Blackmail and the Bride

  Blackmail and the Bride

  The Six Pearls of Baron Ridlington - Book 5

  Content © 2018 Sahara Kelly

  Cover © 2018 Sahara Kelly for

  P&N Graphics

  Acknowledgement

  It is almost impossible to write novels set in this time period without mentioning one of the most important events of the early 1800s—the Battle of Waterloo. It was a defining moment for both England and Europe, and changed the course of many lives. I am no expert on military tactics, nor do I understand a lot of the political influences at work during this time. However, there are many sources of reference for those who would like a better understanding of this massive military action.

  If you’re like me, and would prefer such information presented in a gentler way, then there is no better source than Georgette Heyer’s An Infamous Army and, to a lesser extent, The Spanish Bride. Miss Heyer’s research is extraordinary, and the details she includes are based on information from her massive library of over 1000 historical reference books.

  I feel myself obliged to thank Miss Heyer, not just for her amazing attention to historical details, but for writing so many wonderful romances that defined the genre, and enchanted me so many years ago. If not for her, you might not be reading this, or any Regency romances by me.

  Author’s Note

  The Bideford Witch trials, mentioned here, are factual. I have taken the liberty of adding one victim, for the purposes of the story, but in 1682 three women were placed on trial, accused of witchcraft, in Bideford, Devon. The proceedings took place at the Exeter Assizes and all three were found guilty. There are plenty of available references to this appalling event if you’d like to know more about it, but it was to be almost the last time anyone was tried and executed for the crime of witchcraft in England. Alice Molland’s death, three years later (also in Exeter), marked the end of the barbaric practice, at least publicly. A hundred years of persecution continued in Europe, however, as the last woman executed for that crime was beheaded in 1782.

  I’m sad to say that this horror still goes on in some countries, even today. But thankfully, the Bideford case pretty much brought such practices to an end in England.

  I have chosen North Devon as the setting for this novel, not because I’m intimately familiar with the area, but because my mother was born and raised there. As a child, my visits were few and far between, but I do recall the blue of the sky on a sunny day and the fresh scent of the forests. My hope is that they will never change. Any geographical inconsistencies are entirely my fault, so please overlook them, unless they’re truly awful, in which case I will immediately inform the County of Devon that I’ve taken dreadful liberties with their geography.

  THE ROYAL DECREE…

  “And in October, the year of Our Lord 1661, our Sovereign Monarch Charles II did award to the Barons of the Realm the Distinction of a Coronet. Such Attribute may now be included upon Crests, and Coats of Arms, according to the wishes of the Most Noble and Right Honorable Family. The Coronet shall be distinguished by Six Short Points, each featuring a round Ball at their tips, henceforth to be known as Pearls…”

  …AND THE RIDLINGTONS

  A Baron’s coronet is distinguished by its six points, which are known in heraldic terms as “pearls”. So it was fortuitously convenient that Jack Holbury, Baron of Ridlington, produced six offspring during his lifetime. It took three wives for him to get there, but at the birth of the sixth child, the Ton immediately dubbed his family “The Six Pearls of Baron Ridlington” and then promptly forgot about them.

  His first wife, Margaret, gave birth to Edmund, Simon and Letitia. They were followed by second wife Mary’s children, the twins Richard and Kitty, and the final addition—Hecate—was born to third wife Moira. The Baron outlived his wives by nearly two decades, ruling the Ridlington household with the iron hand of a stern father, while managing to almost completely ignore the unusual brood he had sired.

  Whether his children lived up to their sobriquet remains to be seen...

  Prologue

  Brussels, May 1815

  “Five thousand guineas, Mr. Ridlington.”

  “Impossible.” Richard stared across the shiny desk at the older man. “That’s utterly impossible. Why only this weekend, Farley swore to me the debts had been paid.”

  “Sir Kingston was in error,” came the quiet reply. “And he is now, unfortunately, unable to explain the matter to either of us, since he was found in an alley last night with a dagger in his throat.”

  Richard staggered, and caught himself on the back of a heavy chair as the world spun around him. “Jesus Christ.”

  “Has welcomed the poor chap home, we hope,” answered Lord Angleford, dryly. “But that does not alleviate our current problem.” Some small amount of sympathy crossed his face and he waved his hand at the chair. “Sit, man. Before you faint.”

  Doing as he was told, Richard sat, wondering if he might be forgiven for putting his head between his knees. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Right, then. Although you and Sir Kingston were most useful in obtaining travel arrangements for those in need, it has cost an enormous amount of money, which as of this moment could be used elsewhere. I understood that you and he were to put up half, and I—along with my other investors—would put up the other half.”

  “I did,” said Richard. “I put up my portion, and together with the other funds we purchased a suitable boat. The proceeds from the sale of which, along with the monies given to us by those who needed to leave Brussels without attention…would all be equitably divided. That was the arrangement.” He ran a hand through his hair, trying to focus, to concentrate on the disaster that had befallen him.

  “Did you obtain the passenger payments?”

  “Yes, of course. Those were all correct and the account books are completely up to date. The final tally exceeded what we’d hoped for.” Richard nodded. There had to be an answer to this mess somewhere.

  “And the boat?”

  “Sold on Saturday, again for a little more than we paid. Overall, we accumulated slightly more than a twenty percent profit, which pleased us both and met your recommendations.” He shook his head. “We helped those who desperately needed to leave but could not do so without attracting attention, as you know. We offered a decent and respectable passage to Antwerp, and berths on a ship from there. We did not charge more than was fair, nor did we impose fees or other tolls…” He knew others doing the same who had no hesitation in milking their passengers of every penny. But in Richard’s case, the clients were not ordinary folk; some had recognizable names, others held politically important positions. News of their departure would have caused trouble in a variety of vital circles; something that Angleford had impressed upon Richard and his business partner. Secrecy, he said, was the keyword, and Richard had kept their secrets as if they were his own.

  Lord Angleford leaned back. “So where is the money?”

  “Kingston was to put it in the bank—” Richard’s voice tapered off as the implications of his words slapped him hard. “The bank.” He half rose from his seat. “I should check with the bank…”

  “I already did. My secretary was there this morning first thing. Any funds in the account were withdrawn on Monday morning.” He sighed. “And I’m sorry to inform you that Farley signed the authorization.”

  “Kingston? He took it all out?”

  A nod confirmed Richard’s worst suspicion.

  “And I don’t suppose any money remained in his pockets?” It was a last ditch hope.

  “None.”

  Over the thudding of his heart, Richard looked across the table. “So if I understand all this correctly, every penny you and I and others invested in our e
nterprise has gone, along with the proceeds. Sometime between Sunday and yesterday—four days—Kingston took out every last penny for some unknown reason, and then last night got himself killed.” He gulped down the horror of it all. “Robbery perhaps?”

  Lord Angleford leaned forward and clasped his hands together on his desk. “That is one possibility. But did you know that your business partner had been steadily losing money at the tables on DeVrasseux street? That he was there every night this week, including last night, and that his debts were in excess of ten thousand francs?”

  “Oh my God,” groaned Richard. “I warned him. I really did.”

  “You are known as a skilled gamester yourself, sir,” observed Lord Angleford. “Have you debts?”

  “None that have not been paid in full.” Realizing the situation, Richard corrected himself. “Other than this matter, of course.”

  “I know this is all quite a shock, and had I the leisure to spend time evaluating the situation, I might be able to come up with a viable solution. But this is Brussels. We are on the verge of war. There is no time.” He leaned back. “So I must ask, Mr. Ridlington, how do you plan on settling up this debt? And when may I and my colleagues expect payment in full?”

  Chapter One

  The streets glittered as sunlight reflected from swords, epaulettes, buttons and all the other shiny accoutrements with which the military felt it appropriate to bedeck themselves.

  Richard Ridlington was nearly blinded several times as the sun hit a particularly bright sash worn by a Dragoon, riding with his fellows down the street. They twisted and turned around the carriages; a colorful river darting between rocks of black and brown.

  How could he describe it? There were no words.

  Because beneath the finery, the shine, the ripples of laughter and the music emanating from the small cafés that edged the road, something dark rumbled. War was imminent, and those Dragoons might soon find the lustre of their uniforms dulled by their own blood, or that of their comrades in arms.

  To Richard, strolling through the mêlée, it was as if the heart of Brussels beat twice; once with a light and rhythmic tap, and once with a deep and foreboding thud of fear.

  Napoleon’s forces drew ever nearer and the Duke of Wellington was already marshalling his troops. It was certain that a mighty battle would ensue, but as yet nobody knew when or where. Such matters were best left to the brilliant minds of the forces who would command that battle, and the others who advised and guided them.

  Richard saw the glances thrown his way, and let them bounce off him. He had not enlisted to fight for King and Country, the way many of his friends had rushed to do when the threat of invasion from France had hung over England’s head like the sword of Damocles. He’d waited, knowing he was ill-suited to commit himself to taking orders and living to someone else’s schedule. The concept of being part of a military campaign held no interest for him, and the mere thought of killing another man, enemy or not, sickened him.

  Did that make him a coward? He thought not. Did it make him uncomfortable? A little, especially around those men he knew well from his London seasons—his wenching friends, gambling partners, and those with whom he had shared more than a few adventures.

  He could not, of course, tell them that he worked hard on their behalf as an aide-de-camp to the Earl of Perrenporth. It was part of his war effort, it had brought him to Brussels in the Earl’s train, and was had a lot to do with the business of assisting unnamed persons to evacuate the city in a clandestine manner, although that had been his idea, not the Earl’s.

  His duty today was to make contact with a certain gentleman at the Jacinthe des Bois inn, retrieve a letter from him, and return to the Earl’s hotel. His appearance was an asset; as one of many British gentlemen presently in town he dressed correctly, but conservatively. Few would remember one fairly tall, dark-haired Englishman among such a brilliantly-hued crowd.

  The fact that he’d manage to dress himself at all was a miracle, considering he’d barely slept for worrying about the situation with Lord Angleford. Damn Kingston Farley for an idiot. A dead idiot, yes, and there were moments when Richard wished he could bring him back to life so that he could kill him all over again.

  They’d met in London, reconnected in Brussels, and when the chance to help the many families trying to leave the country, Richard had stepped up, offering his own funds to swell the pot. And it all been working smoothly for several months. Until now, when Farley had apparently gambled himself into a very deep hole.

  Richard’s hands clenched into fists. Yes, he’d most definitely kill the man all over again.

  But that accomplished nothing at all. Angleford had given him until the end of the week to come up with a solution, but he could have given Richard until the end of time and the result would be the same. There was no way whatsoever that five thousand guineas might fall into his lap in such a short time.

  The first problem was that this particular arrangement had been conducted in as much secrecy as possible. Even if he could, he would not reveal the names of those he’d helped smuggle out of Brussels.

  He’d used up most of his personal funds, and could not possibly write to London for more. Aunt Venetia had been incredibly generous to her sister’s children, setting both himself and Kitty up financially and changing their lives for the better. But he knew she’d draw the line at covering this kind of debt.

  He wondered if Edmund had sufficiently recovered the family estate to be able to stand him a loan. But then he realized that if he asked, Edmund would say yes and come up with the funds, even if he didn’t have them. Because that’s what families did for each other. He could almost hear Rosaline’s voice speaking those words.

  He could go to Paul, Viscount Hayward, Rosaline’s brother. Or he could go to Sir James FitzArden, Letitia’s husband. So he wasn’t totally without hope. But he doubted any of those people could get that much money across the channel and into Brussels by Friday. Besides, asking family for financial help in these circumstances…well, it simply wasn’t something he could countenance.

  No, he would feel himself beneath contempt for such an action. He would find another way out…he had to. There must be moneylenders in Brussels—of course the interest they charged would probably cripple him for the rest of his life. In addition, the current environment did not seem to encourage long term commitments.

  More and more troops poured in, and underneath the gaiety a city prepared for war. Some banks had closed, and Richard wished that his had been one of them. That would have kept Farley’s greedy hands off their little fortune.

  If all else failed, he could enlist. Put himself out there with his fellow compatriots, and hope that a stray bullet might take care of his problem. He’d be on the front lines, of course, because he didn’t have enough money to purchase a commission.

  But that was the defeatist in him talking. He pushed that thought deep and buried it, tamping down mental soil on top of it. There had to be a solution; all he had to do was find it, since the alternatives…well they were unthinkable.

  His destination lay in sight, and with some effort he pushed aside the entire matter and focused on his assignment, quietly entering the inn and closing the door behind him. At the back of the room, two men sat at a small table, mugs of ale beside them and a ring of pipe smoke above their heads.

  Since they were the only two men in there, Richard approached them without hesitation. He felt their gazes watching him as he crossed the room.

  “Bonjour, messieurs. Je suis Monsieur Jean. Je cherche Monsieur Jacques?” It wasn’t very original, but Jack and John served just about every nationality in one form or another. Especially for those seeking anonymity.

  “C’est moi.” The man with the tattered hat spoke, his voice thick and rough.

  “Les jacinthes sentent bon aujourd’hui.” His fluency in French stood Richard in good stead. He was able to stand in a dingy inn, in Brussels, and talk about the scent of bluebells without fumblin
g for words. Or having to spend hours memorizing the phrase that would identify him as Monsieur Jean’s contact.

  “Ah, oui.” The response was short and sweet, and from his inside pocket the man withdrew a grubby envelope, passing it to Richard.

  “Merci.” He kept his voice low as well. “Au revoir et bonne chance.”

  Leaving the inn, Richard wondered how apropos his parting words might be. Good luck? Yes, probably everyone in Brussels was going to need some of that in the days to come. As for himself, well…his battle was already underway and he had until Friday to triumph.

  Or things would certainly get very nasty, very nasty indeed.

  *~~*~~*

  The Earl of Perrenporth looked exactly as one might imagine; perfectly groomed silver hair, an elegant air, and creases on his face that spoke of many happy years.

  Beneath his august and charming exterior was a mind sharper than any sword, and a determination that would have made a bulldog look like a newborn lamb.

  Richard had learned rapidly never to underestimate the Earl, no matter how casual their conversations. So he entered the Earl’s study with the usual amount of trepidation.

  “Ah, good. Ridlington. Just the man I wanted to see.” The Earl rose with a smile.

  Richard bowed. “I have a delivery for you, my Lord.” He withdrew the envelope he’d received earlier and passed it across the desk.

  “Excellent, excellent.” The Earl sat returned to his seat, reached for a small sharp dagger, and neatly slit his way past the seal. Opening the letter, he read for a few moments, nodded, and refolded the paper. “Just the news I’d hoped for. Thank you, Mr. Ridlington. You have done a great service this afternoon.”

  “I am honored, sir.” Richard took a small relieved breath. “There were no problems or observers as near as I could tell. It’s getting rather chaotic out there now, so I doubt I was remarked in any way.” He glanced from the window, noting that even here, tucked away from the main thoroughfares, there was a muted rumble making its way through the air.