They drove fifteen minutes to a new, fashionable section of the city. Here the roads were less crowded and far wider. Harrell’s man set aside his perfumed cloth and drummed his fingers on the door.
The coach turned into the paved drive of an opulent mansion. The driver reined the horses to a stop. A butler in stark black, a marked contrast to the gold trimmings of the other servants and to Parker’s flamboyant jacket and vest, came down the front steps to open the coach door himself. “Mr. Parker, you are to go to the master immediately. He is most impatient.”
Parker didn’t respond but jumped down, signaling Ian to follow. As Ian stepped out of the coach and walked up thefront steps, he was all too conscious of the shabbiness of his appearance. His tanned leather breeches and cobalt coat with its frayed edges were definitely out of place. Ill at ease, he touched his neck cloth, which he wore wrapped around his neck once and loose. The devil-may-care style suited him but it was far too casual for these surroundings.
The main hall was as big and open as a banker’s lobby. The black onyx and white marble squares on the floor were polished to such a degree they reflected the worn heels of Ian’s boots, and a statue of some ancient Greek with a missing arm and leg stared down at him with unseeing disapproval. Two maids had lowered a chandelier that held at least a hundred candles. They were too busy cleaning off the wax to notice the likes of him.
“Your hat, sir?” the butler asked.
Ian handed it to the man, who passed it to another footman. Harrell apparently had servants for his servants.
Parker walked down a long, thickly carpeted hallway. The air smelled of beeswax and lemon oil. Ian followed, noticing the lavish wealth—the paintings by old masters, the carved scroll work in the wainscoting, the shining brass wall sconces—surrounding him. At the end of the hall, Parker opened a set of double doors without knocking.
“Mr. Campion,” he announced and stepped back. Ian had no choice but to walk forward and found himself in a walnut-paneled study. The walls were lined with books and statuary. The carpet was an Indian rug woven of reds and blues. Leather upholstered chairs created seating areas in front of the windows and the huge, ornate desk that dominated the center of the room.
Dunmore Harrell, the richest man in London, rose from a chair behind the desk. Ledger books were stacked in multiple, neat piles in front of him. He took off the glasses perched on the end of his nose and came around to greet Ian.
He was of medium height and whipcord thin with hair that had once been as red as a brick but had faded to a graying muddy brown. Like his butler, he wore austere black, but there was the twinkle of diamonds in the studs he wore in his neckcloth and on the buttons adorning his coat.
If Ian had been sizing Harrell up for a bout in the ring, he’d have considered the man a threat. Harrell obviously knew his strengths and his weaknesses and would use both to his advantage. He scrutinized Ian with a stare that was discomfiting. Ian challenged him by staring back, opening and closing one fist, a sign to the older man that he was no green lad either.
Harrell’s astute green gaze darted to Ian’s clenched hand. His lips curved into a half smile, an acknowledgement. “You’ll do.” He motioned to a chair in front of the desk. “Please sit.” Ian noted a small hint of a Scottish burr in his speech, but it was so carefully hidden, however, Harrell could have passed for one of the king’s courtiers.
There was another man in the room, but Ian had been so intent on Harrell, he’d not registered the other’s presence until he took his seat. Now he looked to the gentleman who had remained sitting in the high-backed winged chair opposite the one Ian was to take. The man was built like a small bull, with a receding hairline and a pompous attitude. Ian decided that here was a man who was more bluster than bite, one who lacked Parker’s flamboyant presence.
“This is my daughter’s betrothed,” Harrell said offhandedly, “ViscountGrossett.” By the emphasis he placed on “Viscount,” Ian knew Harrell was well pleased with his daughter’s choice. “My lord, Ian Campion, soldier, mercenary, devil’s own henchman when he has the mind to be.”
Ian didn’t know how to react to such an introduction, and was embarrassed to realize all the titles were accurate.
The viscount leaned back in his chair as if not wanting to be any closer to Ian than he had to, and he certainly didn’t offer his hand. Parker, pulling up a leather-backed chair for himself, stifled a smile—whether over his employer’s wit or the viscount’s fastidiousness, Ian didn’t know, but he didn’t like it. And so, he paid extra attention to the viscount.
“Congratulations on your betrothal, my lord,” Ian said smoothly, his King’s English as good as anyone’s in the room…and his nails were clean, which the viscount’s were not. “When is the happy occasion?” he asked as if the two of them were members of the same club.
A dull red stole up the viscount’s neck. Apparently, Ian had touched upon a sensitive subject.
However, it was Harrell who answered. “We hope you can help us with that, Campion.” He handed a miniature to Ian. “I have a job for you. I want you to find the young woman in the picture.”
Ian took a moment to study the portrait, taking in the pouty lower lip and the long, dark lashes the artist had given her. There was no mistaking her green eyes. This was Harrell’s daughter, the much-touted heiress. The viscount’s intended. Itwas a pity to waste beauty and money on a bore. “A redhead,” he murmured.
“Very much so,” Harrell agreed proudly. “Her hair is the color of the finest garnets and she has a passion for life to match. There is no in between with my daughter, and I want her back.”
“Who has her?” Ian asked.
“I don’t know,” came the curt reply. “There has been no ransom note, no letter, nothing.” Harrell leaned across his desk. “But when you find them,whomever they are, I want you to make them pay. No one crosses me without receiving like for like.No one.”
His words echoed in the stillness of the room and Ian felt his guard go up. Something was not right. “Why ask me? Why not go to Bow Street?”
“I have been to them. They have been incompetent. They want me to tell them where she is—if I knew, I’d go fetch her myself. I am a man who expects results…and am willing to pay for them.”
Outwardly, Ian was calm, but inside he recognized opportunity. “Do you have any suspicions concerning who might have her?”
“None. There’s been no clue.” Harrell was not a man who liked to admit defeat. He sank into his chair, aging suddenly. “She’s my only link with my late wife. I—” He looked away as if needing to compose himself a moment. “Do you have children, Campion?”
“He’s Irish,” the viscount said under his breath. “Of course he has children.”
“No,” Ian said, ignoring the nobleman. “But I do have a niece and nephews.”
“Then you can understand my fears,” Harrell said. “The thought that Lyssa has been gone this week and more, without a trace…” He looked at Ian. “I want her home.”
