To Love a Hellion (The London Lords Book 1)

by Nicola Davidson

  “So you say. And yet you admit the dagger belongs to you.”

  “That is correct. But it’s a showpiece which sits in a display cabinet. Not an everyday method of protection.”

  Verity paused in his pacing, his sympathetic nod at odds with sharp, cold eyes. While Fyfe seemed reasonably professional, it had been obvious from the outset the older man despised his chief suspect. If the senior constable had his way Stephen probably would have been packed up and sent straight to the gallows at Tyburn, never mind any kind of investigation or trial.

  “Do you ever carry a weapon on your person, Lord Westleigh?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “Are you proficient with a dagger?”

  “Adequate enough, I suppose.”

  “But you’re so good with a pistol,” said Fyfe, his tone more than a little admiring. “And fists. I’ve heard very few can outlast you at Jackson’s. Stands to reason you’d be better than adequate with a dagger.”

  Stephen shifted uncomfortably. Much like gambling, there were too many variables with knife throwing so he’d never really taken the skill seriously. “I assure you, Mr. Fyfe, I am not.”

  “Although,” mused Verity, “stabbing a drunken man in the back does not require great ability.”

  “I did not kill Major Rochland.”

  “Yet four men of good standing found you on the ground under Rochland’s bloodied corpse. Tell me, my lord, did you enjoy that?”

  “Excuse me?” he said incredulously.

  Verity perched on the small wooden table in front of him, folded his scrawny arms and tilted his head. God. The face might be ferret but his eyes were coldly hypnotic, like being sized up by a viper. Stephen would put a large investment on this man being incredibly successful at gaining criminal confessions in rapid time.

  “Oh, I know all about noblemen and their vices, Lord Westleigh. Demon drink. Loose women. Illicit substances. Yet there are a small percentage who are also excited by, shall we say, pleasures of a darker kind. Are you one of them?”

  Bile rose in the back of Stephen’s throat and he coughed. “No, Mr. Verity. I do not find death exciting in any way, shape or form.”

  “Yet you’ve danced with it so often recently. At the Bruce Estate. On a Piccadilly footpath. Now Lord Ardmore’s courtyard. And death did gift you all you have, did it not? In your place, some men might consider themselves beyond fortunate.”

  Stephen leapt to his feet. It was fifty-four years since the last peer, Earl Ferrers, danced on the wind at Tyburn for murdering his steward. The crowds were probably itching for another spectacle like that, and he was about to oblige them by killing a senior constable.

  Regrettably his place in the annals of criminal history was interrupted by the door banging open. In the space stood a vaguely familiar ginger-haired man wearing clothing even more rumpled than Fyfe’s, and looking as though he hadn’t slept or seen sunshine in at least two years.

  “Ah, Lord Westleigh,” the stranger said politely. “Thank you, gentlemen, but I shall take it from here.”

  “Sir,” protested Verity, clearly annoyed. “I’d like to continue this line of questioning. I do believe we may be getting somewhere.”

  The ginger said nothing, merely raised an eyebrow, and both constables bowed low and practically sprinted from the room. Whoever this man was, he held a great deal of power.

  Stephen’s gaze narrowed. “Pardon my ignorance, sir, as I think perhaps we may have met before, but who are you?”

  The man smiled briefly. “Call me White.”

  Bloody hell. He was William’s employer, the coordinator of the government’s intelligence operations.

  “Well, White, how does a man of your standing come to be involved in a run of the mill murder investigation?”

  “Considering the players involved, it’s hardly run of the mill, now is it?”

  “Spare me the repartee. Between a ball, a death and a long interrogation, I’ve about had enough for one evening. Why are you really here?”

  White leaned against the table, utterly unperturbed. “Blunt, just like your father was. I like that. England lost a fine brain when he died although from what I hear you surpass him, and Standish too. Never understood mathematics, rows of gibberish to me, but languages, ah, now there is something to sink your teeth into. The power of words can never, ever be underestimated—”

  “I’m sure William greatly enjoys your scintillating conversations.”

  “But of course. Hard for ton men to have intelligent discourse while they’re choking to death on perfume or brandy. Who do you think sent Rochland the note regarding Clara Matthews?”

  Stephen blinked at the lightning fast topic change. “I have no idea.”

  “Who do you believe murdered Rochland?”

  “Are you saying you don’t think it was me?”

  “I’ve seen the dagger. Concealing something that size in what you are currently wearing is not plausible. Neither is suggesting you removed it singlehandedly from a sheath while fighting. I’ve also seen the body and the wound site. One clean point of entrance, straight in, no deviation and full depth. Impossible for someone with his arms pinned and in motion to inflict such an injury.”

  “Indeed,” Stephen said softly, the large block of stone in his gut slowly beginning to dissolve.

  “Lady Westleigh said it was as if the dagger just appeared.”

  “You’ve spoken with my wife?”

  “Of course. She is a key witness. Now where was I? Oh yes, the dagger. My expert, although terribly unimpressed to be dragged from his slumber, concurred. He believes the weapon was thrown, with vigor, from at least twenty feet away.”

  Stephen looked away and rubbed a hand over his stubbled chin, lest White see the sudden moisture in his eyes.

  “You move fast,” he muttered at last.

  “Occasionally. But before you add me to your Christmas gift list, I am involved because of Rochland, not you. We’ve been keeping an eye on the major and his chums for some time now, especially since your father and brother’s…accidents. When I heard of the girl Matthews’ death after last being seen at their dock offices, then Rochland attacking you because he received an accusatory note, let’s just say my curiosity was well and truly piqued.”

  “But why is this happening? Why are these people being killed?”

  White pinned him with a very direct look. “I can think of two far better questions, Lord Westleigh. Firstly, who was able to remove that dagger from your home? And secondly, who holds such a grudge against you that he or she would go to rather elaborate lengths to frame you for murder?”

  ***

  Click clack. Click clack. Click clack.

  Caroline smiled extra sweetly at the scowling desk clerk as she paced the length of the dungeon-like waiting area. The sound of her heels might be frightfully loud, but sitting down and pretending everything was fine simply wasn’t an option. Not with her husband currently the number one suspect in what appeared a rather cut and dried murder.

  A nasty fight prior. Stephen’s dagger. Fresh blood on his hands.

  Nausea churned and she paused and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. No matter how many times she rubbed her eyes, no matter how many times she ordered her mind to forget ever witnessing such a horrific sight, the events from Ardmore’s courtyard kept repeating in her head. Yet how could it be possible? Stephen’s evening clothes were tailored to fit him like a glove. There simply wasn’t anywhere to hide such a dagger, not even in his Hessians. So where had the deadly-sharp weapon come from?

  Click clack. Click clack. Click clack.

  “For God’s sake, Caro, if you are going to continue that regimental pacing, take your bloody shoes off before we lose our minds.”

  Guiltily she halted, giving George an apologetic look. Neither he, nor Ardmore, deserved heel clicking tort
ure, not after everything they’d done tonight. George, whisking her away to a parlor and force-feeding her hot tea laced with brandy. Ardmore sending for Mr. White, who looked like he’d been found under a bridge after a long night out, but actually seemed to know a great deal about managing awful situations. Then the marquess giving into her pleas and bringing George and her in a carriage here to Wapping. All that despite the fight she now knew Stephen and he had definitely had. “I’m sorry, both of you. But they’ve been in that room for hours and hours. What else could they possibly need to ask him?”

  “It’s a murder investigation,” said George. “They’ll leave no stone unturned. Well, at least they won’t if they are any good at their jobs. Stephen’s a peer so the constables will want to be very, very sure of their evidence and facts before even thinking about presenting the case to a coroner’s jury.”

  “He didn’t do it,” she said fiercely. “I know he didn’t.”

  “Of course not,” soothed Ardmore. “No one in the world would be less likely to stab a man in the back. But it doesn’t look good when you’re lying on the ground, a dead body sprawled on top of you and your dagger protruding from the victim.”

  Caroline narrowed her eyes. “There is no need to restate anything. I was right there the whole time. Tell me something new, like what you and Stephen fought about.”

  “As a matter of fact it was over the dock visit.”

  “Kimbolton and co?”

  “And Gregory. My mother and sisters share the same eye patch when it comes to my late father, I’m sure it will eventually send me to Bedlam.”

  “Oh,” she said awkwardly, not having expected that degree of frankness. Then she frowned. “What about Stephen’s brother?”

  “I understand it’s often the case. Younger brothers idolizing their older siblings, especially if they pass. Loyalty is all well and good, but not slavish devotion to a memory that just isn’t true. Distance probably only made it worse, Gregory in London and Westleigh at Cambridge then traipsing across several countries. The last few years before Gregory died I doubt they saw each other in person more than four or five instances.”

  “Stephen was away a very long time.”

  Ardmore cocked his head, his gaze uncomfortably assessing. “I imagine for someone madly in love it would have seemed like decades.”

  Caroline sighed. “You have no idea.”

  The sound of a door scraping open further down the narrow corridor had her spinning around, just as Stephen and Mr. White appeared.

  “What is he doing here?” she muttered. “Where are those two awful constables?”

  George snorted. “I believe White outranks them somewhat.”

  “Oh. Well, that is good then, having someone very senior involved. Surely that can only help Stephen in the circumstances.”

  “Here’s hoping.”

  Observing the two men in the corridor without fully turning her head was difficult, but she gave it her best effort. They were talking in low voices, both expressions grave, but not really behaving like gaoler and prisoner. Abruptly they shook hands and Mr. White bustled away in the opposite direction.

  Gasping, she exchanged a glance with Ardmore and George who both smiled and nodded, clearly just as relieved.

  Her gaze returned to Stephen. For just a moment his shoulders sagged, and her heart ached for him. Despite his massive height and bulk, in his blood-drenched clothing he looked brittle and so lonely in the stark gray corridor. Then he seemed to shake himself upright again, marching towards them although his eyes remained locked on the stone floor.

  “Stephen!” she called, running toward him.

  His head jerked up. “Caroline? What on earth are you doing here? It’s far too unsavory. And late.”

  “I didn’t come alone, George and Ardmore are here too,” she replied, throwing her arms around him.

  “Don’t, you’ll get blood on your gown.”

  Caroline only held him tighter. “You may buy me a new one.”

  Obviously her husband had reached the end of his tether, for he actually let her hug him for a full minute. Then he gently unclasped her arms and continued forward.

  “George. Thomas,” he said gruffly. “Who invited you to this exclusive party?”

  “Acquaintances turn up at weddings and baptisms…” said Ardmore.

  “…friends bail you out of prison,” finished George. “Now let us get the hell out of this place before we smell like rotting fish and perspiration forever. You’re not wrapped in chains so I take it you are free to leave?”

  “Yes,” said Stephen. “Although not free to leave London.”

  “Who would want to anyway, old boy. All the excitement one needs is right here.”

  The four of them quickly left the police building and climbed into Ardmore’s luxurious carriage, George and Ardmore on one side, her and Stephen on the other.

  “God,” murmured Stephen, letting his head fall back on the thickly padded dark brown leather squabs.

  Caroline reached over and grasped his hand. “Not much longer and we’ll be home. A hot bath, plate of cakes and you’ll feel much better.”

  Stephen opened one eye. “Cakes? Never say you’ll actually share.”

  “In certain circumstances I might be persuaded.”

  “Persuaded? How exactly?”

  “Oh stop it, you two,” said George. “The evening has been eventful enough without me casting up my accounts.”

  “If you do that in my carriage,” drawled Ardmore, “I will send a note to every aging spinster in London professing your love and a fervent desire to marry and sire eleven children.”

  “No one would believe such perfidies, my lord.”

  “They will when it appears in the scandal sheets. Everyone knows they are as factual as factual can be.”

  “Hmmm,” said George thoughtfully. “Speaking of scandal sheets, not one of your delightful sisters is spoken for yet, correct? I should set up house with the three of them. Imagine, all of us one big, happy family. Christmas would be splendid.”

  The marquess stilled, and Caroline couldn’t stifle her mirth at the feral look in his eyes.

  “Quiet, George!” she laughed, nudging her brother for his insolence. “We’ve had enough trouble tonight. Besides, one day you’ll meet a woman who’ll lead you on the merriest of dances and we’ll all laugh ourselves silly watching you fall flat on your face.”

  “The way I hear it,” said Ardmore silkily. “He’s already met said woman.”

  Caroline turned stunned eyes to her twin. “Really? Who?”

  “No one. As usual, Ardmore is drunk and quite delusional,” George snapped. “Now perhaps we can concentrate on the actual important matter of the evening, Stephen and the dead major? What did White have to say?”

  Stephen let out a gradual breath and rotated his massive shoulders. “That despite outward appearances he is reasonably confident I am not Rochland’s killer.”

  Relief swamped Caroline, until she felt as boneless as a dish of treacle.

  “Well,” she said tartly. “It’s good to know there are at least some sensible people attached to England’s justice system. Did Mr. White have any idea who might have done it?”

  “Not at this stage. But he suspects whoever sent Rochland the note saying I accused him of Clara Matthews’ murder may be closely connected to the person who embedded the knife in Rochland’s back.”

  “Interesting,” said Ardmore. “And the killer knows you.”

  “Perhaps,” said Stephen, his lips visibly tightening. “Or at least he knows one of my employees. Someone with enough access to my home to wander into my library when I wasn’t there, uplift the dagger from the case and pass it on. And that is turning me inside out. Who on my staff could hate me so much?”

  Cold chills slid down Caroline’s spine, but voicing her opin
ion and starting a fight in front of George and Ardmore would be pointless.

  The answer was staring Stephen in the face.

  Why couldn’t he see?

  And how could she prove it?

  ***

  “Home. Thank heavens.”

  Stephen rubbed a weary hand across his face and nodded as the carriage pulled up in front of Forsyth House. God knew what time it was now, but the first watery rays of light hadn’t yet peeked through the darkness to indicate an impending dawn.

  “Couldn’t have said it better myself, wife. Between people attempting to kill me and those accusing me of killing others, I think it would be better if I never left the place.”

  Caroline didn’t laugh. Merely shuddered and hugged her arms around herself, and he immediately regretted the half-joking words. She’d been through an equally awful night, witnessing a murder then spending hours pacing the waiting area in Wapping, while the constables then White questioned him.

  Actually, the fact she had done so was the one bright part of the entire day. After a lengthy conversation with White he’d had a lot to think about, although his first pressing desire was getting the hell out of there. It was easy to see why some criminals lost their minds in prison, he’d been ready to climb the cold stone walls after being in the small, airless room for half a night. But to hear his name and see her standing there alongside George and Ardmore had moved him in an unexpected way.

  Absolute loyalty amongst long-time friends was one thing, but not what he had necessarily been expecting from a spouse. Ton wives were not renowned for their steadfastness, more their ability to sway with the wind and spend money like all the shops in London might disappear tomorrow. Not to mention the gossiping, swooning and having hartshorn waved under their noses.

  Except his Caro though. She didn’t curl up into a feeble ball and surrender. She stood up to life and charged boldly into the fray, protecting those she cared about with the ferocity of a lioness.

  His Caro.

  The stray thought shoved into the forefront of his mind like a battering ram, startling him so much he actually halted on the front steps of his home.