Barnaby blinked. “Papa…” He broke off, frowning. “I thought you’d gone north.”
“So did I.” The earl sighed. “Unfortunately your mother decided I’d left something in London she was set on me bringing home, so she dispatched me back to fetch it.”
The light in the earl’s eyes as they rested on his son informed everyone what the countess’s “something” was.
Smiling genially, the earl turned his attention to the others in the room, then raised his brows at Barnaby.
“Ah…” Barnaby had a sense of matters spinning out of his control. “You know Stokes, of course.” The earl exchanged a nod with Stokes, whom he knew quite well. Barnaby turned to Penelope. “Allow me to present Miss Penelope Ashford.”
Penelope rose, bobbed a curtsy, then shook hands with the earl. “My lord. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“And you, my dear. And you.” Clasping her hand between both of his, the earl patted it. He smiled delightedly upon her. “I’m acquainted with your brother. He often mentions you.”
Penelope smiled and returned a polite reply.
A sinking feeling assailed Barnaby. His father knew. How, he didn’t know, but if his father knew…so did his mother. He inwardly swore. He managed to breathe a trifle easier when his father—at long last—released Penelope and turned to Griselda.
Barnaby made the introduction, then steered his father to the boys, giving him enough of their story to explain their presence.
“Brave lads!” The earl nodded approvingly, then turned to survey Smythe. “And this is our villain, I take it?”
“More his henchman.” Eager to keep his father’s attention away from Penelope, Barnaby handed him one of Alert’s lists. He was about to explain what it was when Penelope touched his arm.
With a nod, she directed his attention to the boys, both yawning. “Perhaps Mostyn can take them to the kitchen for some milk, and then find them some beds. I can take them to the Foundling House tomorrow.”
Mostyn nodded his understanding. Gathering up the boys, he herded them from the room.
Barnaby turned back to his father, to find him frowning at the list.
“What are you doing with one of Cameron’s infernal lists?” His father looked at him. “What’s this about?”
For one instant, Barnaby felt sure he’d misheard. “Cameron’s list?”
His father shook the list he’d given him—the one of the houses to be burgled. “This. I know Cameron wrote it.” He looked at the sheet again. “It might be block capitals, but I’d recognize his style anywhere. As Huntingdon’s secretary, Cameron writes up our agendas and minutes, all neatly laid out just like this.” Puzzled, the earl looked at Barnaby. “What is this? I recognize our address, of course, and the others—this looks like one of Huntingdon’s rounds.”
Recalled from exchanging a stunned look with Stokes, Barnaby frowned. “Huntingdon’s rounds?”
The earl snorted. “You need to pay more attention to politics. Huntingdon is extremely conscientious and regularly visits the power brokers in the party in his parliamentary capacity. Very dedicated, Huntingdon.”
“And Cameron goes with him?” Stokes asked.
The earl shrugged. “Not every time but often, yes. If there’s any business to be discussed, Cameron would be there to take notes.”
Stokes caught Barnaby’s eye. “All the stolen items were from libraries or studies—did you notice?”
Barnaby nodded.
The earl lost patience. “What stolen items?”
Barnaby handed him the rest of the sheets. “These items—the ones our principal villain arranged for Smythe to collect for him.”
The earl took the papers and studied them. It didn’t take him long to see the implications, especially when he came to the object stolen from his own house. “Your mother’s great-aunt’s statue?”
He looked up at Barnaby, who nodded. “Along with everything else.”
There was nothing at all genial about the earl now. “He got them all?”
“All except the last, but he hasn’t yet had time to dispose of them. And now, thanks to you and Smythe combined, we know who he is.”
The earl smiled, this time predatorially. “Excellent.”
It was Penelope who asked the most pertinent question. “Where does Cameron live?”
The earl knew. “He lives with his lordship at Huntingdon House.”
Assured by the earl that Lord Huntingdon would still be up and about to receive them even though it was close to two o’clock, they all trooped around to Huntingdon House, which was luckily situated in nearby Dover Street.
Stokes pulled two constables from their patrol in St. James and put them in charge of Smythe, who Lord Cothelstone declared needed to come, too, so it was quite a procession that marched through the doors of Huntingdon House. But Huntingdon’s butler drew himself up, and handled the matter with aplomb. Leaving the earl, a frequent visitor, to see himself and Barnaby into Lord Huntingdon’s presence in his study, the butler bowed Penelope, Griselda, and Stokes into the drawing room, then whisked the boys, Mostyn, the constables, and Smythe to a set of straight-backed chairs lined up along the corridor leading from the front hall.
Within five minutes the butler was back, to conduct them all into his master’s sanctum.
Huntingdon, a large, heavyset gentleman, was no fool. He listened without emotion as Barnaby and Stokes outlined the case as they knew it against the man Smythe and the boys had known as Mr. Alert, now believed to be his lordship’s private secretary, Douglas Cameron.
When told that Smythe and the boys could identify Alert, Smythe by sight, the boys by his voice, Huntingdon studied all three carefully, then nodded. “Very well. Your story otherwise strains belief, but those lists are damning. That is his hand, and those are houses he has visited frequently in my train. I see no reason not to put Cameron to the test. If by some twist of fate he’s innocent, no harm will be done.”
Barnaby inclined his head. “Thank you, my lord.”
“However”—Huntingdon held up one finger—“we will do this correctly.” So saying, his lordship made his dispositions, directing everyone as to where they should stand, and what they should do.
Two doors, one on either side of the long study, led to adjoining rooms; a large oriental screen stood before each door. Huntingdon sent the two constables and Smythe to stand behind one screen. He dispatched Penelope, Griselda, and both boys to the room beyond the other screen.
“I want you to bring the boys out only when you receive word from me. Adair’s man will stand by the main door here, and when I give him the signal, he’ll go out into the hall and around to tell you to enter. I want you to keep the boys behind the screen, where they can hear us, but not see us.” Huntingdon fixed Penelope with his weighty gaze. “I rely on you, Miss Ashford, to tell me if the boys correctly identify Cameron as the man they heard giving Smythe instructions. You’ll know from my lead when to step out and tell me.”
Penelope nodded. “Yes, sir.” She gathered the boys; together with Griselda they went into the next room.
When everything was arranged to Huntingdon’s liking, with the earl and Barnaby standing behind the desk to his right, and Stokes by the wall to his left, Huntingdon rang for his butler and instructed him to fetch Cameron. “And Fergus—no word to him regarding who is here.”
The butler looked offended. “Naturally not, my lord.”
Huntingdon glanced at Stokes, then at Barnaby. “Gentlemen, while I appreciate your interest in this, I will conduct this interview. I would take it kindly if, regardless of whatever Cameron may say, you maintain your silence.”
Stokes looked unhappy, but nodded. Barnaby agreed more readily; he approved of his lordship’s tactics, and saw no reason not to leave the interrogation in his clearly capable hands.
A minute ticked by, then the door opened and Cameron entered.
Barnaby studied him. His hair, an average brown, fashionably cut, was slightly ruffl
ed, and there was a faint flush on his pale cheeks; Huntingdon had earlier stated that he hadn’t asked Cameron to hold himself available that evening, and Fergus had confirmed that Cameron had been out since nine, returning only recently.
He was as well dressed as usual, not a cuff out of place; after an infinitesimal hesitation, excusable given the unexpected company, he closed the door and walked forward, surveying them with his usual arrogant air, significantly more deferential when it came to Barnaby’s father and Huntingdon.
Barnaby noted that, along with Cameron’s more evenhanded attitude toward himself. The man was supremely conscious of the lines of class; he treated everyone he considered beneath him with dismissive arrogance, all those above him—like Huntingdon and the earl—with toadying deference, while those he considered his equals—such as Barnaby—he acknowledged with an unruffled air. In Barnaby’s experience, only those not secure in their place in the world expended so much effort reinforcing it.
Cameron halted a pace before the desk. Like any good secretary, his expression revealed nothing, not even curiosity. “Yes, my lord?”
“Cameron.” Clasping his large hands on his blotter, Huntingdon fixed him with a level look. “These gentlemen have come to me with a disturbing tale. It seems they believe you have been involved…”
Huntingdon gave an expert summary of their case, omitting all unnecessary details, concentrating on the outcomes and conclusions.
Watching Cameron carefully, Barnaby thought he paled at mention of the lists, but that might have simply been his flush slowly fading.
Regardless, Barnaby—and he was quite sure Stokes, his father, and Huntingdon, too—had Cameron’s guilt confirmed within minutes.
The man didn’t react; even though Huntingdon’s initial statement had told him he was suspected of being behind the crimes Huntingdon subsequently described, Cameron maintained his aloof composure. An innocent man, no matter his control, would have at least shown some sign of surprise, shock—at least perturbation—on being informed he was suspected of such acts.
Instead, Cameron simply waited patiently until Huntingdon reached the end of his recitation, concluding with, “Well, sir? Can you enlighten us as to the accuracy of this tale?”
Then Cameron smiled, an easy, gentlemanly smile inviting his lordship, and the earl, too, to join him in the joke. “My lord, this entire tale is nothing more than fabrication, at least as regards my supposed involvement.” A wave of his hand dismissed the notion, along with the lists lying by Huntingdon’s blotter. “I have no idea why suspicion has fallen on me, but I assure you I had nothing whatever to do with this…series of burglaries.” He made the last words sound like an act he couldn’t conceivably have been thought to perform—like cleaning out a fireplace.
With that, he simply stood there, the expectation, the absolute belief that Huntingdon would accept his word and dismiss the charges evident in his expression, his stance, his whole attitude.
Barnaby suddenly understood. Cameron, driving the coach, had seen them with Smythe, but he hadn’t, even then, imagined they’d identify him. He hadn’t remembered the lists, or hadn’t thought anyone who might see them would recognize his style. He’d come to the study prepared to face down the worst accusations he’d thought might eventuate—vague ones not backed by any strong evidence—placing complete, overweening confidence in his position among the ton being sufficient to deflect any such charges.
Things weren’t as he’d assumed, but now he was there all he could do was play out his scripted role. He had no other defense.
Looking down, Barnaby murmured, “It’s a performance. He thinks he knows the rules.”
He’d spoken quietly, but his father and Huntingdon would have heard, and they’d know what rules he meant.
Huntingdon studied Cameron, then unclasped his hands and eased back in his chair. “Come now, Cameron. You’ll have to do better than that.”
Anger flashed through Cameron’s eyes. He was used to reading his employer; he now saw that, contrary to his expectations, Huntingdon wasn’t going to join him in waving away the “fanciful” tale, let alone close ranks, gentleman siding with gentleman. “My lord.” Cameron spread his hands. “I don’t know what to say. I have no knowledge of these events.”
From his position behind the desk, from the corner of his eye Barnaby saw movement behind the screen as Penelope and Griselda silently ushered the boys back in; Mostyn had unobtrusively left the room a few minutes before.
Cameron drew breath. “Indeed, I have to say I’m a little surprised to find myself a target of such allegations.” His eyes flicked to Stokes. “One can only surmise that the investigating officers are at a loss for a culprit, and imagine that pointing a finger at one of their betters will cause sufficient consternation that their failure to protect the ton from such depredations will be overlooked.”
A muscle leapt in Stokes’s jaw; a slight flush tinted his cheekbones, but other than that, he didn’t respond to the taunt, but continued to watch Cameron with a steady regard that somehow still managed to convey his contempt.
Cameron’s eyes narrowed, but he couldn’t say more on that front; turning from Stokes, he looked at his employer, and realized his words hadn’t yet succeeded in deflecting the charge.
But Huntingdon appeared to be considering his suggestion. “Indeed?” His tone was encouraging, inviting Cameron to elaborate.
Cameron glanced at Barnaby, then met Huntingdon’s eyes. “I’m also aware that, for some, solving crimes such as this, and pinning the blame on members of the upper class, has become something of a passion. One that carries a certain notoriety—even fame. Such considerations can cloud judgment when they’re indulged to the point of obsession.” Cameron allowed his lips to curve. “An addiction of sorts, if you will.”
“Oh?” Huntingdon’s response was cool.
Barnaby looked down to hide a smile; Cameron had just stepped over an invisible line. A gentleman did not make that sort of allegation about another gentleman other than in private.
“In short, my lord”—Cameron’s voice hardened—“I suspect that these allegations, accusations, call them what you will, have been laid at my door as a matter of expediency. I don’t imagine there was any truly personal aspect to the choice of me as scapegoat, but merely that I fit the bill as a suspect who, by virtue of my station and position as your secretary, will deflect attention from the woeful lack of evidence.”
Looking up, Barnaby saw Cameron’s now hard gaze fixed on Huntingdon’s face. He had to give Cameron credit; had it been anyone with less backbone than Huntingdon, that last jibe—a reminder that should Cameron be charged, Huntingdon’s personal standing would suffer—would have seen him walking free, at least of this room at this time.
Whatever he thought he saw in Huntingdon’s face had Cameron’s confidence returning. His expression eased. With a polite half-bow, he asked, “Will there be anything else, my lord?”
He’d misjudged Huntingdon badly. Once again clasping his hands on his blotter, Huntingdon fixed Cameron with a heavy look. “Indeed, there will. You have singularly failed to explain how lists of houses and items stolen from them, laid out in your distinctive style, came to be in the possession of the burglar who admits stealing the items. While you claim to know nothing about these lists, I myself can confirm that you’ve frequently visited every house listed, and that you’re familiar with the libraries and studies therein, enough to have certain knowledge of the items stolen. Very few gentlemen would have such knowledge, not of all these houses. Likewise, you are one of the few with knowledge and access sufficient to have falsified the police order against the Foundling House.
“While lists composed in your peculiar style, your familiarity with the houses involved, and your ability to falsify police orders might individually be dismissed as circumstantial, taken together, they are highly suggestive. However, as you maintain you’re entirely innocent, you can have no objection to allowing the burglar”—Huntingdon beckoned
Smythe out from behind the screen—“to take a look at you and confirm whether or not you’re the man for whom he’s been working.”
That Cameron had prepared for. Calmly, he turned and faced Smythe.
Smythe took one long look at him and snarled, “That’s him. He called himself Mr. Alert.”
Cameron merely raised his brows, then turned back to Huntingdon. “My lord!” His expression and tone were incredulous. “Surely you can’t be intending to place any faith in the word of a man like this? He’d say anything.” Gaze flicking to Stokes, Cameron added, “I daresay he’s been offered an incentive to do so. No court would convict on his word.”
Gravely, Huntingdon nodded. “Perhaps not. However, there are other witnesses.” He looked to the other side of the room. “Miss Ashford?”
Penelope came out from behind the other screen. Hands clasped before her, she addressed his lordship. “Both boys reacted instantly to Cameron’s voice. There can be no doubt that he was the man they overheard giving Smythe instructions”—she looked at Cameron—“of which houses to burgle and what to steal from each.”
Cameron stared at her.
“Two innocent boys who are under no compulsion or threat, and therefore have no reason to lie.” Huntingdon paused, then asked, “What say you now, Cameron?”
Cameron hauled his gaze from Penelope and her condemnatory stare—and glanced at his lordship.
All trace of the gentleman had vanished.
Barnaby swore and started around the desk.
Cameron didn’t react like a gentleman; he lunged for Penelope.
Stunned, disbelieving, she found herself seized by the arms. Wild-eyed, Cameron swung her before him; he slung one arm across her shoulders, locking her against him. And brandished a knife before her face.
She focused on it; a chill slid down her spine. Cameron had to be insane. The knife looked sharp.
“Stay back!” Cameron shifted so his back was to the wall.
She could feel his head turning this way and that. Could feel the nervousness—the near panic—pouring off him.
Where the Heart Leads Page 42
