by Elisa Braden
“Where murdering sorts are involved, death tends to follow.”
“The man he killed was despised by many people. Yet I’ve eliminated all the most likely attackers.” He shook his head again, marveling at the sheer number of dead ends.
In the five days since Green’s murder, Robert had scoured the man’s past with methodical determination. First, he’d questioned Green’s employees. Then, he’d tracked down his business partners—strictly financial shareholders quite pleased with their profits. Finally, he’d discovered Green’s ongoing patronage of a Covent Garden lightskirt. She’d been most informative, particularly after he’d paid her twice her usual fee to tell him what she knew.
Orphaned at fourteen, Horace Green had worked first for a Manchester cotton mill then for a series of printers. He’d come to London seeking his fortune after a long stint writing for a radical newspaper that went out of business.
Three years ago, Green’s Daily Informer had started as little more than listings for auctions and theatre productions and advertisements for household servants. Within a year, Green had hired two writers to pen salacious reports about the comings and goings of the city’s aristocrats. Both writers turned out to be women. Both had written under assumed names—male names.
The following year, Edward Yarrow Aimes’s first caricature had sold fifty copies in one week. Not even the newspaper itself sold at such a pace, let alone so profitably. Green could charge two shillings each for hand-colored prints, one shilling for the uncolored version. Within weeks, he’d pressed Annabelle to produce more frequently. Then, he’d used her sketches to sell his rubbish newspapers.
And he’d paid her five percent. Five. Measly. Percent.
Robert had been furious when she’d told him. In fact, the more he’d learned about Horace Green the more he’d struggled against deepening hatred. Green had deliberately targeted women—some talented, some less so—and paid them virtually nothing for their labor. They’d agreed, of course, keeping his secrets and rarely complaining, all for the promise of seeing their work published.
“So, you’ve taken it upon yourself to find this man’s killer,” Tannenbrook said now. “Why not let the constables handle it?”
“It is personal to me. It must be done right.”
“You’ve a fondness for the victim?”
“God, no. The opposite.”
Tannenbrook rubbed his jaw. “Have you considered hirin’ a Bow Street man? Might offer some expertise you lack.”
“I’d prefer Bow Street wasn’t involved.”
“Right.” He shot Robert an assessing glance.
“So far, I’ve employed methods that served me well when investigating thefts and the like at Rivermore Abbey.”
“Sensible.”
Robert nodded. “I’ve queried everyone who knew the victim personally. In my experience, the culprit is most often one with ready access. Somebody close.”
“Aye. When a theft occurs, I’ve found that to be true. But killin’ takes a particular set of circumstances. A grudge. Something to be gained. Was the victim wealthy?”
“Not enough to warrant murder. And for those with a financial interest, keeping him alive far better served their purposes.”
“Could it have been a woman? Jealous wife or lover?”
Robert shook his head. “No wife. His lover was a lightskirt only too eager to tell me everything she knew.” He gripped his cane and decided sharing more detail was worth the risk. Tannenbrook could be trusted. “But this man was widely hated by some powerful men. One of them is a duke.”
Green eyes sharpened. “Blackmore?”
Alarm ran up Robert’s spine. “How did you—”
“A guess. Aren’t many dukes more powerful. Or any, truth be known. He employs a Bow Street man, name of Drayton, for sundry tasks. I shouldn’t pursue that line of inquiry if you wish to keep things discreet. Blackmore’s not to be trifled with.” Tannenbrook rolled enormous shoulders and rubbed his jaw again. “Last man he killed was a friend of mine. I’ve every reason to want Blackmore hanged for murder. But the only way he’d kill anyone is in a duel. Fancies himself too honorable to do otherwise.”
“Could he have hired it done? The Bow Street man, perhaps.”
“Doubtful.” Tannenbrook squinted at him. “This victim. It’s that publisher, isn’t it?”
“Bloody hell.” Perhaps he should have kept the details vaguer.
“Be easy.” A giant hand clapped his shoulder again. “I’ll hardly be flappin’ my jaws about it. Besides, the blackguard deserved what he got. Atherbourne’s wife is gentle as a lamb. What Green did to her was detestable.”
Robert frowned. “Is it possible—”
“No. If Atherbourne were going to kill anybody, it would be Blackmore. He hasn’t. That’s a measure of his reluctance to see death again.”
Indeed, that had been Robert’s thought. Most men who’d seen war had enough of killing before they ever left the battlefield. Atherbourne had struck him as that kind of man—damaged, darkened, but fighting to surface, not return to the blackest depths.
He sighed and murmured, “If not Blackmore or Atherbourne, then who?”
“You were right to say Green had enemies.” Tannenbrook gestured toward the gentlemen’s club behind them. “It’s all they’ve talked about for days. Worse gossips than the old women who run the haberdashery in my village. Bluidy gaggle of hens, they are.”
Every now and then, an oddly Scottish inflection entered Tannenbrook’s speech, usually when he was disgusted or vexed. Robert had his suspicions about the giant’s origins, but he respected him too much to bring it up. Apart from which, he didn’t fancy receiving a set-down in the form of a boulder-sized fist.
“If you’re bent on finding his killer yourself,” Tannenbrook continued. “Which I cannot recommend, mind. But if you are, I’d start by making a list—all the men who wanted him dead, less the ones who were known to be elsewhere when the murder happened.”
Robert nodded, though frustration plagued him. “Already done. Even with Atherbourne and Blackmore eliminated, there are simply too many.”
“Have a time limit, do you?”
“An urgent one. I leave for Nottinghamshire in two days.”
Tannenbrook grunted. “Aye. That’s a steep one.”
“Steep. This is your sage advice?”
Crossing massive arms across a massive chest, Tannenbrook glowered down at him. “No. My advice is to leave it be. Man got what he deserved.”
Robert couldn’t argue with that, yet neither could he abandon his hunt. The killer might, even now, have Annabelle’s name. He might come after her. Hurt her. The very thought made his skin burn with urgency.
“It’s clear you intend to keep on as you were before, whatever my advice may be. Bluidy granite is more pliable.” The giant’s square jaw hardened as his eyes narrowed. “This is about a woman.”
He slanted a glance at the giant. “That’s a leap.”
“Not much of one. If a man isn’t watchful, he’ll find himself tangled up in a woman’s skirts so fast, there’ll be no time to question how he arrived at such a pass. Before long, he’s doin’ mad things for daft reasons. Or daft things for lustful reasons.” He held up a hand. “Not to worry. I’ll say nothing. Merely wish you good hunting.” A brief smile quirked the man’s lips. “And good luck.”
Behind them, a group of gentlemen exited White’s. They were followed by Lord Atherbourne, who came to greet Robert and Tannenbrook. The black-haired viscount looked well, his color strong, his dark eyes glittering with good humor. Evidently, marriage agreed with him.
“Gentlemen. My, you do make quite a pair. Matching frowns the new fashion, are they?”
Tannenbrook grunted.
Robert was about to reply when a loud laugh nearby caught his attention. The group of five gentlemen stood several yards away. The laugher was Thomas Bentley. Beside him stood Martin Standish.
&nbs
p; Atherbourne followed his gaze. “Ah, I see Standish has abandoned his penchant for outlandish misrepresentation.”
Robert slanted him a questioning glance.
“The coat,” Atherbourne clarified. “He’s no longer wearing it.”
Indeed, Standish was once again without his scarlet uniform. Robert wondered if someone had shamed him into dispensing with it. “Did you know him? During the war, I mean.”
Atherbourne paused, his eyes flashing with something other than good humor. “We were in different regiments. But I knew of him. Many of us did.”
Robert frowned his confusion. “I was given to understand he did not serve with distinction.”
Chuckling darkly, Atherbourne replied, “Hardly. Unless it is a distinction to be caught hiding in a cottage while better men are dying in battle.”
“He always was a coward,” Robert muttered.
“Worse than a coward,” Atherbourne corrected.
That brought Robert’s head around. “Worse?”
The viscount’s expression was a mix of contempt, disgust, and anger. “It was all rumor. Nothing confirmed. Are you certain you wish to know?”
Robert turned fully to face the man, meeting his hard gaze directly. “I must know. That scapegrace had eyes for the woman I …” He bit down on the rest of it, avoiding Tannenbrook’s knowing gaze before demanding, “Tell me.”
A sardonic brow lifted. “Very well. Never say I didn’t warn you.”
*~*~*
Hours later, after the flustered groom delivered Robert’s horse with profuse apologies for Dewdrop’s “uncanny slow pace,” and after Robert had digested Atherbourne’s revelations about Martin Standish’s black soul, he was still no closer to finding Green’s killer.
He sat down on the wooden chair in the small bedchamber of his rented house. Then, he set about the task of forcing his bad leg into a boot. His old boots had been softer, easier on his stiff muscles. Likewise, his old coats had some give to them, allowing for the flexing of his bad shoulder when the damp weather caused it to ache.
But Annabelle liked his new boots with their gleaming polish. She liked his new coats, her voice taking on a husky tone whenever she described how well they complimented his shoulders.
His shoulders fascinated her, for some reason. She called them “ridiculous” but then sighed the prettiest sigh.
God, he wanted to see her again. He’d kept his distance for the past few days, determined to discover the killer’s identity and remove every possible threat to the woman he … well, his wife.
Or, rather, future wife.
Blast. Tannenbrook was right. His head was a muddle.
He did not even know who Green had hired to imitate Annabelle’s work. He’d wager it was a woman, but details were difficult to gather. He’d visited Catherine Street after leaving White’s, hoping to speak with some of the printer’s employees. The place had been empty, locked tight. He’d spotted a hound-faced man in a greatcoat scribbling in a notebook while questioning one of the prostitutes who plied her wares nearby.
Hovering as close as he dared, Robert had pretended to peruse linens and lace in the windows of D’Oyley’s Warehouse while he’d listened to their conversation. The hound-faced man had told the prostitute his name—Drayton. Hadn’t Tannenbrook said Blackmore employed a runner named Drayton? If Bow Street had taken an interest, any direct inquiries Robert made likely would turn suspicions upon him.
Which was why he was now dressing in new boots and a new coat, preparing to ride from Knightsbridge to Mayfair. A short while later, he stood in front of a grand house on Park Lane, trying to decide if desperation always led to insanity or if it was only his lot.
“Mr. Conrad. Good evening, sir. Is her ladyship expecting you?”
He handed the starchy butler his hat and entered the house with the distinct feeling he should be somewhere else.
Anywhere else.
“No,” he answered. “Is she at home?”
“Robert Conrad! It is about time you came to your senses, young man.” Lady Wallingham’s trumpeting voice echoed into the entrance hall from the staircase. “I expected you days ago.” She was gowned in violet velvet and a silver silk turban with lavender plumes. As usual, her chin tilted to a haughty angle. “Perhaps I overestimated your intelligence.”
“I need—”
“My help. Yes, yes.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Come, let us have tea while you explain why you are not yet testing the structural integrity of Rivermore’s beds with your new bride.” She sniffed and looked him up and down. “One hopes it is a temporary affliction.”
He sighed and followed her up the stairs and into her yellow parlor. Like a monarch in her throne room, she seated herself on a rose velvet chair and waved him toward a striped settee. Dutifully, he sat, though he wished with every bone and fiber there was another way.
He’d racked his brain. There wasn’t.
“I must ask a favor, my lady.”
“Then ask it. And do stop frowning, boy. Reminds me of your grandfather. At your age, he’d already fathered a son. You cannot afford to frighten the girl away before you’ve managed to yoke her with your ring.”
“Lady Annabelle is the reason I’m here. Her safety is at risk.”
A white brow arched. “I am confident you can control your baser impulses, Mr. Conrad. If all else fails, picture Sir Barnabus Malby. Such a vision will cool the most extreme ardor.”
Damn, she was blunt. “The risk is not from me,” he clarified. Well, not entirely. Before she could make their conversation more uncomfortable, he explained about Green’s death, about his hunt for the killer, and about the need to winnow down his list of suspects.
“That vile publisher deserved to die,” she said. “Surely you have better uses for your time. Weddings. Beddings. Begettings. Why not leave solving murder to the feckless constables and magistrates?”
“Because they are feckless.”
“Precisely. As I said, the man deserved to die.”
He gritted his teeth. “Nevertheless, I must identify his attacker.”
She sniffed. “If this is about Annabelle and her little sketches, I doubt you have cause to worry. It is unlikely anyone else suspects her connection to Aimes.”
Freezing into focus, he stared at the old woman he had obviously underestimated. “You know?”
“Of course I know,” she snapped. “Meredith Huxley is my dearest friend. I take a keen interest in her children, and they have benefitted greatly from my influence. Did you think I would miss something so crucial as one of them masquerading as a man to publish her amusing scribbles?”
It took him some time to regain the ability to speak. “You knew. And yet, you did nothing to stop her.”
Emerald eyes sparked and narrowed. “What do you suppose you are doing here?”
He frowned his confusion.
“I advised you to make yourself into a shield. And so you have.” At his continued silence, she elaborated, “A lady who remains sheltered inside the bounds of convention has little need for one, wouldn’t you say? No, when a notion takes her, Annabelle has all the circumspection of a hare flushed by hounds. She requires strong hands. Yours were being wasted on counting livestock. Besides, your grandfather and I agree you need a wife, dear boy. Desperately. I can put it no more plainly than that.”
Suspicions and recollections swam inside his mind, coalescing around every interaction he’d had with this formidable, manipulative woman.
His grandfather had coerced him into an aristocratic wife hunt using his failing health as extortion. Lady Wallingham had volunteered to be Robert’s guide, insisting that he attend Lady Gattingford’s ball. Then, time after time, she’d neatly positioned him to conclude what she and his grandfather had predetermined—that he must marry Annabelle.
Good God. Everything had been about maneuvering him into the role of protective husband. His grandfather’s demand. Lady Wallingham
’s instructions regarding the season. Even the world’s slowest barouche ride. Now everything that hadn’t made sense suddenly did.
A footman entered the parlor to deliver a tea tray. Lady Wallingham calmly poured herself a cup then set about sipping as though nothing were amiss.
“Tea?” she inquired.
“You might have bloody well asked me,” he gritted.
“I believe I just did.”
“Not about the tea. About Annabelle.”
She placed her cup on the table beside her chair and rested her hands on the arms of her chair in a queenly pose. “The last time she put herself in jeopardy, what was your response?”
“That was … different.”
“You cut her off. Abandoned her.” Glittering emerald went cold. “I shan’t tolerate a similar outcome in this instance. Or ever again, Mr. Conrad. I trust I am clear.”
“I did not abandon her, for God’s sake. Bloody hell! I was keeping her safe!” He didn’t realize he’d been shouting—indeed, roaring—until he heard his words echo off yellow walls. Shoving off the settee, he grasped his cane and made for the door. “Coming here was a mistake.”
“Is Thomas Bentley on your list, by chance?”
The question stopped him a yard from the door. “Yes.”
She raised a brow and resumed sipping. “His is the one name I would not eliminate too hastily, were I you.”
Despite his fury, despite everything she’d done, he nodded his thanks before leaving the dragon to her tea.
*~*~*
“This seems an extraordinarily bad idea,” Jane hissed in Annabelle’s ear. “The worst. And I was there when Genie made that atrocious reticule with the tassels and—”
“Shh.” Annabelle stood on her toes and craned her neck to view the woman selling flowers at one end of Covent Garden’s crowded piazza. “I only want to speak with her.”
The woman wore a mushroom-colored gown that had once been white. Tied over her shoulders was an equally dingy shawl. Her hair was light beneath her cap, her features more interesting than pretty. Annabelle thought it must be her dark brows and crooked nose—they reminded her of Dewdrop.
