"That will be like searching for flies in a rubbish heap," Nicholas said dryly. He gestured to the second body at the back of the room. "And this one?"
"Ah, yes, our second victim." Kent rose and took the few steps over. The corpse lay on its back, the lone object on the dirt floor. It was difficult to see anything aside from the blackened flesh. The face had been entirely burned, its features obliterated by fire. The only spot of color were the tufts of hair, singed at the roots but blooming into ginger-colored tips.
"Now this one was definitely done here," the police man said. With his boot, he nudged the side of the body. Nicholas could see the large dark stain soaked into the earth. "Given how charred the corpse was, I had Dr. Farraday take a look. In the good doctor's opinion, this man was dead several days before Bragg and killed prior to being burned. Notice the laceration along the neck? Made by the blade we found in Bragg's boot."
Nicholas felt a sickening pity. "Gordon?"
"Likely so, given the hair color and the fact that he had gone missing around the same time. Poor fellow had his throat cut before being set aflame. Not a pleasant way to die, I would imagine. A brutal end to a brutal life."
"But why burn a body after he's dead?"
"Why do some murderers kill with poison, others with a blade, and yet others with a pistol?" Kent shrugged. "There is meaning in the act of killing that we cannot understand. Passion or hatred can render a man's actions inexplicable."
"And the motive?" Nicholas asked quietly.
"Love or money, usually. In this case, given there was no love lost between the stepbrothers, I would wager money was the culprit. But you need not take my word upon it, my lord. Come this way, if you please."
Nicholas followed Kent, taking cue from the taller man to duck his head under the low beam as he exited. He felt relief at leaving the cramped space, though the hallway was narrow and smelled of vomit. Kent turned right and stopped in front of a door sealed with a padlock and chains. He withdrew a heavy key from his pocket.
"Found it on Bragg," he said by way of explanation.
After the chain clanked to the ground, Kent pushed open the door.
"Ah," Nicholas said.
This room was more spacious than the previous, though just as cramped. Crates and sacks piled upon each other floor to ceiling. Nicholas examined the nearest barrel; he ran a finger over the familiar black stamp of Fines and Company.
"A fine rum, that one," he said.
"Spirits, tobacco, sugar, tea—there's a veritable trove inside this room. Of course, 'tis but a fraction of what has been pilfered, but it will serve as evidence. From what I have gathered of the inventory, Bragg was an equal opportunity thief. Yours is not the only company represented—there's Milligan, Hottswald, Pendergrast to name a few."
"So you believe Bragg masterminded this whole scheme?" Nicholas still found the notion difficult to believe, although the proof loomed in incontrovertible stacks before him.
"He had help. We found on his person a ledger containing names of men to whom he paid weekly wages. My men are investigating those names as we speak. Apparently, Bragg had his employees infiltrate all the companies along the docks. Once they were in, the rest was easy enough."
"All it required was one good idea on Bragg's part," Nicholas murmured. "Yes, I suppose that is possible, even of him. But what of Gordon? Why did Bragg kill him?"
"Gordon is listed on the ledger. Bragg sent him to work for you. I believe all went well for awhile, and then Gordon lost nerve. I questioned his mistress at the brothel again. She claims that prior to the night your warehouse was ransacked, Gordon had been rambling on about having enough and wanting out."
"So he went to his stepbrother and asked to be released from his duties," Nicholas said slowly.
"Yes, but he was relieved of much more." Kent's lips twisted. "He paid for that moment of conscience with his life."
They stood silently for a moment.
"I have something else, my lord." His light eyes darting around to ensure they had privacy, Kent withdrew a slip of crinkled parchment. "I found this on Bragg. I suppose he was preparing to exact his payment."
Nicholas looked down at the familiar looped ink. Five thousand pounds or your secret is out. He crumpled the note in his fist.
"The night you were shot, the only man you saw was Bragg. Perhaps he altered his voice. Perhaps your injury distorted your senses," Kent said. "We found a pistol in the other room. It appears to have been recently discharged."
Nicholas blew out a breath. "So it was Bragg, all along. But how did he discover my connection to Grimes?"
"If you wish, I can continue my investigation of the matter. I had just begun to interview my contacts before my men found Bragg here. I can resume—"
"No, that will not be necessary." Nicholas was not fool enough to look a gift horse in the mouth. The evidence was all here before him: the stolen goods, the blackmail note, and a dead man who'd held a grudge. Although he had no satisfactory answer to how Bragg had come by the knowledge of Grimes' murder, Nicholas told himself to let it go. It was dangerous to poke a sleeping beast; he had no wish to awaken the snapping monsters of the past.
Kent nodded in understanding. "Well, I suppose that is that. The mysteries of the thefts solved and your would-be blackmailer dead. A sad business, but in the end justice has prevailed."
Nicholas wanted to believe him. For an instant, he could see a young man with red hair and shy eyes. A boy, really, with two left feet and a life ahead. But not any longer. A future snuffed out as easily as a candle. Was that justice? He was not at all certain, but Kent's earlier words resonated in his mind.
A brutal end to a brutal life.
By God, life was short and not to be wasted. The past had imprisoned him all these years; now, at last, he had a chance at freedom. And a future.
Nicholas took Kent's hand in a firm grasp. "Thank you, Mr. Kent, for all your efforts. The Thames River Police can expect an expression of gratitude from Fines and Company come Monday morning."
"Thank you, my lord." Kent jerked his head toward the merchandise. "Would you like my men to load up your goods?"
"Not at the moment," Nicholas said. A sudden truth reverberated in his bones. His chest lightened. "Right now, I have more urgent matters to take care of."
"Oh? Anything I can be of assistance with?"
Nicholas was already headed up the stairs. He stopped and turned, grinning. "Not unless you waltz, Kent. And even then, I would not let you within ten paces of her."
"Ah." For the first time in their acquaintance, Nicholas saw Kent wear a genuine smile. The expression made the police man's thin, worn face appear unaccountably wistful. "Have a good evening, then, my lord. And please give my regards to Lady Harteford."
TWENTY-FIVE
On the ride to the Hayfield ball, it seemed to Nicholas that his newly acquired horses moved at the pace of snails. He had purchased the matched greys at Tattersall's last month; the auctioneer had claimed the animals could outrun the wind. A half-hearted breeze, more the like. Nicholas rapped on the carriage ceiling to hasten the driver. He heard a whistle and the snap of the reins. His booted feet tapped an impatient beat against the floor as he looked out into the shifting shadows of St. Giles.
As a boy, he had once carved a boat from driftwood and set it down the river. He had watched it sail downstream until it became a speck, finally disappearing altogether. Now, watching the slums flow by, he experienced that same sense of freedom and finality. The mysterious blackmailer was dead, the thieving ended. The voice he had heard that night had been Bragg's, not some ghost he had conjured from the past. Aye, he could hear the resemblance now.
He told himself his past was laid to rest. Dead and buried and no longer capable of hurting him. It was time to move on.
When he arrived at the grand Palladian residence, the place was already ablaze with the brightest lights of the ton. Nicholas handled his hat and coat to one of the liveried footmen. He paused at the top
of the wide marble dais. Scanning the throng below, he realized that this was his future. He was no longer a scared boy running the streets or a porter with dirt under his fingernails.
He was a man, a peer of the realm, with a wife he desired beyond the consciousness of words. A wife who had trembled with ecstasy in his arms but a few hours past. If all went according to plan, she would be moaning his name before the night was out. Now if only he could get past the bloody receiving line, he could find her and show her that which lay in his heart.
He chafed at the butler's droning voice. One by one, the guests ahead of him were announced as they descended the steps to the ballroom. Nicholas looked below onto the packed dance floor. The glittering morass of color momentarily disoriented him. Then he saw her, and the world righted. Standing under a bower of blossoms, Helena held court like an exotic princess. Her rich sable locks gleamed in ringlets around her laughing face, and the green material of her gown kissed the lush curves of her body. Her breasts beckoned from a poor excuse for a bodice: two sweetly rounded scoops of flesh designed to incite a man's hunger. Nicholas frowned, noticing that he was not the only one to admire her bosom. The admirers hovering all around her were stealing clandestine eyefuls.
They were lusting over his wife's breasts.
Pushing by several guests and the startled butler, he strode down the stairwell. He heard his title being hastily announced and felt the heat of curious glances as he cut a straight path to his quarry. He did not give a damn and did not stop until he had reached Helena's side. He slid a proprietary arm around her waist, leveling a warning stare at the randy young bucks. Casually, he turned Helena to him and brought her hand to his lips.
"I trust I have not kept you waiting, my lady," he said, allowing a slight emphasis to the possessive pronoun.
Helena's eyes glimmered like a sunlit pond, warmth illuminating the clear depths of green and brown. She smiled, and unmistakable in her expression was the gladness, the rightness that calmed his very soul. The other men must have seen it too, for one by one they buzzed off to more promising territory. Wordlessly, Nicholas offered his wife his arm and claimed her for a stroll around the dance floor.
"Good evening, my lord," Helena said, her voice sounding as if she had recently been engaged in vigorous activity.
Strange, he seemed to be having difficulty catching his own breath. "You look very fine this evening," he managed.
"Thank you." She cast her eyes demurely downward as they rounded the bend. "For the compliment ... and for the lovely poem."
Before he could reply, they were stopped by a gaggle of ladies. He had to suffer through dithering nonsense about reticules and slippers before he and his wife were free to walk again.
"Liked my ode, did you?" he began in a low, intimate voice, but then he heard someone call his name. He had to paste on a smile and nod to some bloody viscount whose name he could never recall. Why couldn't these buggers mind their own business and let him flirt with his wife in peace? Leaning closer, he said, "I found myself quite inspired by your—"
"La, there you are Lady Harteford! Splendid night, isn't it?"
Nicholas scowled as Helena gave a charming reply.
"Perhaps we could continue this discussion another time," his wife whispered to him, her cheeks a charming pink as they picked up the stroll again. "Others are watching."
"The ton can go to hell for all I care. I want to talk now," he said. "I have many things to say to you, my love, and, after that, many more things I want to do with you. All night long."
With her color high and her eyes aglow, she resembled a demure, complacent marchioness not a whit. Not one bloody whit, praise God. He had not realized how much he had wanted it so—to have a passionate wife waiting for him, below the ladylike exterior. Perhaps he had always suspected her ardent nature, even throughout the months of dry as crumbs courtship. Something about those eyes of hers, the naughty fullness of her bottom lip ...
"You seem different, Nicholas," she murmured. "What has changed?"
He wanted to tell her everything. That he was free and that he loved her. He needed to beg her forgiveness and ask for another chance to be the kind of husband she deserved. But at that moment, the orchestra issued a readying note, and he saw another opportunity. Before Helena could utter another word, Nicholas drew her onto the dance floor. Other couples followed suit around them. The beginning notes sounded ... a waltz. Could life be any more perfect? Grinning down at his wife's bemused expression, he pulled her closer at the waist and led her into the first steps.
Nicholas did not dance often; having learned the skill only after succession to the title, he considered himself a passable partner at best. Yet, as the sweet lush melody wrapped itself around him, he forgot to be concerned about the proper steps and positions. He had his wife in his arms, and nothing else mattered. He spun her, drawing her closer as he did so, so close that her skirts slapped against his thighs and her bodice brushed against his jacket.
They moved in flawless unison. Against his palm, her back was soft, yielding. His hand slid lower, onto the curve of her spine. Provocative, elegant, the indentation beckoned him to the lush hills just below. He had to focus to remember the steps. As the music rose in crescendo, he twirled her with dizzying speed. She clung to him. When her eyes met his, he could see the laughter there, the shared exhilaration of being alive, together ...
In love.
He caught her in another spin, this time bringing her against the burgeoned heat of him. For a moment, pressing her against his turgid, endless desire for her.
His lips found her ear.
"I want you, my love," he whispered. "Always."
Her eyes were wide as they separated. The other couples, the music, the ball itself all faded away from his awareness. All that remained for him was the woman in his arms. The woman he craved more than his next breath.
"Harteford," she said.
"Yes?" He felt an insane urge to kiss her right then and there.
"The music has stopped."
Belatedly, Nicholas came to a halt. He saw the other men bowing and the ladies curtsying in return. Heat tinged his cheekbones, though it did not compare to the conflagration farther south. Flicking a glance downward, he knew that he needed to calm himself or risk public embarrassment.
"My dear, allow me to procure some ratafia for you," he murmured. "Shall we meet outside on the terrace? I should like to continue our discussion, if it would suit you."
"Yes, my lord." His wife's eyes were glowing. "Thank you for the waltz. Apparently, you dance as well as you write."
He was going to explode then and there if she did not stop smiling at him like that. "Outside, in ten minutes," he muttered, ushering her off the dance floor.
It took Nicholas several minutes in the cool night air to collect himself. That, and several subtle adjustments of his trousers. When he once again gained self-control, he went in search of refreshments. He did not even mind the snubs and tittering voices; his thoughts centered fully on his wife.
During the dance, she had moved with him in perfect accord, joined with him beyond mere physical passion. Exultation quickened his breath. With his past behind him where it belonged, they had a chance to start afresh. First, he would have to make amends to her—for his treatment of her, for his ... he swallowed as the familiar guilt twisted his gut. Could she forgive his acts of infidelity? How could he have been so bloody stupid as to seek out a whore when the only woman he'd ever wanted was his own wife?
The thought crossed his mind to keep his indiscretion to himself. But the idea of omission struck him as yet another betrayal, and he wanted honesty in their marriage from this moment forth. Somehow, he'd have to find a way to explain himself to Helena. To beg her forgiveness and to vow that he would never betray her again. That, in truth, in his heart, he never had.
His faith in their love was such that all this seemed possible.
Nicholas returned to the terrace with warm punch in hand. It was past
two o'clock in the morning, and the crowd had begun to thin. He scanned the wide stone veranda, but did not see Helena. He noticed that the west side of the balustrade was obscured by dense hedges, designed no doubt to provide privacy for amorous pursuits. A smile touched his lips as he considered finding his wife behind such conveniently placed greenery.
This time, unlike their wedding night, he would not paw at her like some sex-crazed beast. No, this time he would take her small gloved hand in his and whisper an endearment. He would watch her eyes, wait for that welcoming rush of gold before slowly unbuttoning her glove. He would coax the satin down her tender skin, exposing her delicate wrist. He would bring her hand to his lips and press a kiss on the tender underside. A gentle brushing of his lips against her fluttering pulse, nothing more. A prelude to wooing his wife.
Heart hammering with anticipation, he strode over to the leafy barrier.
*****
Slightly out of breath, Helena hurried back toward the ballroom. The wait for the privy had been excruciating. She hoped Nicholas had not been waiting long. Something had altered in him tonight, she could feel it. His behavior spoke less of restraint and entirely of desire. During their dance, the intensity of his focus on her, like a pirate laying claim to bounty, had made everything else fade; there'd been nothing but the feel of his body moving with hers.
As she neared the double-doors leading to the terrace, she collided with a flash of turquoise moving in the opposition direction.
"Oof." She righted herself. "I beg your par—oh, Marianne, 'tis you. I did not know you were in attendance tonight ..."
She trailed off, taking in the paleness of her friend's face and the haunted look in the normally vibrant green eyes. "Marianne, what is it?"
"Nothing. I am fine." Marianne's smile was clearly forced. "I am afraid that I have developed a megrim and need to leave."
Her Husband's Harlot Page 24
