Mercy read the disgruntled look in her sister’s eye. “Why would you think Mr. Randall involved?” she asked, trying to turn Blythe’s tide of anger before she suggested Wilcox be dismissed for insolence yet again. “He has only just returned from India.”
“So he says.” Blythe looked away. “We know so little about him.”
Really, why was everyone so eager to label Mr. Randall a troublemaker? Mercy had a good feeling about him. One glance into those dark, smoldering eyes had promised her that here was a man she could rely upon. It had absolutely nothing to do with the way her pulse leapt at his brief smile. The man had revealed a pair of delightful dimples. No one with dimples could be truly evil.
Mercy stood tall. “Well, we shall learn more when he comes to dine tomorrow. In the mean time, we cannot condemn him without cause.”
“Then what shall we do?”
Mercy grinned. “We shall go along and smother my son with kisses and then tell him he has a cousin. He’ll be wondering where we are.”
~ * ~
Leopold settled into a vacant corner of the Vulture’s taproom and kept his eye on the crowd. The low-beamed inn thrummed with locals, all easing the day’s aches over a tankard or two of dark ale. Gradually Leopold grew accustomed to the competing noise of English voices, and the smell. India, with her cloying spices permeating the air, had made England the foreign country to his senses. But like India, he’d grow used to the difference if given enough time.
One by one, each patron whispered into each another’s ears until the whole room knew of his return. More than one local tipped his cap to Leopold in respect. During their time here, his family had been well liked. They considered him one of them still, even if he stood next in line for the title.
A tankard slid across the battered table. “Here you are, Mr. Randall. Just the way you liked it when you were young. Put hair on your chest, that will.”
He glanced up and found Eamon Murphy, the biggest gossip in the district, hovering at his elbow. “Eamon. Are you still knocking about these parts?”
Eamon grinned. “Nowhere else in the world like Romsey. Why would I leave?”
Leopold clapped him on the arm. “I seem to recall you had taken a fancy to a girl who lived a few miles away from Romsey. I thought you’d have taken over her father’s farm by now and moved away.”
Eamon scowled. “Haughty witch, that one. She
got only her airs to keep her company nowadays. No one else would have her. But look at you. You’re a real gentleman now. Too fancy to be hanging about with the likes of us. Why are you not up at the abbey with the duchess?”
Leopold forced a smile to his face, but kept the whys of his presence to himself. “What’s afoot, Eamon?”
A cunning smile lit Eamon’s face as he slid into the opposite seat. He leaned across the table toward Leopold. “What do you fancy?”
Leopold smiled, enjoying the familiar banter. “What is the latest entertainment?”
“Heard tell of a cock fight over Crampmoor way. Rough crowd, but that’s not unusual. Brothel up at Timsbury now. New one—expensive. Caters to well turned out gentlemen, such as yourself. But you’ve been in India. Bet you’re after some of the white smoke?” Eamon’s eyes glittered, as if he’d delivered Leopold an early Christmas gift.
Leopold did not partake of opium. He liked to keep his wits about him. When he shook his head, Eamon slumped. “The white smoke ruins a man, Eamon. Best not to start at all.”
Opium might make a man forget home, but he merely traded one need for another. Leopold had seen enough of that sickness among the English in India to last him a lifetime.
Eamon sat back and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Only other thing is the duchess herself, and there are plenty of men wagering on her taking a lover soon. Odds are on Lord Shaw, but he’s chasing the skirts of a few noble ladies so it’s hard to judge who’d have the best chance. But the earl’s been calling on the duchess pretty regular. He’s the favorite to make it a permanent arrangement by marrying her.”
“Is that so?” Anger ripped through him. Gods, a Shaw couldn’t gain control of Romsey. Even as a boy he’d heard tales about the family, none of them very complimentary.
Although Leopold had attempted to keep the disgust from his tone, Eamon must have picked up on his tension. The man straightened. “That’s what I heard. Might be nothing more than gossip. Now you’re home, the odds will change.”
Leopold picked up his tankard, and took a swallow. Did people really think he could have any influence where the Duchess of Romsey was concerned? He wiped his hand across the back of his mouth before he dared to speak. “As good as I remember. Do you know they can’t make a decent drop in India? Must be why the white smoke is so popular.”
“Ain’t nowhere like Romsey. Welcome home.” Eamon smiled cheekily as he slipped away from the table.
So, the duchess, for all her prim innocence had lovers lining up. Knowing her weaknesses could only help his chances of finding Oliver, Rosemary, and Tobias. If Leopold learned enough about her faults, he could use the information for leverage should she prove resistant to helping him. He’d use every trick he knew to get his way this time. He wouldn’t be deterred by the warm spark of mischief in her eyes.
Leopold smiled and took another drink while he watched Eamon working the room, wringing every last shred of gossip from the locals. Given enough time, Eamon would tell him everything he needed to know. He might even let slip some things he didn’t know he knew too, and help put Leopold’s family back together.
Chapter Five
Leopold Randall was prompt, polite and, to Mercy’s way of thinking, even more handsome than yesterday. After some initial awkwardness in his greeting, the dark-suited gentleman had sat down to luncheon, displaying exquisite manners—far more than Blythe had assured her he would possess—and kept up a lively conversation about his travels.