Solomon stood, and paced, his expression a mask of pain and anger. “She was not quick enough.”
“No,” Thomas said on a sign. “She was not. This is not enough to send him to the gallows, Sol. We need harder evidence.”
Solomon turned. “Did you search his rooms?”
Thomas nodded. “Not very thoroughly, I fear, as his valet returned before I could finish, and forced me out the window before I got caught. I found no evidence, and no diary of his own confessing the crime.”
“No, he would not be that stupid,” Solomon said, pacing again. “I wonder if he could be made to confess another way.”
Thomas scowled. “I trust you are not referring to torture.”
“Of course not. I may have not exactly been a gentleman today, I do not condone such means of gaining information. I was considering planting a spy in his household. Someone who might get his servants to gossiping. Surely, with as many servants in a nobleman’s household, one might have seen or heard something that day.”
Thomas snapped his fingers. “That is brilliant,” he exclaimed. “The servants, of course, would be forbidden to talk to anyone outside the household. But they will talk to each other.”
“Perhaps someone who can get in close to the Baron while he is enduring his long recovery.”
“I have some medical training, Your Grace,” Mr. Simms said. “I am willing to go in.”
“But how? You cannot just walk up to the door and present your credentials,” Solomon replied. “That will look suspicious.”
“Not if he was sent by someone Beaulieu trusts,” Thomas said, his voice eager. “We can forge a letter from one of his cronies explaining that he wishes his personal physician to attend Beaulieu.”
And when the crony arrives for a visit?” Solomon shook his head. “Risky.”
“Given the nature of his injuries, a friend may not arrive for some time.”
“Or even wish to be seen there,” Teresa added. “If word has gotten to the ton, none of his friends will wish to associate with him. Not a blatant coward.”
Solomon stared at her. “You are quite right. Privately show support, publicly shun him. Mr. Simms, you need to make yourself presentable.”
Chapter 16
Solomon Eli Dunn, the Duke of Thornehill
Standing near a corner, half concealed by a doorway, Solomon watched the mansion belonging to Baron Beaulieu. It was set far back from the street with wide sloping lawns and tall trees, half shrouded by weeping willows.
Suspecting no one would recognize him in his plain, dark grey workman’s attire unless they stepped right up to him, he watched the gardeners tend to the green grass and shrubs, but nothing else moved at the Beaulieu house.
With Thomas making inquiries into warehouses, Solomon took it upon himself to fetch Jonas Simms’s reports. Mr. Simms had been immediately accepted into the house as a physician with his forged letter of introduction, and it had been two days since he had gone inside.
Under the guise of obtaining more medical items to care for the badly injured Baron, he was to meet Solomon within the hour.
“Come on,” Solomon muttered. “Come tell me you found something.”
As though hearing him, Mr. Simms stepped out of the doorway and crossed the wide veranda, then down the steps.
Rather than cross the lawns, he traversed the circled drive and headed for the street. Surreptitiously, Solomon glanced around to see if anyone was paying him any special attention.
In this well heeled neighborhood, he found only a few women, perhaps cooks, walking along the sidewalks.
A few carriages rolled past, and he was not the only workman, as many in their drab clothing climbed to rooftops on ladders, worked on painting shops, hung signs.
While he was the only one not obviously working, he still gathered no attention to himself. Turning back, he found Mr. Simms approaching, his eyes down. When he made to walk past, Solomon reached out and touched his arm.
“Do not bow.”
Startled, Mr. Simms stopped, and only then recognized him, and he grinned. “I had no idea that was you.”
“That was the whole plan. What have you learned?”
“Very little from the Baron,” Mr. Simms admitted. “He is in a constant state of laudanum induced unconsciousness. He moans in his sleep, does some babbling, but nothing so far about his Baroness.”
“His wounds?”
“So far, not infected. He will never walk again. There is no putting that knee back together.”
Solomon shoved his nagging guilt away. “Have you talked with servants?”
“I have. They are unwilling to say much, and let me say that is one nervy household.
Constantly in a state of tension, everyone looks over their shoulder, and in the two days I have been there he has lost three maids and a footman.”
“They are quitting?”
“As fast as they can pack their things. It seems Beaulieu’s steward is keeping them in a near state of constant terror, informing them they will be hung if anyone talks to outsiders about the Baroness.”
Solomon growled in his throat. “That is not right.”
“I had the same story told to me,” Mr. Simms replied. “The steward, Mr. Holt, will personally see to it the servants, including me, will be hung as accessories in her murder.”
“He knows,” Solomon said, his tone wondering. “He knows the truth.”
“And he is steadfastly loyal. He will not talk.”
“He might, if he himself were arrested and charged as an accomplice.”
Mr. Simms half shrugged. “He is a tough one. It will take a tougher one to make him crack.”
“What about Elize’s personal maid? Elize may have spoken to her or she may have seen something.”
“Gone. She vanished a few days after the Baroness was found dead. What little talk there is says she returned to her village in Sussex with a nice pension.”
“Find out what village. We need to find that woman.”
Mr. Simms glanced around, troubled. “I fear that she may be dead. I do not know for certain, but it is what my gut says.”
“That she was a witness and the Baron killed her to keep her silent?”
“I have no evidence to that, but it is what I feel happened. The servants are as much afraid of talking about her than they are the Baroness.”
“Keep at it. Be sympathetic. Someone will need a shoulder to cry on, and you can be there to dry tears and get a confession.”
Mr. Simms grinned. “I am trying to project the image of a kind hearted physician, so it might work. My gut also says that someone in that house besides the steward and the Baron know what happened. I just need to find out who it is.”
“Keep at it and be careful. I do not wish to lose you.”
With a grin, Mr. Simms pulled aside his coat. A pistol hung there as well as an assortment of small silver knives. “I am an adept at throwing these. At sea, these were a sailor’s favorite weapon. I can hit a man’s heart at a hundred yards.”
Solomon laughed. “Good man. In two days at this hour we meet again.”
“I will be here.”
Stepping aside, Solomon let him walk on down the street, and he himself went in the opposite direction. Taking another glance around, he did not see anyone paying excessive amounts of attention to him, or to Mr. Simms.
Feeling satisfied their meeting did not raise suspicions in the quiet neighborhood, he went to where he had hidden his horse in a thickly wooded park.
Quickly changing his attire, he hid his work clothes under some brush, then mounted his horse. A workman riding a horse at all would raise eyebrows.
But a lord riding through this area would be unremarked upon. Riding down the sedate avenue, he saw Mr. Simms returning with a canvas satchel, and passed him by without speaking to him.
Later, sitting with Teresa and Thomas in the drawing room of the Wolcott townhouse, a whiskey in his hand, Solomon said, “We were right to put Simms in
there. Someone will eventually tell him what we need to know.”
“And you say the steward knows?” Thomas asked, his eyes narrowed.
“Simms believes he does.”
“We need more evidence before we can arrest him,” Thomas grumbled, rubbing his brow. “I have just the man to frighten him into talking once we have him in custody.”
“Simms will get someone to talk. We must have patience. Did you find anything for me?”
Thomas shook his head. “No warehouses were rented for the type of imports you spoke of. I even checked imports of anything from Belgium, Spain or Portugal. But there are others that have other businesses conducted within them that might share it with another business. I will be taking a look at that soon.”
“Whoever is stealing from me is clever,” Solomon said, his tone gloomy. “What if I were to lure Edward or Aldric from their homes and have you search them?”
Thomas nodded. “I could do that. But did you not say Oakshire is married?”
“Yes, but I can invite them to dinner. Entertain them, but you will have to evade his servants.”
“Much more difficult. I may have to conduct a search when the house is asleep.”
“Edward works out of his home and lives alone,” Solomon said. “We may search that office first.”
Thomas nodded and yawned. “I apologize, Sol, but I am exhausted.”
“Before I leave, I would like to ask your permission to take Teresa to the soiree the Countess of Saxonbury is hosting tomorrow night.”
Teresa frowned. “Was she not talking to Beaulieu that night you hit him?’
“Yes, indeed. This might be an excellent time to have a chat with her.”
“Yes, I will be available to chaperone if Amelia cannot,” Thomas replied. “I may learn a few things there. The Countess knows many of Beaulieu’s friends.”
Solomon rose. “Then I will take my leave of you. Thank you for a lovely dinner.”
Thomas and Teresa rose with him, and walked him to the door. Pausing, Solomon took Teresa’s hand to brush his lips against the back. Smiling at her, he said, “Until tomorrow.”
***
Miss Teresa Wolcott
By now, there was no doubt in Teresa’s mind – she had fallen headlong into love with Solomon.
Every time they met, Teresa devoured him with her eyes. She hung on his every word, admired not just how he shot the Baron who had insulted her, she loved his regret that he had been angry enough to want to shoot the man a second time and permanently cripple him.
Lying in her bed at night, she dreamed of him making love to her, his body on hers, his erotic kisses, his hands on her breasts. A lusty tingling crept from her lower body when she thought of him, craving him like that.
She knew well enough at age three and twenty what men and women did in their beds behind closed doors, and wanted Solomon’s body as she wanted nothing else.
Standing at the Saxonbury soiree with a glass of wine in her hand, talking with a group of young men and women, Teresa watched him from across the room.
He spoke with the Countess, his handsome face smiling as though he had not a care in the world, the elegant woman blushing and batting her eye slashes at him. Jealousy surged through her.
“Why she is almost old enough to be his mother,” she muttered under her breath.
“What did you say, Miss Wolcott?” asked the grandson of the Countess, the Viscount of Saxonbury.
Teresa smiled. “I was just commenting on this delightful wine, My Lord.”
“Do tell us,” gushed one of his female friends. “What is it like to be His Grace’s favorite?”
“I heard he had given up his other pursuits to be with you,” exclaimed another.
Teresa blushed. “Well, we are friends, as you know. I do not know that I am his favorite. It was the death of Baroness Beaulieu that made him halt his, uh, activities. Not I.”
“I was there the night the Baron insulted you.” The young woman seemed about to swoon. “There he was, defending your honor like the knights in the old tales. You are so lucky.”
“Did he really cripple the Baron?” asked the Viscount, awed. “In a duel of honor? I wish I had been there.”
Teresa dropped her eyes to her glass, blushing furiously. “Well, I cannot truly say.”
One of the ladies gasped, her gloved hand covering her mouth. “Oh, my, here he comes.”
Teresa lifted her face. Sure enough, Solomon strolled across the floor toward them, his eyes on Teresa, a half smile on his features. Teresa felt a nudge on her arm. “He is so handsome,” the lady moaned happily. “Introduce me.”
“I do not know your name.”
“Camellia. And Lord Saxonbury is my cousin.”
Solomon arrived at the edge of their group. Lord Saxonbury bowed as the women, including Teresa, curtsied. “Are we having a good time?” he asked, sipping his wine.
“Your Grace,” Teresa said, gesturing toward Saxonbury. “This is the Countess’s grandson, the Viscount of Saxonbury. This is his cousin, Camellia, and this is –”
“Georgetta, another cousin,” said the other girl, flushing to her hairline. “We are so pleased to meet Your Grace. You have become something of a legend.”
“I have, eh? My exploits at arms?”
“Indeed, yes, Your Grace,” Saxonbury replied. “You dared the courts to duel for Miss Wolcott’s honor, and defeated the man who insulted her. I hope I do as well as you, someday.”
Solomon grinned at him, and winked. “Just do not get caught.”
The small group laughed.
“Now may I take Miss Wolcott from you?” he asked. “I do wish to have a dance with her.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Pacing slowly at Solomon’s side, Teresa glanced up at him. “They admire you now.”
He lifted a brow. “Did I not just be forced to extricate you from a group of people who now think of you as one of them? The Viscount of Saxonbury? I will wager that had you come alone, he would have asked you to marry him.”
Teresa flushed. “That is not true, Sol. He wanted to ask me about you. And your exploits.”
“Hmm. This coming from the lady who can spot a liar and murderer by his body language. And you could not see the admiration he had for you? Teresa, I spotted it from way over there. I had to get you away from him before I exploded in a jealous rage.”
Teresa gazed up at him. “Truly?”
“Truly. Now why do we not dance before someone else grabs us to chat about our exploits.”
In his arms, Teresa felt as light as a feather and as beautiful as a falcon in flight. No one ever made her feel this way, ever. She gazed up into his eyes as he stared down into hers, and she had never felt so happy. “Look at you,” he murmured. “Like a chrysalis into a butterfly. You have changed, Teresa.”
“If I have, it is because of you.”
“No. Not me. You changed because you wanted to. You emerged from your cocoon and are flying free. You will never go back to the way you were before.”
Teresa laughed. “Panic and unable to breathe? I still feel it there, hovering. I just am controlling it better.”
“And that is nothing but good.”
Without seeming to, Teresa glanced around at the guests of the party.
If there were any eyes on them, they were filled with approval, not condemnation, admiration, not sneers. “Did the Countess offer any insight?” she asked.
“Only that since the Baroness’s death, the Baron seemed more disposed toward violence,” Solomon answered. “He threatened the Countess that night. Told her that he would kill her if she did not agree to marry her grandson to his granddaughter.”
Teresa almost faltered in her dancing. “No.”
“Yes. She is quite frightened, Teresa. I assured her that Beaulieu cannot kill anyone, but she reminded me that he has hired killers before and can do so even from his bed.”
“That means she is a witness,” Teresa exclaimed, then g
lanced around to see if anyone overheard her. She lowered her voice. “She can tell the court what he said.”
Sol’s brow rose. “Really? You think you can get that sweet old woman into a court, with all the papers scribbling her words down?
That she would endure the scandal attached to her name, associated forever with his?”
Teresa’s face fell. “You are right. I did not think.”
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