Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)

It took him twenty minutes to walk to his relatively modest home, just over the boundary into Bloomsbury. He could have afforded a larger dwelling in a showier part of Town, but this house suited his needs. Its common rooms were unremarkable, cramped, and unsuitable for parties, which absolved him from repaying invitations. The third floor, however, was one vast, lavish bedroom suite, ideal for entertaining female guests singly. Most usefully, at the rear it backed against a busy merchant street.

Upon entering, he followed his habit of proceeding directly to his library. A young man dozed in an armchair by the window, wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes. Julian recognized him as Levi Harris, one of the runners he’d hired to investigate Leo’s murder. Harris was young but hungry—and reputed to be the best. Leo deserved no less than the best.

The best, however, needed to look alive. Julian slammed the library door.

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?”