Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)(13)

Harris woke with a start. As his boots hit the floor, he blurted out, “Good morning, Mr. Bellamy.”

“It’s afternoon. News?”

“Nothing much of interest.”

“Tell me everything. I’ll determine what’s of interest.”

Harris told Julian nothing he didn’t already know. He’d also attended the boxing match in Southwark last night. The bout had featured one of the same pugilists who’d fought the night of Leo’s death. The investigator and his men were supposed to be stationed at every exit, watching for anyone who matched the description of Leo’s killers.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Harris said. “After that mishap with the bull-baiting, the crowd got away from us. My men and I lingered well after the melee, traced all the nearby streets. We didn’t see any suspicious activity, other than the usual. And no pair of men matching the description.”

Julian nodded his understanding. What description they had was pitiful indeed. The prostitute who’d witnessed the attack could only describe Leo’s killers as two large men in rough clothing; one bald, the other with a Scots accent.

He sank into the rich, tufted leather of his desk chair, deflating with fatigue and frustration. Almost five months since Leo’s death, and despite the discovery of new information and witnesses, he was no closer to the killers now than he had been the day his friend was buried. And so long as the attackers themselves went free, the name of their employer remained secret. Julian had no way of knowing just which of his many enemies had discovered his true identity and ordered his death. He’d been going at it from the wrong angle—trying to ferret out the brutes, rather than the man or men who’d hired them.

“Very well,” he told Harris. “That will be all.”

“Until tomorrow then?”

Julian shook his head. “No. I mean, that will be all. We’re finished with this.”

“Finished?” Harris rose to his feet. “Sir, you mean to abandon the investigation? Leave the murder unsolved?”

He obviously didn’t like the idea, and Julian respected the man’s dedication. But they couldn’t go on in this manner any longer when it yielded no meaningful results. And he most certainly couldn’t give Harris the information necessary to pursue a different tack. From here, Julian proceeded alone.

“I mean,” he said, “your services will no longer be required. Send me an accounting of your charges and expenses, and I’ll see that you’re compensated with all due speed.”

Harris opened and shut his mouth a few times, as if he wanted to argue back. He ultimately decided against it. “As you wish, Mr. Bellamy.” With a perfunctory bow, he left.

Alone, Julian sorted through the correspondence that had amassed atop his desk. Invitations, of various kinds, comprised the bulk of the missives. Everything from “Your presence is cordially requested …” to “Darling, my husband will be away …” No matter that he hadn’t accepted an invitation of either sort in months, they still heaped his blotter daily.

With a weary sigh, he tossed them all into the grate. He never had answered the things anyway. He simply appeared at events where and when the mood struck. Ironically, this complete disregard for etiquette had only enhanced his popularity. For when he did make an appearance, he did so in grand style, whether playing to a crowd of hundreds or entertaining an audience of one.

An appearance by Julian Bellamy, he strove to ensure, ranked among a certain class of delights. Rather like roasted chestnuts at Christmas, or simultaneous orgasms. Not so rare as to be mythical, never so commonplace as to become boring. Dependably satisfying, occasionally transcendent. In sum, an experience to which no one could pretend ambivalence.

Save Julian himself, of course. He pretended ambivalence very well indeed.

It was a talent shared by his house staff. As Julian entered his bedroom suite, his valet greeted him from behind a sporting newspaper. “Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, Dillard,” Julian greeted him dryly. “Oh, please. Don’t get up.”

A soft grunt was his only reply.

“Is my bath drawn?”

The newspaper rustled. “I reckon it is.”

Dillard was the most spoiled, useless valet in all London. Normally, Julian demanded competence and efficiency from all people in his employ, but he made an exception for his personal servants. In this house, indolence and a marked lack of curiosity were desirable traits. Julian only kept Dillard on for appearances. Or rather, not for appearances. That was a valet’s usual post, of course—tending his gentleman employer’s appearance in all particulars: bathing, shaving, attire, and more. But where his own appearance was concerned, Julian attended to every detail on his own, save the laundering, pressing, and boot-blacking.

He lowered his weight to a bench and removed his boots. “I’m off to bed,” he told Dillard, setting the boots neatly to one side. “Not to be disturbed. See that these are polished by tonight.”

Another grunt.

Julian left the man to his paper and crossed into his dressing room. It was a large space, formerly a bedchamber in its own right, but he’d had it fitted with custom shelving and mirrors. He tossed his befouled topcoat in the grate and stripped to his skin. After a hasty bath and a close shave, he wrapped an Oriental-patterned silk banyan about his torso.