“I know that, Caroline. I wish I’d seen it earlier.”
Surprised, she glanced at her husband. The hard edge of mockery that had previously tinged his features whenever he spoke of her father was absent. She could swear she could see regret in his eyes.
Their carriage finally made it within walking distance of the church, and Devon helped her down. Caroline stared as she saw street vendors setting up their wares all around the church. With all the curiosity-seekers swarming the streets, the vendors obviously saw this funeral as a golden opportunity. That would not have displeased her father either, she thought in bemusement. He would applaud the vendors for their enterprise.
As Devon took her arm and led her up the stone steps, the raucous sounds of a street mob seemed to follow them. Dressed in furs and velvet capes and cloaks against the chill, viscounts and barons, dandies, and society misses filed into the vestibule. Many of them had attended Caroline’s wedding in this same church. Now they returned for another spectacle.
Caroline faltered as they entered the sanctuary, and the grief she’d held at bay by constant activity threatened to overwhelm her. Devon gripped her hand tightly. “It’s all right to cry,” he whispered close to her ear. “It is a funeral.”
She shook her head. “That entertainment I won’t give them.”
Devon squeezed her hand. Caroline felt herself clinging to him, gathering strength from his solid, reassuring form.
She needed it. People talked throughout the service, behaving as if they were at an opera performance rather than a religious rite. As the minister ended the benediction and Devon guided her down the aisle, the whispering rose to an excited hum. Caroline could catch enough words to guess at what was being said. “Convenient death... Langley set for life...” The smug insinuations sickened her.
As they paused on the church steps, waiting for their carriage, several acquaintances came up and spoke to them. While a few people politely expressed their sympathies to Caroline, others spoke in shocked, excited tones about the gruesomeness of her father’s death, or directed their remarks to the earl, conveying an envy-tinged admiration for his new-found wealth.
Caroline found it difficult to smile, to force out the words “Thank you for coming” to yet another person who obviously had not attended for her sake. Relief rushed through her as Devon took her arm and began to push his way through to the crowd. By the time they reached the safety of the carriage, Caroline’s breath came in gasps and the lump of anger in her throat threatened to choke her. “Of all the rude, inconsiderate...”
Devon looked at her sympathetically. “Beneath their velvets and silks they’re quite an uncouth rabble, aren’t they?”
Caroline shook her head and didn’t answer.
“In defense of my class, I must say that not all of the nobility are so gauche. There are lords whose opinion I truly respect. And ladies who actually live up to the term. Obviously, that sort were not much in attendance today.”
“It makes me so angry. Did you hear them?” Caroline gritted her teeth at the thought. “They were implying that you...” She swallowed hard.
“That I killed your father, or least had a hand in his death? Yes, I realize what sort of rumors are going around.” Devon’s voice was calm, unruffled.
Caroline looked at him in surprise. “I would think you would be incensed.”
“I refuse to dignify their scurrilous innuendoes by growing angry.”
“You’re right, of course,” Caroline gave a little self-deprecating laugh. “It’s utterly absurd. Jealousy and the greed for scandal give rise to nonsense.”
She sat back, sighing. Devon placed his hand over hers. She stared at his dusky, capable fingers, wondering at his change in attitude toward her. Did he value her more because of the money she had inherited? Why would he? By the law of the land, her money was his. Now that her father was dead, there were even fewer reasons for her husband to treat her with kindness. Did his consideration mean he truly cared for her? She hardly dared hope.
But the least she could do is thank him. “I must say I appreciate your thoughtfulness the past few days,” she told him as the carriage moved through the streets.
He patted her hand. “I understand what you are going through, Caroline. I know what it’s like to lose someone you care about to murder,” His gaze was distant. “It’s one thing for a loved one to die, and another to have him snatched from you by wickedness and cruelty.”
She nodded. He was remembering the death of his Irish mistress. His sensitivity to her feelings might actually have very little to do with her. Withdrawing her hand, she sighed.
He adjusted the coach robe over her legs. “You should lie down as soon as we reach the town house. I’ll deal with the callers.”
She nodded. What would he think if he knew that at least part of her melancholy stemmed from the fact that he had not touched her with anything other than brotherly affection since their one night of passionate lovemaking?
~ ~ ~
I know the truth about Beaumont’s murder. If you would like to prevent that information from reaching your wife, I would advise you to follow my instructions carefully...
Devon stared with dismay at the missive lying on the escritoire in front of him. The note had arrived that morning, delivered by an unknown footman. The second portion of the letter outlined the time and place where 1,500 pounds were to be delivered to buy the author’s silence.
Blackmail. He should have expected it. In a way he had, but as the days passed and nothing happened, he had grown complacent and begun to hope that Beaumont’s murder had nothing to do with him.
Now, his hopes were dashed. If he paid, the blackmailer would know he had found an easy touch, a steady source of income. As the extortionist’s greed grew, the demands would escalate, requiring larger and larger sums.
Devon sighed. He knew the trap he was sinking into, but what choice did he have? He could not have Caroline thinking he was a murderer.
If only he could discern how much the blackmailer knew. The man might be the killer himself. Or only a clever opportunist who knew of Devon’s presence at the murder scene and deduced from the gossip that the earl would be willing to pay to keep the truth from his wife. The latter sort, if confronted directly, might be intimidated into abandoning his demands. But if his blackmailer were also the murderer, Devon could himself be in danger.
The killer had drugged the punch and waited for him to swoon, then hid in the room until Beaumont arrived. What a clever, diabolical mind he faced. Thinking about it, he realized he had no choice. He would have to pay the blackmailer. At least until he could gather more information about his enemy,
The sound of Caroline’s voice outside in the hallway made him start, and he glanced anxiously at the blackmail note. Caroline’s pain over her father’s death was grave enough. He must try to shield her from any more suffering. The voices in the hallway grew louder. Devon took the blackmail note and crumpled it up, then went to the fire and threw it in.
Caroline entered. She sighed and went to sit in the plum-colored settle by the Fire. “That was the last one. I’ve met with all my father’s supervisors, and I’m satisfied that the business enterprises I’ve inherited won’t fall to ruins in the next few months. It’s been a daunting week, though. I used to think I took after my father, but I realize now that I don’t have nearly his stamina. Then, too”—she smiled ruefully—“I am more apt to consult and suggest, where my father just issued an order and was done with it.”
“I’ve offered to help,” Devon reminded her.
“Oh, you have helped. If those men thought they were dealing with Merton Beaumont’s daughter and not Lady Northrup, they would never have listened so attentively. Men in trade are easily awed by the nobility. Being married to you has given me considerable social influence.”
“I admire your business abilities, Caroline, but I don’t want to see you exhausted by the responsibilities your father left to you. He surely didn’t expect you t
o oversee his many enterprises personally.”
“I rather think he didn’t expect to die until he had a grandson old enough to take over the business.” As if suddenly hearing her own words, Caroline went rigid. She gave him a stricken look then rose to stand before the fire.
Devon also froze. Six days had passed since that day in the library, and he had not touched her intimately. What reason did she give herself? Did she think that he still hoped to cheat Beaumont of his dream of a noble grandson? She could not guess that the reason for his forbearance had nothing to do with Beaumont. It was guilt. If he bedded her, gained her trust and then she found out about his involvement with her father’s murder, she would be devastated. He would not do that to her. He would have to find a way to explain things before he kissed her or held her in his arms once more.
And now, the blackmailer’s demands complicated everything.
She turned away from the fireplace, her face an expressionless mask. “My father certainly made his share of mistakes. Indeed, I rather suspect that’s what killed him.”
“What do you mean?”
“After speaking to his managers, I can see that although they respected my father, many of them disliked him as well. It would appear that any number of people might wish him dead.”
Devon stood and moved toward Caroline protectively. “Did one of them threaten you?”
“Of course not. Their animosity was all for my father, and most of them tried their best to hide it.” She gave him a bleak look. “I’m afraid we will never know who murdered him. He had too many enemies to single out one as a likely suspect.”
Devon watched her uncomfortably. At last his wife was seeing her father for what he was, but he felt no satisfaction; only regret that she had to experience this pain when she was already grieving. “I’m sorry, Caroline.”
He reached out his hand to comfort her. He stopped as he saw the glitter of tears in her eyes. The familiar barrier was between them—and he had put it there.
He stepped back. First, he must deal with the blackmailer. Then, he could tell Caroline the truth and end both their misery.
Nine
Devon’s nose wrinkled involuntarily as he walked through the Shadwell backslum. The blackmailer had chosen a thoroughly disreputable setting for his activities. Run-down, hovel-like buildings edged the narrow street, and underfoot garbage, horse dung and filthy rainwater flowed in a reeking morass across the cobblestones.
He picked his way carefully, keeping one hand on the pistol in his coat pocket. Shadwell was a haven for pickpockets, footpads and whores, and although few of them ventured out during daylight, it didn’t pay to take chances. He had even considered bringing a footman or two to accompany him in case he was attacked, either by the blackmailer or some other criminal. In the end, he realized that there was no one he could really trust.
Involving one of his friends in this sordid business was unthinkable. Neither Quentin nor Christian would understand why he had decided to pay the blackmailer. They saw Caroline as nothing more than a comely heiress he had conveniently wed. If they realized that their friend had come to care so much about his wife’s feelings, they would be incredulous, especially the cynical Christian.
As for Quentin, Devon could scarcely imagine the meticulous, dandified lord taking part in an assignation in this area of London. Harberry viewed the pathetic and poor as a particularly unpleasant kind of ‘livestock that should be kept out of sight of decent people.
Admittedly, those few inhabitants Devon met on the street were not very savory characters. Staggeringly drunk sailors—though it was before noon—tired-looking whores, huge-eyed children with stick-like limbs, and gaunt women carrying babies. It took him a moment to realize that the women were in all probability not much older than he. Poor diet and a life on the streets had aged them decades beyond their years.
Almost queasy from the smell and the hopeless look on the faces of the people, Devon walked on determinedly. Another street over, he paused. If the watchman he spoke to had given him sound directions, he should almost be there. He turned the corner, grimacing into the dull, soot-clouded sunlight, and saw the dilapidated sign of the Blue Parrot tavern down the street.
He approached the place cautiously, wondering if he was being watched. Pulling on the greasy-handled door, he peered inside. The place was nearly deserted. A few men sat at a table by the tap. Another snored in the corner. There was no sign of the proprietor. Devon gingerly took a seat at one of the empty tables and prepared to wait.
One of the men turned around and gave him the once-over. The man’s eyes widened as he observed Devon’s clothing, then his cloudy gaze veered to Devon’s face. Devon stonily endured the inspection. He’d thought of borrowing old clothes to wear so he would not be so conspicuous, but discarded the idea when he realized how difficult it would be to come by garments that fit. What was the point when his bearing gave him away anyhow?
A door opened in the corner, and a man who was likely the tavern owner came out. A balding fellow with a huge belly and a scarred and murderous-looking face, the man spoke to one of the men at the table, his rough, foreign accent echoing across the room. Portuguese, most likely. The man said something in response, and the proprietor’s head jerked around to look at Devon.
The fat man stared at him a moment, then a grim smile crossed his face. He moved swiftly to the corner door, his rocking gait reminding Devon of an obese crab.
Moments passed. Devon sat utterly still, resisting the urge to fidget with the family crest ring on his left hand, or the revolver in his pocket. When the door in the corner swung open again, this time it was not the balding man who appeared, but a woman. She crossed the tavern purposefully, heading directly for Devon. He stared at her, wondering if she could possibly be the blackmailer.
When she reached him, she leaned over the table, affording him an excellent view of her generous bosom. He immediately revised his impression. The proprietor obviously thought he was there for a discreet midday tumble. Devon opened his mouth to explain to the trollop that she was mistaken in her assumption, but the woman forestalled him by saying, “There you are, Luv. I thought you’d never come. Did you bring the money?”
For a moment, he was too startled to respond. Then he reached out and grabbed the woman’s wrist, pulling her forward so she half sprawled across the table.
“There now! You’re hurting me!” she complained. “The man with the mask said you was a gentleman! I’m just doing as he told me. Didn’t mean no offense...”
Her plaintive response told him he had made a mistake. This care-worn whore, the paint on her face failing to enhance her fading beauty, could not be the person he sought.
He released her abruptly. “My pardon, miss. I fear my nerves are a bit on edge.” His smile was bitter. “But tell me about this man in the mask.”
The woman gave a nervous glance around the tavern. “Not ‘ere, luv. Come upstairs with me.”
He assessed the woman again, contemplating whether she could have a knife or other weapon hidden in her clothing. Certainly her bodice was too brief to disguise an implement of any size.
The woman regained her confidence at his probing gaze, “La, sir. The man didn’t say ye’d be wanting something in return for the money.” She smiled teasingly. “But if you’re of a mind, I could oblige ye.”
“Let’s go upstairs,” he said, keenly aware of the other men in the place watching them.
The woman whirled around with a swish of her skirts, then headed toward the door with an exaggerated swaying walk. Devon stood and followed. His every nerve seemed on edge.
The stairs were caked with grime. Vomit, urine, blood—he shuddered to think what other foul effluviums contributed to the nasty odor wafting to his nose. The woman led the way down the hall and opened the door to a drab but reasonably clean room with a bed, a table with a pitcher and bowl, and a chamber pot. He followed her inside and closed the door.
The woman moved self-consciously to the
bed and sat down. Devon remained standing. “Tell me about the masked man,” he said. “What did he look like? What did he say?”
She shrugged. “ ‘E was tall, like you. ‘E wore a long cape, and a hat coverin’ ‘is ‘air. ‘E spoke as a nobleman. I thought it was some sort o’ silly wager.” She shrugged again and gave him a pouting look.
“How did you know me?” Devon asked.
Her brown eyes narrowed. “There ain’t many like you who come ‘round ‘ere. Dressed in fine clothes... smellin’ of a gentleman’s scent.” Her head snapped up almost haughtily. “Come on, let me ‘ave the package. I done me part of the bargain.”
“When are you supposed to meet the man who hired you? Did he tell you when he would he pick up the money?”
“Don’t know.” She gave him a sulky look. “I figured ‘e’d be around. Don’t care when ‘e comes. Long as I get paid.”
“What if I offered you more?” He smiled, trying to appear ingratiating. “It was just a silly wager after all. You might as well get paid by both of us.”
Something flickered in her eyes. “What would you want me to do?”
He reached out and laid a well-manicured hand on her arm. “I want to arrange a meeting with the masked man. You see, I have many acquaintances who might have pulled this prank on me. I want to know who it was.” He reached into his waistcoat and pulled the packet of money halfway out, showing her the weight of it. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
She stared at the money, then his face. She shook her head. “The man who hired me—I could’na see what ‘e looked like, but I saw ‘is eyes. ‘E had mean eyes. I wouldna want to cross ‘im.”
Devil's Own Bargain (London Lords) Page 10
