The baron was now white as a ghost.
“A silly mistake,” murmured the earl. “But I imagine hubris eventually convinces a criminal that he’s too clever to ever get caught.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “Be that as it may, it occurred to me that you, as a director of the Company, have a vested interested in ensuring that your august institution is above reproach. So, I’m wondering whether you have any thoughts on how such corruption could have taken root within the many legitimate businesses you run. And more importantly, how it can be cut away before it does irreparable damage.”
Copley reached for his wine with a tremoring hand and raised it to wet his lips. “Let me answer your tale of conjectures with one of my own.”
He put the glass down. “Here is how I imagine such a thing could have happened. A young and able administrator is asked to bend the rules for someone he felt obliged to help, only to find that the fellow had deliberately kept proof of the indiscretion, and used it to force him to continue aiding an illicit scheme for several years. The blackmail then stopped, and over the years, the administrator earned a reputation for skill, savvy, and integrity. He rises in position, the company thrives, and he takes pride in all that he has accomplished.”
Wrexford tapped his fingertips together. “And then?”
“And then the blackmailer returns, forcing the administrator to make a decision. He can lose everything because of a mistake in the distant past. Or he can continue his good work . . .”
“All he has to do is sell his soul to the devil,” interjected the earl.
“It’s not quite so black and white, Wrexford. A bit of embezzlement balanced against all the innovations that contribute to the country’s economic strength? The Company doesn’t miss the money, and the administrator is now a wealthy man who doesn’t need the money. He uses his share of the illicit profits to support socially progressive programs. He gives to orphans and war widows.” Copley paused for breath. “What real harm is it doing?”
“What harm?” Wrexford felt a spurt of fury rise in his gorge. “What about the smuggled opium, which destroys countless lives?”
“China has a very different attitude toward life than we Westerners,” responded the baron. “They don’t value—”
“And what about Henry Peabody? Does he, too, count for nothing?”
A tiny muscle jumped in Copley’s jaw.
“I think Mr. Peabody deserves that justice be done,” said the earl. “The question is how to rip out this evil from the East India Company.”
“As to that . . .” The baron twisted at his ring. “I have a suggestion.”
“I’m listening.”
“Let us assume the administrator is willing to help identify the culprits who are guilty of putting the venture into motion, in return for having his name not dragged through the mud. Wouldn’t justice be served?”
The earl said nothing.
“My guess is,” said Copley in a rush, “the administrator abhors violence and never condoned murder. The other men went too far.”
“So you’re saying the administrator claims that his hands aren’t dirty, because he left it to his partners to slit Henry Peabody’s throat?” The sarcasm in Wrexford’s voice made the baron flinch. “Ah yes. ‘It wasn’t my fault’—the refuge of sanctimonious cowards throughout the ages. And yet he still took the money. So don’t you dare try to tell me he’s a victim in this.” A pause. “If you are asking that he escape with no punishment whatsoever, the answer is no.”
Copley straightened and somehow regained his composure. “Business, as well as life, is all about compromises, Wrexford. You’ve told a riveting story, but where are the facts to back it up? You think the authorities will take the word of Woodbridge? As for his sister, a lady’s testimony would be dismissed as unreliable, even if she weren’t an eccentric Bluestocking. If I were you, I’d make a deal.”
“Unlike your saintly administrator, I don’t do deals with the devil and his minions.”
“Then you’ll never catch the Satan you’re after,” replied Copley. “He and his cohorts will ruin your friends and quite likely hurt other people in the process.”
Wrexford flattened his palms on the table and leaned in closer to the candlelight. “I’m a bit of a devil myself. Bet against me in a match with your Satan and, trust me, you’ll regret it.”
He rose and kicked back his chair. “Think on what I’ve said and pass on my offer to the administrator. Assuming, of course, that you know who he is. If he decides to cooperate, he can come to me anytime. What I will promise is that I’ll inform Bow Street that he’s been instrumental in helping to catch the culprits. That will likely soften his punishment—but he will be punished.”
Wrexford took two quick steps and stopped abruptly, his fluttering coat brushing up against the baron’s thigh. “One last thing . . .” Would a bluff work? He decided there was no harm in trying. “If you think I have no proof of the misdeeds, you may wish to think again.”
A whoosh of wool stirred the air as the earl turned for the door without waiting for a reply. Still, he caught Copley’s parting whisper.
“Threaten all you wish, Wrexford. But I’m telling you—you’re not quite as clever as you think, for you’re hounding the wrong man.”
Taking the stairs two at a time, the earl hurried down to the main corridor and quit the club. A fine mist was falling, and skeins of silvery fog were flitting through the light and shadows of St. James’s Street. It wasn’t until he had crossed Piccadilly Street that he slowed his pace. The cobbles were slippery beneath his boots, making the footing a bit treacherous.
It was quiet, the darkness muffling the sounds of the city, as he walked deeper into the gloom. So quiet that the voice of his own misgivings was thrumming in his ears. Skidding to a sudden stop beneath the entrance portico of a slumbering townhouse, Wrexford blew out his breath and watched the vapor dissolve into nothingness.
Frustration welled up in his throat. He fisted his hand, then hit the marble column. Again, and again, willing the pain to overpower his uncertainty.
“Damn. I was so bloody sure I was right about him being the dastard behind all this.” Was Copley lying about his culpability? Something in the baron’s eyes had told him no. But now . . .
But now he couldn’t help but wonder whether he had, in fact, been barking up the wrong tree.
CHAPTER 24
Spotting the tray of food, Sheffield helped himself to a slab of bread and topped it with ham and cheese. “Sleuthing works up a devil of an appetite,” he said through a mouthful of cheddar.
Cordelia watched him with ill-concealed impatience. “Ye heavens, sir. The hound has better table manners than you do.”
“May Harper have another slice of ham?” asked Hawk, choosing his moment well.
“Sheffield . . . ,” murmured Charlotte, knowing Cordelia was on edge and not wanting his penchant for drawing out a dramatic moment to spark a quarrel between them.
“Yes, yes.” He wolfed down the last bite of his bread. “I couldn’t help but be curious about a few small details mentioned by Sir Bentley at this morning’s meeting. So, I decided to do a little digging.” A glance at Charlotte. “I’ve learned from you that a seemingly insignificant thing can be the key to unlocking a conundrum.”
“And?” snapped Cordelia.
“And I’ll have you know it’s cursedly unpleasant to sit for hours reading through old newspapers,” he replied. “Not to speak of dealing with John Debrett, the very prickly and officious editor of Debrett’s Correct Peerage of England, Scotland, and Ireland.”
The Computing Engine’s gears began to whirr, stirring a symphony of low-pitched metallic clicks.
“Nonetheless, the ordeal proved enlightening,” he went on. “I checked through every edition of the Weekly Aristocrat from the relevant time—as you know, they are sticklers for reporting the births and deaths of the ton—and there’s no mention of Fenwick Alston’s demise. Nor does
Debrett’s have any record of it.”
Charlotte took a moment to consider the news. “Wrexford mentioned that Sir Bentley wished to bury the whole sordid affair. It’s understandable that he might have wished for his brother to be forgotten. After all, he hadn’t been in England for years, and as the youngest son, there are no inheritance issues.”
“But Debrett’s is the bible of the aristocracy,” countered Sheffield. “It’s simply not done to omit informing them of a death.”
“That’s true,” mused Cordelia.
“Still, I wouldn’t be so sure that their information is accurate,” argued Charlotte. “We were just speaking earlier of human error. Even those who possess an expertise in a subject are prone to making mistakes.”
Sheffield smiled. “Which is why I spent the evening making inquiries in several gaming hells that cater to rascals and rogues, in order to follow up on my suspicions. A few of the regular patrons are fellows who’ve spent time recently in the West Indies.”
He shifted and flicked another morsel of ham to Harper, who caught it with one quick snap of his jaws. “As you know, Jamaica is a field in which the black sheep of the beau monde are wont to graze. And from what I’ve uncovered, Fenwick Alston is as black as they come. His family took pains to hush it up, but he left Oxford on account of cheating at cards and then thrashing his accuser to within an inch of his life.”
A thoroughly dirty dish, thought Charlotte. And yet . . .
“Be that as it may, according to my friends,” continued Sheffield, “Fenwick Alston didn’t perish in a quarrel with his business associates. On the contrary, they say he’s far too clever and ruthless to have given up the ghost that way, and if anyone had been killed, it would have been the others. Word is, he absconded to Martinique with French smugglers to avoid arrest.”
Rumors and conjectures, Charlotte reminded herself. “Even if Fenwick Alston is alive,” she pointed out, “there’s nothing to connect him to our current conundrum save for the fact that he was in India.”
And our own wishful thinking.
“Lady Charlotte is right,” said Cordelia. “Without evidence, we’re just spitting into the wind.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that, which is why I didn’t come straight here after leaving the gaming hells. As luck would have it, I was able to track down an old friend. Whenever he’s in Town, which isn’t often, I might add, he always stays at the Sun and Sextant Club.”
Cordelia appeared about to interrupt, but he continued on in a rush. “According to Sir Darius Roy, Fenwick Alston was involved in opium smuggling while based in Calcutta.”
“That still doesn’t prove—” began Cordelia.
“And,” announced Sheffield, “he happens to know that Alston is currently here in London.”
* * *
Wrexford halted in the doorway. Despite his marrow-deep worries, the sight of his friends warmed some of the dread from his bones.
Perhaps Tyler is right and I’m becoming a sentimental fool in my old age.
In the past, the thought would have horrified him. He shifted, bracing his shoulder against the molding, and took a moment to observe the scene. What with the clatter of the Engine and the apparently fraught gathering around the refreshment table, his presence was still unremarked.
And now? A smile crept, unbidden, to his lips as he watched the conversation.
Charlotte moved back a step as Sheffield and Cordelia began a more animated exchange. Limned in the glow of the Argand lamps, her profile—all the familiar little shapes and angles of her face—looked even more lovely in contrast to her ragged urchin’s garb.
He must have moved, for she turned her head....
And the spark that came alight in her eyes lifted the worst of the darkness from his spirits.
“Wrexford!”
Everyone turned. Harper looked up guiltily, still chewing on another piece of ham that Hawk had filched while no one was paying attention.
“Thank goodness you’re here,” continued Charlotte. “Sheffield has made an important discovery.”
“As have I.” The earl came into the room and shrugged off his sodden coat. After eyeing the teapot for an instant, he blew out his cheeks. “But the information might go down a bit easier if accompanied by a swallow of whisky.”
“I’ll go fetch the bottle, sir,” offered Hawk, shooting to his feet.
“Thank you,” replied Wrexford. To Harper, he added, “You! Stay where you are. It’s bad enough that you’re getting fat. I’d rather not have you get foxed, as well.”
The hound responded with an aggrieved whuffle.
“Sit,” ordered Charlotte as she fixed the earl a slice of bread topped with cheddar and the last morsel of meat. “You look dead on your feet. Eat, while Sheffield tells you what he’s uncovered.”
“It was exceedingly clever of him,” said Cordelia. “It showed both imagination and initiative to see the trail of clues and follow them.”
Sheffield’s face altered . . . though Wrexford found his expression impossible to read.
“Now get on with it, Mr. Sheffield,” chided Cordelia. “Don’t keep His Lordship in suspense.”
As Wrexford wolfed down his food, Sheffield explained about his hunch concerning Fenwick Alston and his peregrinations in following up on it.
“Sir Darius Roy?” the earl interrupted when their friend came to that part of the story. “Why does that name ring a bell?”
“We knew him at Oxford. A very interesting fellow and, like you, curious about a great many subjects. He left his studies early to accompany a diplomatic mission to the Far East. Since then, he’s made quite a name for himself as an intrepid adventurer and explorer,” replied Sheffield. “Less well known is the fact that he works with the Foreign Office in dealing with sensitive diplomatic matters in exotic parts of the world.” A pause. “It turns out he has excellent connections with both India and China.”
Before he could go on, a call from the professor rose up from behind the Computing Engine. “Lady Cordelia! Come, we’re ready to run the calculations!”
“Drat.” Cordelia made a face. “We must get the numbers done tonight, so I had better go help him.”
“I’m sure Sheffield will be happy to give you a full report once you’re done,” said Charlotte.
His quick nod confirmed the offer.
As Cordelia moved away to join Sudler and Raven amid the clack-clacking of the moving rods and gears, Hawk returned with the whisky, and Wrexford poured three healthy measures into the empty cups.
Charlotte accepted the spirits without protest. She, too, looked tired and tense. Wrexford felt a frisson of guilt. His own actions may have added to their troubles.
After warming his innards with a quick swallow of the amber-hued malt, the earl signaled for Sheffield to resume his report.
“As I was saying, Sir Darius has spent time in India and China and has forged a network of friendships outside the expatriate communities in those countries. I asked him a few discreet questions about China’s unhappiness with the illegal opium flowing into the country,” explained Sheffield. “It turns out he knows of Fenwick Alston and confided to me that the fellow was involved in opium smuggling while working for the East India Company in Calcutta.”
“That seems to prove he’s part of Argentum,” said Charlotte. “It’s difficult to believe that there are two separate illegal enterprises.”
Wrexford nodded thoughtfully. “I wonder what other details Sir Darius might know about the venture.”
“The same thought occurred to me,” answered Sheffield. “Which is why you’re invited to meet with him at the Sun and Sextant Club tomorrow at noon.”
“Well done, Sheffield.” Charlotte’s smile softened the lines of worry etched around her mouth.
The praise made him blush. “Am I getting a little better at sleuthing?”
“Much,” she replied. “Indeed, it may lead us—”
“Before you go on,” interrupted Wrexford, “you had bet
ter hear about my evening. I, too, had a private meeting that elicited some surprising revelations.”
“Did Copley have information that can help us?” asked Charlotte. “Did he know the identity of the gentleman with the snakeskin walking stick?”
He averted his eyes, her look of hope making him feel even more wretched. “Yes and no.”
“What kind of answer is that?” responded Sheffield.
“A damnably complicated one,” answered the earl. Unwilling to add cowardice to his earlier missteps, he forced himself to meet Charlotte’s gaze. “I recognized your description of the stick. It belongs to Copley, and it appears that the baron is not quite the shining light that Society thinks he is. There’s a dark side to his business talents and his benevolent generosity . . .”
Wrexford quickly recounted the meeting, stripping it down to the bare bones of the dilemma. “I took a calculated risk, assuming I was right in my conclusion before having proved it. Which, of course, broke the cardinal rule of scientific inquiry.” He spun his cup between his palms. “Forgive me for being such a bloody fool. I fear I’ve put all of us in danger.”
“There’s a good chance he’s lying,” pointed out Sheffield.
“He’s certainly mastered the art of deception.” Wrexford thought back on the conversation and the subtle flickers in Copley’s eyes. “But I don’t think so. And if he’s just another fly caught in this malicious web . . .” He paused for breath.
Sheffield’s expression turned uncertain.
As for Charlotte, she was staring down at her hands, her lowered lashes making it impossible to read her thoughts.
“Then the master spider who’s weaving it now has the advantage over us,” Wrexford finished. “We have to assume Copley will warn him.”
Harper shifted in his sleep, a growl rumbling deep in his throat.
“On the contrary.” Charlotte lifted her chin, steel flashing in her gaze. “We’ve seen in the past that poking a stick at predators can force them to improvise. And that’s when mistakes can happen. I say we continue the offensive.”
Murder at Queen's Landing Page 25
