The Missing Diamond – Digitally Signed Paperback

The sun was setting in Mayfair, and the lamplighters were already abroad, working to combat the growing shadows on Grosvenor Street. The two men riding on horseback drew some curious looks as they passed. Some might attribute it to their military dress. More likely, it was rather because the two men of such clearly unequal stations were committing the faux pas of riding side by side.

“You do not have to come with me,” Roland Percy said irritably to Thorne. He held himself with the stiffness of someone who was too drunk to be astride without the risk of falling off. Fortunately, Arion was a warhorse and steady as a rock, despite his master’s condition. “You are a valet, not my nursemaid.”

“With you as you are?” Thorne replied evenly. “I would be a dunce if I did not. You do not have to go out tonight. You are in your cups already, and you set such a pace to London that we arrived days before our own luggage will. I expect the dandies of the ton can wait until tomorrow.”

Indeed, Roland Percy, now Earl Percy, had only arrived in London this very afternoon. By evening, he already found the walls of the townhouse too stifling to bear. After a decade of service, commissioned officer though he had been, the townhouse felt more like a shrine to vanity and debauchery than a home.

It had been his father’s townhouse. Rather, it had been the entailed property Thaddius had maintained as his principal residence in London. The duke had allowed Roland to occupy the property now in his late father’s stead—and use or dispose of his father’s belongings there however he saw fit, by the by.

The drapes were bold, the furniture and ornamentation chaotic. It had given Roland an instant headache, and he wanted to do away with the lot. Come daybreak, he would get Thorne to get rid of all he could and hide whatever he could not.

All the house had to commend it was a very well-stocked wine cellar. Roland had promptly—and perhaps unwisely—used it to fortify his wits following the trip. After most of a bottle of Port, it somehow seemed the more intelligent choice to head to White’s rather than go straight to bed. Then, upon considering the fact that he would reintroduce himself to the ton, he decided that he couldn't bear to undertake the journey as sober as he was. He had finished the bottle and part of another.

“Come. We can ride and take the air, then head back to the house,” Thorne coaxed when Roland did not immediately reply. Roland’s drunken state was as uncharacteristic as the length of this latest black mood. Clearly, his employer was more troubled than he had ever been.

The letter from the duke had found them at their winter camp near Ciudad Rodrigo. Their location was the result of months of frustrating withdrawals to a defensible location following the misbegotten siege of Burgos. Roland had seemed disgruntled at being torn between two duties. Abandoning the line at such a crucial moment had likely felt nearly a dereliction, but of course, the family had to take precedence.

If he had seemed sombre from Portugal all the way to Northumberland, the next trip south to London was worse. Thorne knew only that Roland had been ordered to join the season and that he should endeavour to be married before the end of it. Thorne did not know, not exactly, what else The Breaker had said to Roland. Roland would not speak of it, but it weighed heavily upon him.

“This—all this,” Roland waved his hand vaguely toward Grosvenor Square and the surrounding houses, “it is nothing but another mission. We must review the enemy's posture and put our backs to forming a strategy. The season begins this week, and there is no time to be wasted.”

“The enemy?” Thorne repeated, brushing his forelock back from his face so that he could give his master a long, sideways look with his faded blue eyes. “What a curious way for the duke’s new heir to describe his fellow nobles.”

“More curious than the fact that my valet is escorting me to my club? More than the fact that I allow you, lowly individual that you are, to speak to me in such an inappropriate fashion?” was Roland’s droll reply, meeting the blue eyes with his own dark brown ones.

Thorne grinned, knowing it for a fair strike and that there was no insult in it. There was too much history between them. Roland had applied to his grandfather over a decade ago, at age seventeen, to buy a commission and the ability to leave his family estate. Thorne had gone with him, enrolling in service and serving as his batman and personal protection on the battlefront. Upon Roland's recall to England by his grandfather, Thorne also accompanied him, ready to fulfil any role needed by his employer.

They were of the same age, and both had dark hair of similar shades, though Roland’s parted left instead of Thorne’s middle part. Amusingly, they had been often mistaken for one another from a distance, especially when in uniform. Simply put, Roland had grown to respect and trust Thorne more than any other man in his life. There were debts of honour between them, and Thorne had earned the privilege of speaking to Roland plainly a hundred times over.

"If we are off to meet the enemy in battle, then at least you have dressed for the occasion," Thorne said, nodding at Roland's service uniform—the only fit clothes he had. Thorne himself was wearing one of his two sets of civilian clothes, but Roland had been dismayed to note how worn his man’s clothes were growing.

He should have noticed sooner, if for no other reason than because Thorne would never complain of such things. The state of both of their wardrobes was another urgent matter and part of his haste to get to London. Another thing to attend. Tomorrow. He exhaled.

Thorne understood where Roland’s thoughts were immediately. “Yes, there is much to do, but again, none of it is so pressing that it cannot wait until after a trip to St. James’.”

“I cannot stand to sit on my hands,” Roland muttered. “It is too late today to attend to the hundred other things that urgently require my attention, but at least I can take action in this. Besides, my grandfather seemed rather adamant that I had been gone from society too long. So, what better place to dip my feet into the waters to check for sharks before fishing for a bride?”

“Fishing for sharks with your feet is one thing, my lord, but there are better places to learn what bait might catch a woman.”

Nettled, Roland’s head whipped in Thorne’s direction. “Bait? I am now heir to the duke of Northumberland. What more do you believe I need to dangle to woo a woman? I will have ambitious mamas and simpering debutantes clinging to my breeches like nettles, as it is.”

Thorne wisely said no more, since Roland was not in the state of mind to hear it. Also, they were now within earshot of the club’s footmen, and if he tried to argue with his employer, there would be whispers and looks. Nodding his head to Roland, Thorne continued on his way back to the house.

* * *

Forget the sharks, Roland thought. The scene at White’s was more akin to a cockfight. Though bloodless, it had just as much chest-puffing and strutting as one, at any rate. The fighting was subtle, prone to sharp words instead of claws, but still vicious.

Roland had sobered up—somewhat—on the ride to the club, but the gentlemen he became acquainted with soon rectified that issue. The flow of brandy quickly drowned and silenced whatever small part of him knew it was unwise to keep drinking.

It began innocently enough, with toasts. Drinking to his return to London, to his health, to future victories on the battlefront against the scourge Napoleon, to his late father, and to the future in store. He had begun by sipping politely at every toast, but his snifter kept being topped.

“Our dear Percy is nigh half-seas over,” an old acquaintance, Lord Barbour, claimed in amusement.

Roland straightened his slumping posture. “I am not,” he spoke firmly, if rather slowly. “And if I were, it would be your fault.”

The men laughed in agreement, amused by his lack of control. Some laughs were more polite than others. There would be whispers. Aspersions cast. Roland could not bring himself to care; this pageant of noble behaviour was a farce. There was nothing gentle about the gentlemen of high society.

“So, you are off to the market this season,” grumbled a young gentleman by the name of Lord Henry. “Lord Percy shall leave crumbs for the rest of us, eh?”

Lord Barbour, who had long been firmly espoused, took pleasure in teasing the young popinjay. “There shall be plenty of lesser women to choose from, Lord Henry. Remember, Percy here can only wed one! Perhaps he has a specific quality in mind, like blonde hair or a lovely singing voice. All you must do then is choose from the types he does not prefer.”

Singing or hair colour? Zounds.

“That character I seek would be the manners and breeding suitable to one day be duchess,” Roland replied shortly. “I imagine that Lord Henry should have many unsuitable women to choose from.”

There was a round of laughs at Henry’s expense. Another wit toward the back shouted, “Then her looks are of no consequence?”

Roland scarcely cared. Not about looks, hobbies, or his future wife’s character. Marriage was naught but a transaction to secure mutual benefits for both parties. His mother and father had mostly lived rather separate lives. By every indication, they both had preferred it that way. Rumour had it that Thaddius Percy had never returned to his mother’s bed to even attempt to secure the ‘spare’ to his heir.

Once he had done his duty and secured an heir of his own, he rather expected his life to be the same. But he answered, “Of course, a pleasant visage would be a boon, but little in that regard cannot be fixed by simply turning down the lamp.” That caused another great boom of laughter, and even a bit of knee slapping.

“It would seem, then, that a stout pair of child-birthing hips should be the primary requirement for your wife,” muttered Lord Henry.

One man sat in the back, although his bright blond hair prevented him from ever going wholly unnoticed in any company. Alone among all the younger gentlemen, Lord Peregrine Fitzroy was the rare familiar face to Roland. They had both attended Eton, and observers might have characterised their relationship more as adversaries than friends.

Doubtless, this was why Fitzroy had been watching Roland’s evolving drunkenness with a smug twist to his lips. Aiding it, even. Roland had seen how the man’s tongue was still quick to denigrate. Fitzroy was quicker still to play the part of a mischief maker when the opportunity arose, as it did now.

“Roland, a gentleman of the ton is not supposed to pick his wife the way he would pick a horse,” he remarked. “I think instead you will find it rather more like an arduous campaign. Their mamas are formidable strategists, after all! You have been fighting the French for so long, I wonder whether you know a lady’s mind well enough to be up to her challenge—much less her mother’s.”

Twirling his goblet, Roland was careful to look unconcerned. “If you want to compare the marriage market to a war, Peregrine, then it takes little to imagine their objective. My grandfather wishes to secure the future of the title. Certainly, there will be no shortage of willing candidates who would want to be a duchess someday. Then all that I must do is choose the most advantageous match the season has to offer.”

Barbour grinned. “No need, then, to set out with a map and a shovel to find such a treasure, Percy. Her Majesty the queen will do half the work for you. Just wait for one of the young ladies to win the queen’s approval at her presentation, and you can try to snatch this season’s diamond of the first water from the grasp of the other men of the ton.”

“Her what—?” the words escaped Roland’s lips before the recollection struck. Queen Charlotte was presented with the new debutantes during the season proper, and the queen's approval of their beauty and grace of manners was a highly sought-after prize.

Fitzroy smirked. “See? Lord Percy has all but forgotten civilisation.” The way Fitzroy’s gaze lingered on his uniform as he said it was nearly a slight.

Disgruntled, Roland cast a look about the club and the well-tailored men within it. Crisp tailcoats, expertly tied cravats, and polished Hessian boots completed their ensembles, making each gentleman a paragon of elegance in the dimly lit, wood-panelled room. Internally, he sneered, unable to envision these men ever dirtying their hands in service. Most especially, he could not see Peregrine Fitzroy do so. He likely fussed with his appearance more than a woman did her own.

“I find greater purpose on the field than in parading like a fop, Pip,” he replied, using the childhood nickname that Peregrine had hated. But even as he said it, his thoughts snagged upon Barbour’s idea. Why shouldn’t he start his search with what the ton thought was the top of the list? It was as good a starting point as any other. Perhaps better—even if it required him to dress for a ball.

“Truly, spoken like someone more at ease with soldiers than with gentle ladies. Men, let us not concern ourselves with Lord Percy; he clearly shall prove to be no competition for the diamond’s hand,” Fitzroy assured them, deliberately filling Roland’s glass once more to the top. “Should you want for ungentle company, Roland, I hear that Lord Lancaster’s daughter will make her debut.”

“The Lancaster girl?” Lord Henry shuddered. “Her visage commands such attention one cannot look away, no matter how much one might wish to.”

“No. Lord Barbour provided a most excellent suggestion. I shall propose to the diamond of the season,” Roland said, thoroughly tired of the conversation.

“You could propose, but anyone may,” Fitzroy pointed out. “It is the result that matters. What if the young lady diamond decides she could do better than you, Lord Percy?”

“She could not!” Lord Henry tried to defend Roland. “Percy is likely to be the most eligible bachelor of the season. What woman would not be amenable to courting him?”

“One who believes her gentle husband should prefer a ball to a battlefield, mayhap. What say you, Percy? Would you care to wager?” Fitzroy asked, now in his element. “The end of the season is a popular time for declarations of love. Think you can win the diamond’s heart by then?”

Under the pressure of Fitzroy’s mocking grin and his deprecations, Roland’s anger at everything that had come to pass crystallised abruptly. Betting for romance was a foolish notion, particularly amongst the members of the ton. “Winning her heart is of no consequence. Her hand is the only prize I seek, and I will obtain it.

“Wonderful. Then there is only the amount of the wager to be decided. How much of your newly inherited wealth are you willing to hand over when you fail?”

“Is my reputation not wager enough?”

Fitzroy waved the suggestion aside. “Where is the fun in that? I can hardly dine out on your dented honour.”

Roland thought for a moment, and then dipped his hand into his coat pocket, pulling out a handful of coins. “Just a meal then? The contents of my pocket should suffice. I’ve got twelve shillings, two pounds sterling, and a single milréis. What do you say, Fitzroy?”

Fitzroy surveyed the room, judging whether the other men deemed the offer acceptable. Thoroughly entertained by Roland’s barbarity in making a bet upon the hand of his future bride, the gentlemen seemed to agree. “By the end of the season?”

“I have no need for your generosity,” Roland said, slapping his purse on the table. “All of you may stand witness. This pile of coins says the diamond of the season will accept my engagement by the end of May.”