Chapter 24

Bollington House, London

Lord Neston had always been an irritable traveller, but he entered Bollington House in a greater state of pique than ever before: dusty from the road, exhausted from the pace he had taken to return to London as quickly as it could be done, and angry in his embarrassment. Papa was in his study as usual, languidly sipping a brandy before the fire, a book in his lap. He looked up.

"Alexander. I did not expect you back so soon. I will presume by your expression that the verdict was not guilty."

"Yes, and now all of these things have been made public about me!" Neston exclaimed, flinging one of the trial transcripts towards his father. It caught the air and turned back towards Neston, fluttering to the carpet just before his feet.

"I told you that would happen, and still you insisted on going through with it."

Neston loathed how calm his father could be, at such a time as this. "I will still have my revenge. I did not get it in court, but I will take it when I claim what we have sought all these years."

"Your plan to achieve that relied on the Darcys being transported so you could gain easier access to the house. Perhaps you should just let it rest at this point, Alexander."

"I have another plan, to access the house. My – paramour – is part of the house party. When I inform her it is time for a liaison, she will give me access to her bedchamber, and from there, the rest of the house."

"What makes you think you will be able to find it in one night, when you had days, before, in which to search?"

"I intend to recruit someone to help me," Lord Neston said. "Someone who knows the house better than I do."

He took leave of his father and began his hunt. Neston was not the sort of man to frequent the gaming hells and brothels he expected to find his quarry in, but was acquainted with enough of that part of male society to know where to look. He tried the gaming hells first, which was unfortunate, for when he finally ran Viscount Ashbourne to ground it was in one of the more tawdry brothels, run by one of those madames who thought that if she and her girls pretended to be French, it somehow made up for the cheap, shabby feel of the house. Neston tried to keep his dislike from his countenance. At least at the beginning of his visit, he needed to seem as though he was there to patronise the establishment.

Ashbourne was lounging on the sofa in Madame LaCroix's drawing-room in the posture of a man who had already known a round or two with some former dairy maid now called Marguerite or Suzette. They acknowledged each other as Neston entered, sitting near enough for politeness but not so close as to seem eager. Madame served him a glass of rotgut brandy and Neston endeavoured to sip it as though it did not make him wish to spit it out on madame's soiled carpet.

"Good evening, Ashbourne."

"Nothing much good about any evening, these days."

Neston chuckled darkly. "I would agree with that. I've had a couple of bad days, myself."

"I had someone fail – twice – to complete the very simple assignment I gave to him."

"There is nothing worse than incompetent servants, is there?"

"Truer words have never been spoken."

Ashbourne flung out his brandy glass, and Neston dutifully clinked it. He hated men like Ashbourne (and he knew many of them), the lazy, indolent eldest sons who ranged about town, making it a contest to see who could waste the most money. But Neston could not very well have gotten about in the society of his own generation without having learned how to speak to them, how to gain their good graces. He would use everything he knew on Ashbourne now, starting with ordering another round of madame's brandy.

"I was thinking of going to Mrs. Lowestoft's later," Neston said, naming the gaming hell Ashbourne's set loved best. "Shall I see you there?"

"Nay," grumbled Ashbourne, swigging his brandy. "Bit underwater at present, and my father's been damned tight about money lately."

"Ah, I have been there myself," Neston lied. "Lady Faro can be a cruel mistress. Any options, for getting the blunt?"

"No – tried to marry my cousin, but my aunt got in the way. And there's no hope of getting it from my father, or Darcy – oh – sorry – shouldn't have mentioned Darcy to you – forgot about all that."

"Do not worry yourself over it. In truth I am grateful for my escape."

"Ha! You know I never liked the lot of them. Darcy in particular – too sanctimonious."

Neston forced a laugh through his lips. "Quite right! What do you say we dine together? There is a chop house around the corner – very discreet – you need not worry about seeing anyone you owe a debt of honour to there. I think I might have an opportunity for you to restore your funds."

Ashbourne responded eagerly, Neston gave madame more than enough money to pay for the flesh and brandy consumed by the viscount, and they made their way to the chophouse. It had a finer interior than should be expected of the exterior, although it could not be told whether it was clean, so dim it was inside. This suited the both of them well, as did the private, high-backed booth they claimed. Ashbourne was much pleased by the quantities of port and brandy his dining-partner ordered, and availed himself of them liberally. Neston felt he had the viscount well enough snared at this point, but still he intended to proceed delicately – Ashbourne was plainly unhappy with his familial relations, but that did not mean he was ready to betray them. But then Ashbourne gulped at his brandy and murmured,

"Now what's this you say about restoring my funds?"

Neston schooled his body into a calm coolness, forcing himself to set aside the deep, unshakable need for revenge that had been a part of him ever since he had heard the tale from his grandfather of the South Sea Bubble, of the fourth Viscount Bollington and Mr. Darcy.

"There is a treasure, hidden at Pemberley."

"What – what sort of treasure? How much are we talking about?"

"Fifty thousand pounds at least, I am given to understand. I believe in coins, although I am not entirely certain." Ashbourne's eyes widened, a portrait of drunken, voluptuous greed. Neston felt certain he had his quarry bagged. "A very tidy sum, split between the two of us. I must presume you know Pemberley fairly well."

"Visited there every year when I was a boy, either for the summer or during Christmas."

"It would require delicacy, but if you disposed of your portion carefully, no one would ever know it was you. Indeed if we are careful about it, no one would ever know we were in the house at all. Do you have any thoughts, on where a treasure might be hidden?"

"I do, but if you are willing to bring in a third, I know a man who grew up at Pemberley, and I am sure he would be willing to participate. We would be sure to find it, with him."

"This is not the man who failed twice, is it?"

"Nay, t'was my tiger, who failed. I've half a mind to fire him, but I'm not likely to find another who can handle my bays so well," said Ashbourne. "I daresay Wickham would have succeeded, if I had approached him with the task – I should have. He's a good fellow – been used abominably by the Darcys."

"Well, then I think I would like to meet him," Neston stated, a genuine smile spreading across his countenance.