“Honor makes a claim. Duty makes a claim. Above all else, justice does, Miss Belvoir.”
If you care about justice, refuse to be a part of this. She bit her tongue. It would be foolish to antagonize the man whom her father would face in court. “Why did you come here? What do you want of me?”
He walked over to the entrance, and peered out into the hall. Then he came and stood near her so he could speak quietly. “I have come to warn you. You must not go to Newgate again. You should remove yourself from this entire process. Allow Mr. Notley to work in your stead if you must, but tell him to do so discreetly and as counsel to your father rather than in your service.”
She did not like being talked down to, literally. Nor was she in the mood to take direction from Ives. She stood so she might better look him in the eyes. “Much as I would like to believe you have my best interests at heart, I am sure you do not have my father’s interests in mind at all when you issue this warning. As a prosecutor you will be an opponent to his interests. Without me, he will be easy pickings for such as you, especially if I remove myself.”
His head cocked to one side. His lids lowered. “Are you insinuating that I fear your involvement because it will cause me to lose?”
“It will certainly make your winning less assured.”
“Miss Belvoir, I am not here for anything having to do with me. I am concerned for you. There may be more to all of this than either of us knows.”
“Obviously there is. I have said from the start that my father is not the sort to be involved in such a crime. A monstrous mistake has been—”
A firm slice of his hand through the air cut her off. “That is not what I mean.” He sighed with exasperation. “Listen to me now. And believe that I am not speaking as a prosecutor, but as someone who knows more of this part of the world than you ever will.”
She sat again, to listen. Not because he commanded it, although her own will had little practice in meeting the challenge of one of similar mettle. She sat to listen because he was no fool, and his expression and voice convinced her that whatever he had to say must be heard.
He pulled a chair very close to hers, again so eavesdroppers might not overhear. Their knees almost touched. She found it very difficult to deny the power of this man’s presence with him so close that he wrapped her in it. There was something compelling about him, as if he intruded on her spirit somehow. How inappropriate, outrageous even, to react to him that way, when he would play such a horrible role in her life.
“Your father had become involved in something that may be far bigger than he knows,” he said. “I have cause to believe that the government has taken an interest in him, and in that bad money they found in his rooms on Wigmore Street, and in his associates. If so, someone thinks this is not a simple crime, but part of a conspiracy.”
The word conspiracy sent a chill down her spine. The word got bandied about a lot these days, since the end of the war caused disruptions in the economy that had sent workers into the streets, and given leave to radicals to restart their campaigns for major changes in society and politics. Ever fearful of the upheavals such unrest can cause, the government had passed laws to make conspiracy harder to concoct.
“He is not political,” she said.
“He does not have to be if his associates are.”
“Who are these associates? Is that known?”
“They expect to learn that from him. However, right now, there is curiosity about one associate who has recently come to light. You.”
Another chill.
“You showed up after almost a month. You visit him daily. You bring him books and paper. What does he in turn give to you? What do you say to him? Such are the questions being asked. The gaoler even questioned if you are really his daughter.”
“Who else would I be?”
“An accomplice.”
“That is insulting.”
“See it with their eyes. You must stop going to Newgate. You have done your duty as his daughter. His lawyer will do the rest.”
“I cannot do that.”
“You must.” His demeanor showed he expected obedience.
She owed him none, but she did not want him to think her foolhardy either. She would explain herself once, but no more than that, so perhaps he would understand she did not reject his advice due to mere stubbornness.
“You said there were claims on you. Well, there are some on me too. I also have duties, and one is to make sure my father is not left to his own poor devices. I promised my mother I would. She did not mean I should make sure his shirts were clean or his cravat properly tied, I realize now. She meant watching over him if something like this happened. Papa’s head remains in his numbers and abstractions. He will prove hapless on his own in such a complication of suspicions and conspiracies.”
He appeared to understand, but he did not like it. He gazed at her much as a strict tutor might look at a student who offered a good reason the lessons had not been done. Acknowledging the excuse was valid did not solve the problem of lessons not learned.
“Promise me at least that you will not return to Newgate,” he said. “If you send food to the gaoler’s office, it will be brought to your father. I will make the arrangements.”
She wished he would stop helping her. Did he not see a contradiction in doing things like this when he fully intended to lower the wrath of justice on the same man?
“I cannot promise. However, I will not return unless I believe it to be necessary that I do.” She lost little ground in agreeing to this. Her father did not want her there, and refused to speak to her. Perhaps Mr. Notley would have more success.
Ives smiled. He appeared pleased. She could not understand why. He glanced around the chamber, and it was as if his gaze penetrated the walls and saw the rest of the building too. “Do you teach here?”
“I do.”
“Which subjects?”
“Mathematics and natural science, although I can cover most everything else taught here too.”
“Mrs. Ludlow is lucky to have you.”
Padua had to laugh. “I do not think she would always agree. I am, however, useful and inexpensive. If I left she would have to replace me, which for mathematics most likely means having to pay a man much more.”
“Did your father school you in mathematics?”
“Everyone assumes that, but he did not. My mother did.”
She enjoyed people’s surprise when she said that. Ives was no different. Curiosity entered his eyes.
He would have to wait to have it satisfied. Familiar footsteps heralded the return of Mrs. Ludlow. A servant followed, carrying a tray. “Lord Ywain, would you honor us by joining us while we partake of some coffee?”
He graciously accepted. Padua noticed the tray had only two cups and saucers. Mrs. Ludlow’s “we” had been the royal one.
“Miss Belvoir, should you not return to your classroom? The younger girls are waiting for you now.”
Padua excused herself. Ives managed to appear welcoming as Mrs. Ludlow turned an ingratiating smile on him, but Padua thought she glimpsed a few seconds of pain first.
Well, if the man insisted on interfering, he had to expect a little discomfort every now and then.
* * *
Losing hours and days to Miss Belvoir’s Dilemma was bad enough. Now Ives found himself subjected to Mrs. Ludlow’s social blandishments. She spent half an hour talking about her educational endeavors.
“We do our best here with the girls,” she confided after treating him to a description of her school. “As well as possible, I like to think, considering their backgrounds.” She lowered her voice. “Most of their fathers are in trade, and if ever the results of breeding trump those of money, it is in young women like these.”
“How long has Miss Belvoir taught for you?” he asked. “I sought her out today on a matter concerning relatives of hers, and do not know the particulars of her own situation.”
“She has been here three years. She c
ame with only one reference, and a qualified one at that. I took her on with some risk because she can teach subjects it can be hard to staff. I do not deny her qualifications, and I enjoy her company. However, I find her opinionated and proud at times too. She is given to radical ideas, I regret to say, enough that I have debated asking her to leave.”
Ives would have preferred the word radical not be associated with Padua Belvoir, under the circumstances. He hoped Mrs. Ludlow only referred to those reformist ideas that he knew about.
“I trust she does not advocate eliminating all the aristocrats,” he said with a little laugh.
Mrs. Ludlow thought that very funny. They chortled together at the absurd notion. “No, she is not that kind of radical. Goodness, if our parents ever thought that.” She patted her heart, as if in danger of fainting. “She has some inappropriate ideas about women, however. You know the sort I mean. All that boring Wollstonecraft sort of thing. Her own mother attended a university abroad that allowed women. With a mother like that, you can imagine the strange notions Miss Belvoir has inherited. Our parents would not find it amusing.” She looked at him like he were an old friend worthy of confidences. “Am I remiss in keeping her on? I go back and forth on the question.”
“It cannot be easy to find a teacher of mathematics who will take employment at a school for girls. If Miss Belvoir is competent in the schoolroom, I do not think you are remiss, or need to rush to send her away.”
Mrs. Ludlow looked at him with gratitude. “How good of you to advise me. You are correct, of course. Unless she does something that will harm the girls or the school, I can overlook her way of thinking.”
It seemed an excellent time to take his leave. He did so, believing his good deed for the day done several times over. Miss Belvoir would keep her employment, and would make herself scarce at Newgate. With luck, anyone following her father’s case would lose interest in her in a week or so when she no longer made her appearances at his cell.
He would not mind being done with Hadrian Belvoir completely for the time being, but one more thing needed his attention. He knew from sorry experience that sometimes magistrates, eager to identify a culprit, overlooked inconvenient evidence that might call a person’s guilt into question. It sounded like they had Hadrian Belvoir tied up in a neat package, but before he prosecuted, he wanted to make sure.
CHAPTER 5
More had been achieved by Ives’s visit than Padua’s reluctant agreement to no longer visit her father. Of more interest to Padua had been Ives’s reference to her father’s rooms on Wigmore Street.
Her father’s use of a mail drop all these years had been especially wounding. She now knew where he lived, however. She hoped this was the property he had inherited too. If so, she would not need to pay Mr. Notley ten shillings to locate that legacy. And if her father used only some rooms in the building, perhaps that meant he let out the other rooms, and it served as a source of income.
She had to wait three days before she was able to leave the school with Mrs. Ludlow unawares. Fortunately, Mrs. Ludlow had a ritual of social calls every Friday afternoon. She always took Jennie with her because Jennie’s connections, severed though they might be in reality, enhanced Mrs. Ludlow’s social standing and even opened a few doors.
Padua bided her time until then. As soon as the hired carriage bore them away, she donned her spencer and bonnet and let herself out the garden door.
Time would be short today, so she hired a hackney and gave the driver the name of the street. She hoped it was not far away and she could walk back. It surprised her when the carriage stopped on a street near the northeastern edge of Piccadilly. She paid the fare, stepped out, and took a good look at her surroundings.
There was nothing fashionable about Wigmore Street. The houses appeared solid, and she guessed many of them contained several homes. Since she did not know which was her father’s, she asked at a grocer’s on one corner. She did not have to describe her father in much detail for the proprietor to recognize the man she wanted. He pointed her to a brick house on the next block that stood three stories tall over its raised cellar.
A blond woman sat at the window of the first storey. Padua asked after Mr. Belvoir.
“He lives above,” the woman said. “He is not there now. Hasn’t been for some weeks.”
“Does he own this building?”
The woman laughed until she cried. “That odd duck own this building?” She wiped her eyes with the edge of her apron. “What would he know with owning a building. Nah, he lets his rooms same as I let mine, thank you.”
Padua opened the door. She mounted the stairs leading to the next level.
As expected, the door to her father’s rooms had not been locked. Hadrian Belvoir would never bother with such practicalities. When she entered, she had to admit there would be little purpose in doing so anyway, because he had nothing to steal.
A monk might live like this, in chambers crammed with books that overflowed the cases into stacks on tables and floors. A writing table, all but barricaded into a corner of the sitting room, held a heap of papers. Padua made her way to it and examined those pages. Few words had been written. Most of them carried numbers and mathematical notations. Her father had long been in search of impossible proofs. He would not be the first man to spend his life in such pursuits, only to fail.
She looked around, wondering where all this counterfeit money had been stored. From what she could tell, there was no room for it. She wandered into the bedchamber. There she found a conspicuous void near one wall. It appeared a trunk once stood there but no longer did. Its outline could be traced on the floorboards by the absence of any other items.
She had hoped to find proof no large stash of money had been here, so the conspicuous void disheartened her. Her father clearly lived here, but why? If he had inherited property, why would he not live there?
Unfortunately she suspected she knew the answer to that. He had probably sold that property long ago. She would not be surprised if someone had cheated him by paying too little, or even not at all. It would be just like her father to sign over the deed and forget to collect the payment for it.
Discouraged, she returned to the sitting room, and began choosing books to be delivered to the prison. She had withdrawn two, when a small volume bound in red caught her eye. She pulled it out. It was one of the schoolbooks she had used as a girl. It touched her that Papa had saved it.
She flipped it open to see if her childish signature still marked its first page. A banknote fell out and fluttered to the floor. Twenty pounds. She picked it up, then fanned the pages. No more money.
Her gaze went to the books, searching. She spied another thin red binding. She checked that book, and found another ten pounds. Excited, she looked again, and saw a third book.
She pushed the piles of journals and pamphlets off a table, in order to make room for her schoolbooks. Her excavations revealed a wooden box beneath one pile that distracted her. She remembered it from her childhood. Her mother had kept this box in her dressing room. Seeing it again called forth memories and feelings, all of them warm and nostalgic.
Back then it stored gloves. It did not store gloves now. Instead a stack of letters filled it. The letters carried her mother’s scent, she was sure, and their mere existence entranced her. She set the schoolbooks down, to be dealt with later, and stuffed the banknotes in her bodice, to get them out of the way too. She dumped books off a chair and sat.
The letters were mostly in her mother’s hand, but her father had written a few. The dates indicated these were old, from before Padua’s birth. Her heart trembled while she looked at her mother’s handwriting. Finally, she unfolded one of the letters and read it.
* * *
Lance agreeing to quit town for Merrywood was not the same as Lance actually getting in the coach and leaving. Ives visited for breakfast, dawdled in conversation up in Lance’s dressing room, and generally remained underfoot until Lance, with annoyance, told his valet to pack.<
br />
“I expect I will see you next week,” Lance said just as the coach began to roll.
“Damnation, don’t you dare come back that quickly.”
“Not here. In Merrywood.” The vehicle jostled forward.
Ives had no intention of spending the last part of his precious respite entertaining Lance in the country. “Do not count on it,” he called after the coach.
Lance stuck his head out the window and looked back. “A fine brother you are. Gareth brings his bride home from their travels and you do not bother to come down to greet them.”
Ives called for the coach to stop. He paced to that window and peered in. “Gareth is returning next week?”
“Did I neglect to tell you that?”
“You did.”
“I received a letter two or three days ago. Maybe four.” He pondered the detail as if it mattered.
So much for week two of unencumbered freedom. “I will be there, of course.”
“We will go hunting.”
“Wonderful.” He tapped the coach, to signal the driver to continue. The coach rolled.
A head appeared at the window again. “Did I also neglect to mention she is with child? Eva, that is.”
The coach turned onto the street. The head disappeared. Ives wondered just how drunk Lance had been the last fortnight.
* * *
It was past three o’clock before Ives made his way to Wigmore Street. He tied his horse near the crossroads and approached Belvoir’s building on foot.
He noticed two things as he walked. The first was a fellow dawdling several doors down from Belvoir’s. He managed to appear busy without actually doing anything. Ives thought it likely a watch had been set on Belvoir’s abode. That was not something that a magistrate had the resources to do, which would mean the Home Office had involved itself far more than Strickland would ever admit.
He then saw an unexpected face from the past. A woman with an elaborate style to her brassy hair sat in the window on the first storey. When she looked out as he approached, Ives recognized her.
Tall, Dark, and Wicked (Wicked Trilogy) Page 5
