Page 7 of My Fair Lord

“Nothing I couldn’t deal with efficiently.” Ned accepted the tumbler of neat whisky and swirled it round. The aroma wafted to his nostrils. Rich and peaty. The good stuff indeed. Mind you, Van Hoon could well afford it and Ned had probably just saved him somewhere in the region of five or six hundred pounds, not counting the peace of mind that was beyond monetary value.

“Your good health,” he said, raising the glass to Van Hoon.

They sipped the whisky. It was very good.

“No, I had no trouble,” Ned repeated. It was a lie. He’d got out of the gambling den in the cellar of the Pembroke Place brothel by the skin of his teeth, and only after thumping a couple of pimps. Once again, he thought of Miss Wakechild and her pluckiness in accompanying him. Thank goodness he hadn’t needed to fight or run. The size of the men who had been chasing him was enough to make any sane man quake.

“I came across a most delightful young woman in the process,” he commented. “An American. Gorgeous auburn hair and a lovely figure that Rubens would have delighted over.”

“A redhead.” Van Hoon raised an eyebrow. “Surely you aren’t referring to the Wakechild girl?”

Ned prided himself on not often being caught unawares but now he blinked in surprise at hearing the name. He almost confirmed Van Hoon’s guess but caught himself.

“It’s possible. Who is she?”

“Her father is one of these upstarts whose family made their money in the past twenty years manufacturing and selling chemical dyes. He’s come over here to try buy a titled husband for the girl. Done it once already with the older sister. Got her a baron from Cheshire. I’ve met the father but I’ve not had the privilege of speaking to the baroness or her sister.”

There was clear contempt in Van Hoon’s voice, accompanied by a curl of the lip. Ned finished his whisky but there was suddenly a bitter taste in his mouth. Miss Wakechild had mentioned in passing something about her sister’s husband’s estate in Cheshire, but it hadn’t leapt out as significant at the time. It made it even more remarkable that she hadn’t been diligently guarded by an aged aunt chaperone or, at bare minimum, a maid.

“So she’s here to find a husband?” he mused.

“Not just any husband before you get your hopes up. She’s got her eye on an aristocrat. Those of us without a title may look on in vain.” He huffed and curled his lip at Ned. “Simply having money isn’t good enough for their sort. These women are scrabbling around, whoring themselves out for the chance to wear a tiara and a scrap of ermine. Detestable things. It’s becoming quite a thing from what I understand.”

Ned bit his tongue, aghast at Van Hoon’s audacity at condemning the family. Considering the service Ned had just undertaken for him, the man had a bare nerve criticising anyone else’s offspring. All the same, a little of the admiration he had felt for Miss Wakechild faded away. She had seemed quite unlike other women he had known. The look of all-embracing boredom on her face as she had stood alone in the crowd of fluttering ladies cooing over hats had been remarkable. She’d been like a swan in a hen house. She’d been forthright, adventurous, and intelligent. And yet apparently, she was just one of the many women for whom a title was the ultimate trophy.

“It could have been her, I suppose,” Ned said, pretending to think hard. “Though the woman I met didn’t seem like a spoiled heiress. She sounded quite passionate about reforming the poor, misbegotten working man.” He thought for a moment then in the spirit of fairness, added, “And improving his life.”

Van Hoon tutted. “I wonder if she airs such ideals to her father. He’s rich, though not in the league of the Vanderbilts or the Astors, and I cannot imagine him throwing away profits on building garden plots for his employees.”

He refilled his glass and offered the decanter to Ned. Ned declined. He was rapidly finding himself wishing to be out of the man’s company. Van Hoon put the stopper back in and took it back to the tray.

“I have heard the family will be attending the Earl of Merseyside’s post-race reception at the Wellington Rooms tomorrow evening. I am honoured to be attending so I will do my best to have a good look at the girl. It’s a shame he chose to hold it there rather than at Castle Ainsdale, but there we go. Perhaps she might be induced to marry someone without a title but with a full bankbook, prestige, and a good business to invest in, if the offer was attractive enough.”

Ned was sufficiently adept at commanding his features so he managed not to raise his brows in surprise. Not at the information that Miss Wakechild would be attending the event, but at Van Hoon’s ambition after he had made it clear the woman wanted a baronet at the bare minimum.

“Really? You think she might consider marriage with Willem?”

Ned pictured the Van Hoon heir. A reckless wastrel who had been loathsome as a youth and seemed no better as an adult. He was hardly an ideal match for any woman. Ned found himself growing quite protective over Miss Wakechild’s person. No one, least of all a woman who seemed shocked at the idea of consuming alcohol in the afternoon, should be forced to marry a man who was inebriated by noon, frequented downmarket houses of ill repute, and gambled uncontrollably.

Van Hoon patted his thinning hair, preening like a peacock. “Possibly for Willem. Possibly for myself. I’ve been a widower for three years now. It’s time to throw off the mourning.”

The struggle not to show his distaste was growing harder for Ned. The old man was in his sixties and was seriously considering taking a bride who must be forty years his junior.

“Now that’s interesting,” he managed. “I might be in a position to attend the event myself, though not in any capacity where my path will cross with Miss Wakechild or yourself, I’m sure.”

“What is your business there?” Van Hoon asked, eyes lighting up.

Ned smiled tightly. “You don’t really expect me to answer that. Discretion is paramount, as I’m sure you will appreciate.”

“Of course,” Van Hoon said quickly. He looked pointedly at the desk. “Yes, of course you know I’m indebted to you and your discretion. What did we say, thirty pounds to sort the matter? A banker’s draft?”

“Cash would be preferable,” Ned said. He smiled. “Yes, thirty was the sum, plus reimbursement of my original stake in the game. That was ten pounds.”

Van Hoon unlocked his cashbox and counted out a mixture of one-, five-, and ten-pound notes. Ned slipped them into the secret pocket of his coat, except for three of the ones and a five, which he put into his wallet. It was not wise for anyone to carry that much money openly, but a man should never have an empty wallet.

“A pleasure doing business for you. Any time you need my services, please don’t hesitate,” he said. He raised a brow. “Though perhaps have a word with your son about the women he takes drinking, and the advisability of not wearing easily identifiable jewellery. There are discreet houses in almost every town where a young man can find carnal relief without having to resort to that sort of area.”

“Oh yes, I shall certainly be having words with my young boy,” Van Hoon said.