He’d taken the Laudanum with him.
Sharla sank onto her bed, trembling. Dane had not asked how she knew about Ben’s fighting. He had not probed at all. If he had, would she have been able to lie to him?
The guilt swirled anew.
* * * * *
Wakefield pulled the black chair up beside the bed and settled himself into it, as Ben watched him warily.
“Are you good at boxing?” Wakefield asked, crossing his arms.
Ben drew in a sharp breath. It hurt and he coughed. When he had recovered, he found Wakefield still waiting, his gaze steady.
He was tempted to lie, to profess amazement and deny he had ever done anything more physical than lift a volume of case records. Only the moment when he could do that had passed. He had betrayed himself.
Slowly, wincing and groaning, he sat up, his back against a pillow. “I’ve never lost a fight.” It was good to say it aloud.
“That does not surprise me.” Wakefield scratched at his chin. “I haven’t quite settled it in my mind. Did someone pressure you to lose a match?”
“They threw two hundred pounds at me.”
“Which you refused?”
“I ended the fight thirty seconds after it started. Then I tossed the money back.”
Wakefield’s smile was small. “That sounds very much like something you would do. Sharla’s temper is quick, burns hot and extinguishes. Yours, though, is the Black Celt’s curse, isn’t it? Slow to anger, but once you do, heaven help your enemies.”
Ben picked at a thread on the eiderdown over his knees. “Wash would have earned a fortune on the fight.”
“Instead, he lost a fortune. I see. Who is this Wash?”
Wariness curled through Ben. “I won’t drag you into this any deeper than you are already.”
“I have the last name. I know you were fighting in Whitechapel, in a ring behind a public bar. You think me incapable of finding out the rest? Money loosens tongues.”
Ben scowled. “Wash will resent you prying. You don’t want him taking it out on you. Look what he did to me.”
Wakefield smiled, as if he was amused. “It may not look like it, but I do know how to take care of myself.”
“I thought I could take care of myself, too.”
“How many were there?”
“Five.” Ben’s mouth turned down. “An arm and leg apiece. The bruiser had six inches on me and maybe forty pounds.”
“And you feel inadequate for not winning? That wasn’t a fair fight, Ben. It wasn’t even a fight. It was retribution, of the worst sort.” Wakefield got to his feet.
“Where are you going?” Ben asked sharply.
“To find a cup of tea.” Wakefield shrugged.
Ben didn’t relax. “Why are you getting involved, Wakefield? Why take me in? Sharla told me it was you who tended my wounds.”
Wakefield considered him. “The simple answer is that Sharla asked me to, and I have the necessary expertise.”
“And the real answer?” Ben asked.
Wakefield’s expression darkened. “Injustice offends me.” For a moment, it was as if Ben was looking at a different man. Wakefield’s jaw worked. His eyes, normally a pale blue, seemed to darken, too.
Then the darkness fled. Wakefield straightened his shoulders. His expression lightened and became bland, as if he was lowering a shield over the maelstrom inside. “I’ll have Mayerick bring you some tea,” he said pleasantly and left.
* * * * *
The next morning, instead of going to his library after breakfast, as Dane had done every morning since they had married, he instead turned to Sharla and said; “I fancy a drive this morning. Put on your things, Sharla. I’ll have the coach brought around.”
“Oh, a drive. That sounds lovely,” Melody Wakefield said, putting down her teacup.
“No, mother,” Dane said. “I prefer the company of my wife today.”
Melody stared at her son, her eyes widening and her lips narrowing. Then she relented and smiled. “Yes, you are quite right. The two of you should enjoy yourselves. You work far too hard, Dane.”
He didn’t answer her and Sharla didn’t dare linger to hear the rest of the conversation, if there was one. She asked Smithers to dash upstairs and bring her shawl and bonnet, gloves and reticule and the lace parasol, just in case.
As Sharla was sliding her hands into her gloves, Dane came out of the dining room and climbed the stairs three at a time, in an unusual display of speed and agility. He returned a moment later, wearing a light coat and carrying his hat and gloves.
“The coach?” Sharla murmured, for she had not heard him ask Mayerick to arrange it.
“Already waiting,” Dane said. “Shall we?”
Sharla’s wariness rose a notch. She followed Dane out to the carriage, which was waiting at the curb as promised. He helped her in. She sat on the backward-facing seat. Dane settled opposite her as the carriage rolled into the street.
Dane had not given the driver instructions, she realized. “Are we really going out for air?”
“I’m afraid not,” Dane told her, his tone apologetic. “Mother would have asked too many questions if I had left by myself, for everyone comes to me. I was forced to bring you along, as a reason to exclude her. You are already involved in the matter, anyway.”
“This is to do with Ben?”
“Yes.” He said no more. Instead, he watched the streets roll by, forcing Sharla to do the same. She saw St. Paul’s Cathedral pass by. “Are we going to Whitechapel?” she asked.
“Not quite. There is a man who passes as a gentleman, yet lives on Lime Street. I want a few words with him.”
“Is he the one who beat Ben?”
“He is the one who paid for others to do the deed.” Dane’s mouth curled down.
Sharla sat back, her horror building. “I am aware there are people in the world who could countenance such a thing. I didn’t think I would ever meet one. I wish Ben had never become involved with the Whitechapel people.”
“There are evil people everywhere, Sharla. You quite likely have dined and danced with many of them, for in our world, they disguise their true nature. In Whitechapel, they don’t hide their sins.”
Sharla shuddered. The idea of evil being everywhere kept her occupied until they turned into a narrow, dirty lane that must be Lime Street. The carriage slowed, the horse moving at a gentle walk.
Dane sat on the front edge of the seat and peered through the glass.
“Do you know what this man looks like?” Sharla asked.
“Ben described him to me. On this street, he will stand out, just as we are.”
“What if he isn’t here? It is quite late in the morning. Would he not be at his place of employment?” For no one who lived here would have income-providing estates to support them. They would be employed and earn a wage.
“He whiles his nights away with nefarious pursuits and therefore has no need to rise early. I assure you, he will appear on the street sooner or later, looking for breakfast and likely a toddy to ease his aching head.”
“Do you know people like him?” For Dane had spoken with derision, as if he was describing someone he knew well.
“Once, a long time ago, I was acquainted with people like him. I’m happy to say the associations have lapsed.” He spoke absently, his gaze on the footpath.
The carriage eased along the length of Lime Street, then the driver turned it around and they rolled back down the street again.
On the third repetition and three-quarters of the way back toward Fenchurch Street, Dane knocked his knuckles on the roof of the carriage. Immediately, the driver halted the horse and climbed down. He peered in the window.
“The one with the top hat and brocade waistcoat,” Dane told him, pointing with his cane.
Sharla couldn’t see who he was pointing at.
The driver nodded and hurried to the footpath and moved out of sight. Sharla heard a conversation. Quick exchanges. A cart loaded with barrels
went past them, the horses’ hooves clattering and drowning out the comments.
The carriage door opened. A man thrust his head inside. He had a smooth face that seemed young and a sharp chin. His eyes were even sharper, although his smile was pleasant. The word “slippery” came to Sharla’s mind.
“You wanted to speak to me?” he said. Then his eyes narrowed. “I know you. You’re—”
“Wakefield. Get in and shut the door.”
The man climbed up.
“Sharla, sit next to me,” Dane said, his voice low.
She moved over to the other seat, which left the front seat for the man. He sat on it and settled his cane between his knees and his hands on the top of the cane. His smile was broad. “So, the Duke of Wakefield wants to speak to me. How interesting!”
Sharla shuddered. This was the man who had arranged for Ben to be beaten almost to death? He looked charming. Elegant. However, the lining of his top hat was yellow with old sweat and the lapels of his topcoat were worn to the point of fraying.
There were other signs of destitution. More and more of them, the closer she looked. Not just evidence of a lack of resources, but of a dissolute life. His gloves, that he kept bunched in his hands, were soiled. His fingernails were dirty. So were his shoes. His stockings had runs in them. His teeth were yellow.
Dane didn’t rise to the man’s challenging tone. “Let us speak of Benjamin Hedley.”
The man’s smile faded, just for a moment. Then it returned at full strength. “I knew the bastard moved in high circles. I had no idea he had a duke running about, clearing up his messes.”
Dane lunged forward and gripped the man’s shirt front and yanked him closer, until they were only inches apart. “You will keep a civil tongue in your head, or I will make certain you do. Do you understand me?”
The man swallowed. “Aye,” he said at last.
Dane let him go. The man returned to the seat and brushed down his jacket, as if the last few seconds had never happened.
“Be clear on this matter, Wash,” Dane said. “I did not seek you out at Hedley’s behest. I have interest of my own.”
“If you do, then you’re about to put the pressure on, yes? If we’re being clear, as you say.”
“No pressure. There is no need. You settled the score with Hedley and that ends the affair, doesn’t it?”
Wash scowled. “I lost a thousand pounds that night. We are a long way from settled. He gypped me!”
Sharla recalled what Ben had said to her. Last night, I could have beggared my soul. I was within inches of it. It was the thought of you that stopped me.
“Hedley never agreed to the arrangement in the first place,” Dane told Wash. “Not every man will take money without question when it is dangled in front of him.”
“Of course they do,” Wash shot back. “It was two hundred bleeding pounds! What man wouldn’t take it?”
“One who doesn’t come from your world,” Dane replied. “That was your mistake, Wash. You misread Hedley. No wonder you remain a working class crook. You will never get ahead if you continually fail to understand people.”
Wash’s face hardened. “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” His tone was smooth and soft.
Sharla shivered. The man hadn’t moved, yet she felt threatened, anyway.
Dane just smiled. “You will do nothing else to Hedley. You will forget you ever knew him. Are we clear?”
Wash’s expression didn’t change. “Or what?”
Dane leaned forward. “You know who I am. You are aware of the resources I have at my disposal. Think about the people I am acquainted with, Wash. Think of who I dine with, the names and powers I speak with every day. Do you have any doubts I could not reach out to them and arrange the complete destruction of your life?” He paused. “Or of you?” he added.
Wash’s smile faded. “Are you threatening me?”
“Yes, you bloody fool, I am threatening you. More, I have the means to deliver on my promise, if you so much as breathe in Hedley’s direction.”
Wash scowled. “What’s he to you, then?”
“Something you have no experience with, Wash. He is family.” Dane unlatched the door and thrust it open. “Get out.”
Wash exited, his scowl deep and ugly. The carriage moved on almost as soon as he stepped out. Dane caught the door as it swung closed and latched it. He sat back. “That should be the end of it.”
“He did not appreciate you telling him to finish it,” Sharla pointed out.
“He didn’t. However, he has a healthy regard for his own skin. Prudence will keep him stabled.”
Sharla didn’t dispute Dane a second time. Instead, she worried it over in her own mind, trying to convince herself it really was over.
Chapter Seventeen
After seven days in bed, Ben knew he would go mad if he did not move soon. Sharla had brought books and kept him company whenever she had a spare moment. Even Wakefield stopped by once a day to spend time talking. They were awkward moments, to begin. Wakefield, though, had a pleasant, disarming manner and the conversations grew easier.
Rhys had stopped by once, too, with a sack of Ben’s clothes and a firm command that he return to the Davies house to finish his convalescence as soon as he could move. “Your mother is beside herself with worry, now we’ve told her what happened,” Rhys added. “If you don’t come home soon, I’ve no idea what she’ll do.”
Ben smiled. “You’re the one person in the world mother listens to. If you told her to wait, she would. I think you’re the one who is worrying.”
Rhys’ cheeks grew pink. “Of course I’m worried! I used to try criminal cases in the Old Bailey, remember? I know the caliber of the people who did this to you.”
Guilt stirred. Ben cleared his throat. “You should have a word with Wakefield before you leave, Father. It may help you stop worrying.”
Rhys went away, only mildly mollified by his conversation with Wakefield.
After a week, Ben found he could stand and move, as long as he did either of them slowly. His knee barely supported him. Wakefield produced a walking stick and Ben took it with a grimace of distaste.
“It is better to hobble than to not walk at all,” Wakefield assured him. “The biggest bruises were right next to your backbone, which is why you are having trouble walking at all. If their boots had connected squarely with your spine, you might have been crippled.”
Ben felt happier about the cane, after that, although when Sharla saw his proud shuffling limp across the room, she cried.
Once he was walking—regardless of the speed—Ben turned his thoughts to going home, as he had been commanded.
“I can’t stay here,” he told Sharla, when she tried to argue that he could stay as long as he wanted. “Not here, with you and with Wakefield. The better I get, the more it drives me mad, to see you and to not be able to…”
Sharla’s eyes grew larger and limpid.
Ben shook his head and stuffed the few possessions he’d collected here into the sack with rough shoves. “Nothing good will happen if I stay,” he said hoarsely.
“Nothing good will happen if you go,” she whispered. “I love you, Ben.”
He glanced toward the open door, then limped to where she stood in the middle of the floor, an elegant woman in dark blue velvet. “Love Dane, instead,” he told her, making himself say the words. “He’s a good man…and he’s your husband.”
He made himself leave. It took every ounce of willpower he had and he fell back on the seat of the Davies’ carriage, exhausted, the hated cane resting against his leg.
The journey to Grosvenor Square only took a few minutes, yet seemed to last for months. Every clop of the mare’s shoes on the street took a small bite out of his heart, rendering it bloody and diminished.
It began to rain in big, stinging drops that sizzled on the cobbles and turned the day cold. By the time the carriage halted in front of the rambling old house, the rain was a steady downpour, the accumulati
on of four days of hot August sunshine.
Ben couldn’t move fast enough and the cane slid out from under his weight three times, straining his knee and making him curse. By the time he made the front door, he was soaked, his hair dripping and his face wet.
Rhys stood in the foyer, waiting, as Stamp shut the door. He did not smile.
“Where is Mother?” Ben asked, for he had expected Annalies to throw herself at him the moment he walked in the door.
“There is a pair of gentlemen here to see you,” Rhys replied.
“Me?” Ben wiped his face of water once more.
“They knew you were on your way,” Rhys added. “They’re waiting in the library.”
“Who are they?”
“The second was not introduced to me. The first says he is Detective Inspector Geraldson, of the Coventry Police Station.”
“Do you know him?” Ben asked, for between the two of them, they knew nearly every police officer in London. Sooner or later, every bobby and detective arrived at their offices, to finalize court cases and go through their testimony.
“You don’t?” Rhys asked. His expression grew wary. He stepped closer. “Then he is not here on a matter of law.”
“Come in with me, then,” Ben said. He ruffled his hair, spraying drops everywhere.
Rhys shook his head. “They were insistent upon speaking with you alone. I’ll be right outside the door, though.”
“Thank you.” Ben worked his way across the entrance to the library doors, moving carefully, for the damp foot of the cane was slippery on the marble floor.
“It’s good to see you home,” Rhys said, from behind him.
“I’d say it’s good to be home, but for this matter, whatever it is,” Ben replied. With a deep breath, he opened the door and limped inside.
The two men who rose to their feet were strangers. The blond one looked barely old enough to shave, with pink cheeks and a notebook and pencil in his hand. The more senior of the two had gray sideburns, a square chin with a dimple, and faded brown eyes. His teeth, when he spoke, flashed crooked.
“Mister Hedley?”
Marriage of Lies Page 15
