Sapphire. Rosemary Rogers
Jessup explained with a wry smile.
“I see, sir.”
“He’s an American and doesn’t know his way around London, so I think he might be a bit out of sorts tonight.”
“I’ll show him to your table at once, Mr. Stowe, should he appear.”
Looking both ways to be sure no one was watching, Jessup slipped a coin from the small pocket of his waistcoat and handed it to the butler. “I know Mr. Porter prefers we not tip personally,” Jessup said quietly, “so just between you and me. You’re always so kind to me, Calvin. Kinder than any of my sons has ever been.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Calvin took one last step back, then turned, pleased and trying not to show it, and hurried down the hall.
His waistcoat reasonably straight, Jessup walked into the parlor of the prominent though slightly threadbare men’s club frequented by barristers like himself. He nodded to several gentlemen at the bar and proceeded to the dining room beyond. His old friend, Clyde Barker, also a widower, was already at the table, already on his first glass of scotch.
“Jessup.” The ruddy-faced man rose, his legs appearing a bit unsteady.
“Clyde, good to see you.” He clasped his friend’s hand and then moved closer to wrap his arm around Clyde’s shoulder. “I look forward all week to Fridays, just to see your ugly face.”
“And I the same.” Clyde grinned, taking his seat at the table covered with white linen and set with crystal.
The waiter caught Jessup’s eye as he sat down and headed for the bar when Jessup nodded.
“So how was your day, old friend? Not too tedious, I hope.”
“Not at all.” Jessup settled in the comfortable, high-backed brocade chair and stretched his legs out beneath the table. “I had the pleasure of meeting with the new Earl of Wessex.”
“Really?” Clyde set down his glass and leaned closer, always one for a bit of gossip. “They say he’s an American, a cousin of the last earl. Mrs. Barker’s brother Barton knows a business associate who’s dealt with him. In shipping, I think.” He chuckled, which wrinkled his aged face. “Astute businessman but a real bastard, he says.” His eyes crinkled. “And rumor has it that he’s quite a man with the ladies….”
Jessup glanced up as the waiter set down a glass of bourbon. One a night was all Jessup allowed himself, as he had promised his beloved Emma on her deathbed. In the grave or not, he would remain true to his promises—not just because he’d loved her, but because he feared if he didn’t, the old bird would punish him when he met her at the pearly gates.
“I don’t know. He seemed a pleasant enough chap.” Jessup shrugged.
Clyde stared shrewdly, still leaning on the table. “Really? That’s not what the tone of your voice says.”
Jessup took up his glass. “Well, I’ll confess he is an interesting character. Avery bold young man, very sure of himself.”
“Like all the Thixtons.” Clyde sat back with satisfaction and reached for his glass. “Well, except for Edward’s father, Charles. Did you know him? Now, there was a bastard.” He lifted his glass thoughtfully. “You know what they say about bad traits skipping a generation.”
“The American is a distant cousin, not in the direct family line.”
“Still, you know what they say.” Clyde smiled and lifted his glass higher in a toast. “To good friends.”
“Good friends,” Jessup echoed.
Clyde took a long sip before setting his glass down. “I already ordered the trout and parsnips. Should be along anytime.”
“Excellent.”
“And what did the American have to say when he discovered that what he inherited was mostly debt?”
Jessup frowned. He had suspected everyone in London society knew the state of Lord Wessex’s affairs when he passed away. They always knew. “You know very well I cannot reveal the details of the conversation I had with a client.”
“That bad, was it? They say he has a temper.”
Jessup folded his hands on his lap. “I saw no temper demonstrated in my office. Lord Wessex was a complete gentleman.” Not exactly a lie, Emma.
“Does that mean he hasn’t met the old biddy Countess of Wessex and her ugly ducklings yet? I hear they’re staying in town.”
“Oh dear,” Jessup mumbled, taking the linen napkin from his lap to wipe his mouth. “I sent him to the town house to stay, thinking the countess was still in the country.”
Clyde laughed and reached for his nearly empty glass. “Oh, to be a fly on that wall. Do you think she’s already proposed marriage between the American and her eldest shrew, or do you think she’ll lay her cap for him herself?” He winked. “She might just have it in her, you know. Some say it was the threat of scandal that made Edward marry her in the first place. Gossip she actually set in motion to ensnare him.”
“Oh dear,” Jessup muttered again. “Dear me, I’ve made a muck of this, haven’t I.”
“Charles.” Clyde waved to the waiter. “Another round for us both. I believe Mr. Stowe may be feeling a little faint,” he finished, highly amused.
Jessup laid his hand over the top of his glass. “Dear, dear me.”
“Stowe.”
Jessup saw the American striding toward him, looking none too pleased.
Jessup grabbed his napkin and pushed away from the table to stand up. “My lord.”
The Earl of Wessex was dressed handsomely in a black overcoat and white silk neckerchief over a black evening coat and striped white waistcoat. He carried his top hat in his hand, and was brushing back a wisp of dark hair that had fallen across his forehead.
“How…how kind of you to join me,” Jessup said. “Please, let me introduce you to—”
“They’re there, did you know that?” Blake demanded. “The countess and her daughters three, but it seemed like three hundred when they all assaulted me at once with their chatter and batting of eyelashes. I thought I’d suffocate from the scent of their rose toilet water.”
“Would…would you care to join me and my friend Mr. Barker for dinner? We’ve not yet been served.”
“What I want is to know is why you sent me to that town house knowing those women were there?” Blake demanded.
“I was not aware of that, my lord. I apologize for not checking again. Last week when I received the message that you’d be arriving, I had the town house in Mayfair opened up and aired and servants hired in anticipation of your arrival. The countess must have come to London since.”
Blake tightened his grip on his thoroughly wet hat and looked away, giving himself a moment to let his anger subside. They were in a dining room of one of the many gentlemen’s clubs in the city. This one appeared old and well-established, and though it was not as well-furnished as some he had visited in Boston and abroad, it did have a certain air about it. The scent of tobacco and hickory wood seemed to permeate the air of the dark-paneled rooms.
“I truly apologize for the inconvenience,” Mr. Stowe repeated, pulling himself up to his full height, which was still nearly a head shorter than Lord Wessex’s.
Blake scowled, but he was not as angry as he had been when he stormed out of the town house into the rain and had been unable to hail a carriage for a full block. “I suppose it could not be helped.”
“No, my lord, it could not be,” Stowe answered firmly. “If you wish, I shall bring about proceedings first thing tomorrow morning to have the countess removed from your property.”
Blake