A Most Discreet Inquiry (The Regent Mysteries Book 2)

by Cheryl Bolen

  What in the great, wide world was Jack doing?

  “You can see the wound for yourself,” he said, his voice low and husky, yet incredibly gentle. “It's not deep.” He presented his back to her.

  Still incoherent and sobbing and sniffing plentifully, she eyed the gash on his back close to the armpit. It was bleeding dreadfully, but no inner parts seemed in danger of spilling from the site.

  Even though she was reassured, her sobs would not subside.

  He planted his bottom firmly on the floor and yanked her into his arms. For several minutes he held her tightly. “I've seen this kind of hysteria after battle. It's really not uncommon. You must understand, I'm relatively unhurt. You're unhurt. We apparently stopped d'Arblier from getting his hands on the list. I'd say this has been a successful mission.”

  His words finally broke through the hysteria. “You really think we stopped the vile man?”

  His grip tightened about her for a fraction of a second. “I'm convinced of it. Remember, it was but seconds after I tossed the books to the floor—which, you must admit, I was not very quiet about—he opened that door.”

  “That's right! We obviously interrupted him. But I don't understand why you had to go and fight with him. Could you not have stood silently in the dark?”

  “I've been trained to leave no stone unturned. I couldn't allow someone to get away without trying to determine who it was and if he'd learned anything.”

  “That was before you married. I shall be very happy when this business is over with. You have no regard for your own neck.”

  “I most certainly do. It's just that I love England more.”

  She could have wept anew over how honorable the man she married was. “Allow me to dress your wound.”

  He nodded ruefully. “The bloody assassin ruined my jacket.”

  “Better that than you.”

  “Were I not suffering the effects of my recent attack, I know I could have bested the bast- -” He coughed. “You must forgive my regrettable tongue.”

  “And you must quit thinking of me as a lady. I'd be ever so appreciative if you'd think of me as one of the bloods.”

  He ran a seductive gaze down her from the tip of her head to the hem of the cape she still wore, to her exposed ankle. “Impossible.” Then he puckered his lips, quickly kissed her, and set her down as he got to his feet. “Allow me to help you up, my lady.”

  She put her hand into his, and he drew her to a standing position. Her eyes never left the panel of silken draperies that covered the window. “The lining of these will have to do to bind your wound. Do you think you can remove them for me? They're rather high up.”

  He ended up having to fetch the library steps in order to reach the top of the drapery. After he presented a twelve-foot long panel to her, she set to work tearing the white dimity lining into long strips. Because the sun had made the cloth rather fragile, it tore remarkably easily. “We'll have to clean your wound when we get home,” she said. “All we can do now is staunch the bleeding.” She proceeded to wind the strips around Jack's upper torso as if he were a mummy.

  It was an exceedingly difficult task for her, owing to her propensity to want to be held against his gleaming, taut, statue-worthy chest. By the time she was finished, her breathing had become raspy. She told herself not to think about Jack. I must concentrate on our mission. “What do we do now?” she managed to ask.

  “We find what d'Arblier was looking for.” He put his shirt back on, then the bloodied jacket, but he held off on donning the heavy black cloak—which she thought a very good idea.

  She divested herself of the long, black cloak she wore. “You're sure the Frenchman didn't find it?”

  “Almost certainly.”

  Her gaze went back to the dead body. “What do we do with Lord Slimebeth?”

  “We shall allow his servants to deal with it tomorrow.” His glance went to the clock on the chimneypiece. “Or, I should say, later today.” He sombered. “Will it bother you terribly?”

  “I am not in the least sorry that that horrid man has received his proper comeuppance. It's just that's it's so beastly mortifying to be in the same room with such a horrifying sight—especially when we, too, were in the same room with his murderer!”

  “There is that.” Then Jack brightened. “I'll just scoot Lambeth into the corridor so we can set about our search.”

  As he dragged the dead body to the central hallway, she strolled beside him as if lugging around a dead body were an everyday occurrence. Instead of leaving the corpse there on the polished wooden floor, he began to stuff it into a cupboard of the hall's large Elizabethan sideboard.

  “You can't do that by yourself!” she protested, rushing to assist him. Did the foolish man not realize the limitations imposed by his injuries?

  She took Lord Lambeth's boots and lifted. “I wonder if these boots would fit our Andy. Did you not notice the holes in the poor boy's soles? And these are so very fine. I daresay the scoundrel purchased them with money wrung from my poor sister.”

  Her husband scowled. “I draw the line at disrobing dead men.”

  “You, my dearest love, are such a prude.”

  Ignoring her, he forced the viscount's stiffened legs into the cabinet and slammed the door shut. “If it's dark, the servants probably won't see the trail of blood.”

  Jack and Daphne returned to the study.

  “Dearest?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why do you think the duc d'Arblier would have searched the study first instead of the library?”

  “Because that is where Lambeth was. D'Arblier must have come here with the intention of killing him. If it was the duc.”

  “I believe it was the duc, and I believe he must have been here for some time. Wasn't the viscount supposed to have left at nine to meet Cornelia?”

  “You know very well he was. You know every calculated move of this mission as well as I.” He glared.

  She mimicked a man's voice. “The success of a mission hinges on precision planning.”

  His gaze circled the dimly lit room. “It does appear the duc gave this room a thorough search.”

  “This was the second chamber we were going to search—if the library did not yield what we were looking for.”

  Not only had every drawer of the large desk been cleaned out, it also appeared that every single piece of paper must have been examined. And there were many. Hundreds of sheets of foolscap and parchment nearly covered the room's Turkey carpet.

  “If he looked at every single sheet of paper, that could certainly account for why the duc spent two hours here.”

  Jack nodded. “I'm just wondering if we should re-examine each piece of paper.”

  She groaned. “Surely not.”

  “Not now. We'll continue with our plan.”

  “And if the library fails to yield the precious purloined papers, we come here?”

  “Exactly.” He snatched up the oil lamp and started for the adjoining chamber.

  Now it was she who was mumbling unmentionable words under her breath as she strode back through the connecting door to the library.

  No longer consigned to the task of holding a candle, she was now free to search the lower shelves of the bookcases while Jack teetered on library steps in order to reach the upper shelves.

  The first three sets of lower shelves proved fruitless, but on the next a folded piece of paper fluttered to the floor when Daphne shook a poetry book.

  “I found something!”

  Jack turned to watch as she picked up the paper and began to unfold it.

  Her heart fell. “It's just a most amateurish effort at love poetry.”

  He sighed. “Carry on.”

  Within fifteen minutes they had searched the entire chamber. Every book had been examined. Every sofa pillow was removed, revealing no papers hidden beneath. While Jack searched behind the pictures hanging on the wall, Daphne lay on the floor and peered beneath the room's two sofas, but there was nothing
to be found.

  With eyes narrowed, she looked at her husband.

  “Yes, love. We now search every single paper in the next chamber.”

  * * *

  A few minutes into their examination of the papers, the rear door to the house creaked opened. He stilled. What if d'Arblier had come back—this time with armed men? He should never have allowed Daphne to come.

  The footsteps continued on down the stairs to the basement, where the servants' rooms were located.

  “I suppose when the servants see the lamp on here, they'll assume it's Lord Blackmailer,” Daphne whispered, her nose wrinkled with disdain.

  He nodded. “I just hope they don't see the blood.”

  They both went back to reading snippets of letters that ranged from instructions to Lambeth's steward to bills from tradesmen demanding payment. There were also crude letters written by Lambeth's inamoratas—but no letters written by Cornelia to Major Styles.

  “Here's one of Cornelia's notes to Lord Blackmailer about tonight's assignation,” Daphne said, her eyes running over the page, her mouth lifted into a smile. “I've always had a tendre for you. . .” Daphne shook her head. “It appears my sister is possessed of a talent for writing amorous letters.”

  “This is one time it has proven harmless.”

  “You really shouldn't speak ill of Cornelia. Had it not been for her association with Major Styles, we would never have been so successful in our quest. The duc d'Arblier's interest only confirms that all our assumptions have been correct.”

  “Not assumptions. Hypotheses.”

  She nodded. “There is rather a distinction between the two, and you, my brilliant husband, are right, of course.”

  He glowered. “What did I tell you about---”

  “I know, I know. I'm not to say you're brilliant. Even if you are.”

  This time he ignored the incorrigible woman. “Why do you not gather up a pile of paper and come sit closer to the oil lamp?”

  He might be the one who was injured, but his wife looked excessively tired. She stacked up a sizeable pile of papers that had been discarded by the Frenchman, moved next to him, and began to read the top paper from her stack. She had to hold it to within mere inches from her spectacles in order to make out the tiny print. Another sure sign of her fatigue.

  He should not have subjected her to all she'd had to endure that night.

  He shouldn't have listened when she and that philandering sister of hers persuaded him to allow Daphne to join him on this mission. She could have been killed. He still trembled from the fear that had spiked through him when she'd shrieked as d'Arblier brushed past her. For a paralyzing second, he had thought the knife which only grazed him may have plunged into his beloved wife.

  His thoughts turned back to the papers he was perusing. The one on top of his stack was a playbill from Haymarket. He tossed it aside. The next was a letter from Lord Marchton that demanded payment of a gambling debt in the amount of twelve hundred guineas. Next came another request for settling a gambling debt, this one from Sir Edward Ferguson for some seven-hundred-forty-three pounds.

  Daphne had become suspiciously quiet. He looked up at her and discovered she had fallen asleep sitting up. His gaze flicked back to the clock. It was half past four in the morning.

  He needed to get her home. She had not had the opportunity to restore her health since the sea voyage which had so violently affected her.

  Leaving Lambeth's house, he knew, could leave the way clear for d'Arblier to continue his search. But how would d'Arblier know that Jack had not found what he came after?

  It was a risk Jack would have to take. They couldn't stay in this room interminably. He would allow Daphne to doze a bit longer. Since he meant to return at the first possibility, he must ensure that Lambeth's body was not discovered. That meant he needed to eradicate any sign of blood on the flooring, especially in the main corridor.

  For the next fifteen minutes, he set about tidying the place and tearing more fabric from the draperies to use in wiping the blood away from the floor. He was glad his wife was asleep. This wasn't the sort of thing a woman need to be exposed to.

  When he finished, he went to awaken her. He paused and stared at her sweet face. The spectacles had slipped so far down her rather perfect nose that they had nearly slipped off. He pressed a gentle kiss upon her cheek, and her eyes opened.

  “Oh, dear! I fell asleep.”

  “We've done enough for one night. I'm taking you home.” He helped her get up.

  “I am vastly sleepy.” She stood there, pouting at him.

  “Pray, what's wrong?”

  “You do realize another night has passed, and we're still not properly wed.”

  Did she have to remind him? It was getting more difficult each day to be so close to her and not be able to possess her. He drilled her with a seductive look. “It will be worth the wait.”

  She let out a little squeal.

  Chapter 17

  Reading other people's post was a surefire way to get drowsy. (Unless the other person was Harriette Wilson. Now, that demirep's posts would be wickedly wide-eyed reading, to be sure.) But such was certainly not the case with posts belonging to the recently departed Lord Lambeth. Daphne could not remember when she'd ever been more bored or ever sleepier than the previous night as she and Jack had sat reading Lord Lambeth's tripe in the room where he had been slain.

  As she came fully awake the following morning, her first sight was of red velvet bed curtains. Which reminded her she was in Jack's bed. Beside him. She rolled over to stare at the wondrous spectacle of her husband. His dark lashes were downcast as he slumbered soundly. Her gaze lazily ran along the full length of him—though much of him was beneath the bed coverings—and her opinion that her Captain Sublime was statue-worthy was reinforced. He was a sight she never tired of.

  But today she had important matters of state to see to. A quick glance at the clock told her it was just past noon. Had her brain been functioning properly at four that morning, she would never have left Lambeth House. What if the duc d'Arblier was watching and waiting for them to leave so he could search the house? With his devious mind, he was just likely to instinctively know where Lord Black Murderer was likely to have hidden secret documents.

  She wasn't about to allow her ailing husband to go back to that dreadful house just yet. He did need a good night's sleep. And she was determined to have the surgeon take a look at the knife wound her husband had sustained the night before.

  Since Lambeth House needed watching, she thought she knew just the person to do it. She inched out of the bed almost soundlessly, padded barefoot across the wooden floor (with only one board creaking), and slowly pulled the door open as silently as possible.

  She heard the soft murmur of female voices. That would be Mrs. MacInnes and Annie. She did hope the two got along well.

  In her own bedchamber, she scribbled a note and sealed it, then grabbed a handful of coins from her reticule. Without changing from her night shift, she raced—as quietly as she could—down the three flights of stairs that took her to the basement kitchen and the two female servants.

  “Dearie,” Mrs. MacGinnes was saying to Annie, “if you could read, you'd know that sugar is not in this bag and flour in the other.” Upon hearing Daphne approach, the housekeeper spun around. Her eyes widened, and her open mouth a perfect oval. “Pray, Mrs. Dryden, you had only to ring, and I would have come to you.”

  Daphne knew the mistress of the house never set foot in a kitchen, but she had a great need for haste. “I must beg that you deliver a letter for me.” Daphne also knew the housekeeper never performed such menial tasks.

  Mrs. MacInnes' face brightened. “I will be happy to. I enjoy getting out of doors, and nothing's better than a good walk.”

  Daphne handed her the letter. “This must be taken immediately to my brother-in-law, Sir Ronald Johnson. His address in Whitehall is on the letter.”

  The housekeeper eyed the sloppy script and
nodded.

  “I suggest you walk over to Kings Road and take a hackney coach to The Strand.” Daphne uncoiled her fist to reveal the coins in her palm. “Here's money for the coach. I'm afraid I couldn't wait while our driver readies our own conveyance.” Of course, it wasn't really their own since it was hired, but for now it was theirs.

  Mrs. MacInnes nodded as she took the coins. “I daresay that would set us back another twenty minutes. I'll just fetch my cloak and be on my way.”

  Daphne then addressed the cook. “And, Annie, I beg that you run around to the livery stable just behind us and have the coachman ready the coach for me. He's a young man by the name of Andy.”

  “I'll do it right now, my lady.”

  Later, when time was not so precious, Daphne would request that Annie, too, address her as Mrs. Dryden. But today, there was not a second to be spared. They could not give the duc the opportunity to go back and search Lambeth House.

  Back in her bedchamber, Daphne donned a green muslin dress sprigged with embroidered flowers. The fabric had been a most dear expense, but Cornelia had insisted it be part of Daphne's trousseau. Daphne knew Cornelia's concern was not for the bride but for herself. The duchess was forever lamenting that Daphne was an embarrassment in the well-worn brown bombazine she preferred wearing most every day. (Brown was ever so practical since stains scarcely showed on it, and Daphne did have the devil of a time keeping ink stains from her garments.)

  Though she hoped to return to Dryden House before Jack awakened, she ought to leave him a note explaining her whereabouts if he should wake up before she returned.

  By the time she had put on the stays and stockings and bonnet, and made herself reasonably presentable, Andy had brought around the coach. She quickly addressed Annie. “I shouldn't like Captain Dryden to be disturbed from his sleep, but when you hear him stirring, I beg that you take him toast and tea.

  Outside, Daphne directed Andy to return her to Manchester Square. “This time, I'll go in the front door.”