LITMIR.BIZ

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gave a brittle laugh. ‘Mining gold, I suppose. What is the name of the signatory on that document?’

      He consulted the paper. ‘Michael O’Keefe.’

      ‘That sounds Irish. Do you know anything about him?’

      ‘Nothing at all, Miss Chalmers. It might not even be his real name.’

      ‘And where is the office of this company?’

      He looked at the papers again. ‘The only address I have is the Nag’s Head, Covent Garden. It is unlikely to be a bona fide address. I advised Sir Joshua against investing, but he would not listen.’

      ‘I cannot believe my father would be so gullible. The whole thing is decidedly smoky.’

      ‘So I told him.’ He paused. ‘Miss Chalmers, what are you intending to do?’

      ‘I do not know yet.’

      ‘Do nothing, I beg you. You surely have enough to occupy you, ordering your affairs before moving out of Holles Street.’

      The meeting of the Piccadilly Gentlemen’s Club at Lord Trentham’s London mansion was drawing to a close. It was no ordinary drinking and gaming club, but one dedicated exclusively to the tracking down of criminals and bringing them to justice. Officially designated the ‘Society for the Discovery and Apprehending of Criminals’, its members were all high enough in the instep not to require paying for their services. Not for them the taking of bribes as other thieftakers were known to do; they did it for the love of adventure and to make the country a safer place for its inhabitants.

      Set up ten years before by Lord Drymore, then simply Captain James Drymore, its other members were Viscount Jonathan Leinster; Harry, Lord Portman; Sir Ashley Saunders; Captain Alexander Carstairs and Sam Roker, James Drymore’s servant and friend. Each had their own area of expertise, but this year they were especially concerned that the wedding of George III to Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz on 8 September, and their coronation two weeks later, should not be marred by more crime than usual. They were, among other matters, on the look out for pickpockets and criminal gangs who might be planning to take advantage of the crowds come to witness the processions and take part in the celebrations afterwards.

      Harry’s particular interest was in counterfeit money and he had been instrumental in bringing several gangs before the courts. But there were always more to take their place and what better opportunity for passing counterfeit coins could there be than among the crowds flocking to see the processions? He was indefatigable in pursuit of these types of criminals, though you would never think so to look at him. He wore a full-skirted coat of amber silk embroidered with gold thread. Lace flounces fell over his hands from the wide cuffs. His embroidered waistcoat had a long row of pearl buttons from the neck right down to his knees, though only half of them were meant to be fastened. His cravat was starched and frilled within an inch of its life and his breeches and stockings were white, tied at the knee with yellow ribbons. His pose was relaxed, the long fingers of his left hand, loaded with rings, lay idly on the table. The other fingered his quizzing glass on its ribbon about his neck. To anyone who did not know him, he was a macaroni of the first water.

      ‘I’m off to the Old Bailey,’ he said, when the business of the day was concluded and everyone was preparing to leave. ‘The Dustin Gang are on trial and I would know the outcome.’

      He picked up his tall hat from the floor at his side and stood up. The high red heels of his shoes and the height of his white wig made him seem at least six inches taller, even though, at five feet eleven, he was by no means short. Most men of his acquaintance found it more comfortable to shave their heads for wearing a wig, but as he often needed to go out and about without one, he put up with the discomfort to appear the fop. The real Harry Portman was a person very few people knew.

      ‘Are you to give evidence?’ Jonathan asked.

      ‘No, don’t want to blow my cover, do I? Do you fancy coming with me?’

      ‘No, Louise is expecting me home.’

      ‘I will come,’ Ashley said.

      They left together and a greater contrast between two men would be hard to find. Ashley’s clothes were muted in colour, though they were superbly tailored and he wore his own dark hair tied back in a queue. Unlike Harry, whose face was powdered and patched, Ashley’s was tanned and rugged. But appearances were deceptive because they were equally athletic, equally observant and sharp-witted, able to react swiftly to any given situation. It was simply that it amused Harry to play the fop.

      At first his dandified mannerisms had been a front to disguise his deep hurt and the terrible guilt he felt over the death of his wife six years before, but then he found it useful when pursuing criminals. Seeing him mincing along in his fine clothes, they thought he was a fool and it pleased him to let them think it. Naturally the members of the Piccadilly Gentlemen’s Club knew better.

      ‘How did you bring the Dustin Gang to book?’ Ash asked, as they emerged on to the street and looked about them for chairs for hire. The road was busy, but they could see no chairs and so began to walk, or rather Ashley walked and Harry picked his way daintily between the dirt and puddles.

      ‘By becoming one of them.’

      Ashley laughed. ‘You! Why, you would stand out a mile. I cannot believe they were taken in.’

      ‘Oh, I can be one of the great unwashed when it suits me, Ash.’

      ‘I believe you, though many would not.’

      ‘That is as it should be. My long association with the theatre has stood me in good stead when it comes to putting on a disguise and acting a part. I do believe if I had pursued it, I could have become as famous as David Garrick.’

      ‘Why did you not?’

      ‘The responsibilities of an estate, dear boy. I came into my inheritance when my father died in ’53, and it behooved me to marry and settle down to bring forth the next generation of Portmans.’

      ‘I did not realise you were married and had a family.’

      ‘I was married less than a year. My wife died giving birth to a daughter.’

      ‘I am sorry, Harry, I did not mean to pry. I always assumed you were a confirmed bachelor as I am.’

      ‘It is no secret. I simply do not talk about it. Beth was too young, barely seventeen. No one had told her what to expect and she did not understand what was happening to her when her pains began.’ He paused, remembering her screams which went on and on and the strident way she had cursed him. ‘God will punish you for this!’ Her words were punctuated with screams of pain. Feeling helpless and unable to stand any more of it, he had gone out to walk about the garden until it was all over. He should have been with her to comfort her, but no, men had no business anywhere near childbirth and he would be told when he could come in. Why had he not insisted?

      Instead they had called him in to look at her pale, dead body. It had been washed of blood, but a heap of linen thrown in the corner was saturated with it. He tried not to look, but his eyes were drawn to it in horror. He had not wanted to know his lustily yelling daughter and had packed her off to a wet nurse and after that to a foster mother. She wanted for nothing, but that did not make him feel any less guilty about it. ‘No woman, let alone one so young, should be asked to give up her life to gratify a man’s need for an heir,’ he told Ash.

      ‘You are being too harsh on yourself, Harry. You could not have known what would happen and next time it will surely be plain sailing.’

      ‘There will not be a next time. How can I put anyone, particularly someone for whom I have the tenderest feelings, through that torture?’

      ‘Women do have a choice, my friend, to marry or not to marry, and most, if you ask them, would certainly say they want to be married and have children. It is their lot in life and they know it.’

      ‘You are a fine one to talk,’ Harry said. ‘A bachelor of, how old?’

      ‘Thirty-two.

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