Chapter Seven
Always be prepared.
(Rules of the Rogue. No. 7)
“Oh, Captain Lynch. I cannot possibly accept such a beautiful present.”
Jack loitered behind the study door, earwigging as some lackwit romanced Miss Penrose in the drawing room opposite.
To all intents and purposes, he was awaiting Sir Jago, who’d asked for a meeting on the hour of ten – another singularity of the country, everyone got up so bloody early – but as yet, he’d not appeared.
A caller, however, had knocked punctually and strenuously at the tenth chime and taken tea with Miss Penrose upon the rosewood settee. The male had then proceeded to court the female with a gift of some type of net.
Now why hadn’t he thought of that?
And how dare someone get in the way of his investigation? How was he supposed to woo if the lady already had a swain? No one had mentioned that, and obviously he didn’t like to poach.
But he would, of course. For Crown and Country.
Footfall behind disturbed him and he twisted his head to witness Benjamin Roskilly enter from the adjoining library, brandy bottle in hand.
“Who’s the caller, Benjamin?” he enquired casually as the lad commenced replenishing the study decanters. “Thrupenny for the information.” And quick as a wink, Jack returned his ear to the peddling of fulsome flattery in the drawing room.
The effusive lad sniffed. “March dust is worth a guinea an ounce.”
Benjamin, he had learned from Miggens, was the general dogsbody of the household – groom, footman and all-round knowledge pot – so Jack would do well to cultivate his friendship. But a guinea?
“How about sixpence?”
“Done. That’s Captain Lynch of the Thirteenth Light Dragoons. My hero,” he gushed, spilling brandy over the tray. “He fought at Waterloo and whopped Napoleon’s arse.” The boy meandered over and held out a palm. “Lost an eye whilst some folk were at the tailors buying fancy rigging.”
Jack raised a brow whilst handing over the silver. “Do not judge a man by his puce waistcoat, my young cub. There is more to most people than they portray.”
“Humph. Pigs may fly but they make unlikely birds.”
“Quite so.” And Jack sauntered into the hall just as this captain fogey was rendering his adieu with a slobber over Miss Penrose’s hand.
Maybe this beau would in fact assist his cause as the lady might appreciate some dry lips on her skin and some decent gifts to unwrap. “Good morning, Miss Penrose.”
“Lord Winterbourne.” She curtsied prettily, wearing a gown of slate grey, hair lustrous and slightly damp – so much for bathing solely on the full moon. “May I introduce Captain Lynch. And this is the Marquess of Winterbourne, our new house guest, Hugh.”
Hugh!
Jack narrowed his eyes. He’d have Miss Penrose calling himselfJackbefore the week was out or he wasn’t London’s foremost rogue.
Shorter than himself,Hughhad mud-coloured hair and an abundant moustache with overlong sideburns and a firm chin. One eye was covered by a black eyepatch which could be construed as piratical. Dull togs and dusty boots completed his tedious attire.
“Delighted.” They shook hands.
Firm.
Neither flinched.
“I hear you were in the Thirteenth Dragoons.”
“Yes. Sold my commission when a bothersome Frenchie prodded me in the eye at Waterloo.” The captain’s hand rose and he clicked his fingers, the snap echoing about the hall.
Did that mean something? Some coded army cue?
