The Wrong Mr. Wright Read online

  The Wrong Mr. Wright

  Patricia Bray

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 2002 by Patricia Bray

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email [email protected]

  First Diversion Books edition February 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-618-3

  Also by Patricia Bray

  A Most Suitable Duchess

  An Unlikely Alliance

  Lord Freddie’s First Love

  The Irish Earl

  One

  If one were to stroll down St. James Street, past the fashionable shops and well-known clubs, eventually one would come to an unremarkable red-brick building. The ground floor was occupied by a bookseller, whose merchandise often spilled out of the store onto trestle tables which partially blocked the sidewalk. If one were to walk past the overflowing tables and turn into the small alley on the left-hand side of the building, he would find a plain wooden door with a brass knocker. There was no sign on the door, since none was needed. Those personages who ventured this far knew that this door was the entrance to the Explorers’ Society, one of the least known and most select of London’s Gentlemen’s clubs.

  The Explorers’ Society occupied the top three stories of the building. As clubs went, it was unremarkable. There was no bay window from which to pontificate, no gaming room where deep play was held nightly. It owed no allegiance to either political faction, nor did its members routinely make or break social reputations.

  The appeal of the Explorers’ Society was in its disdain for all things fashionable. Those who were allowed to join were asked to observe three simple rules. It was never permissible to discuss politics or religion upon the premises. Gambling at cards for small stakes was permitted, but there was no betting book, nor games of chance. And quarreling publicly with another member was grounds for immediate expulsion.

  In return, the club provided excellent dinners, a decent wine cellar, and a haven for like-minded gentlemen to retreat from the pressures of London society. And, from time to time, in a nod to the reason why the club was originally founded, the members would get together to finance some brave soul who wished to explore the unknown territories of the Earth. These hardy explorers were seldom heard from again, which was why the membership confined its own explorations to the reading of books and magazines.

  Stephen Wright, the Viscount of Endicott, had inherited his father’s membership in the club, along with his title. In the years since he had reached his majority, he had come to appreciate the club as the one place where he could retreat from the cares of the world and his own responsibilities. At least for a few hours.

  Often he came here when he was worried, but today he was in a positively cheerful mood as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his long legs in front of him. In one hand he held a newly purchased account of the exploration of the Amazon River, while in the other he held a glass of excellent French brandy. A small decanter stood on the table beside him.

  He opened the book and began to read. He was halfway through the first chapter, where the author was still recounting the lengthy preparations he had made for his journey. Two dozen crates of lemons and limes to prevent scurvy seemed a bit excessive, Stephen mused. Personally he would be more worried about preparing for attacks from wild creatures or the savage tribes who were said to live along the shores of that great river.

  “Stephen, I am glad I found you,” Anthony Dunne said as he took the seat opposite.

  Lord Endicott looked up from his book. Anthony Dunne was a friend from Cambridge and normally a boon companion. But today his face held an unusually grim expression.

  “Tony, what is it?”

  “I need to speak to you.”

  Stephen used a ribbon to mark his place and then set the book aside.

  “Are you well? Is there something wrong?”

  “It is not me.”

  “Then, is it Elizabeth? Young John? Your mother?”

  “Elizabeth sends her regards, and she and John are in excellent health,” Tony said. He paused to rub his forehead with his right hand, a sure sign of agitation. “It is your family that we need to discuss. Your brother, actually.”

  Stephen breathed a sigh of relief, glad that there was nothing wrong with his friend’s family. Indeed, Tony’s wife, Elizabeth, was as close to him as a sister, and their five-year-old son, John, was his godson.

  And troubles involving his own brother George, while occasionally distressing, were nothing new.

  “You might as well tell me what it is,” Stephen said, when Tony showed no signs of speaking. “Though I am certain it is not as serious as you make it out. After all, have you not heard the news? My brother has done us all a great favor. He and some friends left England yesterday, off to join the throng in Belgium, hoping to witness Napoleon’s final defeat. From there they intend to tour the Continent. With luck they will be gone a year or more and can make fools of themselves in some foreign land.”

  In fact, Stephen had been celebrating that very news. Tranquil months stretched before him, with nothing to do but to attend to his own well-regulated affairs. No upsets, no scandals, no frantic pleas from his stepmother to rescue her son from the consequences of his own follies. No creditors asking for payment of George’s bills, no irate fathers accusing George of fleecing their sons at the gaming tables.

  No wincing when he opened the newspaper, afraid to see his brother’s name linked to the latest scandal.

  For such had been Stephen’s lot in life these last four years, ever since George had made his appearance in London society, at the ripe age of seventeen. And in that time he had become very fond of the sanctuary of this club. The Explorers’ Society was one of the few places in London where he could go and not expect to be confronted by news of his brother’s latest peccadilloes.

  Until today, that was. Now his brother’s transgressions had intruded upon the peace he had found here.

  “I think I know why George left,” Tony said, giving him a look of sympathy that made Stephen tighten his grip on his brandy glass.

  Stephen nodded. “Go on.”

  “It seems there was an incident. An incident involving a young lady of quality.”

  Tony paused a moment to let the implications sink in.

  “Let me guess. The girl was ruined?” Stephen asked. He was proud of how steady his voice sounded, since he wanted to scream.

  “Yes,” Tony said. “Well, that is her reputation is ruined for certain. Whether your brother took more than a few casual liberties is—”

  “Is not a matter I care to consider,” Stephen said.

  He had known George was reckless. Headstrong. Heedless of consequences. In the four years that George had been on the town, he had gone from one mishap to another. He had acquired a reputation as a rake, but never had he trifled with an innocent. Never had he crossed that final line that would put him beyond the pale of polite society.

  Never until now.

  “Her name is Miss Somerville. Her family is from Kent, and her reputation was unblemished until the night of Lady Payton’s ball, when she disappeared from the ball with George and his friends. She returned home the next afternoon.”

  “And how do yo
u know this?”

  “Merely by happenstance. Elizabeth’s dresser has a cousin who was employed as Miss Somerville’s maid. When Miss Somerville disgraced herself, the father fired the poor girl. I suppose he had to have someone to blame. The dresser asked Elizabeth if she could find a place in our house for the maid and explained the circumstances. And so Elizabeth told me.”

  “And you came to tell me,” Stephen said.

  “Yes. I knew you would want to know. It is not yet common gossip in society. But in time I knew the story would come to your ears and thought you should hear it from a friend.”

  “I would rather have heard it from my brother. Or at least his side of it,” Stephen said. But that was an old complaint. His brother never spoke to him, unless it was to request an advance against his allowance or to sneer at Stephen’s unfashionable tastes and pursuits.

  “George may, indeed, have an explanation. It could be that the gossip has wronged him,” Tony said. But his face indicated that he did not believe his own words.

  “Or the gossip may be true, in which case my brother has wronged an innocent,” Stephen countered. “I owe it to myself to find out the truth.”

  “And then?”

  “And then we will see,” he said.

  It took Stephen two days to piece the story together, a task made all the harder because he did not generally mingle in society, and his presence now would only serve to add fuel to whatever gossip was already brewing. George was the social one of the family, whose presence could be counted on at every significant event of the season, unless, of course, his circumstances had forced him to rusticate in the country until he could wheedle another advance on his allowance from his doting mother or disapproving elder brother.

  Stephen, by contrast, preferred the company of his friends, or places such as the club, where he could be certain of intelligent conversation. He was not a hermit, precisely, but left to his own devices he would far rather enjoy a quiet dinner at the Explorers’ club than endure the crush of some rout or public ball.

  However, his years of experience in dealing with his brother’s troubles stood him in good stead. A morning call upon Lady Jersey gained him confirmation that Miss Somerville had left London in suspicious haste, having disgraced herself in some fashion. Though when pressed, Lady Jersey confessed that she did not know the details of the young lady’s disgrace, Miss Somerville being too insignificant a personage to be thought worthy of her attention.

  That night he spent going from one gaming hell to another in search of one of George’s friends who might be able to provide information. He found a handful of young wastrels who admitted knowing his brother, but all denied any knowledge of his recent activities. Indeed, two had the impertinence to press him for payments of debts that George owed, something Stephen refused with a simple lift of one eyebrow. It was well known that George habitually outran his allowance, and if these fools had chosen to gamble with him, well, that was their own misfortune.

  The next afternoon he went to White’s Club in search of Mr. Arthur Fox, one of George’s closest friends. Stephen had met him on several occasions this past winter, always in the company of his brother, George. Like George, Arthur Fox was a younger son who had chosen a life of idleness and dissipation. He played heavily at the gaming tables, relying upon his indulgent father to settle his debts. But unlike Stephen’s other cronies, Arthur Fox had stayed in London rather than traveling to the Continent.

  As Stephen entered the gaming room, he saw Arthur Fox bite his lip in concentration as he stared at the cards in his hand. There was a small pile of chips next to his left elbow, and a large glass of wine sat in front of him.

  The pile of chips in front of his opponent was much larger.

  “Well, young Fox, what is it to be?” Sir Maurice Howland asked, impatiently drumming the fingers of his left hand on the table.

  “Mr. Fox chooses to fold,” Stephen said.

  Arthur Fox looked up. “But, Lord Endicott—”

  “I say, you cannot do that,” Sir Maurice Howland declared, sticking his chin out belligerently. “Not done at all.”

  “Mr. Fox chooses to fold,” Stephen repeated. “He has a prior engagement with me, do you not?”

  He caught and held Arthur Fox’s gaze, until the young man gulped and nodded.

  “Yes, sir. That is, Sir Maurice, if you would permit—” Arthur Fox stammered.

  “I am sure as a gentleman you understand these matters,” Stephen said, addressing Sir Maurice Howland. It would take all afternoon if he allowed Arthur Fox to try and make his own excuses. “This will not take long. Should you wish to wait, I am certain Mr. Fox would be happy to return to this table, and to give you opportunity to strip the last of his pocket money from him.”

  The tip of Sir Maurice’s ears turned bright red, though whether it was from anger or shame, Stephen did not know.

  “There are plenty of gentlemen here who would be honored to sit at my table,” Sir Maurice said.

  “Of that I have no doubt,” Stephen replied. Indeed, an unholy passion for gambling in all forms was practically a requirement for membership in this club.

  “Come now, Mr. Fox, and let us go somewhere we can speak privately,” Stephen said.

  Though he was not a member, his title and reputation, not to mention the gold coins he had pressed in the footman’s hand, had secured Stephen the use of a small anteroom. The footman bowed them into the room, and as the door shut behind them, Arthur Fox flinched.

  “Sit,” Stephen said. “I won’t bite you.”

  Arthur Fox did as he was told, looking far younger than the twenty years of age he claimed to hold. Stephen, who was approaching thirty, felt positively ancient when he looked at this wet-behind-the-ears cub.

  “It is about the bet, is it not?” Arthur Fox asked, leaning forward slightly and clasping his hands nervously.

  Stephen was confused, but decided to play along. “What makes you say that?”

  “I did not do anything,” Arthur Fox said. “I mean I was there when we made the wager. We all were. But I was drunk at the time. Once I sobered up, I knew I could never go through with it. I mean, I have sisters of my own, you see?”

  “But the others decided to see the bet through.”

  Arthur Fox nodded. “George, Frank Patterson, and Harry Driscoll agreed to go forward. When I refused, they called me a flat, a hen-hearted milksop. I told them it was wrong, but they would not listen.”

  “And George won the bet?” Stephen asked.

  He wondered what the precise terms of the bet had been.

  “Yes. He picked that chit who was making cow eyes at him. Took her to some inn, then the next morning sent her back to her parents, as calm as you please. He brought some kind of proof, to show he had won. I wouldn’t look at it, but I think the others did.”

  Stephen felt a slow rage begin to build in him. This was even worse than he had feared. If Arthur Fox was to be believed, the girl was not simply disgraced; she had been ruined. “And it did not occur to you to warn this girl? To warn her family?”

  “I did not think he would actually do it,” Arthur Fox said.

  Stephen stared at him in disgust. The young whelp had the audacity to look miserable, when he was as much to blame for this mess as any of them. Too honorable to go through with the wager, but too fainthearted to warn the young women that they were being stalked as prizes in some twisted game.

  “And if it had been your own sister? What would you say to a man who had known of a scheme to ruin her, but chose to keep his silence?”

  Arthur Fox’s face turned white, but his voice was steady as he replied. “I would despise him for a coward,” he declared.

  Stephen looked at him hard, and Arthur Fox bore his gaze steadily. There was more backbone here than he had thought. Perhaps there was still time for Arthur Fox to mend his ways.

  “Take a good look at yourself and decide if this is the kind of gentleman you wish to be,” Stephen advised. “London is ful
l of bad influences, my brother among them. If I were you, I would leave the distractions of London and not return until I was certain I could return as my own man.”

  “You are neither my brother nor my father,” Arthur Fox said with a trace of his earlier defiance.

  “For that I am grateful,” he said. “Tell me one more thing and I will set you free, to find your own ruin if you must. The lady in question, she was Miss Somerville, was she not?”

  “I believe so. George called her Diana, if that helps.”

  “Indeed, it does.” Stephen rose from his seat. He had a sudden urge to leave this place and its unwelcome revelations far behind him. “I advise you not to speak of this to anyone else. Miss Somerville’s reputation has been damaged enough; there is no need for you to add your share.”

  “Of course not,” Arthur Fox said. “You have my word.”

  For whatever his word was worth. Still, there was no point in quarreling, so with a curt nod, Stephen bade him farewell and then made his escape from White’s.

  It was not till later, when he reached the privacy of his own rooms, that he allowed himself to think through the implications of what Arthur Fox had said.

  It was no wonder George had fled to the Continent. He had been wise to fear Stephen’s wrath. George’s earlier scandals had been excused as the result of high spirits or reckless immaturity, his conduct no worse than many a young blade who frequented London society.

  But now George had gone beyond mere indiscretion. This time he had deliberately set out to hurt another human being—to cause harm—in pursuit of an obscene wager.

  Even now, no doubt Miss Somerville was mourning the ruins of her reputation, the loss of her maidenhead, and with it any hopes for a decent marriage. He could picture her quite clearly in his mind. Petite, with blond hair and blue eyes now swollen and red rimmed with crying.

  Destroying an innocent was the act of a monster. If he had been able to lay his hands upon George, he would have beaten him to within an inch of his life.