not a sure bet.
She called for Symington. She had employed him first in London years ago, and he had accompanied her to Amsterdam and Vienna. He was the only one who knew her secrets. She paid him well for his powers of organization. In return he suppressed his horror at her nature. Now he was old and somehow they had become . . . comfortable. He presented himself and bowed. Was he still horrified?
“I wish to know more about Langley,” she said.
The old man paused. She could see him sorting the folders in his mind. He was a deep old file and since he had been in London for a month, he would know everyone and everything. “Known to be poor,” he said, unequivocally. “Father gamed away whatever fortune was left from the grandfather’s wasteful proclivities. Estate rumored to bemortgaged to the hilt. Mother largely insane after the early deaths of her other children. Now herself dead twenty years. He is the only legitimate child. Succeeded to the title six years ago. Early arranged marriage fell through when the young lady in question eloped with another. Father counted on the dowry—practically disowned him. He went wild. Affair with his half-sister, who—”
“Yes, yes.” Beatrix waved her hand impatiently. “After the affair, what?”
Symington drew himself up. “Wandered the Continent. Duels, affairs. They say he was consort for a short time to Pauline, Napoleon’s sister.”
Pauline had a nearly insane need for sexual gratification. Had Langley been used for his body? That, coupled with the half sister, would explain his attitude about women. “And?”
“Well, the rumors go on from there. It is hard to know where to draw the line.”
Beatrix grew thoughtful. “He appears to be received.”
“There is a certain cachet in having him attend one’s function. He is articulate. He dances well. He holds his liquor. And he does not disgrace his hostess.”
“One has all the titillating possibility of misbehavior without the untidy consequences.”
“And, if I might say,” Symington added, “there is the role of the prodigal son, returned from the gates of hell and therefore to be pitied, if not forgiven.”
“You are wise beyond your years, Symington.” She made a salute. “Anything else?”
“Well . . .” Here the old man paused, as if unsure he should add something so trivial. “His valet, Withering, is a stiff-backed old moralist. Why would he stay with so dissolute a master?”
Very interesting, indeed.
“And . . .” Symington was truly reluctant now.
“Yes? Go on.”
“Well, one viewpoint that does not quite agree with the rest. He is quite frequently gone from London for a month or more. He puts it about that he goes to the estate in the north when he runs out of money. But Clary, your upstairs maid, used to work at Langley Manor. She says he never comes there anymore but the steward is always making improvements.”
“So,” Beatrix said slowly. “The poverty-stricken young lord must be sending home money. Where does he go if not to his estates?”
“Unknown, my lady. And Withering is very tight-lipped about his master.”
Beatrix straightened. Very interesting. “Thank you, Symington. You have been most helpful.” She peered at her only confidant and saw creases in his forehead. She lifted her brows.
Symington swallowed. “Nothing of consequence, my lady.”
Beatrix did not blink. Her brows continued the question.
Symington cleared his throat. “My . . . my sister is in poor health, my lady. Her husband died last year. She will not see a doctor. Says it’s just her time. She lives in Harrowgate, but a spa town has so many ill people, I think it contributes to her melancholy . . .” He trailed off, then said briskly, “My concern will not, of course, interfere with performing my duties.”
Beatrix frowned. “Why have you not mentioned this?” She rose purposefully. “Of course you will send for her. We shall set her up in rooms near Harley Street with
She called for Symington. She had employed him first in London years ago, and he had accompanied her to Amsterdam and Vienna. He was the only one who knew her secrets. She paid him well for his powers of organization. In return he suppressed his horror at her nature. Now he was old and somehow they had become . . . comfortable. He presented himself and bowed. Was he still horrified?
“I wish to know more about Langley,” she said.
The old man paused. She could see him sorting the folders in his mind. He was a deep old file and since he had been in London for a month, he would know everyone and everything. “Known to be poor,” he said, unequivocally. “Father gamed away whatever fortune was left from the grandfather’s wasteful proclivities. Estate rumored to bemortgaged to the hilt. Mother largely insane after the early deaths of her other children. Now herself dead twenty years. He is the only legitimate child. Succeeded to the title six years ago. Early arranged marriage fell through when the young lady in question eloped with another. Father counted on the dowry—practically disowned him. He went wild. Affair with his half-sister, who—”
“Yes, yes.” Beatrix waved her hand impatiently. “After the affair, what?”
Symington drew himself up. “Wandered the Continent. Duels, affairs. They say he was consort for a short time to Pauline, Napoleon’s sister.”
Pauline had a nearly insane need for sexual gratification. Had Langley been used for his body? That, coupled with the half sister, would explain his attitude about women. “And?”
“Well, the rumors go on from there. It is hard to know where to draw the line.”
Beatrix grew thoughtful. “He appears to be received.”
“There is a certain cachet in having him attend one’s function. He is articulate. He dances well. He holds his liquor. And he does not disgrace his hostess.”
“One has all the titillating possibility of misbehavior without the untidy consequences.”
“And, if I might say,” Symington added, “there is the role of the prodigal son, returned from the gates of hell and therefore to be pitied, if not forgiven.”
“You are wise beyond your years, Symington.” She made a salute. “Anything else?”
“Well . . .” Here the old man paused, as if unsure he should add something so trivial. “His valet, Withering, is a stiff-backed old moralist. Why would he stay with so dissolute a master?”
Very interesting, indeed.
“And . . .” Symington was truly reluctant now.
“Yes? Go on.”
“Well, one viewpoint that does not quite agree with the rest. He is quite frequently gone from London for a month or more. He puts it about that he goes to the estate in the north when he runs out of money. But Clary, your upstairs maid, used to work at Langley Manor. She says he never comes there anymore but the steward is always making improvements.”
“So,” Beatrix said slowly. “The poverty-stricken young lord must be sending home money. Where does he go if not to his estates?”
“Unknown, my lady. And Withering is very tight-lipped about his master.”
Beatrix straightened. Very interesting. “Thank you, Symington. You have been most helpful.” She peered at her only confidant and saw creases in his forehead. She lifted her brows.
Symington swallowed. “Nothing of consequence, my lady.”
Beatrix did not blink. Her brows continued the question.
Symington cleared his throat. “My . . . my sister is in poor health, my lady. Her husband died last year. She will not see a doctor. Says it’s just her time. She lives in Harrowgate, but a spa town has so many ill people, I think it contributes to her melancholy . . .” He trailed off, then said briskly, “My concern will not, of course, interfere with performing my duties.”
Beatrix frowned. “Why have you not mentioned this?” She rose purposefully. “Of course you will send for her. We shall set her up in rooms near Harley Street with
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