horseback. “Do you have any idea how much shame a man can build up when he has the wealth and the temper to pitch a nine-year-long tantrum? There were times I got some toothsome, titled young idiot drunk and indulged in all manner of foolery on a bored whim. Or I’d take women to bed, knowing they would not guard their hearts, and liking it better for being able to strike at them that way. I won fortunes from men too drunk to hold their cards and was only too happy to collect on their vowels, regardless that it would beggar them and put their women on the charity of relatives.”
“This recitation doesn’t flatter you, Heathgate.” Ethan could not take his eyes from his horse’s neck. “Why burden me with it?” Though Ethan suspected he knew—there were many situations in life that yielded a harvest of regret and shame.
Heathgate let out an exasperated sigh. “I have lifetimes of regrets I should be ashamed of, and I am. But you are ashamed of being a victim. If somebody did to your Joshua what was done to you, would you be disgusted with Joshua? Would you want him to be ashamed of himself?”
“For God’s sake, don’t be ridiculous. He’s just a boy, and of course I would not want him ashamed of being the victim of a crime.”
“You were fourteen,” Heathgate said, “and set upon by six boys older, bigger, and stronger than you. They laid in wait, they plotted this violence, and they carried it out against you, knowing you had none to aid you. And yet you don’t feel compassion for the boy you were. You feel ashamed of him. One can only wonder, Ethan Grey, what your own father might have done had he learned of your fate.”
Heathgate urged his horse forward, having mercifully had his say. He engaged the boys in a pleasant discussion of foxhunting, climbing trees, and what it must be like for poor young Lord Penwarren to have a twin sister. Ethan was so lost in thought he didn’t hear his children laughing at something Heathgate said, or realize his horse was for once being docile, until he was almost hit in the face with a low-hanging branch.
“It’s an interesting mix of news,” Benjamin Hazlit reported as he lounged in a comfortable chair in the Marquis of Heathgate’s library. His arrangement with Heathgate, as with most clients, was that nothing was written down. For the sake of security, his reports were made in person, except under rare circumstances. This meant his clients had to meet with him face-to-face, and usually in their homes, since most of them would have been loathe to be seen calling on him.
And meeting them face-to-face gave Benjamin all manner of opportunity to learn about them and placate his own well-hidden curiosity.
“Well, don’t beat about the bush, Benjamin.” Heathgate paused while a footman brought in a tray. “Lemonade, cider, or something stronger?”
“Cider.” Heathgate’s version of something stronger was usually a whiskey too smooth and rich to be profaned by business conversation.
Heathgate passed him a tall glass. “I’ll send a little something else along for your private delectation when we’re through.”
“I won’t refuse.” Not that sane men refused Gareth Alexander, Marquis of Heathgate, much of anything. “And now that you’ve impressed me with your manners, here’s what we know: Hart Collins has been traipsing about the Continent since Waterloo. Before that he was holed up on some Greek island. But to pick up the story closer to the beginning, you need to know, after leaving Stoneham—one of several institutions to send him down—he finally made a try at Oxford, where he lasted not one term. Cambridge flat wouldn’t have him, so he took himself back north to Papa’s barony and seemed to make an effort to grow up.”
“A successful effort?”
“Hardly.” Benjamin paused to rein in his disgust. Heathgate needed information, but not every fact in Benjamin’s head was pertinent to the marquis’s inquiry. “He was engaged to the local equivalent of the darling of the shire, an earl’s daughter, but the engagement ended amid some hushed scandal, and then he was off. Scotland first, Scandinavia, even the Americas, before returning to Europe. He pops back to England from time to time, but never for long. One can live cheaply on foreign shores, but Collins hasn’t acquired the knack.”
“He comes back when he’s out of funds?” Heathgate’s expression gave away nothing, but Benjamin knew the man well enough to sense heightened interest. “Too bad I’ve not set foot in a hell for years. I could probably ruin him in a single night of hazard.”
Heathgate’s tone said he’d enjoy that evening’s work a bit more than a night at the opera.
“Doubtless, you could, and you need to get out more, old man.”
“You should have a wife and children,
Benjamin met glacial-blue eyes, knowing his lordship might well be planning that outing to the gaming tables. The notion appealed to a protective older brother’s instincts mightily.
“He came into the title about five years ago, and his papa did what he could to tie up the unentailed wealth. Collins is back now, wrangling with the solicitors and getting nowhere. I have personal reasons to keep tabs on the man, particularly if he should malinger in the vicinity of the family seat.”
Heathgate refreshed their drinks. “For once the solicitors are of use. And what of Collins’s accomplices?”
“Two are dead. Both soldiers who didn’t come home. One has emigrated to America, another has the living at some obscure little crossroads in Derbyshire, and the fifth is in the hulks.”
“Can we buy the clergyman or the debtor?”
“The debtor, of course.” Benjamin named a sum Heathgate’s marchioness might have spent on a single entertainment during the Season. “And the arrangements have been made.”
“Benjamin, you are frighteningly thorough. What of the clergyman?”
“Has his eye on a more lucrative living,” Benjamin replied. “I’ve not approached him. The element of surprise would be in your favor.”
“Best send someone to deal with him. Have either the debtor or the clergyman been in touch with Collins?”
“The clergyman. Collins had him invited to some house party, and the man dropped the Lord’s pressing business and came by post.”
“So Collins has something on him. What we have is worse, I’m sure.”
“Conspiracy to commit a felony is serious. I must point out you’re doing this all on your own initiative, and I can’t help but wonder if Mr. Grey would appreciate it. He seems to have moved on with his life.”
Or with something. Benjamin wasn’t sure exactly what, though Alice appeared to be in better spirits for it.
“Hmm.”
The tone of that syllable piqued Benjamin’s instincts. “Heathgate, you can’t play God. An incident like this would have been the undoing of a lesser man, particularly when Bellefonte was no help to his son whatsoever. It’s only with the old earl’s death Mr. Grey has managed some sort of rapprochement with his siblings. Besides, my sister is half in love with your Mr. Grey, and that makes me a little protective of the man.”
Heathgate looked unimpressed. “She’s governess to his boys.”
“She’s his social superior,” Benjamin countered, an edge lacing his voice. Heathgate might have resented the title years ago, but he understood the order of precedence well enough. “She’s lovely, well damned dowered if she’d but allow it, and deserving of only the best. If she’s chosen him, then I will respect her choice, and I will not let you bring the man grief.”
Heathgate’s eyebrow swooped aloft. “You come close to threatening a peer of the realm, Benjamin. I’m impressed.”
“Stow it.” Benjamin snorted. “If I thought your intent was contrary to Mr. Grey’s interests—or my sister’s—I would never have undertaken this task.”
“And here you work so hard to create the impression you have no loyalty, save to coin of the realm.”
Benjamin sipped his drink placidly. “Don’t be tiresome,
