by Anna Castle
Moriarty nodded. “The spherical engine is ideal for such a strategy. It looks so plausible. I can see that it would be a simple matter for Teaberry to cheat his board. And I can well imagine the fury with which Lord Nettlefield would meet such action. He does not like to be crossed.”
“Indeed he does not. I hope you remember that as you proceed with your inquiries. I remind you that a man who has killed once will feel less constraint the second time.”
“I’m aware of the dangers that beset me,” Moriarty said, though the face he pictured was Mrs. Gould’s. “But I still don’t see how Nettlefield could have cheated Carling. Even the slim-witted secretary thought their earnings were too low.”
“If he controlled the flow of funds to the other front-sheeters, he could manipulate their percentages. He might do so under the guise of helping them with the accounting or some such service. Most of these gentlemen know very little about finance.”
“What about my third question?” Moriarty asked. “You suggested that Teaberry might have obtained inside information about secret government negotiations. Could exposure of that source or secret be a sufficient motive for murder?”
“Unquestionably. Possession of government secrets is treason — a capital offense. If Nettlefield found out that Teaberry had acquired any such secrets, he would own the man. Teaberry might have remembered that a secret can only be kept by two people if one of them is dead. He could easily have hired someone to sabotage his own engine.”
Moriarty stubbed out his cigar and swallowed the last of his Armagnac. “That fits the facts, such as they are. I would still like to have a good alternative. Can you think of any reason for Nettlefield to attempt to murder Teaberry? It seems to me he’d be killing his golden goose.”
“Perhaps he fears Teaberry will be exposed and implicate him.” Sir Julian’s eyes twinkled. He plainly enjoyed this game. “Nettlefield must maintain a pristine reputation for the next two months. He may think it’s worth the price of a fat goose to land a seat on the Board of Trade.”
Moriarty grinned and wagged his finger at the shrewd baronet. “I like it, and not only because it suits my personal bias. It fits the evidence as well as the Teaberry theory, if not better.”
“Whichever it is, if we are correct, the murderer failed the first time and will probably make a second attempt.”
“That’s true. I wonder if Sherlock Holmes has any knowledge of these financial intricacies. He seemed more concerned with the provenance of the false sensor plate.” And with Moriarty’s history, but that was best left unsaid. He shot a wry glance at Sir Julian. “I must confess that his arrogance has stimulated my competitive side. I would love to solve this puzzle before he does. If the answer lies inside Teaberry’s financial circle, how could I find proof?”
“You do choose formidable opponents, my dear Moriarty. Lord Nettlefield, Sherlock Holmes. I suppose I should count myself lucky that our conflict is confined to the chess board.” They shared a laugh.
Sir Julian drained the last drops from his snifter. “Where could you look for proof? That should be easy enough for a mathematician, although it may task your social skills to gain the access you’ll require. Just get your hands on these front-sheeters’ account books. Everything you need will be there, though it may be hidden.”
Moriarty signaled to the waiter for another round of the costly brandy. A small celebration seemed appropriate. The Carling accounts had been stolen, but there were other front-sheeters. And he had an idea about how to get a peek at Nettlefield’s books. The secretary, Ramsay, had a conscience; he’d shown that much after the Durham affair when he’d recommended Moriarty to the Patent Office. He might be willing to help him in the interest of justice for the murdered man’s family, at least to the extent of leaving the library unattended for half an hour.
Moriarty accepted the new snifter from the waiter and cupped it in his palm to warm the aromatic liquid. He raised the glass to his nose and smiled. He had a trail to follow that Sherlock Holmes had not even sniffed out yet. And how he would savor hoisting Lord Nettlefield with his own petard!
Chapter Eighteen
Moriarty dressed with extra care for Sir William Bowman’s lecture at the Royal Society on Thursday evening. He had no particular desire to hear another paper about glands, but he’d caught the name Angelina Gould while his colleagues were discussing the society news. The American sensation and her circle would be attending a reception at the Royal Academy later that same evening.
It would be quite natural for him to wander across the yard with the other scientists after the lecture. The Academy had many odd nooks and cul-de-sacs; perhaps he could manage a private word. At the least, he could signal his willingness to meet again. They’d parted on an ambiguous note in Russell Square the other day.
He had no idea what he would say if he did achieve an opportunity to speak with her. She was part of the puzzle that had subsumed his life somehow, but whether as a friend or a foe remained to be discovered.
“You’re a fool, James,” he told his reflection as he adjusted his cravat and the angle of his hat. “There’s bound to be a crush. She won’t even notice you.” Honesty compelled him to admit that even a glimpse would be worth the effort.
The lecture turned out to be a rehashing of previously published results. The few questions were pro forma and led to no discussion. Afterward, Moriarty followed the others across the paved yard to the main building. The spacious gallery was packed with fashionably dressed men and women. He’d expected a crowd but had grossly underestimated the impact of so many people in what amounted to a marble cavern. The noise assaulted his ears like a pounding surf, disorienting him.
He moved toward the far wall and stood blinking for a few minutes while his senses acclimated themselves. He rarely attended such affairs and was now forcibly reminded of the reason. He had come in the hope of catching a glimpse of Mrs. Gould. A vain hope. He would never find her in this crowd.
He spotted a waiter weaving through the room with a tray of champagne flutes and made that his interim goal. Fortified by the slightly sour refreshment and feeling more like a participant with a glass in his hand, he began a slow circuit of the ground floor, working clockwise from the entrance hall. He pretended to view the paintings, surreptitiously scanning groups that included ladies. Every room was the same: a host of people with their backs to the works of art, chattering away at the top of their lungs.
As he approached the last chamber, a musical laugh floated over the hubbub. The sound pierced him like an arrow, or rather, a harpoon since it drew him through the archway to stand beside the wall. She sat in the center of the room on a red velvet banquette, wearing a low-cut gown of shimmering indigo, surrounded by men in black tailcoats. Her oval face tilted up, and a flirtatious pout curved her ripe lips. Lady Lucy sat beside her in some pale frock.
The tableau was more vivid than any of the paintings he had glimpsed on his hunt through the galleries. This room held a series of small sketches, presumably early works by some artist of note. In lieu of the usual dominant masterpiece, a large mirror in an ornately carved and gilded frame hung upon one wall. Moriarty discovered that by shifting his position slightly to the left, he could stand behind the ring of Mrs. Gould’s admirers and still maintain an unobstructed view of her in the glass.
He barely noticed the other men standing in this outer circle, also admiring the Paragon from a distance. The bold ones — the lucky ones — stood as close as they could get. They peppered her with questions, silly ones meant to elicit giggles and little swats of her fan. Reginald Benton stood behind her, wearing a smug expression, as if she already belonged to him and he was allowing her this moment of public attention as a treat. She ignored him.
A young man wearing a pink carnation said, “I’ve heard two descriptions of your late husband, Mrs. Gould. Some say he was a mining engineer, others that he was an inventor. Which was it?”
“Why, both, of course. American men are very versatile, y
ou know.” She ducked her head and bit her lip, looking up from under her thick lashes, a gesture Moriarty recognized with a touch of bitterness. The men around her chuckled approvingly. They sounded like panting hounds surrounding a doe.
“Did he invent anything interesting?” the young man asked.
“People say he did, though I never understood it. Something to do with telegraphs. It’s the little bibble-bobble that makes the sendy part go up and down. Only Vincent’s made it go faster. They say it’s being taken up by every telegraph office in the western states. At least a dozen, I should think!”
The men burst into laughter, charmed by her girlish ignorance and tantalized by the wealth implied by anything involving telegraphs and the American West. Moriarty knew the lady to be anything but ignorant and the girlishness to be pure show. He couldn’t imagine what the “bibble-bobble” was. She’d probably invented it on the spot.
He had been watching the actual woman in profile, admiring the curve of her neck, the whiteness of her skin, and the depth of her décolletage. Now she turned her head, so he raised his gaze to the mirror and found himself looking straight into her eyes. He smiled inadvertently, surprised by the connection. She shot him a broad wink that shocked him like an electrical wire touched to the base of his spine. He took a step forward, his feet moving of their own accord. She smiled, blinked slowly, then returned her attention to her inner circle.
She’d done exactly the same thing at the Exhibition, only this time he understood the message. She was giving a performance and wanted someone to recognize her skill. She chose him, making him her accomplice, if only for the moment.
Did that mean she trusted him? He didn’t trust her, but she’d hooked him even so. Whatever she wanted from him, if it granted him another minute in her company, he would make the attempt.
He drained his glass, tilting his head to catch the last drops of bubbly wine. When he looked again into the mirror, he spotted Lord Nettlefield standing in the archway, watching Mrs. Gould through his monocle with a cold glare.
How long had he been there? What had he seen? A chill prickled the back of Moriarty’s neck. He knew from bitter experience the lengths to which Nettlefield would go to punish those who slighted him. Was he angry to see his son publicly attaching himself to a rumored title-seeker? Or was he monitoring his accomplice’s performance to make sure the hook was sunk?
Chapter Nineteen
The Hainstone dinner was in full swing on Friday night. They’d gotten through the fish and on to the main course. Angelina had a young barrister on her left and an old banker on her right. She wore a new dinner gown made of dark gray silk with strands of an elusive blue that brought out the gold tones in her hair and made her eyes shine like a tiger’s. She needed both strength and stealth tonight. Peg had laced her into a corset so stiff and so revealing that her breasts had been pushed almost up to her chin.
Needing to keep track of the time, she’d pinned Viola’s jeweled watch to the ruffle on her left shoulder. Every time she shifted her torso to glance at it, the barrister made a small choking sound and the banker spilled something into his lap. Fortunately, Lady Hainstone had supplied plenty of napkins.
“Are you expecting something? Or someone?” the banker asked.
“Of course not.” She trilled a girlish laugh. “My watch is new, and I’m afraid it’s a bit too much with the ruffle. Do you think it’s a bit too much?” She twisted sideways to give him a good, long look.
“Not at all.” He mopped his brow with his napkin and took a deep draught of his Lafite Bordeaux. “They’re perfect. It’s perfect. All quite, quite perfect.”
Angelina had been on pins and needles for the past fifteen minutes. She practically had to pinch herself to keep from checking the time again. It was just about ten minutes to nine. Lady Hainstone had called her guests in at ten after eight. Dinner had begun at quarter past eight. Sandy and Zeke should have climbed in through the library windows at eight thirty sharp and be well into their work by now.
She pretended to eat her braised beef, taking tiny bites. Lady Hainstone had a legendary cook; she wished she could taste the food. Laughter drifted down from the upper end of the table, where Lucy sat opposite Reginald Benton. Lucy kept her eyes on him, but his kept turning toward Angelina and her décolletage.
She had smiled at him coolly in the drawing room before dinner and then left him at Lucy’s side. She had even persuaded Lady Hainstone to assign Reginald to take Lucy in to dinner. He hadn’t liked it, but the rules of etiquette brooked no argument.
Now he glanced at his own timepiece and snapped it shut, as if he’d seen what he expected. He turned his head to say something to the lady on his left and rose, dropping his napkin in his chair, and made his way toward the hall. A man caught his sleeve as he passed and asked him something. Angelina caught the word “telegram.”
Lord save them all, he was going to the library!
She leapt up, crying, “Oh! Oh! My eye!” She bent her head, dabbing at the offending organ, and dashed from the room. She bumped into Reginald in the lobby at the foot of a winding marble staircase.
“What the devil!” He caught her by the shoulders. “Angelina?”
“Who’s there?” She had genuine tears in her eyes by this time. She let genuine fear wind her voice up to a high pitch. “Oh, Reginald! I’ve got something sharp in my eye, it’s driving me mad! Could you —”
“Let me see.” He gripped the back of her neck with one large hand and tilted her head back with the other. She blinked rapidly, making little mewing noises. “Stop blinking,” he commanded. He probed her eye with a surprisingly gentle finger. “I don’t see anything.”
She took half a step back — as far as his grasp would allow — and rolled her eyes as if testing. “I think it’s gone.” She smiled up at him and sighed, letting her chest rise and fall visibly. “Whatever you did, you fixed it. Thank you so much.”
His tongue traced his lower lip as he let his gaze blatantly explore her breasts. His other hand reached around her waist. He pulled her tight against his body, tilting her back so her upper torso was fully exposed to him. His hard member pressed against her thigh, sending a jolt of panic through her. Surely he wouldn’t assault her right here in the hall!
She struggled to free herself, wriggling against him. He chuckled. “You like it, don’t you? I knew you would.” He covered her lips with his, trapping her head with his large hand, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. Then he broke off and trailed wet kisses down her naked throat, nuzzling the tops of her breasts.
Angelina closed her eyes and reminded herself why she had followed him. She gritted her teeth and endured his embrace until she heard a clock strike the hour. Zeke and Sandy would be out of the house by now.
She placed her hands on Reginald’s shoulders, summoned all the strength she possessed, and pushed him away, far enough to raise her hand and deliver a stinging slap. That set him back two steps. She swept up her skirts and flew back to the dining room.
Everyone at the table turned to watch her return to her seat. She knew her color was high and her coiffure disarranged. It didn’t help that Reginald came stalking after her, eyes ablaze and tie askew, his original reason for leaving apparently forgotten. Everyone would assume they had slipped out in the middle of dinner to indulge in a spot of dalliance.
Lady Rochford pointedly lifted her eyebrow as she picked up her napkin and sat. Lucy glared daggers. Lord Nettlefield’s lip curled as he turned his monocle from Reginald to her and back again.
She’d kept Sandy and Zeke from being nabbed in mid-burgle, but at tremendous cost. How long would it be now before Reginald backed her into a corner or his father decided to investigate her past? He clearly did not consider her a worthy candidate for daughter-in-law. And how long before Lucy’s jealousy boiled over and she spilled the beans?
She’d give it a week. They’d have to work faster.
Chapter Twenty
The last post on Saturday afterno
on brought Moriarty an unexpected letter from Mark Ramsay, Lord Nettlefield’s secretary. He unfolded the crisp paper and read the neat, round hand:
Dear Professor Moriarty,
I hope you’ll forgive my taking the liberty of writing to you at your home. I wish to beg a favor of you, which perhaps might also be of some benefit to yourself. Our consulting detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, has made an appointment with me for two o’clock Sunday afternoon at Durham House to discuss matters relating to the incident at the Exhibition. I trust you understand to which incident I refer.
The family has gone to the country for a week of respite from the rigors of the Season. I am thus alone in the house, and I must confess that Mr. Holmes rather terrifies me. I should very much like to feel that I had an ally during his interrogation. Could you possibly find the time to attend this meeting? I know it is a terrible imposition, but I value your unshakeable good sense.
Your servant,
Mark Ramsay.
* * *
At the appointed hour, Moriarty was admitted to Durham House by a junior footman who took his sopping coat and hat. The rain that had been threatening all morning had come pouring down the moment he stepped onto the pavement.
He had never been inside Nettlefield’s home before and viewed the environment with a critical eye. The entrance hall was barren yet ornate, floored with patterned marble and edged with elaborate friezes. An enormous painting of a cavalier on a rearing stallion hung in the stairwell. The supposed ancestor bore no resemblance whatsoever to his lordship. The suit of armor standing guard by the library door was equally unlikely to have descended through the Nettlefield line. The present viscount’s father had been elevated to the peerage for his contribution to railway development, not for his valiant service to the Plantagenets.
