The Water Nymph: The Arboretti Family Saga - Book Two Read online

  Chapter Four

  “Where have you been?” the stocky deputy demanded as his boss strode through the door. “I have had the boys looking all over London for you since daybreak.”

  “‘My lord,’” Lawrence Pickering suggested to his second-in-command.

  “My lord,” the deputy repeated with a clumsy bow. “I have had the boys looking all over London for you since daybreak, my lord.”

  Lawrence Pickering was not, in fact, a peer of the realm, nor even distantly related to a gentleman by birth. But he was as rich as four earls put together and had far more influence over Alsatia—the quarter of London many referred to as “Little Eden” because of the endless proliferation of earthly pleasures available there—than most landed gentry had over their larders. People who dared to flout his control, or his will, were said to disappear, sometimes forever, more often for as long as it took for their bodies to wash up on the lower shoals of the Thames. He had originally been dubbed Lord Pickering by his enemies in an attempt to mock his ambition to rule London’s underworld, but as that ambition was realized, the title changed from taunt to truism, and he was now addressed that way by his loyal followers—and all others who valued their necks.

  The deputy, whose neck was a short, thick, ugly one but none the less valuable to him for that, cringed under his master’s look of displeasure.

  “Surely my men have better things to do than chase me around,” Lawrence said, handing his cape to the footman who had followed him in. “And surely I am allowed to run private errands.”

  “Of course, my lord. It is just that something has happened and I thought you should know and I needed advice and…” He wilted under Lawrence’s unwavering displeasure and finally croaked out, “Your Excellency.”

  “Let us not get above ourselves. ‘My lord’ will do,” Lawrence instructed, turning from his deputy so the man would not see the smile on his face. Grimley was a very good man, loyal and trustworthy to a fault, and he had somehow contrived to terrify every one of Lawrence’s fiercest henchmen, so that they did not dare oppose his orders. Lawrence had never asked what his deputy did to achieve this, but he was glad to capitalize on it, entrusting to Grimley the management of his army of informers and thugs. But the main reason Lawrence kept Grimley around was because of the pleasure he derived from making him crumple. It was really too easy, and he knew it was unkind, but there was something about cowing the little toadlike man that he found distinctly entertaining, especially on a lousy day like the one he was having.

  Which seemed, if Grimley’s words were anything to go by, about to get lousier. Lawrence seated himself behind his wide desk, caressed its smooth mahogany top as if it were a beautiful woman, and brought his eyes once more to those of his deputy. “What exactly happened?”

  “It’s Richard Tottle, my lord. Dead, my lord. In the smoking chamber at the Unicorn.”

  The deputy took a step away from the desk when he saw his boss’s jaw tighten. “Do we know who did it?” Lawrence asked.

  “No.”

  Lawrence cursed under his breath. It was damn inconvenient, having one of his informers knocked off, and at his most profitable club. The last thing they needed were constables and the Queen’s guard roaming around the Unicorn, poking their noses into the business and requiring a share of the profits in exchange for their silence. “Who else knows about this?” he asked finally.

  “No one,” Grimley replied. “Yet. A boy arrived shortly after midnight with this anonymous note.” Grimley held the crumpled paper out to Lawrence.

  “‘Look in the smoking room of the Unicorn,’“ he read aloud, then handed it back to the deputy. “Where did the boy get it from?”

  “He said one of the Fleet Street ladies handed it to him, but he had difficulty recalling which one, even with persuasion.”

  Lawrence glowered at him. “You did not hurt him, did you?”

  “No,” Grimley replied sheepishly. “Not much.”

  “What have I told you about hurting young boys? It achieves nothing, and it only adds to our list of enemies. Perhaps you never had to live by your wits on the street, but—” Lawrence broke off. “Never mind. Find the boy, give him ten pounds, and offer him a job. A good job. I guarantee that will restore his memory.”

  Grimley moved grimly to the door, summoned a footman, gave a few, brisk instructions, and returned to face his master.

  “What has become of the body?” Lawrence asked when the door was closed.

  Grimley looked nervous again. “We left it there, my lord. I did not know where you wanted it, but no one will go to the club before three bells, so it is safe. I did not want it to be discovered before I had your orders about Tottle’s apartments.”

  Lawrence nodded and gave a resigned sigh. “We may as well make use of the body. Leave it on the doorstep of whoever owes us the most money, and let them draw their own conclusions. In the meantime—”

  The deputy was nodding briskly. “I know. Is there anything in particular we want from Master Tottle’s chambers, my lord, or should I just take it all?”

  “You are, as ever, overhasty. It is your gravest flaw, Grimley. As I have told you before, it is not what you take from a room that matters, it is what you leave behind. And I have not yet decided what that ought to be.”

  The deputy frowned. “But, Lord Pickering—”

  Lawrence put up a hand. “We would not want to hinder the constabulary in their work. You know how my brother gets annoyed when we interfere with his cases.”

  Grimley gave a resigned nod. Bull Pickering, Lawrence’s older brother, was a man of few words, few thoughts, and great strength. He had worked his way up from debt collector in his brother’s corps to the exalted role of London’s hangman, and he took his job very seriously. The last time Bull suspected his brother of having deprived him of a neck that was rightfully his, it had taken two days to put Lawrence’s office to rights again. In order to avoid such chaos, which Lawrence abhorred, he saw to it that every crime had a deserving neck attached to it.

  “However, we should not be too generous to the constabulary,” Lawrence was going on. “Send someone to Tottle’s to empty his safe. And tell our other men to be on their guard in case someone is targeting our people.”

  Grimley was opening the door to issue these new orders when a flustered footman pushed past him, apparently propelled by an otherworldly force.

  “My lord, I am sorry. I tried to stop him, but there was nothing—”

  The Otherworldly force was soon revealed to be the shiny blade of a rapier, held by a very tall, blond man with cold blue-gray eyes. “It is true, my lord,” the man said. “I insisted on seeing you. I believe we have some unfinished business to discuss.”

  Grimley did not waste a minute, but had his own rapier out of its sheath and was pointing it at the intruder, ready to protect his boss to the death. “You go no farther, sir, if you value your life.”

  With a single, deft movement of the wrist, the intruder had the deputy disarmed and prostrate on the floor before the footman had time to flee. Grimley was stunned by this performance, and then more stunned when he heard his boss practically cackling with merriment.

  “Crispin, I see your sword skills have improved some since the time I got you in the arm. When did you get back?” Lawrence asked, brushing aside tears of laughter from his eyes as he moved around the desk to embrace the other man.

  “Earlier this week.” Crispin returned the embrace warmly. “I would have been by sooner, but business kept me occupied.”

  Lawrence raised one eyebrow, a trick he had learned from Crispin when they were ten. “What is her name? Anne? Mary? Or is she one of those French mademoiselles you used to tell me stories of?”

  Crispin grinned noncommittally, then bent down to help the stunned Grimley to his feet and returned his sword to him. “I am sorry about that, my friend. I cannot resist a challenge.”

  Grimley tried a smile, found that it did
not work, and made a bow instead. “It is a pleasure to be disarmed by the Earl of Sandal,” he murmured finally, then turned to his boss. “Will you need me, my lord, or should I see to the business we were just discussing?”

  “Please do that. We can resume our talk later.”

  Grimley bowed again to each of the men and left the room.

  “If I am interrupting something, I can come back another time,” Crispin offered, but Lawrence shook his head.

  “Nothing important. Now come, tell me everything. Or rather, let me guess. She is slender and delicate, with hair so light it is almost silver, and small, round breasts the size of two ripe oranges.” Lawrence described to perfection every woman he and Crispin had fought over since the beginning of their friendship twenty-two years earlier.

  They had met at the age of ten, and despite being from radically different backgrounds—Lawrence from incredible poverty, and Crispin from incredible wealth—the two had grown up together and shared a relationship that Crispin’s cousins, the other Arboretti, envied. Crispin could still recall the day they met. From the river steps of Sandal Hall, he had been studying the churning brown water of the Thames and trying to decide whether to swim for Venice on his own or return to the house and face the torture of two more weeks with The Aunts. He had just opted for swimming, reasoning that even a watery grave was better than another lecture about gentlemanly deportment, when he heard a shout and saw a head bobbing in the river. The next moment the head was gone, replaced by a pair of flailing arms. Without stopping to think, Crispin leapt in and dragged the flailing arms to the river steps.

  The arms turned out to belong to a boy of about his same age, who, as soon as he had coughed the water out of his lungs, demanded, “What did you do that for?”

  Crispin stared down at him. “You were drowning. I saved your life.”

  The boy glared up at him. “And lost a three-ha’penny wager.” Then he looked around, noted the immense house looming behind his savior, and smiled genially. “But you can make it up to me for a pound.”

  Crispin, whose allowance had been stopped by The Aunts when he failed to observe The Appropriate Method of Eating a Squab (which did not, it seemed, include spearing it on your fork and having it perform a song-and-dance routine with the turnips, despite the approbation of the pretty housemaid), had countered that Lawrence owed him at least that for saving his life.

  “I like you,” the waterlogged boy had replied. “You are a man of sense.” And from that moment on, the friendship was cemented. Crispin taught Lawrence to swim, and Lawrence taught Crispin to live. Crispin found in Lawrence the perfect antidote to The Aunts’ teachings, and Lawrence found in Crispin a pattern of the gentleman he was ambitious to become. As the years passed, the Sandal cook ceased to be surprised when Crispin’s consumption of mutton, pigeon pie, roast pig, and especially cream pudding doubled every summer, and the steward came to expect the haberdasher’s bills for two identical sets of every item of clothing Crispin ordered.

  At first, the economic disparity between the boys meant that Crispin had to subsidize all their activities, but by the time they were fifteen, Lawrence had begun piecemeal to acquire the properties that would soon turn into his empire. While even then Lawrence refused all offers of financial help, he was happy to accept the assistance of the Arboretti in managing his growing portfolio of gaming houses and taverns. Crispin, his brother, Ian, and his cousins Miles, Tristan, and Sebastian would spend the summers they passed in England watching from behind invisible sliding panels as men entered and left gaming houses, each cousin computing the potential profits and losses at different tables; or they would sit, struggling to contain their thirst, as they observed the flow of traffic and ale inside Lawrence’s newest inn. Late at night, they would argue together heatedly about the advisability of having a gaming house where all the tables were overseen by topless women (yes), an open-air tavern where cream pudding and only cream pudding was served at all hours (no, too many bees), a drinking establishment where the servingwomen wore jewels and nothing else (yes, yes, yes), and whether red or black velvet upholstery encouraged people to spend more money (red).

  This advice, and the polish Lawrence acquired by rubbing shoulders with the Arboretti, had proved invaluable for the building of the Pickering empire, giving him an edge over his competitors and earning him their respect, but Crispin knew that the two most important keys to his friend’s success were Lawrence’s incredible intelligence and his network of informers. Very little happened in London that Lawrence did not know about or somehow profit from. His sources of information rivaled those of the Queen, and indeed, one of the ways in which he had managed to evade the hand of the law for so long was through carefully orchestrated collaborations with the Crown.

  It was information that Crispin had come for that day, and as he still had several other places to go, he decided not to waste time. “You are wrong,” Crispin said with a smirk. “She is not small, nor fair, nor orange-endowed.”

  Lawrence looked concerned. “I have long feared this. All that time on the continent has ruined your palate. We shall have to commence retraining at once.”

  Crispin laughed and shook his head. “No, no, you need not worry. My tastes are constant, as ever. This one is not, thank god, my mistress, but I need information about her. Do you know anything about a woman called Sophie Champion?”

  Lawrence frowned, then crossed to a door in the far wall and hollered, “Elwood!”

  Before he was even reseated, a tall, thin, serious-looking young man with scraggly dark hair that flopped over a scar on his forehead, loped into the room carrying a red leather-bound volume. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Elwood is in charge of the alphabet from A to F,” Lawrence explained to Crispin, then turned to his employee. “What do we know about Sophie Champion?”

  The man rolled his eyes to the ceiling and tapped a finger on the red book. “Sophie Champion,” he began, as if reciting a chronicle of her crimes. “Age, about twenty-six. Height, too tall. Supposed to be very wealthy, but the source is unknown. Not,” Elwood rushed to affirm, lest his master think he was slatternly, “for lack of trying. Familiarly called the Siren.”

  “The Siren?” Crispin and Lawrence countered, in unison.

  Elwood brought his eyes down to his audience to explain. “Yes. I am not sure if it is because her beauty has the power to lure men from their destiny or because her tongue can lash them to death. Both are said to be true.” The young man blushed slightly and rushed on. “Those who do not call her the Siren still claim that she is some sort of sorceress or, rather, witch. She does things to men, it seems, which make them behave strangely. It is said that she curses those who dare to touch her or, worse, propose to her, but that does not stop them.”

  “Has she had many proposals?” Crispin asked casually.

  Elwood consulted the red leather volume. He flipped one page, then another, his lips moving as he counted the names. “Forty-three,” he replied finally, then paused and turned another page. “No, I beg your pardon, forty-six. There were three in the last week.”

  Lawrence whistled slightly. “What odds are we offering?”

  Elwood moved back and forth among the pages. “At first the bets were very safe, with an equal payoff. When Thomas Argyle proposed, one pound would get you one pound if she accepted him. Then, by the time Lord Creamly proposed, one pound would get you ten if she accepted. On these most recent two, we are offering one hundred pounds for one pound.” He looked up at the two men, his eyes wide. “That is the highest the payoff has ever been, for anyone, in the marriage wager.”

  “You know”—Lawrence leaned toward Crispin—“if you could pull it off, you would be very rich.”

  “I am already very rich,” Crispin pointed out. “Besides, she is not my type.”

  “Ah, so you have seen her. What is she like? Perhaps I will try it myself.”

  Elwood look concerned. “If I might venture, my lord, I wo
uld not suggest it. She is a very dangerous woman.”

  “Dangerous?” Crispin and Lawrence repeated, again in unison.

  Elwood nodded solemnly. “We were asked to investigate her on behalf of Her Majesty, but despite our best labors we were able to learn nothing of her background or family. We got as far as the fact that she was born somewhere near Newcastle, but the parish records were locked away or destroyed, no one knew which, and there was a new priest who had never heard of her. She first appeared in London society roughly two years ago, introduced by Lord Grosgrain. Your neighbor, Lord Sandal. It was then that the Crown consulted us for information. Lord Grosgrain claimed she was his goddaughter, but there were questions about that, questions which were left unanswered at his death last Monday.”

  There was something in the man’s tone that piqued Crispin’s interest. “Do you think she killed him? Her godfather?”

  “I do not think, my lord, I merely report,” Elwood said humbly. “Lord Grosgrain’s death appears to have been a riding accident. But there have been intimations of other sorts. There were rumors, even before the accident, that his relationship with Miss Champion was not exactly what it seemed. Shortly after he presented her as his goddaughter, he remarried.”

  Lawrence cut Elwood off here. “That’s right, he’s the one who married Constantia Catchesol.”

  “Yes, sir. At one and a half pounds to the pound. It was a very likely thing.” Elwood turned to address Crispin directly. “I believe, Lord Sandal, that you were once involved with the lady?”

  Crispin, who had learned long ago not to be astonished by the thoroughness of Lawrence’s information network, nodded. “I was. But don’t put my name into your betting book as her next suitor just yet. One must observe a respectable mourning period.”

  One day earlier, the news that Constantia was again available would have filled Crispin’s heart with joy. She had been the most beautiful woman he could imagine ten years earlier when, at twenty-two, he had proposed to her. She had been beautiful as she fluttered her hand to her breast in surprise at his clumsy proposal, and still beautiful as she laughed sweetly and told him that although she adored him, she could never think of marrying him because he was far too young. He probably would have married her after the death of her first husband, three years earlier, if he had not left for the continent before her period of mourning ended. At that point, older, wiser, and rich, she had given him strong indications that he could easily win her hand, if not her heart, and he suspected the same conditions still held.