by Allison Lane
They spent an hour sitting on opposite sides of the table, the journal open between them. Peterson’s writing was terrible, making it difficult to follow. And he’d jotted down information as he acquired it, linking related bits with a complicated system of codes that took time to work out. But as Alex absorbed the contents, excitement made even the scent of Eden’s hair recede into the background. The book contained dozens of secrets that ranged from embarrassing to criminal, hundreds of observations on the men who hid those secrets, and uncounted notes on financial transactions related to the information. Peterson could have blackmailed half of society – and probably had to some extent. At least three lords had purchased Roman statues despite having no interest in antiquities.
Many of the recorded embarrassments involved sexual peccadilloes, so Eden was getting an unexpected education. If he’d realized the scope of the contents, he never would have showed it to her.
“That is appalling,” she gasped when they reached a list of men who patronized a brothel specializing in very young girls. A shorter but more dangerous list named men interested in young boys.
“If he used this knowledge, I’m amazed he lived as long as he did.” Alex shook his head.
“He must have used it. Why else would he keep it?”
“I don’t see any sales connected with this section. For some men, merely knowing secrets is enough. They can feel superior without revealing their knowledge.”
“But Peterson sold secrets freely.”
“Not all of them.” The man had seemed to know which secrets could be lucrative and which were too dangerous.
Another quarter hour passed before they reached the first entries on Sarsos.
“Finally,” said Eden.
If collected together, the notes would fill a dozen pages. In addition to cataloguing dishonest dealers who sold fake Sarsosian antiquities, Peterson listed every rumor about the place, the sources of those rumors, and their buyers.
“Lucrative,” murmured Alex, noting Peterson’s prices. “The four serious collectors bought every tale.” And for considerable prices. He squinted at the dates. “Emerson has been buying information the longest.”
“Twenty-five years.”
“That industrialist has been active for twenty-one, and Lord Oakdale for twenty.” Those were the years during which the toppling of the French throne had raised serious concerns. Until then the French demands for citizen involvement in government hadn’t been much different from the English Parliament. But beheading a monarch… “John doesn’t appear until nine years ago.”
“Just after we moved to Ridley to escape the arguments with Sir George over the collection. That was also when John began blaming the staff for his father’s decline – it controls wealth, according to legend.”
“Why would he blame the staff? It was gone.”
“Before the theft, Sir George was renowned in financial circles. Everything he touched prospered. He paid bargain prices for antiquities. Those he sold made huge profits. If he invested in shares, their value rose. Selling shares earned him the top price, for ventures usually sank after he pulled out. John could not recall a single investment that did not put money in Marlow’s pocket.”
“There are others with similar expertise,” Alex pointed out. Helen’s father had built one of the largest fortunes in England from nothing.
“True, which is why John never remarked on his father’s acumen. But the moment the staff disappeared, Sir George’s luck changed. Investments failed. Sales fell through. Crops languished. His fortune dwindled until all that remained was his collection and the estate. The decline took only a year.”
“Don’t blame the staff,” Alex warned. “He was eighty and mentally fragile. Theft leaves its victims feeling violated. Murder is worse. Suffering both in so short a period likely shredded his confidence and destroyed that sense of immunity from harm that pervades the aristocracy. Age would exaggerate the problem. It is no surprise that he became hesitant, making poor decisions that he probably compounded in an effort to turn things around. The war didn’t help. France won campaign after campaign, toppling governments across the Continent, making it seem inevitable that they would conquer the world. Many investments failed then that might have prospered at another time. As for crops, those were lean years everywhere. If John blamed the staff, it may have been from guilt that Christine stole it, shocking Sir George into hesitancy and triggering the decline.”
She shrugged. “He never felt guilty over Christine. In legend, the staff was wielded once a year to bless the crops and stimulate trade. A man who safeguards the staff without greed benefits from its power, as does one who wields it only for others. Wealth will be his, though it will never rule him. It was the abrupt change in his father’s circumstances that convinced John the staff was real.”
Alex shook his head, furious that Eden had been tied to an obsessed dreamer for ten years. His fault. All his fault. “Much as I hate to disparage the dead, it sounds like John was as barmy as he claimed his father was.”
“Perhaps. I remonstrated with him often, but it did no good. As you can see” —she tapped the page— “he spent large sums to trace Sarsos artifacts, ostensibly to keep them from falling into the wrong hands. His obsession grew until he could think of nothing else, leaving me to restore the gardens, run the estate, and supervise the steward – though in his name, of course. He thought of nothing but Sarsos.”
Alex nodded, though had to wonder how John could have ignored so delectable a wife for the cold comfort of fantasy. But he stifled the thought and concentrated on business. “If the stories about the thefts of the chalice and spoon are true, then Emerson’s employer is the most likely culprit – at least among the English collectors. People would have noticed if the others had left for even a week, let alone the months necessary to carry out those plots. Oakdale was too active in Parliament, and the industrialist spends much time at his mill.” He pointed to an entry. “Oakdale’s interest in Sarsos began when he found a reference to Sarsos refugees in Egypt. He hoped Sarsosian scrolls might contain clues that would help him decipher hieroglyphs.”
“Didn’t someone recently find a key for that?”
“At Rosetta. There is a stone carved in three languages, one of them Greek. It’s at the British Museum now, but so far no one has cracked its code.” He turned another page. “Aha!”
Eden stared. “He identified Emerson’s employer!”
“Maybe. See the question mark?” But Alex doubted Peterson was wrong. The man was uncanny when it came to uncovering secrets. “Percy Montagu,” he read. “Do you know anything about him?”
“Never heard of him.”
“It gives us a place to start. I’ll set the Home Office on his trail in the morning.”
“Good.” She leaned back in her chair, relaxing.
He wanted to hold her – not for lovemaking, but for comfort and relaxation at the end of a trying day. But he stayed his hand. The thought raised new danger signals that had his instincts jerking to attention. By following her to the library, he had tacitly agreed to her terms, at least for tonight. Breaking his word even for comfort would destroy her trust and turn her against him. So he sent her to bed and spent another hour studying the Sarsos entries before skimming the rest of the book…
Very interesting. It might prove useful once he’d settled Olivia.
Chapter Eight
“Stay in the carriage,” Alex ordered as they pulled up before the Home Office the next morning.
Eden shook her head. “I would rather wait inside. It’s cold today.”
“Eden.” He raised her hand to his lips. “You claimed concern for your reputation. Everyone inside knows me, and some of them will remember you. Do you want them to think we’re a couple?”
“No.” She retrieved her hand.
“So stay here. I won’t be long. Any chill won’t last long. Sir Michael Iverson’s house should be warm.”
“Sir Harold’s son? What has he to do
with anything?”
“We will call on him shortly.”
“Why?”
“Because he is your cousin, so you should pay your respects. And because there are questions about Sir Harold I was never able to answer.”
“Such as?”
“His name is not in Peterson’s book, so where did he learn about Sarsos? Did he go to Leicestershire determined to steal the staff, or was the theft a spur-of-the-moment plot conceived when he heard about it on arrival?”
Eden nodded, impressed. “Excellent questions. I never considered them before.”
“Nor did John or his father,” he said, jumping down. “They were satisfied that Christine’s killer was dead.” The door closed behind him.
She relaxed into the corner, hoping he would return soon – but not too soon. She needed time to settle her nerves. His touch was still too enticing. It would be a long, frustrating journey to Ridley. Would her will hold out?
I hope not…
The thought shocked her. She was in more danger than she’d feared.
She was still reeling when a drawl sounded outside. “I see you’ve ceased hiding from the world. Are you ready to behave like a gentleman at last?”
Palfry. His tone could freeze the sun and made the chill wind seem balmy. A quick glance showed him facing off with Alex.
Eden reached for the door latch, but paused when Alex’s eyes touched hers. He wanted her to stay out of sight.
Fuming, she clasped her hands in her lap.
“A dandy’s idea of gentlemanly behavior is not to my taste.” Alex’s voice could chip ice. “There is more to life than hours of preening.”
“Better a dandy than a wastrel or an empty-headed fribble. You are both.” Palfry’s face hardened. “You have embarrassed the family long enough, Alexander. But perhaps there is hope.” He nodded toward the Home Office. “I expect to hear at dinner that you have returned to your position. It will distract you from pouting and brawls.”
“Sorry to deflate your expectations, Palfry, but I’m calling on a friend. No more.” Eden could see tension building in his shoulders.
“A gentleman would restrict social calls to social settings and refrain from disrupting honest men’s labors,” snapped Palfry.
“A gentleman would refrain from passing judgment when he is clearly ignorant,” snapped Alex in return. “You make a fool of yourself every time you open your mouth.”
“Ignorant! You ungrateful bastard! How dare you vilify me when it is you who shames the family with every breath you take. Who has subjected us to scandal after scandal since he was in short pants? Who fought that ridiculous duel over a whore? Who starts brawls at every turn? If you weren’t such a hot-headed fool, your face wouldn’t make ladies faint.”
Alex slowly shook his head, his every pore radiating pity. “Who at this moment is creating a scene worthy of Siddons by drawing attention from every passerby? It wasn’t me who accosted you on a very public street. Nor is it me whose voice can be heard even through closed windows.” His voice hardened. “You are not and never will be my keeper, Palfry, so toddle on home before you make a bigger ass of yourself than you already are.”
Palfry’s mouth wagged, but nothing emerged.
Eden wanted to smack his insolent face, but revealing her presence could hurt Olivia. The baggage coach carrying Carver and Tweed had already left, so she was quite alone.
Palfry finally recovered his voice. “We will finish this discussion at dinner. You can start by explaining why you are housing a light-skirt.”
“As usual, your spies are completely inept, but I’ve no time to correct their mistakes,” drawled Alex. “Nor will I be at dinner. I have other commitments this evening.”
“Of course, you will be there. Stratford will be furious if you aren’t.”
“All the more reason to send my regrets. He’s a dead bore.”
“But—”
“What can he do to me?” Alex shrugged theatrically. “He already disowned me, and even he lacks the power to make society disown me. Which leaves challenging me to a duel, since killing me is all that’s left. I respectfully decline.”
“A reasonable man would seek his good graces. He can make your life abominable if he chooses.”
“Only if I let him.” When Palfry frowned in puzzlement, Alex grinned. “Don’t strain yourself trying to think. You haven’t the ability. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“You have to dine with us. Jason’s back.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Alex turned toward the Home Office.
Palfry grabbed his arm. “He’s received two more medals since he was last in England. Now he’s accepted a post at Horse Guards, so he’s home for good. He’ll wed Lady Elaine Fortescu in June – the Duke of Hartshoal’s daughter. Her sister would be ideal for you. It’s long past time you set up your nursery, so—”
“Remove your hand from my coat.” Alex’s glare sent Palfry back several paces. “I will remind you one last time: You are not my keeper, so take your delusions and your wagging tongue and trot on home like the good little puppy you are. Tell Stratford you failed. But don’t ever touch me again.” He strode away, disappearing into the Home Office.
Palfry stared after him for a full minute before turning to resume his walk. Eden flinched farther into the corner, for hatred contorted his face.
She stared out the window long after he was gone.
It was clear that Palfry was nothing like Alex. Or like Jason, who had returned a hero. Palfry likely felt inferior to the military officer with his air of command and a history of daring deeds that had probably garnered Stratford’s approval. Perhaps Palfry hoped that whipping Alex into shape would focus that approval on him. And perhaps he envied Alex’s freedom to think for himself.
But whatever drove Palfry – and it might well be Stratford – she was glad to be leaving London. Alex did not need more trouble.
Tweed’s description of this feud had been a vast understatement. How could any family treat a son so abominably? It made no sense.
That was not to say that she expected families to be loving. Most merely muddled along. Her own father had been so focused on his studies that he’d ignored his children. Richard was a pompous bore, who took his position as head of the family so seriously that he often tried to dictate behavior – much like Palfry. But Richard kept family feuds private. He even greeted John politely in public.
So nothing had prepared her for this. How could anyone deride a man who had worked so hard to serve his king? Granted, they knew few details, but even a secretarial post was something.
She did know details, for John had followed Alex’s career closely – she wondered if Alex knew that the praise John had sent to Sidmouth after Alex resolved Christine’s murder had been one reason the Home Secretary had increased Alex’s responsibilities. Sidmouth had kept John apprised of Alex’s progress.
So she knew that Alex had apprehended four spies and a traitor in a bloody battle that had left him bedridden for three months. Alex had accepted the cost without complaint, for recovering that stolen information had saved countless lives. Other assignments had exposed a highly placed traitor and disrupted the French courier system so badly that purloined information reached Napoleon too late to be of use.
So why did he let Palfry and Stratford condemn him as useless? He could have found an explanation that would not expose the truth.
* * * *
Alex unclenched his fists as he climbed the stairs to his old office. He was glad Stratford had disowned him, he reminded himself. It let him avoid the man entirely. Sharing a roof – or even a meal – with any of his family had always been uncomfortable. They were stuffy, pompous, intolerant bores guaranteed to set any reasonable man’s teeth on edge. They deemed anyone who disagreed with them to be wrong. King or peasant made no difference. Only their opinions mattered. And they never admitted fault.
Shoving the memories aside, he rapped on the door, then pushed it open when a voice b
ade him enter.
“Alex!” Terrence Riley rose to shake hands. “I hadn’t heard you were in town.”
“Just passing through.” Alex took a seat in front of his old desk, stifling momentary regret that it was no longer his. “I’ve a small problem that could use your help, if you are willing. Unofficially, though it may result in official action down the road.”
“What?” His former assistant relaxed into his chair. “A spot of sheep stealing in the wilds of Devonshire?”
“Hardly. You will recall the lady who was looking for me last week.”
Terrence frowned. “I wasn’t here at the time, but they say she was quite insistent. Randolph finally gave her your direction to get rid of her. My apologies for that. I read him the riot act, so you can be sure it won’t happen again. If she put you in danger—”
“Nothing like that,” said Alex smoothly, though he was glad to acquit Terrence of loose lips. “She’s the widow of an old friend. Her husband died under suspicious circumstances, which she wants me to investigate.”
“Why not the magistrate?”
“The magistrate insists it was an accident.” Alex shook his head, then explained.
“I see. He’s a suspect. Do you want us to take over the case?”
“Not yet. There are other suspects with better motives, and it may tie in with a case I handled some years ago. But you can gather information for me, if you would. And if I do find a killer, you will be the first to know.”
“What information?”
“I need everything you can learn about Percy Montagu, particularly his movements for the past three weeks. I also need information on an antiquities agent named Barclay, who uses the Pulteney as a mail drop.” Barclay worked for Lord Oakdale, but he might be pursuing personal interests as well.
Terrence frowned. “Montagu is the family name of the Duke of Travers. He won’t welcome anyone sniffing about.”
“I know, which is why this remains unofficial unless I discover a problem. His is but one of several names that have cropped up.”
