Page 13

P iers stared at the letter in his hand.

It was from the mine captain at Wheal Betty, his lead mine on the edge of Dartmoor.

There were issues with the drainage again, and the installation of a new pump had been advised, but he hated to agree to the enormous outlay such a pump would involve without seeing the problems for himself.

Pressing his finger and thumb against his brow, he scanned the letter again.

Repairs had recently been made to the chimney stack for the pumping house, and he ought to run his eyes over that as well.

It was irritating, having to leave London for Devon right now, but the mine provided metals to create vital ordnance for use against the French and the sooner his parents’ murderers were brought down, the better.

It wasn’t the best time to leave Town, not with the problem of legitimizing his missing son unresolved.

However, it was essential that Wheal Betty should run as efficiently as possible, and safely, too; there were Bonapartist spies and sympathizers in England who would be only too happy to disrupt the mining of the lead or interfere with its transportation to the lead shot towers where ammunition was made.

He ought really to go in person—he could visit his adoptive parents at the same time.

Would it not do him good to get out of London and forget Charlotte and the little boy, just for a while?

He now had Roland Chetwynd attempting to track them down, and he hoped the man was up to the task.

He’d better be discreet in his enquiries—no one as successful or as prominent as Piers Darvill was without enemies, eager to sniff out any scandal.

Having made the decision to go to Devon, Piers glanced at the clock to see if he might make the journey today, but it was already afternoon, so he had no hope of getting there before dark.

He’d make arrangements tomorrow, but for now, he might as well go to the Lyon’s Den for lunch.

Not that he had any intention of seeing Miss Bellamy, but a taste of her delicious soup would not go amiss, and perhaps Witherspoon would be there.

Withers knew most of his secrets, and there were no holds barred in their conversations—it was always refreshing to meet up with him.

Piers stepped outside to be greeted by gloomy skies and softly falling spring rain.

Best to take the carriage—if he walked, he’d get covered in spray from vehicle wheels.

The roads were quite busy, and the carriage stopped numerous times, giving him plenty of time for reflection.

He couldn’t get Miss Belinda Bellamy out of his mind—she was like a thorn beneath his skin, needling at him.

How had Chetwynd dealt with her? He was intrigued to find out before he left London.

Piers had developed a good appetite by the time he arrived at his destination. One of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s continuous supply of war veterans—better known as “The Wolf Pack”—opened the door and escorted him inside.

“Good day to you, Mr. Darvill.”

Piers handed over his hat and coat. “And a very good afternoon to you too. It’s Starveling, is it not?”

Not that this new addition to the Lyon’s Den could possibly be starving —he was broad as an ox. But Mrs. Dove-Lyon enjoyed playing with names.

Starveling nodded, his expression more serious than usual. “Would it be wrong of me to ask for a word or two with you in private?”

Piers hid his surprise. A Lyon’s Den Wolf wanting to talk? This was unheard of! He was intrigued.

“If there’s somewhere we can talk uninterrupted, I’m more than happy to give you a moment or two of my time.”

“If you’d just wait here a moment, please, sir, I shall bespeak a table for you first.”

Piers was ushered into a small lobby at the foot of a narrow stairway, which he presumed led either to the servants’ quarters or to the upstairs rooms, the purpose of which he’d never ascertained. It was rumored that they were put to use by both men and women—at the same time.

He cocked an ear, but no betraying noises descended from above. Before he could speculate further, Starveling had limped back into the room.

“I believe you know Miss Bellamy, sir. Do you know anything about her secret visits? I shouldn’t ask, but I know you can be discreet.”

“I’m acquainted with the lady and I might know of the clandestine activities to which you refer. However, I’d prefer not to share her secrets.”

The man shook his head. “Oh, no, sir, it’s actually someone else I mean. What do you know of her companion, Miss Brent?”

Interesting. Had Starveling set his cap at Belinda’s friend?

“I assume you know that she has been trained as a schoolmistress?” Piers ventured.

Starveling nodded.

“You may also be aware that she lives in London with her parents, I believe.”

“Forgive me, sir, but it’s not that kind of thing I mean.

I just don’t know if I should reveal my interest. I’ve had a checkered past when it comes to the ladies—I’ve been betrayed and often thought about getting my revenge.

Now I wonder if I can ever care for anyone again with these grievances eating away at me.

Never go to war, sir, or be separated from your people for too long. Chances are, they’ll desert you.”

It was reassuring to discover that Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s staff were genuine human beings behind the masks they so often wore, that their veins were filled with the same blood as his own, and their hearts beat in the same fashion.

“The Wolf Pack” might seem physically tough, and no doubt many of them were as hard as iron emotionally, but some, it appeared, concealed a softness beneath the outer fortifications.

He raised his eyebrows. A bit like himself, perhaps?

“Thank you for your advice, Mr. Starveling—I will take it to heart. I haven’t spent much time in Miss Brent’s company, but she seems a capable person, and one who knows her own mind. Like her friend, Miss Bellamy, she’s fond of children, but knows how to mete out discipline when needed.”

Starveling nodded, then let out a heartfelt sigh. “I agree. But would that make her loyal, faithful? If I had a second love turn sour on me, I’d be bitter and vengeful for the rest of my life.”

Bitter and vengeful. Was that what he was, too?

So eager to avenge his parents’ deaths that he had no room in his heart for anything else?

Was this why he’d never truly been in love?

His feelings for Charlotte had been those of a hot-headed youth, driven by desire, not affection.

Yet he had known love, from both his natural parents and his adoptive ones.

Had he ever shown Papa and Maman how much he appreciated their affection for him?

He shook his head. No need to question his behavior—he was well enough off as he was, playing the rake, plotting the downfall of the French revolutionaries through the production of lead, and continuing the search for his heir.

That was enough for one man’s life, was it not?

Why complicate things by falling in love with someone who might not be all they seemed?

He dragged his thoughts back to the issue of the moment.

“I don’t know that I’m qualified to advise you.

I can say nothing except that I believe Miss Brent to be a worthy, reliable, stable person.

I believe she takes great care of Miss Bellamy, who is sometimes prone to attacks of the nerves.

If you were to open your heart to Miss Brent, and she liked you, you could find happiness together.

Contentment at the very least. But in the end, the decision lies with you. ”

Starveling bowed, then winced and rubbed briskly at his knee.

“Excuse me—old injury. Thank you for listening, sir—I’m in your debt.

If I can do you any favors, just ask for Starveling—although I’m ‘Starling’ in the world beyond these doors.

I’ll mull over what you’ve said and do my best to shut the door on the past.”

Good luck to the man if he thought he could do that ! The door to Piers’s own past was wedged open, and not until the war against Bonaparte was won would he consider closing it.

Starveling led him into the dining room, then made sure he was comfortably seated at his table before limping off into the labyrinthine depths of the gambling den.

Piers glanced around the room and nodded to several gentlemen he knew, but didn’t invite anyone to join him. His closest friend, Mr. Witherspoon, was absent, unfortunately. Never mind—it might be best if he were left alone with his thoughts.

He placed his order, then sat back contentedly to await the arrival of the soup, hoping it would be as delicious as the person who had made it.

Devil take it! Where had that thought come from?

He was in no position to think about any woman in that way, but the discussion with Starveling had shaken him up.

He was so certain that he knew what he wanted, and where he was going—but occasionally, something like today’s conversation would make him pause, examine himself, and wonder if he knew what he was doing at all.

The soup had just been placed before him, and he was enjoying the appetizing aroma when one of the waiters arrived at his table and handed him a note.

“Forgive me, sir, but the sender of this note has requested that you speak to him as soon as possible. He’s waiting outside.”

Piers nodded, battling to conceal his annoyance. Who dared interrupt what was about to be a moment of pure pleasure? He laid down his spoon and unfolded the note. It was from Roland Chetwynd and the message was brief.

Piers stuffed it into his breast pocket. The soup was forgotten—he couldn’t think of food at a moment like this.

Roland had found Charlotte Lavoisier, and she had Oliver with her. There wasn’t a moment to lose.