owners
over turbot, salmon, lobsters, and eels, as well as the various other fruits of
the sea served on London dinner tables.
The
pungent aroma of fish was everywhere. It overrode the stench of the ancient,
refuse-covered desks and the masses of unwashed humanity crowding the busy
market, and it set Tristan’s already queasy stomach to rolling dangerously. The
nocturnal search Garth and he had made of the Winterhaven cellar had yielded
not one, but two bottles of vintage brandy, and they’d managed to consume them
both before the cold gray light of dawn reminded them they had an appointment
with Caleb Harcourt in but a few brief hours.
Now,
with a wintery sun torturing his bloodshot eyes and the voices of the fish
hawkers thrusting javelins into his aching head, Tristan gritted his teeth and
prayed as much for a settled stomach as a clear mind when he and Garth faced
the powerful cit who held the fate of the Ramsden family in his hands. With
shaky hands, he pulled the phaeton to a stop before a door with a discreet
brass plate bearing the name Harcourt Shipping Ltd., tossed a coin to the
urchin who acted as carriage tender, and helped his exhausted brother alight
from the passenger’s seat.
A
moment later, they entered the building and to their surprise found the inside
to be as elegantly austere as the outside was shabby. The massive waiting room
into which they’d stepped was complete with colorful Axminster carpets,
Hepplewhite chairs, and a collection of paintings as impressive as those in the
gallery at Winterhaven before the Fourth Earl denuded it to finance his
addiction to the ivory turners.
Blessing
of all blessings, the aroma of fish had not permeated the walls of Caleb
Harcourt’s tasteful sanctum sanctorum . Instead, a spicy fragrance teased
Tristan’s grateful nostrils—the source of which was explained by a sign,
“Harcourt Fine Spices and Exotic Herbs,” at the foot of an open staircase
leading to the floor above. He pointed it out to Garth. “You were right.
Shipping is only one of Harcourt’s enterprises.”
At
least two dozen men, in identical dark coats and breeches, stood in small
groups about the room conversing in the hushed and nervous tones one might
expect of men awaiting an audience with the Regent at Carlton House. All
conversation instantly ceased when Tristan and Garth entered the room and
removed their high-crowned beavers. The reason was patently obvious. Though
their coats of fine marcella were drab and outdated by ton standards, next to these somberly clad men of the merchant class
they looked like two peacocks in a flock of barnyard geese.
The
door had barely closed behind them when a wizened little man, dressed all in
black with a bagwig on his thinning gray hair and what looked suspiciously like
house slippers on his feet, shuffled over to them. “My Lord Rand?” he inquired,
peering from Tristan to Garth over his wire-rimmed spectacles.
“I
am the Earl of Rand,” Garth said stiffly. “And this is my brother, Lord
Tristan.”
“Of
course. Ephriam Scruggs at your service, sirs.” The little man bent over in a
bow that threatened to land him flat on his face at their feet. Righting
himself, he declared, “The cap’n’s been waiting for you. Turned meaner’n a
snake when you wasn’t here an hour ago. I’ll just nip in and tell him you’ve
arrived.” Turning on his heel, he shuffled back across the room and disappeared
through a heavy oak door. Moments later he poked his head out and crooked his
finger at Garth and Tristan.
Garth’s
already ashen face blanched a shade whiter. “What kind of madhouse have we
stumbled into?” he whispered.
“Courage,
brother,” Tristan whispered back as they crossed the waiting room under the
scrutiny of dozens of watchful eyes. “I’ve a feeling the worst is yet to come.”
Caleb
Harcourt’s small private office was even more elegant than his anteroom, but
the giant of a man who stood behind the carved rosewood desk
JJ Carlson, George Bunescu, Sylvia Carlson