. I know how to pick my captains now. My first ship—now that was a disaster.”

“Oh? What happened?”

“The Belladore . I’ll never forget that name.

I don’t mind a bit of blue ruin myself, but not when I need all my wits about me.

And every sane man knows that drink ought to be avoided if you’re on the machinery, up in the carriage box, or at the ship’s wheel.

But the Belladore had more grog than they ought aboard ship, and the captain was drunk with the men…

at least that's what the midshipman who survived said. The ship ran aground off the western coast of Africa.”

“So, there were survivors?”

“Aye, a Dutch sloop picked up two crew members who eventually made their way home to England. And I found out later that an American slaver snatched up some of my cargo.” Digby made a fist of fat fingers and growled.

“How do you know?”

“Because it was being sold in Charleston six months later! Marked wares specifically from one of my textile mills.”

Charleston. Nigel filed that information away in his mind. It was a long chance, but if Charlie Morrison had not been picked up by the Dutch ship, perhaps he had been rescued by the American one?

“You're a busy man with your mills and your merchantmen,” said Nigel, retreating towards the door of the study. “I'll let you get back to it.”

Digby cocked his head. “But what did you come by for? Did you want to invest in shipping? Or perhaps you have another aristocratic bride in mind to help me enter the ton?” He patted the jonquil waistcoat that covered his large belly.

“I’ve been practising my dancing for the next time I’m invited to a ball. ”

Nigel laughed. Why had he ever thought he could condemn his niece Louisa to marriage with this disgusting fellow? “No, no brides to recommend. Although I've heard that Lady Maltrousse can introduce you to elevated company…for a price.”

“Hmm,” said Digby, smacking his lips as he considered the notion of engaging that lady’s services. “The price better be worth the product.” He walked out into the corridor and entryway with Nigel. “What do you think of my Greek urns?” he said, proudly gesturing to the plinths.

“Er, very shapely,” said Nigel. He might not have inherited money or morals from his family, but at least he had inherited a sense of taste. And he was almost positive, from the bright colours on the decorative vessels that they were modern reproductions, not artefacts from antiquity.

“I had an artist touch them up with a fresh coat,” said Digby in a confiding tone. “Dashed things were so faded that I don’t know why anyone would want them. But they sold for a pretty penny at auction, and I hear Greek pottery is all the crack with the toffs.”

“Ah,” said Nigel, trying to maintain an impassive face as Digby described the horror he had perpetrated.

At least, thanks to the offices of an anonymous friend, he would never have to endure the humiliation of Digby taking possession of his townhouse and outfitting it in a style that was “all the crack.”

When Nigel returned to Childers’ office, he handed him the deed. “It turns out I won’t be needing this after all.”

“Thank heaven!” said Mr. Childers, taking the papers to lock them up somewhere safe. “My wife and I were driving by the townhouse just the other day, and I told her it was the best location in Mayfair. Perhaps after your grace’s nuptials, you’ll refurnish the place and resume residence in London?”

Nigel refused to answer that question, even to satisfy Mr. Childers’ wife’s curiosity.

It was still too soon to know if the lady from Derbyshire would have him—or if she had already made up her mind to have someone else.

But at least he could try to find out if that someone else was worthy of her.

“You said you found information on the naval man I had you investigate?”

Childers motioned Nigel to an armchair and took a seat across from him.

“I have searched high and low for a Townsend who perished in some naval action. There were several naval battles during the year you mentioned. Clinton’s fleet in the American War was scuttled at the siege of Charleston.

Several naval skirmishes occurred in the Caribbean with France and Spain.

But none of the naval records and newspapers of the period mentioned a fellow with the surname Townsend.

And they were quite thorough in listing the officers’ names. ”

“If he did exist, what pension would his widow have received?”

“A lieutenant makes only one hundred pounds a year on regular pay, and a fraction of that when he is on shore. The pension would be barely enough for a widow to keep bread on the table and keep a table in the house.”

Nigel had known the number would be small, but Mr. Childers’ words were confirmation. “So, if this Townsend did exist, his widow would have no means to send a child to Eton and Oxford.”

“Only as a charity case at the institution, or if she had other means from relatives to pay the fees. ”

“Hmm,” said Nigel. Childers was clearly curious what all these inquiries were for, but this was not a story that Nigel was ready to share…yet.

Did it really matter if Horace Townsend’s father was a deceased naval man or not? Why should he care whether the vicar was lying about his parentage?

But if the vicar was lying about his father, what else was he lying about?

There was something havey-cavey about the whole business, and he’d be damned if he let a sharper of a parson make a May game of Bel Morrison.

She was the most self-sufficient woman he knew, but even she could be bullied—or made to think that her duty lay in effacing all her own desires.

“I’ve one more task for you, Childers,” said Nigel rising from the chair.

The solicitor followed suit. “Of course, your grace.”

“What do you know about American newspapers?”

Childers blinked. “Not much. Why?”

“Would it be possible for me to place an advertisement in a South Carolina newspaper to run for, say, a month?”

Childers scratched his head. “I don’t see why not. I have a distant cousin there, and I daresay he could make the inquiries for me. What do you want the advertisement to say?”

“This,” said Nigel, and moving towards Childers’ desk, he seized a pencil and a scrap of paper and began to write out exactly what he would like printed.