“A different life to this one, Lynch.” And though perilous, one he’d been more comfortable with, truth be told.
“Right yer are, C’tain. I make no bones. Better than ducking that damn cannon fire.”
Miles nodded. Couldn’t argue with that.
Over this past year, Miles had found the estate to be in fine nick and had just tried to improve efficiency in the agricultural lands with some more modern machinery, then overhauled the village amenities, swapped out the French brandy stocks for Scottish whisky and commenced reinstating the gardens on the estate as his brother and father had paved the lot so their Hessians could remain unsullied.
Plans were also afoot here in London – the garden to be fringed with saplings while the old greenhouse was scheduledfor reglazing. Even now, he’d begun to fill it with some specimens that the Horticultural Society fellows had gifted him.
The sole aphid on the rosebush was the conflict between his duties as earl and his passion to travel, to discover new flora as he’d always wished to, but with competent stewards on the estate and ordered planning, surely both could be achieved?
Having survived Waterloo, anything could be achieved.
Lynch tugged through the last stitch. “Needs a bandage,” he murmured, “and some of m’granny’s ointment. Thanks to her, yer’ve nary a scar from that French bayonet.”
’Twas true, although Miles considered it likely that Granny’s ointment had seared off any skin likely to scar. “You never tell me what’s in that stuff.”
Lynch knotted the thread. “Old Romany recipe. Take it to m’grave, I will.” He sloshed an inordinate amount of expensive whisky on the wound. “And yer’ve no idea of who them coves were that came to help yer?”
“None.” Miles sloshed more whisky, but this time into two glasses, and slid one over the desk to his comrade. “One of them had some odd black feather in his lapel but I couldn’t make out his features too clearly. The other was swarthy, similar in complexion to yourself. Eyes black as powder-burn, scarred cheek and wearing a scarlet jacket. Scarlet? I ask you, as…” He paused. “Lynch, are you ailing?”
Because his factotum and friend had chugged back the whisky in one and was now hauling his granny’s lucky rabbit foot from a pocket. He crossed himself with it.
“Stab me in the squinters, Captain, but that one were the Prince.”
“No, no.” Miles frowned, refilling the glass. “I’m quite sure I would have recognised the Prince, portly chap with lots of gaudy rings and–”
“Not that jackanapes!ThePrince. One wot owns half o’ London, along with all those gambling hells. He’s many a title – Scarlet Diablo, Black Angel of Hades, Slewfoot of Hell.” Lynch sniffed. “And them are jus’ the polite ones.”
Ah.It seemed Miles had much to catch up on as regards London. “Well, I owe him a favour.”
Lynch groaned. “Yer never wanna owe him a favour. The Prince hoards favours like a fox hoards dead chickens. Some say he sleeps in a coffin with ’em.”
“The chickens?”
Lynch smirked.
“Well,” continued Miles, “more comfortable, I daresay, than a tent on stony French ground.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” Lynch rubbed his chin. “But wot with all these goings-on, yer take care, C’tain. This ain’t the first, is it?”
Miles nodded. “I’ll carry a pistol. Could be a coincidence but…”
“Once is chance, twice is coincidence, thrice should have been a dead earl.”
Indeed.
Since arriving in London three weeks past, there’d been two furthergoings-on: a strapping on the carriage wheel that held the spring to the dumb iron had torn, which at speed could have caused quite an accident. As it was, they’d simply listed like a foxed goat whilst held up behind a delivery cart in Leicester Square. Then last Tuesday, he’d been clattered into upon the pavement and nigh impelled into the path of a hell-for-leather stagecoach. And those rattling whips never stopped for anyone. “Those thugs tonight didn’t want coin, only my blood.” Perhaps to supply the surgeons with a corpse for dissection but…
He rose to his feet, obliged to march as he considered his recent ill luck and if there might be more to it.
Naught of this nature had taken place whilst he’d been at his estate, so it was solely in London where his presence could have antagonised someone.
The chess board caught his eye and so Miles directed his march towards it, drawn by the need to arrange his thoughts with the tangible pieces. He positioned the king in the centre, there being no earl, before his hand shifted to the rook. “First motive for murder, Lynch: the lust for wealth.”
A snort. “Yer cousin Master Jeremy Firth would inherit the earldom but he’s a…”
Miles raised a brow.
