She had gone.
A curse on his lips, he ran to the door and yanked it open. There was no sign of Sibella in the square. He ran to the corner as a coach disappeared down Grosvenor Street. Had she found a hackney? Surely, she wouldn’t attempt to walk alone to St James’s Square through the dark streets.
Yes, she would. Strathairn broke into a run. He’d caught a glimpse of crimson as Sibella passed under a gas lamp. She was hurrying along Upper Grosvenor Street toward the park.
He caught up quickly, grabbed her arm, and swung her around to face him. “Are you trying to frighten me to death, Sibella?”
“I merely wished to go home,” she said, her face hidden beneath the hood. “Just find Vaughn for me, John. I don’t ask anything more of you.”
“You are being foolish.” He tucked her arm through his. “We’ll find a hackney near the park.”
They walked toward Hyde Park, the noise of a night cart rumbling along in the distance. When they neared Park Lane, a shabbily dressed fellow stepped out from behind a tree and approached them.
Sibella gripped his arm. “John, he has a knife!”
“I’ll have your valuables,” the man growled. “Give me the lady’s earrings. What other jewels are hidden beneath that cape?”
Strathairn pushed Sibella behind him. “I advise you not to try,” he said, cursing that he had rushed out without his pistols and knife.
“Those rings, too, be quick.” The rogue edged closer, slashing the air with a nasty looking weapon.
“I suggest you go on your way,” Strathairn said. “Or you may come to regret it.” While keeping his eyes on the knife, he planted his feet in a boxer’s stance, hands raised to protect his face and neck, elbows close to his body.
His actions appeared to have the desired effect. Unnerved, the ruffian sniggered but backed off a step.
“Why don’t you go home?” Strathairn said. “I have no desire to hurt you.”
“You see this ’er knife? It will separate your head from your neck in an instant.” The thief gained confidence and came at Strathairn in a rush, his weapon raised to strike.
Strathairn avoided the man’s lunge and a well-placed kick to the groin stopped his forward motion.
With a shriek, the man crumpled and bent double, the knife skittering away into the shadows. Strathairn punched him hard on the back of the neck. He crashed to the pavement and lay silent.
“Is…is he dead?” Sibella whispered.
“No.” Strathairn grabbed her hand. “Best we find that hackney.”
When a hackney appeared in the street, Strathairn stepped out and hailed it. He assisted Sibella inside and directed the Jarvie to St James’s Square.
In the carriage, Strathairn said, “You’re very quiet.”
“I’m stunned at how easily you dealt with that armed man.”
“Poor fellow was weak and undernourished.”
“A man wouldn’t want to cross you, John.”
“I remain confident that I can handle a thief. It’s an elegant dark-haired lady I’m having the most trouble with.” He searched her eyes in the dim light cast by the swinging carriage lanterns. “You know I must do the honorable thing, don’t you?”
“I know you think you must,” she said sadly, “and you’ve condemned me to a life with a man I don’t love.”
“But Sibella, try to understand.” Understand? He was fighting to convince himself it was the best thing. “Marriage to an honorable man. A home of your own. Children. A quiet life…”
“This won’t happen again. You make me feel emotions I don’t want to feel.” She took a deep breath and turned to the window.
He put out his hand to touch her trembling shoulders, then withdrew it, the tightness in his throat rendering him silent. “You’ll soon forget me.” It hurt him like the devil to say it. He fortified himself with the knowledge that she would be safe with Coombe, a man her brother approved of. If she married him, Chaloner might cut her off from the family. He respected Chaloner too much to believe it, but it could happen.
“I’m going to try very hard to forget you,” she said, sparing him nothing as the carriage entered St. James’s Square.
He deserved that and more. “I’ll get word to Edward as soon as I learn where Vaughn is.”
“Thank you, John. I am confident that you’ll find him.”
He would find that young rascal and give him a piece of his mind when he did. The house was dark apart from the flicker of candlelight below stairs. When the carriage stopped, Strathairn leapt out to help her down.
“Sibella…”
“Please leave me here, John. My maid will admit me through the servants’ entrance.” She crossed to the iron fence, then paused to glance back at him. “Be careful, won’t you?” She disappeared down the steps below the street. Light fell onto the pavement from the open door, and with a swirl of crimson velvet, she was gone.
He stood staring after her at the dark house. When candlelight shone from an upstairs window, he crossed the road. Was he a fool to think he could walk away from the one woman in the world he wanted? He climbed back into the hackney where her perfume lingered.
*
The next morning, a heavy sensation of sadness dragged Sibella down into the feather mattress before she came completely awake. As no one arrived to chastise her, she was confident her nightly excursion had gone unobserved. An attempt to dismiss from her mind what had passed between them last night failed dismally. She would never forget the touch of his lips, how his tender kisses turned demanding and passionate, how his breath hitched as he pulled her close against his hard body. How he forced himself to break away.
She blushed with the shameful knowledge that she would have lain with him if he’d asked her. But it was he who showed restraint. It was right that John had refused to make love to her, for if he had, he would be hers. She knew him. He was an honorable man. Had she subconsciously hoped to seduce him into marriage? It was too painful to face that possibility. She’d always hated subterfuge. No wonder she was no good at it.
Sarah entered and handed Sibella her hot drink. She drew back the curtains and the gray morning light flooded the room. Sibella yawned and sat up to sip the chocolate. How could she have gone to Coombe’s bed with the carnal knowledge of John filling her mind and tugging at her heart and pretend she was an innocent? Living a lie would be an abomination. John was right, he was wiser than she. But he cared for her. That was no lie. She uttered a tiny moan.
The maid who was laying out a morning gown, turned to her. “You spoke, my lady?”
“No, just thinking aloud, Sarah.”
She warmed her cold hands around the cup. At least John had promised to find Vaughn, which allowed her to focus on Lord Coombe. She would not go willingly like a lamb to the slaughter. She cringed at the analogy, but was determined to have full knowledge of what she was getting herself into.
After breakfast, Sibella went in search of Chaloner. She found him in the nursery checking on Freddie’s condition. “How is he?” she asked over his shoulder as he sat by the bed.
“Just a heavy cold, the doctor assures us, but you know how Lavinia worries.”
He sounded gloomy.
“Would you like me to spend some time with him today?”
“I’d be most grateful, Sib. I have a pile of work to do. It’s Nurse’s afternoon off, and Lavinia is exhausted.”
“We enjoy our games together, don’t we, Freddie?” Sibella smiled at the young boy who lay in bed looking more bored than sick. “I’ll fetch some, shall I?”
Six-year-old Freddie grinned. “Checkers,” he croaked.
Clearly relieved, Chaloner rose. He turned to her outside Freddie’s door. “Did you want something?”
“Just to ask you what business Lord Coombe has in Bristol.”
“He inherited a coffee plantation in the West Indies from an uncle some years ago.” He darted a glance at her. “Do you object to him being in business?”
“N
o, of course not. How ridiculous it is to frown upon gentlemen if they are seen to work in some capacity, like the lower classes, and yet many do work, terribly hard sometimes, attending parliament and managing their estates. You are always exhausted.”
They walked along the corridor together. “I’m sure Coombe’s past has touched your soft heart. He lost his young wife after only two years.”
“That is sad. I wasn’t aware his marriage had been so brief.”
“When is he expected to return?”
“At the end of the week.”
“Then we shall find him here again. He doesn’t stay away for long.”
Sibella brushed aside Chaloner’s attempt to encourage her. “Mama intends to remove to Brandreth Park tomorrow. She opens the village fete on Saturday.” She searched his eyes. “That really is something Lavinia should do, don’t you think?”
“Try taking it away from Mother.”
Sibella laughed. “You have a point there.” But she knew Lavinia didn’t want to take up the reins of marchioness. She shirked it at every possibility. She must eventually.
Chaloner leaned against the stair rail. “You know, Sib, it’s my belief a marriage works better if the man is more in love than the woman.”
“Can it not be both?”
“Indeed it can, but painful, I should think, to love a man who does not return your love.”
Chaloner left her to go downstairs.
What about a man who loved a woman too much? Did he speak from experience? Chaloner bent over backwards to please Lavinia, and Lavinia, although Sibella was indeed fond of her, needed a good shake. It wouldn’t be her that did it, however. Cordelia was the outspoken one. With a shrug, Sibella left and went in search of games to keep young Freddie amused for a few hours.
Chapter Eleven
The search for Dawes led Strathairn and Irvine to a busy street near the docks crowded with horses and wagons, pushcarts, and pack animals. Dawes had a room in an alley off to the side of the main thoroughfare, rank with the stink of cat urine and something worse. When Strathairn and Irvine were close enough to knock, the smell grew stronger. They eyed each other, recognizing the stench. Strathairn cursed and banged on the rough wooden door. When no one answered, he tried the knob. The door swung open.
Pistols in hand, they entered the dim interior of the windowless room.
They staggered back as a blast of putrid air washed over them. “The devil!” Irvine gasped.
“Damn this infernal window tax.” Strathairn cursed and kicked the ill-fitting door wide. “It forces the poor to live in the dark.”
Handkerchiefs held to their noses, they stepped inside. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, Strathairn made out a small table with a candle and a chair and a narrow cot in the corner.
A man lay on the bed. Judging by the signs of vermin, he had been dead for some time.
Strathairn took the candle Irvine lit and held it close to the body. The mattress was soaked with blood. “Not a natural death then. How long would you say?”
“In this warm weather it’s hard to tell.” Irvine’s voice was gagged by his handkerchief. “A week at least.”
The dead man’s pockets yielded nothing of interest to Strathairn’s search. Irvine inspected the few clothes hanging on a peg on the wall. The wretched room held little bar a jug of ale, a tankard, and a few crumbs of bread on a pewter plate the rats had missed.
Strathairn checked under the pillow and straw mattress, lifting them with his cane. He swiped at the swarm of disturbed flies. “Nothing here.”
They escaped the rancid air into the alley, gasping for breath. “Find a constable and send for the coroner,” Strathairn ordered.
After the coroner’s inspection of the body, it was removed to the morgue. No autopsy was to be performed. Dawes had been feloniously murdered by persons unknown, his throat cut.
“Dawes could just have been robbed of his recent bounty, but we have to discover who paid him and for what. We’ll return to the docks,” Strathairn said after they left Bow Street.
In the tavern, one of Dawes’s cronies appeared genuinely shocked to learn of his death. He confessed that Dawes was paid to smuggle a wooden crate ashore and deliver it. To whom he didn’t know. He never saw the man who paid him.
“Describe the crate,” Strathairn said after buying him another pint of ale.
“Twas flat, longer than wide.” He took a long swallow.
“Do you think it was heavy?”
“Maybe not, but ’e was strong, was Dawes.” He shrugged. “I were tryin’ to mind me own business. Don’t pay to poke yer nose in anyone else’s ’ere on the docks.”
“Contraband,” Irvine muttered as he and Strathairn crossed the road. “But that’s usually foreign brandy, spirits, bolts of silk or tea. A few soldier mates of mine got involved in the business after the war left them injured and unable to work. But they operate in small ships down along the coast.”
“Somewhere like Dartmouth, where they can transport their cargo inland? Risk enough to cross the channel with customs preventative boats in pursuit.” Strathairn was thinking hard. “The sheer number of ships moored in the Thames makes it easy to conceal contraband brought in along with legitimate cargo. But we’re looking at something unusual here. This isn’t a tailor merely in need of French cloth or a gentleman after the brandy.”
That evening in The Three Crowns riverside alehouse, some of Dawes’s friends and fellow dockworkers admitted seeing him with the crate. No one could or would identify the boat. It was a busy time at the docks.
“Did any of you get a good look at the man?” Strathairn gazed around the taproom at the assembled group, softened up by several rounds of ale he’d bought them.
One man with a knitted cap on his head spoke up. “Dawes met ’im in the alley beside the alehouse.”
“Did they leave together?”
The beefy dockworker scratched his chin. “Nope. Followed me inside, showed me his blunt, but refused to say more. Dawes was scared right enough.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “Said the Frenchie threatened to cut his throat if he talked.”
They left the alehouse into a chilly night. Soupy fog drifted off the river and swirled around their legs, threatening to rise to choke and blind them.
“Looks like he did talk,” Irvine said as they walked beneath a gas lamp’s hazy circle of light.
“Maybe he’d outlived his usefulness,” Strathairn said. “Dead men don’t tell tales. We’ll need to delve further and find out what was in that crate. Where the contents are now. I’ll report to Parnham in the morning. You’re in charge, Irvine. Get people on it. Talk to the Thames River Police. Go to the Customs House and check the charts for boats arriving from France on or close to that day. I have something else to do.”
Irvine straightened his shoulders. “Right, my lord.”
Strathairn began a tedious round of the clubs Vaughn frequented during the evening. The fog had worsened. The moist air clung to his hair and clothing as he made his way cautiously along gloomy streets, wary of footpads. Lamps cast a feeble glow from carriages moving at a snail’s pace through the soupy air. A linkboy dashed past him, lighting the way for pedestrians.
Vaughn wasn’t at Watier’s. His search went steadily down from there in the less salubrious smoky gambling hells. No one had seen Vaughn for weeks. He arrived back at Grosvenor Square in the early hours, tired and dispirited. He did not want to let Sibella down. His promise meant a lot to him. It was the only thing he could do for her.
*
The day after she accompanied her mother to the village fete, Sibella was on her knees digging in the garden at Brandreth Park when Lord Coombe appeared. He was his immaculate self, dressed in an olive-green coat and buff trousers. “Don’t your gardeners do that?” he asked with his stiff smile.
Did her messy appearance upset him? Sibella removed her gloves and untied the smock over the cambric gown she always wore in the garden as they strolled back to the hous
e. She suffered again from that fervent desire to do or say something outrageous; to force a reaction from him. His starchy reserve annoyed her, but it also made her guilty. After all, her feelings for Strathairn were not his fault. “Your trip was successful?”
“Quite successful, yes.” His smile was a trifle smug whether he was pleased at her question or his trip, she wasn’t sure.
“Chaloner tells me you import coffee from your plantation in the West Indies.”
“That is correct.” He averted his gaze, prodding his cane at a branch of azalea too close to the path.
“Do you go to the West Indies often?”
“When business demands it.”
She waited for him to elaborate, but he said nothing more.
“Should I like it there?” she asked. “Quite different to life here, I imagine.”
“I will never take you to the West Indies.” He grimaced. “It’s different in every respect to England. Little morality exists in that hot heathenish country. You would hate the place.”
She doubted he had much idea about her likes and dislikes as he’d never asked her about them. Tired of the awkward silences between them, she gave voice to an idea she had been considering. “Remember when you invited me to visit your house?”
“Of course I do.” A spark brightened his eyes. “You wish to visit my home?”
“We might go tomorrow,” she said.
“We’ll need to leave early. Would it inconvenience you should I call after breakfast? Ten o’clock?” He cleared his throat. “I trust that Lady Maria will accompany us?”
“I’m sure she will.”
As soon as Lord Coombe departed, Sibella climbed the stairs in search of Maria. “Please come. I can’t go alone,” she said, “and I need you to distract him while I question the staff.”
Maria’s brows shot up. “Question the staff?”
“I want to learn more about Lord Coombe and his wife.”
Maria turned from the mirror, a new hat in her hands. “Why? Do you have reason to believe Coombe strangled her?” She gave an exaggerated shiver.
“What a horrible thought. No, I just want to learn more about her. Was it a love match? What Lady Brookwood told me led me to believe theirs wasn’t a happy marriage.”
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