by Cheryl Bolen
His demeanor softened. "I'll come with you."
Her eyes brightened, and her mouth lifted into a grin. "You're afraid I'll turn into a watering pot."
"I most sincerely hope you do not." He came and offered his arm for support. "I suppose we should also look at your uncle's bedchamber. We might find something helpful there."
"Seeing his chamber will make me sad."
He covered her hand with his and nodded grimly.
"Leave that to me."
"No. I need to go."
On the second floor, he opened the first door. "This must be your uncle's bedchamber." He strode across the dark room and drew open the draperies.
Uncle Simon's bedchamber was austere for a man wealthy enough to live on Curzon Street. There were no fine fabrics or hand-painted papers on the walls, which were painted in a royal blue that matched his bed coverings. From beneath a gold cornice hung draperies of the same blue with a gold diamond pattern.
The chimneypiece of fine cream-coloured marble held a wooden case clock resting on four gilded feet. It was the room's only ornament.
Obviously her uncle used this chamber only for its intended purpose. She was surprised there was no writing desk. That must mean he did all of his writing in the library.
"I doubt there are any clues here," Adam said.
She shook her head sadly. "Nothing to reveal anything about him as a man."
He came to settle an arm about her. "His last letter to you revealed what manner of man he was. Noble."
Adam's words were comforting.
The room next to Uncle Simon's was to have been hers. She drew open the draperies, and the pale yellow chamber was bathed in light. That the gilded, high tester bed looked as if it had recently been purchased touched her deeply. Had she never seen Adam's house, she would have thought this the loveliest bed imaginable. The walls of canary yellow were recently painted. If she inhaled deeply, she could still smell the paint.
As she examined the bedcovering of yellow silk, she realized it was not only new, but also of fine quality. No imitation silk. Mrs. Thornton would only have procured such lovely things if her employer had authorized it. How generous her dear uncle had been.
She turned and went for the door. "I've seen enough," she said in a trembling voice.
Once in her uncle's dark library, she first drew open the drapes to allow good light, then she showed her husband her uncle's favorite chair. "See how worn down the cushion is?"
He nodded. "I understand what Mrs. Thornton was talking about. It looks as if that chair was the place where he was most comfortable."
"And over here is the glass . . ." Her mouth gaped open. "It's gone!"
"What's gone?"
"The murderer's glass!"
His brows lowered. "Perhaps you just thought you saw a glass there. No one else could have gained access to this house."
Anger bolted through her. "I'm positive there was a glass next to the visitor's chair." A prickly chill inched up her spine. Her terrified gaze circled the library. "He's been here."
Adam's gaze darkened. "Sawyer did say it looked to him that someone had been whittling at the door since the last time he tampered with it."
She collapsed onto her uncle's chair, clutching her chest. "Dear God. This is frightening." The only thing saving her from being paralyzed with fear was her husband's presence. Her determined gaze took in his towering strength from his booted feet planted so close to her, along his long, muscled legs sheathed in fine buckskin to his broad-shouldered torso. He looked more powerful than the most decorated military hero. Even though he wore no sword, she felt exempt from danger as long as she was with him. My husband. Instinctively she knew he would always protect her. Since that first night, he had looked after her.
"Forgive me," he said. "I know you saw a glass next to the visitor's seat the last time we were here."
"He must have remembered and sneaked back in here to remove it—and any sign that my uncle might have had a visitor that last night."
"I wonder if there was anything else he thought might incriminate him."
"I suppose there could have been a note or letter from the murderer to inform Uncle Simon he would be calling on him that Sunday evening."
He leveled a grave look at her. "You might as well say his name, Emma. There's little doubt James Ashburnham's the murderer."
She shivered. "It's mortifying to think we've been in the same room with such an evil person. You even spoke to him."
He nodded grimly. "I suggest we stop talking about murder and try to look for something that might help us prove Ashburnham's guilt."
They both moved to stand in front of her uncle's desk. "Since you looked at the top last time, I will now," she said.
"I'll start with the drawers on the right."
"Wait!" She snatched a single sheet of paper. "Look at this! It was right on top of Uncle Simon's ledger."
They both read. I should like to call on you Sunday evening on a personal matter. —Faukes
"Was this note here the last time we were in the library?"
He shook his head. "Absolutely not."
"Then Ashburnham forged it to point the guilt at my uncle's business partner." What a diabolical plan.
"Who better to forge the handwriting of both his employers than a man who serves as their clerk?" He took the note and placed it in his pocket.
She shook her head gravely. "How could someone betray those he worked so closely with?"
"We will never understand the mind of a murderer."
"It's so upsetting to know that fiend has been here."
He nodded. "Had I known, I would have had the house guarded."
"Even if we caught him in the act, it wouldn't have proven anything."
"True. We need real evidence." He opened the drawer he'd been about to inspect.
With a sigh, she scanned the top of her uncle's desk. A tall, cloth-bound ledger was the largest thing on it. She began to examine its pages. Her uncle kept detailed records of household expenses, accounting for every farthing, down to the quarterly expenditure for candles. Her brows hiked. She'd never realized how costly it was to light a house this size. Oddly fascinated by the ledger, she sank into the desk chair to peruse it. There were payments for the green grocer, the coal, the Morning Chronicle, a tithe to his church, and small sums she would never have thought to calculate. She went through a dozen pages. Seeing his neat numerals and getting a glimpse into his exacting nature, she felt closer to him but bitter that she would never know him in the flesh.
Since it was of no use to her present inquiry, she reluctantly closed the book. The surface of his desk was untidy. It appeared her uncle had difficulty getting rid of communication, whether they be tradesmen's bills or two-month-old newspapers. These varied papers were not neatly stacked. Had her uncle left it this way, or had the mur- -, James Ashburnham messed it whilst looking for something?
Thinking of Ashburnham going through her uncle's personal papers made her furious. She almost laughed at herself. Examining her uncle's papers was not even a fraction as evil as premeditated murder. She prayed her uncle's murder would be avenged.
"Was this desk as messy the day you found out Mr. Wycliff's address?" she asked.
Adam stopped rummaging through the second drawer and eyed the desk. "It was by no means tidy, but it does look as if someone else has been here."
That prickly chill returned, creeping down her spine. Confirmation was not comforting.
She drew a deep breath and returned to the task. Ideally, she sought a slip of paper from Ashburnham, begging to meet with Uncle Simon Sunday. A solitary man like her uncle had little in the way of personal correspondence.
"Look at this," Adam said, handing her a stack of letters tied together with string. "Your uncle appears to have kept every letter you sent."
"Let me see." With a lump in her throat, she thumbed through the letters. Those on the bottom had been written when she was a little girl. How touched she was
that he'd kept each of them.
With misty eyes, she looked up and met Adam's solemn gaze. "I beg you not to turn into a watering pot," he said.
Despite her sadness, she laughed.
"You know, pet, I don't think we're going to find anything—now that we know Ashburnham's been here. Anything that would have established his presence here Sunday has been destroyed."
"I know you're right, but I hate to give up."
He cupped his hand on her shoulder. "We're not giving up. I swear to you."
Their eyes locked. In that instant she knew he had absorbed all her troubles as his own. She was almost overwhelmed. Adam was the only person she had ever been this close to. Powerless to stop herself, she placed a hand on his forearm.
"We go into the City next. My tea shipment has arrived," he said.
"So we shall have our own example of James Ashburnham's handwriting."
* * *
"I doubt if a lady has ever stepped inside this building," Adam told her as his coach came to a stop in front of Number 23 Cheapstowe. Being on a questionable street in the East End, this was not a place where any of the Birminghams conducted business. The building was more of a storage facility for their construction projects.
He looked at the building with fresh eyes and realized it could use a bit of refurbishing. The red bricks had to be a hundred years old, and the structure leaned to the right. A new coat of paint was also needed around the eaves. He'd bring up the matter with William, who—now that he was married—served as a domestic problem solver for all the Birmingham interests. Lady Sophia had put her foot down, forbidding her husband to conduct clandestine activities that could land him in prison—or in a grave.
Old Riley let them into the ill-lit warehouse. "That shipment what came late yesterday be right over here, sir."
Fortunately, it was far beneath a clerestory window which shone directly on the stack of boxes. Adam asked Riley for a knife. He then neatly excised the address square from the box on top. "That's all I need for now. Help yourself and the missus to a box of tea."
Riley's eyes widened. "A box that size will last the rest of our lives!"
Adam chuckled as he walked away and proffered his arm to his wife. "We return to Mr. Emmott's now. Perhaps he's gotten an opinion from his handwriting expert."
"And now you'll need the expert to look at this."
He patted his pocket. "That and the note alleged to have been written by Harold Faukes."
"Should you not have something written in Mr. Faukes' hand to compare it to?"
"An excellent suggestion, dear one. We will first go to the Ceylon Tea Company."
She gasped. "I don't know if I can stand to be near that horrible murderer."
"I know, love. But he doesn't know that we know." He pressed her hand. "You have no reason to worry when I'm with you. I will always protect you."
"I know," she whispered.
Chapter 13
She had been so terrified at the prospect of coming face to face with James Ashburnham that when the carriage came to a stop in front of the Ceylon Tea Company Emma could not bring herself to leave the coach.
Adam turned to her, took both her hands, and spoke in a gentle voice. "I vow I would lay down my life before I'd ever let anyone harm you."
What woman could be unaffected by such a proclamation? She nodded, and he helped her from their coach. Having Adam by her side as she entered the tea company made her feel invincible—but still upset about having to be so close to her uncle's killer.
"I know you're nervous," he said, "but force yourself to act normal. Ignore him if you'd like, but don't be transparent."
Upstairs, he faced Ashburnham and spoke with confidence of one born to command. "Adam Birmingham to see Mr. Faukes." (She was so proud of her husband.)
Nodding, the clerk left his desk and went into his employer's office, this time leaving the door open. Seconds later, he exited as his employer came to the door to issue a greeting. "Do come in, Mr. and Mrs. Birmingham."
Adam was sure to close the door before he sat at the sofa.
"What can I do for you today?"
Adam produced the note. "Did you send this to Mr. Hastings?" he asked in a lowered voice.
Faukes' eyes squinted, then he took a pair of spectacles from his pocket and read the letter, his brows drawn together as he frowned. "I never saw it before, never sent it—even if it does look like my handwriting."
Adam pressed his index finger to his lips, tossing a gaze toward the door.
Faukes nodded, then lowered his voice. "Not only did I not write it, I've never been in Simon's house. There was no need. We saw each other every day, six days a week."
He examined the letter once more, shaking his head. "How in the devil could someone have copied my handwriting so accurately? Unless . . ." His gaze darted to the door to the outer chamber, but he clamped shut his mouth and did not continue.
"Does Mr. Ashburnham sometimes sign your name for you when you're busy—or out of the office?" Adam asked.
"As a matter of fact, he does."
"Was it his custom to also forge Mr. Hastings' signature?"
Faukes nodded. "We both trusted him. He's been employed here for ten years. Never has a penny gone missing."
"I understand. It's imperative that one has employees who can be trusted."
"Dear God!" Faukes exclaimed. "Was this Sunday the night Simon died?"
Adam and Emma both gravely nodded.
Faukes' face blanched. "Was Simon murdered?"
Adam once more pressed his index finger to his mouth and spoke in a hoarse whisper. "We believe he might have been."
"And the murderer's trying to plant evidence to implicate me?"
"We believe that may be the case," Adam responded.
"It wasn't me," Mr. Faukes said. "Simon was my friend."
"We didn't think it was you," Emma reassured him.
A vicious look surged across Mr. Faukes' face. "That vile clerk! I can't even send him packing since he's now half owner!" He peered at Emma and spoke pleadingly. "You must challenge the will. "
"We have," she said.
Faukes closed his eyes as if he were in pain. "How am I to work with him when I know he's a murderer, know that he's murdered my closest friend?"
Adam continued speaking in a low voice. "You must pretend you know nothing, that you suspect nothing."
A pained expression on his face, Faukes nodded. "Is there anything I can do to help with this nasty business?"
"Can you tell me if Ashburnham's the only person in the company who addresses the shipping labels?" Adam asked.
"Yes, he's the only one."
Adam stood. "We're going to see if we can conduct a search of my wife's uncle's office now."
"Your timing couldn't be better. Ashburnham's planning to move into Simon's office tomorrow."
"I suspect he's already destroyed anything that might point to his guilt," Emma whispered, "but we're going to have a look."
Faukes wrote his home address on a piece of paper and handed it to Emma. "If you ever need to see me in private."
When they left his office, Adam explained to Ashburnham, "My wife would like to recover her letters and any other personal objects from her uncle's office, if you have no objections, Mr. Ashburnham."
"Be my guest," he said. What his voice lacked in malice, his glare made up for.
A cold shiver snaked down Emma’s spine as she swiftly moved away from the man's chilling presence.
Her uncle's office was considerably tidier than his library. All of his papers were confined to the large desk which was placed close to the tall casement. "Shall I do the top while you start on the drawers?" she asked.
"We're acting like a long-married couple, practically reading each others' minds."
Smiling, she flicked a glance at him. Their eyes held. There was such warmth in his gaze she could not look away for a moment. Her husband had the power to suffuse her with a warmth that destroyed Ashburn
ham's iciness.
She thumbed through a stack of shipping leaflets on Uncle’s desk. They were tables of shipping dates and times, each from a different sailing company. Another stack contained invoices from various tradesmen ranging from a tin company in Cornwall to a paper supplier in London.
On the opposite desk corner was a stack of letters to various grocers, inns, and hoteliers in an attempt to procure orders for the Ceylon Tea Company, each letter awaiting Hastings' signature. One fine leather-bound book contained addresses for all her uncle's associates. All the entries were in her uncle's unmistakable hand. She was pleased yet saddened to see her Upper Barrington address there.
It saddened her, too, to recognize his sealing stamp right next to the crimson wax.
When she finished, she turned to her husband. "Nothing here. Need help?"
Busy reading a small book—much smaller than his hands—he ignored her.
"What's that?"
His lashes lifted, and he put index finger to mouth. "It's an occurrence book."
"And for last Sunday?"
Their gazes locked. "The page has been torn out."
Her heartbeat roared. She felt violated. "We must get out of here at once." If she didn't, she was afraid she'd be sick.
* * *
Adam had never seen her like this before. He lowered the blind on his carriage window and pulled her close. She was trembling violently. "It's all right."
"I can n-n-never go back there again."
"I promise I won't make you." He lifted her chin. "What did I tell you earlier, Emma?"
"You vowed that you'd never let anyone harm me."
He closed his other arm around her, completely enveloping her in his embrace. He wanted to make her feel safe. Though his actions were motivated by his desire to protect her, he felt a cheater. For it was he who was profoundly moved by the feel of her slight body within the circle of his arms. This was not a helpless girl he held. She was a woman.
A desirable woman.
For his own tranquility of thought, he was glad that the drive to Emmott's office was but a short distance. When the coach stopped, he loosened his hold on her. "Nothing to fear at Mr. Emmott's, dear one."
