by Stella Riley
‘You’re saying that Stephen hid them for purely sentimental reasons and that they have nothing to do with the ill-doings of Daemon?’
‘Yes. Don’t you think so?’
‘As yet, I haven’t decided what I think … aside from the fact it’s time you were in bed.’ He rose and reached for a candle. ‘Come on. I’ll light you upstairs.’
Once in her bedchamber, Eden lit more candles and banked up the fire. He’d already decided about what would – or rather wouldn’t – happen next; his difficulty was in knowing how best to manage it.
Rising and dusting off his hands, he said, ‘Is there anything else you need?’
Yes.
‘No. Thank you.’
Eden had heard her thought as clearly as if she’d spoken it.
Placing his hands on her shoulders with the intention of keeping them there, he gave her a long, sweet kiss. Then he lifted his head and smiled ruefully at her.
Lydia said huskily, ‘You’re not going to stay with me, are you?’
‘No. Not tonight.’ Nor hopefully any night unless you refuse to marry me – in which case I’ll have no choice but to be grateful for whatever you’re willing to give. ‘But not because I don’t want to.’
‘Then why?’ She tried not to let it sound either disappointed or pleading.
‘Those papers downstairs have put you in danger long enough. I want it finished – and for that I need a name or some sliver of information that will lead me to one. Since it won’t simply leap out and present itself, I’m going back to do a few more hours work.’
‘Oh.’ Lydia laid a hand against his cheek, her eyes worried. ‘But you need sleep.’
‘I’m a soldier, love. I’m used to sleeping when I can.’ He allowed himself to slide his arms around her in a brief embrace and then, dropping one last kiss on her brow, stepped back. ‘Go to bed, Lydia. I’ll see you in the morning.’
She stood quite still watching the door close behind him. And a little later, curled up beneath the covers while her mind flew round in circles, two new thoughts occurred to her.
Had he ever truly intended to take her as his mistress? And if he hadn’t, might that be because, contrary to all her assumptions, he actually wanted to marry her?
It was a possibility too dizzying to contemplate … but she fell asleep contemplating it anyway.
Downstairs in the parlour, it took Eden a little time to stop his body wanting what it wasn’t going to have and focus on the task in hand. But finally, drawing a long determined breath, he sat down and pulled the next stack of papers in front of him.
* * *
Having worked on until four in the morning by which time his eyes felt full of grit, Eden allowed himself a couple of hours’ sleep and then rose again to resume his efforts.
Stephen Neville had gone to a lot of trouble to discover and document information about the man he called Daemon. Clearly, he must have had a particular reason for doing so and Eden was beginning to suspect that reason had been a personal one. Unlike Lydia, he didn’t think that Stephen had put his one-time lover’s letters alongside the Daemon file by chance. He’d done it because he either believed or knew that Daemon was one of Persephone’s sons. The question, of course, was which? One legitimate, one not; one spoiled by a man who might or might not be his father and the other seemingly passed over; and one of the two growing up in a way that was making his mother fear for the man he might become.
More and more, Eden was convinced that the answer, if there was one, would be found in Persephone’s letters. Lydia had ordered these according to date and had been reading from the beginning of the correspondence. Eden flipped the pile and started from the other end.
By the time Mistress Wilkes walked in bringing breakfast only to scowl at the litter covering the table, he had a page full of scribblings. Glancing briefly up at the housekeeper, he said absently, ‘Put it in the back parlour, please.’ And failed to hear her grumble of disapproval.
Nicholas appeared, yawning. He said, ‘You’re a busy soul, aren’t you? Anything?’
‘Plenty – but nothing that connects yet.’ Eden sat up and stretched. ‘I’ve concentrated on the letters. Lots of references to one of the sons being away a great deal, of being secretive and spending money he shouldn’t have … and a couple of allusions to mysterious night-time visitors. In the later letters, she started calling him Janus.’
‘The two-faced god of gates? That sounds appropriate.’
‘Bloody annoying is what it is. The other son is Mother’s comfort and joy. She calls him Gaius.’ He threw down his quill. ‘I’m beginning to hate mythology.’
Nicholas grinned at him. ‘Come and eat. You’ll feel better after some food.’ And when Eden rose and followed him, ‘Did you get Lydia home safely?’
‘No. She’s in the spare bedchamber. At least, I hope she damned well is. If she’s gone wandering off on her own, I may well strangle her.’
‘Strangle who?’ asked an amused voice from behind him. And, dipping an apparently respectful curtsy when he wheeled to face her, ‘You see? All present and correct and reporting for duty, sir.’
Despite himself, a gleam of laughter appeared in Eden’s eyes.
‘Colonel,’ he corrected pleasantly, ‘is the correct form of address from subordinates.’
‘Of which,’ she said blithely, ‘I am not one.’ Then, differently, ‘Did you get any sleep at all?’
‘A couple of hours.’ He pulled out a chair for her and when they were all seated, explained again and in slightly more detail, what he’d been doing. Then, pausing to consume a slice of cheese, he said, ‘I think … indeed, I’m fairly sure that Stephen’s Daemon is Persephone’s Janus. I found a letter dated December ’48 where she says she is consumed with the darkest suspicions which she will confide to Stephen separately when Janus is away and I can be sure my letter will be seen by you and you alone. She insists Stephen must burn that letter immediately on receipt of it – and, since it isn’t there, he must have done so. Despite this, her next letter sounds frightened. She says I think he knows. What shall I do?’
‘Knows what?’ asked Nicholas, reaching for the bread. ‘It’s a great shame we haven’t got the other half of the correspondence. It might solve everything.’
Lydia was suddenly very still. Eyes wide and turning a little pale, she thought, No. No – it can’t be. Can it? Realising that Eden was looking questioningly at her, she said slowly, ‘I – I’ve had an idea. It’s probably preposterous and I’m completely wrong but …’
‘But what?’ he asked. ‘At this stage, no idea can be too preposterous.’ And when she continued to stare at him, a frown of concentration marking her brow, ‘Lydia … what is it?’
‘I think I may know who Persephone is,’ she said flatly.
The breath hissed between Eden’s teeth and Nicholas laid down his knife. Neither of them said anything, leaving her words to echo on in the silence.
Finally Lydia said slowly, ‘I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. The two sons, the long correspondence with Stephen … the only thing that doesn’t fit is one of the sons being Daemon. That’s just not – not possible.’
‘Do you think you could just give us a name?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Yes. I’m sorry.’ She sat up very straight. ‘I think Persephone is – was – Arabella Wakefield, Viscountess Northcote. She’s dead.’
‘Wakefield?’ snapped Eden.
‘Yes. She was Gilbert’s mother.’
‘I see. And what makes you think she was also Stephen’s paramour?’
‘When Gilbert first introduced himself, he said he’d wanted to inform Stephen of his mother’s death but had discovered that Stephen had predeceased her. Apparently, he’d been going through his mother’s papers and found numerous letters from Stephen and so wondered if I had the ones written by his mother. I hadn’t, of course … but he always seemed convinced that I’d eventually stumble across them.’ She paused slightly. ‘He was quite persis
tent about it. I remember finding it rather irritating.’
I found a lot of things about him irritating, thought Eden darkly; but said, ‘You’ve never mentioned anything of this.’
‘Why would I? It wasn’t important before. But it’s different now; a lot of things fit. Gilbert’s older brother is now Viscount Northcote. He’s arrogant, patronising and rude – but so full of his own consequence that I can’t imagine him --’
‘Wait!’ snapped Eden. ‘You’ve met his lordship?’
‘Once – and that was enough. I virtually threw him out and told Henry not to --’
‘What did he want with you?’
Lydia concentrated on crumbling a piece of bread and said reluctantly, ‘He called to tell me I wasn’t good enough for his brother and that if Gilbert offered me marriage, it was in my own best interests to decline.’
Eden’s face became perfectly expressionless.
‘I see. And did Gilbert propose to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah. Something else you didn’t mention.’
This time the silence was deafening. Nicholas glanced from one to the other of them and wisely kept his mouth shut.
Lydia lifted her chin and looked him defiantly in the eye.
‘Again – why would I? But, if you really want to know, I told Gilbert what I might have told his obnoxious brother had he not made me so furious. I said that I valued his friendship but that marriage was and always would be out of the question.’
Eden leaned back and folded his arms. ‘When was this?’
‘About six weeks ago.’ She thought about it. ‘Shortly before Parliament was dissolved.’
‘So … after we retrieved your women from the Steelyard but before our interlude in the cellar?’
‘Yes.’
‘Interesting.’
‘And a possibility worth looking into, wouldn’t you say?’ asked Nicholas carefully.
‘Yes.’ The hazel eyes didn’t move from Lydia’s face. ‘Let us be quite clear. Although you think Persephone may be the late Lady Northcote, you don’t believe that either of her sons could be Daemon. This, I gather, is because you like one of them and think the other too high in the instep to run a brothel.’
‘In a nutshell, yes,’ she replied a shade uneasily. ‘Is something wrong with that?’
‘I think so. Assuming you’re right about Lady Northcote – and I agree that you may be – one of her sons is illegitimate and one is not. If either of them knows this, he’ll want any proof of it in his own hands; the one to keep it hidden, the other to make it public. Both of them have equally good reasons for hunting for it. Especially in Gilbert’s case if he thinks a title which ought, by rights to be his, has gone to an elder brother born on the wrong side of the blanket.’
Lydia shook her head.
‘I can’t believe Gilbert is responsible for any of the things that have happened. He isn’t … I just don’t think he’s capable of it.’
‘Not everyone is what they seem,’ returned Eden uncompromisingly. ‘As for the Daemon question … Stephen didn’t go to so much effort just to pass a dull Tuesday. He had a reason. And the only reason I can think of is personal. But if either of you has a better idea, I’m listening.’
Lydia said nothing. But after a few moments Nicholas asked, ‘All right. So where does this leave us?’
‘If you can bear the thought, I’d like the two of you to continue sifting through Old Job’s harvest. Look for anything that supports the theories we’ve just been discussing – but don’t discount anything else.’
‘And while we’re doing that,’ asked Lydia with misgiving, ‘what will you be doing?’
‘Paying a call on Mr Wakefield. I presume you know where he lodges?’
Lydia didn’t like the sound of this. She said, ‘No. I don’t --’ And then stopped, not sure how best to phrase an objection.
The implication and timing of her words proved unfortunate. Eden’s expression turned ice-cold and he said softly, ‘Don’t lie to me.’
‘I wasn’t going to!’ she protested, realising that – with this man in particular – any impression of deceit would be catastrophic. ‘He has rooms over the White Hart, near the Temple. I was only going to say that I don’t think you should go – that it would be better if I sent a note inviting him to Bishopsgate.’
‘Delightfully cosy as that sounds,’ replied Eden pushing his platter aside and standing up, ‘I think we will do this my way.’
‘Wait!’ Lydia also rose. ‘If you must do this – I’ll come with you.’
‘No. This time you most certainly will not. This time,’ said Colonel Maxwell grimly, ‘you will do as I ask and stay here with Nicholas. And I’d further appreciate it if, just for once, you could do it without arguing.’
~ * * ~ * * ~
EIGHT
Finding Mr Wakefield’s lodgings was not difficult. Colonel Maxwell ran up the stairs, emptying his mind of personal feelings in order to concentrate on what mattered. The door was opened by a servant, who eyed him blankly and said, ‘Yes?’
‘Colonel Maxwell to see Mr Wakefield. Is he here?’
The servant quailed under the Colonel’s eye. ‘Y-yes. But he isn’t dressed yet.’
‘That is easily remedied. I don’t mind waiting – though not on the landing.’
‘No.’ The man stepped back to let him enter the comfortably furnished parlour. ‘Of course. If you’d care to t-take a seat, I’ll tell Mr Wakefield you’re here.’
Eden nodded, removed his hat and, instead of sitting down, strolled across to the window.
The servant disappeared into an adjoining room from whence, in due course, came sounds of voices and hurried activity. Eden smiled sourly to himself.
Of course. I might have known the fellow would have somebody to brush his coats and fasten his breeches for him. And then, wearily, Forget you don’t like him. Forget that Lydia does. Do what you came to do.
Gilbert Wakefield appeared quicker than Eden had thought he might. He eyed his unexpected visitor with unease bordering on confusion and said, ‘Colonel? I’m surprised to see you here. Is this an official visit … or something other?’
Eden subjected him to a long, trying stare and finally said, ‘You may wish to give your man an errand that will take him elsewhere for a time.’
‘The matter you wish to discuss is … confidential?’ And then, when the disconcerting hazel gaze remained fixed on his face, ‘Very well. If you think it necessary.’
‘I imagine that it is you who will think it necessary. But it amounts to the same thing.’
He waited again while Gilbert sent his servant out to buy half a dozen assorted items. Then, when the door closed behind him leaving them alone, he said, ‘I understand from Mistress Neville that your late mother corresponded with the equally late Stephen Neville.’
‘Yes. But --’
‘I also understand that you showed great interest in seeing and possibly also possessing your mother’s letters.’
‘Again, yes. But I don’t understand how that can be any concern of yours.’
‘You will.’ Eden produced one of Persephone’s letters from his pocket. ‘Is this your mother’s handwriting?’
Gilbert took the paper, stared at it. His hand shook a little and he said, ‘Yes. How --?’
‘Read it.’ The letter had been deliberately chosen to contain the names of both Janus and Gaius but no mention of either being the lady’s son. ‘Then tell me what you make of it.’
Gilbert walked away to the light of the window. He read the dozen or so lines and then apparently read them again. Finally he turned back to Eden and, sounding genuinely bewildered, said, ‘What is this is about? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘It does when you read some of the others.’
‘You have more?’
‘I believe I have all that exist. But rid your mind of any idea that I’ve come here with the intention of making you a present of them. I haven’t. Neither are they for
sale.’
‘What then? Why are you here?’
Colonel Maxwell continued to watch him in silence.
Mr Wakefield began to feel inexplicably nervous. It wasn’t that the Colonel was a particularly big man – indeed, he was an inch or two shorter than he was himself. And though the compact frame beneath that plain russet coat hinted at well-honed muscles and physical strength, the real cause of Gilbert’s inner disquiet lay elsewhere. It was due to the intimidating quality of the man’s expression and the fact that, when he chose to exert it, Colonel Maxwell had a truly formidable presence.
Eventually, Eden said dispassionately, ‘I’m here because the existence of your mother’s letters has caused Mistress Neville a great deal of pain, worry and inconvenience. Obscenities daubed on her walls … her workmen put at risk of lethal injury … three of her women abducted for the purpose of extortion; and finally, an attack upon Mistress Neville herself. I’d like to hear what you know about all this.’
‘Me?’ Mr Wakefield stared back as if Eden had been speaking in a foreign language. ‘Nothing! What do you think I am, damn it? I like Lydia – more than like her, if you want the truth. I hoped to see the letters, yes. But if you think I’d go to any lengths to get them, you must be deranged!’
‘Are you saying you didn’t?’
‘Yes! How many times must I say it?’
‘As often as it takes to convince me,’ came the cold reply.
‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about! Is that clear enough for you?’ Gilbert ran a distracted hand through his hair. ‘I don’t know where you came by this insane idea – but this is the first I’ve heard of any of it.’
Eden had had a lot of practice in telling lies from truth and, if this was a performance, it was a very convincing one. He was not, however, prepared to accept it just yet. He said, ‘Sit down, Mr Wakefield.’
‘Thank you – but I don’t think I will.’
‘Sit down.’ The quiet implacability of the command was more effective than a parade-ground bark. Gilbert sat. ‘Good. I am aware that you didn’t commit any of these acts personally. They were performed under the auspices of a powerful and dangerous criminal who accepts commissions like these for payment. Are you acquainted with such a person?’
