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“Distracted?” Stephen hadn’t realized he’d been standing, staring at a tray of jewelry for he didn’t know how long in Phillips, Regent Street’s most high-class jewelers. He’d thought to buy a token for Sybil. Something to match her green eyes. He wanted to see them light up because they’d been clouded with worry when they’d farewelled one another three days before, and Stephen couldn’t bear Sybil to be worried.
Of course, Sybil knew something was in the wind. She could read him like a book. Just another of the little things he loved about her. Sybil also knew the nature of Stephen’s work and one of the things he loved about her—yes, another! —was that she never pushed him to divulge anything merely to satisfy her curiosity.
He looked up to find Ralph Tunley gazing at him from across the dim space, for the evening shadows were closing in though the trade being done by the Phillips store was brisk.
Stephen had met Tunley a few times, though the young man didn’t frequent the social haunts favored by his brother, Lord Ludbridge. He supposed that a sixth son forced to remain in the employ of a villain like Debenham would have little in the way of funds for entertainment.
He nodded. Although it had not been stated to him directly, he understood that Tunley was among a band of shadowy informers placed in positions of importance to monitor the activities of suspected traitors, and those with undesirable intentions toward the Government and the Crown. Like Stephen.
“Good day to you, Tunley. About to dip a toe in Parson’s mousetrap?” He indicated the tray of betrothal rings in front of Tunley.
“Lord, if only I could afford it!”
“At least you’re not swimming in the River Tick to support what can’t be sustained like I was at your age until fortune favored me. Take heart; anything can happen.”
“I’m of an optimistic turn of mind, but I’d rather it be through my own enterprise that I make, if not my fortune, then at least a respectable living that would enable me to make a certain young lady a marriage offer.”
“The West Indies Company, perhaps?”
Stephen didn’t miss the brief flare of excitement before Tunley resumed the impassive look he’d obviously needed to perfect for his line of work. In a resigned tone, he said, “That is just the kind of adventure I’d have leaped at had I not been bound by sentiment.” He tapped his heart. “You can laugh, but no inducement could tear me from within walking distance of a certain young lady who is very dear to me.”
“You must feel the pressure more days than others in your present position,” Stephen remarked, and Tunley laughed at the oblique reference to Debenham.
“Lord, yes.” He dropped his voice as he glanced about to ensure they were not being overheard. “Care to join me for a pot of porter? We can go just around the corner, for it’s occurred to me that you might be very well placed to aid me in a little inquiry I am bound to investigate.”
Stephen happily accepted his offer and was expecting more in this vein as he slid into a nook. Instead, he discovered a much more serious underlay to Ralph Tunley. Clearly, that was why Tunley had succeeded so long in Debenham’s employ, for it was easy to disregard him as a fixture—a bland and unassuming one.
Now, Tunley said, wiping the froth from his mouth, as he put down his drink. “Cranborne, we both answer to the same master; I know that. So I won’t beat about the bush. Someone has been making blackmail attempts which have already claimed the lives of several of those unwilling to pay up.”
“Murdered?” A frisson of dismay ran through Stephen as he recalled the looping handwriting of the letter he’d received dancing in front of him like a macabre reminder of how precarious his position was.
“No, no, they’ve taken their own lives. Lord Calder’s death came shortly after he received a letter threatening to reveal certain secrets. A blackmailer is in our midst, and will continue his work with impunity unless more people are willing to step forward and admit they’ve been targeted. The reason I’m saying this is because you move in more exalted circles than I; in fact, among the very people most likely to have the secrets and the money to keep them that way.”
Another wave of discomfort swept through Stephen. Tunley may well be right, but Stephen was not about to divulge either his blackmail demand or secret to him right now. He stared into his half-finished porter. “How do you go about persuading people who are prepared to pay money to a blackmailer to safeguard their secrets that they should instead tell you.”
Tunley sent him a sudden, disarming smile. “Trust. I invite trust, which is perhaps why the other night I was visited by a distressed young woman who suspected she might be the next target. She asked for my help as she’d become aware of the activities of a blackmailer targeting high-profile society individuals. Fearing that her own secret may be divulged—though she did not tell me the nature of that secret—she exhorted me to discover and apprehend the blackmailer.”
“She came to you? Why?”
“She knows of my connections. Our connections. She hoped I’d be in a position to help, just as I would hope to be in a position to help you, if you went so far as to trust me.”
Stephen’s arm jerked in surprise as he brought his tankard up to his mouth. Surely Tunley knew nothing of—
Tunley cut off his train of thought. “Of course, if one has no dark secrets, one is not at risk of exposure, and you, Mr. Cranborn
e, are renowned for your exemplary life—that is, after your untidy youth.”
“Untidy!” Stephen laughed, partly out of relief. “I was no different from any other soldier of war wanting what scant comfort was available.” There was no point in regretting the wantonness of his early days. From the moment he’d learned he was to be a man of consequence and left his grandmother’s cottage with little more than a couple of trunks, he’d taken his duties seriously. In fact, he’d made a vow in front of his grandmother that he’d make something of himself given this unlooked-for opportunity. And indeed he had, traveling by horseback across the country to The Grange.
Unbidden, the image of the top of a golden head of shiny hair came to mind, and he nearly reeled with…. horror, yes, horror! The golden ringlets he’d gazed down upon in youthful rapture as their owner had pleasured him in a small storeroom, in the most unexpected encounter of his life, did not belong to his golden-haired Sybil, whom he’d encountered for the very first time the following day when he’d finally arrived at his destination.
He ought to feel shame, perhaps, for his ongoing affair with Lord Partington’s wife. Yes, the wife of his very own benefactor and the man to whom he owed so much. The truth was, that while he might be her knight in shining armor, she was so much more to him. He’d rescued her from…how had she put it? ‘A barren, emotional wasteland.’ How could that be sinful? No, Stephen didn’t regret his ongoing actions one bit, and he intended to continue loving Sybil for as long as they both had breath.
What he did regret was his naivety the day previous to his auspicious meeting with his benefactor’s wife; yes, he bitterly regretted not understanding in time that Lady Julia was a conniving minx, who’d flattered him in order to entice him into that conveniently located storeroom just down the passage from where her husband had staged, and then altered, the outcome in a bet over a pair of mating spiders to ensure he fleeced Stephen out of one thousand pounds. Lady Julia was complicit in this plan to cheat Stephen, only she’d taken perhaps more pleasure along the way than her husband knew about.
He squirmed at the memory. She’d pushed him into the semi-darkness, fondled his groin, murmured words of passion and then taken him in her mouth. Stephen had not known what it felt like to have a woman of class—as he’d thought her at the time—show interest in him like this, or show such lack of restraint. Of course, he was wiser now. Of course, he should have understood there was more to her motives than met the eye. But he’d spent six years fighting on the Peninsular before, injured, he’d lived in quiet solitude with his grandmother; his mother having drunk herself into her grave long after his father had died a similarly ignoble death.
He knew he could not excuse his actions, which made him feel grubby and disloyal to Sybil, even though he’d not met Sybil until later.
