by Amanda Quick
Regardless, he had not noticed so much as a single item of jet or black enameled jewelry on Caroline’s person. Perhaps the mysterious Mrs. Fordyce did not deeply regret the loss of Mr. Fordyce. Perhaps she was, in fact, in the market for a new attachment of an intimate nature.
This is no time to be drawn into those deep waters, he thought. There was far too much at stake here. He could not take the risk of allowing himself to be distracted by the lady, no matter how attractive or intriguing.
He crossed a street, pausing briefly to allow a crowded omnibus to lumber past, the horses straining to pull the heavy vehicle. The driver of a quick-moving hansom cab spotted him and offered his services. Adam waved him off. He could make better time on foot.
When he reached the pavement on the far side, he turned down a narrow stone walk and cut through a small, neglected park. His old life on the streets had left him with a knowledge of the city’s maze of hidden lanes and uncharted alleys that few coachmen could equal.
When he emerged from the brick walk he saw a newsboy hawking the latest edition of the Flying Intelligencer.
Some idiotic impulse made him stop in front of the scruffy-looking vendor.
“I’ll have a copy, if you please.” He took a coin out of his pocket.
“Aye, sir.” The lad grinned and reached into his sack to remove a paper. “You’re in luck. I’ve got one left. Expect you’re eager to read the next episode of Mrs. Fordyce’s story, like all the rest of my customers.”
“I will admit I am somewhat curious about it.”
“You’ll be pleased enough with this installment of The Mysterious Gentleman, sir,” the boy assured him. “It begins with a very startling incident and ends with a fine cliff-hanger.”
“Indeed?” Adam glanced at the front page of the cheap paper and saw that The Mysterious Gentleman by Mrs. C. J. Fordyce occupied three full columns. “What of the character of Edmund Drake? Does he come to a bad end?”
“Not yet, sir. Much too soon for that. Drake’s still acting very mysterious, though, and it’s obvious he’s up to no good.” The newsboy’s eyes gleamed with anticipation. “He’s hatching a nasty plot against the heroine, Miss Lydia Hope.”
“I see. Well, that is what villains do, is it not? Hatch nasty plots against innocent ladies?”
“Aye, and that’s a fact, but there’s no need to worry,” the boy said cheerfully. “Edmund Drake will meet a right dreadful fate. All of Mrs. Fordyce’s villains come to terrible ends in the final episodes.”
Adam folded the paper and tucked it under his arm. “Something to look forward to, no doubt.”
A short time later he went up the steps of the big house in Laxton Square. Morton, bald head gleaming in the morning sun, had the door open before Adam could retrieve his key.
“Welcome home, sir,” Morton said.
If he had not been so weary, Adam thought, he would have been amused by Morton’s studied lack of curiosity. It was, after all, half past ten. He had left the house shortly before nine last night to go to his club and had not returned until this moment. One would assume that the butler must have a few questions. But Morton was far too well schooled or, more likely, too well inured to the eccentric ways of the household to remark upon the hour.
“Mr. Grendon has just sat down to a late breakfast, sir.” Morton took Adam’s coat and hat. “Perhaps you would care to join him?”
“An excellent notion, Morton. I believe I will do that.”
He needed food as much as he needed sleep, Adam thought. And sooner or later, he would have to face Wilson and convey the bad news. Might as well get the business behind him.
When he walked into the paneled and polished breakfast room a short time later, Wilson Grendon looked up from the depths of his morning paper. He studied Adam for a few brief seconds and then removed his gold-rimmed spectacles and set them aside.
“You had no luck, I take it?” he asked without preamble.
“The medium was dead when I found her. Murdered.”
“Damnation.” Wilson’s thick gray brows bunched over his formidable nose. “Delmont is dead? Are you certain?”
“Hard to be mistaken about that sort of thing.” Adam tossed the folded newspaper onto the table and crossed to the sideboard to survey the array of dishes. “There was no sign of the diary, so I am forced to conclude that the killer stole it. I spent half the night and most of the morning making inquiries into the affair.”
Wilson absorbed that information with a troubled expression. “The murder is certainly a strange twist.”
“Not necessarily. The average villain would likely see a great potential for extortion in this matter.” Adam picked up a silver serving fork and helped himself to a large heap of scrambled eggs and smoked salmon. “The prospect of money can make any number of people contemplate murder.”
Wilson turned thoughtful. “Are you certain that the medium was murdered for the diary?”
“No.” Adam carried his plate back to the table and sat down. “But it would appear to be the most logical explanation, given the timing and circumstances.”
“Well, then, if you are right, whoever now possesses the diary will no doubt soon be in touch.”
“I prefer not to sit and wait for the killer to send a message inviting me to pay blackmail.” Adam dug into his eggs. “I intend to find him first.”
Wilson drank some coffee and lowered the cup. “Did you learn anything useful in the course of your inquiries last night and this morning?”
“No. The only halfway promising suspect proved to be an exceedingly difficult and unpredictable female who thinks that I am an ideal model for a villain in a sensation novel.”
“How odd.” Wilson’s pale gray eyes lit with interest. “Tell me about her.”
Trust Wilson to seize upon the one aspect of the business that he least wished to discuss, Adam thought. He buttered some toast while he considered his response.
“There isn’t much to tell,” he said. “I am convinced that the lady in question is not involved in this affair.”
Wilson leaned back in his chair. “This is not the first time that you and I have had occasion to discuss murder and potentially dangerous documents at breakfast.”
“What we have done in the past along those lines were matters of business,” Adam said shortly.
“Nevertheless, this is the first time in the long history of our association that you have mentioned a conversation with an exceedingly difficult and unpredictable female who found you to be a perfect model for a villain in a novel. Forgive me, but I find that quite intriguing.”
Adam munched on his toast. “I told you, I do not think that the lady has any connection to this affair of the diary.”
“She obviously made an impression on you.”
“She would make an impression on anyone.”
“You know what the French say: cherchez la femme.”
“This is England, not France.” Adam put down the corner of toast and went back to the eggs. “Things are different here.”
“Not always. I cannot help but notice that the lady appears to have had a very striking effect upon your mood, most notably your temper.”
Wilson knew him far too well, Adam reflected.
“I would remind you that I have not slept in the past twenty-four hours,” he said evenly. “It is little wonder that I am not in the best of tempers.”
“On the contrary,” Wilson said. “In my experience, the more there is at risk, the more cold-blooded and unemotional you become. Quite chilling, actually.”
Adam gave him a look.
Wilson ignored him. “In fact, if one did not know you well, one might assume that you did not possess any of the warmer passions.”
A tingle of alarm went through Adam. The fork in his hand paused in midair. “With all due respect, sir, the very last subject I wish to discuss this morning is what you are pleased to call the warmer passions.”
“Now, Adam, I am well aware that you do possess
those sorts of passions. All the more reason why you should get married and employ them to produce heirs for the Grendon-Hardesty fortunes.”
“You have no shortage of heirs, sir. Julia has already married and provided you with two of them. Jessica will be making her debut into Society next spring. She will no doubt attract dozens of offers within a fortnight. When she marries, she will supply you with still more heirs. And do not forget Nathan. Sooner or later he will lose interest in his philosophy and mathematics long enough to fall in love, marry and produce even more heirs.”
“That still leaves you unaccounted for,” Wilson pointed out. “You are the eldest of the lot. You should have been the first one to marry.”
“It is absurd to sit here and discuss yet again my failure to find a wife when we should be occupied with a far more pressing problem,” Adam said, hanging on to his temper with an effort. “I suggest we return to the matter of the diary.”
Wilson grimaced. “Very well, but I must tell you that I am not nearly as concerned about it as you are.”
“Yes, I can see that. Would you mind explaining why in blazes you are not worried about it?”
“The diary’s sole value lies in the fact that it can be used as an instrument of blackmail. Sooner or later, whoever stole it from Elizabeth Delmont will make contact and attempt to extort money from you, just as Delmont did. When that occurs, you will track down the new blackmailer, just as you did Delmont.” Wilson raised one narrow shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “It is simply a matter of time.”
Wilson’s logic was impeccable, as always, Adam thought. But he was unable to take a similarly sanguine approach to the problem.
“It is not in my nature to wait upon the convenience of a blackmailer who is also very likely a killer,” he said quietly.
Wilson sighed. “No, of course not. Very well, find your blackmailer and deal with him. Then you can get back to more important matters.”
There was only one really important matter in Wilson’s opinion these days. He was determined to see Adam wed. Having made his decision, he had become relentless.
Adam felt the sort of affection, respect and loyalty for his mentor that he imagined other men felt toward their fathers. Nevertheless, he had no intention of marrying merely to satisfy Wilson Grendon’s demands.
Wilson Grendon was in the latter half of his sixth decade. He was the last direct descendent of a once-powerful aristocratic family whose properties and finances had been sadly depleted by a long line of wastrels and rakehells. Endowed with a steely will and a great talent for business, Wilson had devoted himself to rebuilding the family fortunes. He had succeeded beyond anyone’s wildest expectations only to lose the very reasons that had inspired him: his beloved wife and two children.
Brokenhearted, Wilson had devoted himself to building an even larger empire. He had lost himself in the arcane machinations of his far-flung enterprises in England and on the Continent. On several occasions over the years, the long-reaching tentacles of the Grendon empire had proved useful to Her Majesty’s government.
Wilson’s agents and employees abroad often picked up rumors and information concerning clandestine intrigues and foreign plots. That sort of thing was passed along to the Crown, which, in turn, sometimes took advantage of the Grendon connections to send secret diplomatic messages.
The informal arrangement had continued after Adam had become involved in Wilson’s business affairs, hence the occasional breakfast conversation concerning murder and mischief. For Adam, it all came under the heading of business; a natural extension of the career he had pursued while making his living on the streets. Information was a commodity, just like everything else. It could be bought, stolen, traded or sold.
Much in his world had changed fourteen years ago when he and Julia and Jessica and Nathan had moved into Wilson’s big, lonely mansion in Laxton Square, but the way he made his living was not one of them, he reflected.
Society was under the impression that he and the other three were long-lost relatives of Wilson’s. According to the story Grendon had put about, the family connection had been fortuitously discovered by his solicitor while going through some old papers. Wilson had immediately located the four young people, taken them into his household and made them his heirs.
Some portions of the tale were certainly true, Adam mused. He and Julia and Jessica and Nathan were, indeed, Wilson’s heirs. But the relationship between the five of them was a good deal more murky and convoluted than anyone in the Polite World imagined.
While he had turned over much of the day-to-day operations of his financial empire to Adam in the past few years, Wilson was still as astute and cunning as he had always been. Because he was no longer required to apply his considerable abilities to his business affairs, he had a great deal of free time to work on other projects, such as maneuvering Adam into marriage.
“I can see that you are determined to press on with your search for the diary,” Wilson said. “How do you intend to proceed?”
Adam reached for the silver coffeepot. “On my way home this morning I recalled that one of your old friends Prittlewell was fascinated by psychical research for a time recently.”
Wilson snorted. “Prittlewell and everyone else in Society. I tell you, it is nothing less than astounding to see so many seemingly reasonable, educated people toss aside all common sense and natural skepticism when a medium levitates a table. I blame it on the Americans, of course. Whole thing started on the Other Side.”
“The Other Side?”
“Of the Atlantic.” Wilson snorted. “The Fox sisters with their rappings and tappings, the Davenports with their cabinet séances, D. D. Home—”
Adam frowned. “I thought Home was born in Scotland.”
“He may have been born there but he was raised in America.”
“I see,” Adam said dryly. “I suppose that explains it.”
“Indeed. As I was saying, this isn’t the first nonsense imported from America and it likely won’t be the last.”
“Yes, sir. But my point is that your friend Prittlewell no doubt picked up some gossip and rumors concerning the community of mediums while he was attending séances and lectures on psychical research.”
“Very likely. What of it?”
“I wondered if you might make some casual inquiries in that direction. Find out what he knows about Elizabeth Delmont and those who moved in her circle.”
Enthusiasm lit Wilson’s face. There was nothing he liked more than a bit of intrigue. “Very well. That might prove interesting.”
And with any luck, it will keep you too distracted to concentrate on your schemes to marry me off, Adam thought.
He was about to continue with his attempt at distraction when he heard the distant, muffled sound of the front door opening and closing. There was only one person who was likely to call at this unfashionable hour.
“Julia is here,” Adam said. “Remember, not a word of this to her. I do not want her to be concerned with this matter. There is no need for her to worry about it.”
“I agree. Trust me, I will say nothing.”
Light, brisk footsteps echoed in the hall. A moment later Julia appeared in the doorway. Both men rose to their feet.
“Good day to you both.” She swept into the room with a glowing smile. “I hope you are prepared to endure another invasion of workmen and decorators this afternoon.”
“Of course,” Wilson said. “We are proud to do our small part in connection with what will be the social event of the Season. Is that not so, Adam?”
“So long as you keep your horde of laborers and decorators out of the library,” Adam agreed, pulling out a chair.
She made a face at him as she sat down. “Never fear, everyone understands that your library is sacrosanct. But I fear that it will be very busy around here for the next few days. I’m having fountains and mirrors installed in the ballroom. I think the effect will be quite riveting.”
“I’m sure it will be.” Adam lowered
himself back into his chair and reached for another slice of toast. “Your plans are going well, I assume?”
“Yes, but I was forced to confess to Robert this morning that I may have overreached myself with the Roman villa theme this year.”
“Nonsense, my dear.” Wilson sat down, beaming with fatherly reassurance. “If anyone can turn that old ballroom into a Roman villa, it is you. I have no doubt but that you’ll be successful. You will amaze and astonish Society once again, just as you did last year.”
“I appreciate your confidence.” Julia helped herself to some tea. “But if the affair does come off as planned, it is you, Uncle Wilson, who must take most of the credit. I could not possibly orchestrate such a major event without the use of the old ballroom. There simply is not enough space in the town house to stage anything more elaborate than a dinner party or a small soirée.”
“Your husband is very wise not to invest his money in a large house here in town,” Wilson said. “It would be a complete waste of money. He’s got enough properties to maintain as it is, and your family is never in London long enough to justify the expense.”
Julia nodded and set down the teapot. “I cannot argue with that. By the way, Robert said to tell you that he plans to take the children to the fair in the park tomorrow. He wondered if you would like to accompany them.”
Wilson looked vastly pleased. “I shall check my appointment calendar to see if I am free.”
His appointment calendar would no doubt grant him ample time to accompany the children and their father, the Earl of Southwood, on the outing, Adam thought. Wilson would have cheerfully rescheduled an audience with the queen to make room for an afternoon with the two youngsters.
Julia gave Wilson a knowing look. “Going to the fair will also provide you with an excuse to leave the house again while the decorators and the workmen swarm about the place. I must warn you that I can promise nothing but noise and commotion for the remainder of the week.”
