by Tessa Candle
“Yes.”
Delville handed over the meat. “Good. Let us talk about how you know.” He tore a larger piece. “A how question is worth more, you see.”
“I did a service for her once. She took me to her private office and paid me. When she went to the back room to get the money, I peeked behind her. She had a strongbox, when she took out the bank notes, I saw other papers inside. I imagine that is where she keeps documents she wishes to remain secure.”
Delville extended the titbit of beef. “Now, this is quite a big question.” He raised up the remaining half piece of the beef slice. “Where is this private office?”
“In London.”
Did everyone think he was an idiot? Delville resisted the urge to shake his head and pinch the bridge of his nose. He had to govern his body language to remain in control of the interrogation.
Biting into the slice of meat, he closed his eyes and formed his face into a look of ecstatic abandon as he chewed loudly. “Oh. So. Exquisite. That cook is a magician.” He gave the prisoner a look. “You see, Wormshit, I felt I deserved that bit, as I already knew the answer you supplied. So let us try again. Where in London is Red Martha’s private office?”
“I do not know—she blindfolded me before taking me there. I was loaded into a carriage from my London home and taken somewhere for our meeting, and then returned home afterwards.”
“Why did she need to take you to her office?”
“We were discussing something of a delicate nature, and she said she did not wish to be overheard.”
“Very well.” Delville gave him a small bit, then tore off another. “How long was this carriage ride?”
“I don’t know, I did not time it.”
Delville made to eat the piece, but Wormshit suddenly supplied, “I think it was about three quarters of an hour. Not more than an hour,” and was rewarded with his mite of beef.
“Were you travelling slowly or quickly?”
“Slowly—I mean there was a lot of stopping and starting. Traffic, I suppose.”
Delville gave him his reward. “You could not see, but what of sounds and smells?”
“All of London stinks, but I think we might have gone past a fish market or some such place. I do remember quite a reek. I do not recall hearing anything in particular.”
Delville gave the man his reward. He was pleased. It was not an address, but it was a start. He would have something to report, and with a network of men to investigate a radius around the prisoner’s prior home in London, they might get an idea. Red Martha had proven quite resistant to other kinds of spying. She always slipped her tails and everyone knew she must have an office like the one the man described, but they had never been able to find it. London was such a labyrinth.
Now he might try to extract something from the man that would help him with his other matter. But it would involve forcing his informant to implicate himself, and that might prove more difficult—take more time. But he believed he could accelerate the process. Delville withdrew a bottle of whiskey and a small glass from his pack.
Wormshit’s eyes lit up like a cat before a bowl of cream.
Delville poured a little taste into the glass. “Now why not talk about your delicate business with Red Martha.”
Chapter 15
Eleanor could hardly tear herself away, but she sneaked back out before Delville finished questioning his prisoner. After everything she had heard, she could not afford to be caught by Delville, for he would be sure to read in her face all that she knew. What sort of person was this man? Keeping someone in an underground dungeon, reviling him and only giving him sustenance in exchange for information was cruelty beyond the pale.
Her emotions were in a state of confusion as she returned to Fenimore at double pace and arrived in the breakfast parlour before anyone else. When she was seated before the neatly arranged spread of food, she ran her hand over the surface of the perfectly pressed table cloth, but shuddered to think of the chaos that threatened this orderly household, to think that her friends were being duped into hosting such a man in their home.
And yet, was he really so very bad? Eleanor knew enough to know that Red Martha was not a savoury character. And the prisoner had admitted, at last, to keeping a woman in chains in his own home, and several other unsavoury services for Red Martha. He had given enough revolting detail that Eleanor at one point wished she could kill him, herself. He was clearly a deplorable creature. Might that not, to some degree, mitigate Delville’s guilt?
As Rosamond and Frobisher joined her and cheerfully loaded up their breakfast plates, Eleanor’s mind turned matters over and over, until she thought she would go mad.
Why should she keep this secret any longer? Why did she not simply take Frobisher aside and tell him what was going on? She could wash her hands of the whole sordid affair and let him deal with it. He had a right to know what was transpiring on his property, after all. So why did Eleanor feel a compunction about snitching on Delville?
“Are you quite well, Eleanor?” Rosamond patted her arm to rouse her from her horrid thoughts. “You have hardly eaten a thing. And if you push those eggs about your plate any more they will become soup.”
“I beg your pardon.” Eleanor forced a smile. “I was just lost in my thoughts. Daydreaming of Honey-Dunny, you know.”
Rosamond chuckled, but Eleanor knew her joke fell flat. She could not call to her aid the gift of deadpan sarcasm. Her feelings, she feared, were utterly betrayed.
Yet her friend seemed to misapprehend where they came from. “Did the little turd accost you again this morning?”
It took Eleanor a few moments to recall that Rosamond must be speaking of Auchdun.
“No, not at all. I saw not the least sign of him.” She paused, then realizing that this was as good an excuse as any for her troubled demeanour, she added, “But I cannot help looking over my shoulder, even though I left so early this morning.”
“Ah.” Rosamond seemed satisfied with this and gave Eleanor a mischievous smile. “That is why you were out so early. Well Frobisher and I are devising a distraction for Auchdun, so perhaps you might have some peace.”
“Oh?” Eleanor was relieved to be pulled out of her own thoughts and embraced the change of subject. “Do tell.”
Frobisher looked up from a letter he had been reading and chimed in, “We have been in consultation with Rutherford and Tilly, and they will extend an invitation for him to dine at Blackwood.”
Eleanor was baffled. “Foisting him upon the neighbours? I do not quite see how encouraging his acquaintance with the duke and duchess will improve matters.”
“They intend to invite one Lord Laurentian and his ward, Miss Fitzpatrick, to come stay with them in the countryside. Laurentian once showed an interest in a mare of Rutherford’s.” He exchanged a secret smile with Rosamond.
Eleanor searched her memory. “I believe you must be speaking of Lucifer, the mare that almost killed you last year.”
Frobisher flicked a crumb from his sleeve. “That was merely Rutherford exaggerating things to make a good story.”
“Ah.” Eleanor did not know the horse, but she knew the raillery that Rutherford and Frobisher subjected each other to, so she did not mind giving him the faintest of unconvincing nods. “Of course.”
“You are as bad as he is. But in any case, I have had an early reply to the note I sent to Rutherford suggesting it. He and Tilly are already putting their heads together.”
“And is this Miss Fitzpatrick a great beauty?” No one was directly saying it, but Eleanor wondered if matchmaking might be part of the scheme.
“Ha! Well, yes I suppose she is rather pretty.” Frobisher conceded.
“If you can get past her perverse mind,” Rosamond added. “She is apparently quite a terror, but can charm when it pleases her. It will give Auchdun some social obligations to attend to, so he will have less time for idling around and trespassing at Fenimore.”
Eleanor shook her head sadly. “I am sorry to cause s
o much trouble, and yet so thankful for two such friends who would take these pains on my behalf.”
“You are not the one causing the trouble.” Rosamond lifted a brow. “Not in the least.”
Eleanor stewed in her own guilt. They had no idea what a deceitful person they harboured. She was a terrible friend.
“And we are not the principal people taking pains. Just imagine what it will cost Rutherford to further his acquaintance with that idiot, especially after sending him off so briskly the last time.” Frobisher shook his head. “I should not like to be in his position. But not, of course, that you should feel at all bad about that. He wanted to do this.”
It did not make Eleanor feel any better. She was grateful when they finished eating and removed to the south parlour, hoping it would afford a change of topic.
But shortly after they went through, the footman suddenly announced the Duchess of Bartholmer, who was apparently still refusing to enter confinement, despite the conspicuously large figure she cut.
She gave a theatrical eye roll as she waddled into the room, and they all rose to greet her. “I don’t know why he cannot simply say ‘Tilly’ or ‘Mrs. Rutherford.’ All this duchessing business is tedious.”
Frobisher observed, “Servants have comparably little diversion in their lives, do not be so cruel as to begrudge them the pleasure of announcing a duchess now and again.”
Tilly flicked her hand dismissively. “I suppose. But enough of such trifles. I am here with some news that simply cannot wait to be told or I shall burst a seam!”
In her condition, this was no idle threat. They all seated themselves and leaned in. Rosamond poked Tilly unceremoniously. “Go on then.”
“Did no one ever teach you that it is rude to poke a duchess? But never mind that. I have just had a letter from Lydia.”
Eleanor’s curiosity was piqued. “Do you mean the wife of Lord Aldley?” She had always liked the earl, but had not yet had a chance to meet his wife.
“The very same. You probably do not know this, but the Aldleys had some trouble with a character named Delacroix some time back. He was supposed to be in gaol awaiting his appeal, but his rich relatives put up the bond and found someone to rot in the cell on his behalf. However, he failed to appear in court on the day of his appeal, so the Aldleys have been on pins and needles, just waiting for the nasty little blackheart to show up at their place and murder them in their beds.”
Rosamond pressed a hand to her mouth. “Poor Lady Aldley! And with another child on the way, she must be terrified!”
“She is uneasy enough, but the worst part is how it has disturbed the mind of her husband, who is highly protective of her. He is worrying himself too much, and she fears it will undermine his health. But news came today that they received an anonymous letter.” Tilly paused to accept a cup of tea from a servant, and took a long sip with a look of intrigue sparkling in her eye.
“Well do not keep us on tenterhooks!” Rosamond laughed in exasperation at Tilly. “Now is hardly the time for a dramatic pause.”
Tilly waggled a finger archly, then selected three biscuits for her plate from a silver platter, popping one in her mouth immediately, and speaking around the crumbs, “Au contraire, my impatient friend. Now is precisely the time for a dramatic pause. These biscuits are delicious, by the way.”
Eleanor shook her head with a chuckle and selected a cream coloured shortbread for herself. The woman was like a caricature of herself—and yet she took such amusement in sketching grotesques of all the ridiculous specimens around her. She was an endless source of diversion, but it was almost alarming how she made light of such serious topics. “You have waited long enough, Tilly. Do not let your dramatic pause subside into a long boring kip.”
Tilly ate her last biscuit and dusted her hands. “Very well, the author of the letter purported to have knowledge about Delacroix’s true situation. It assured that he was dead, and that the Aldleys no longer had anything to fear from him.”
This news elicited surprise from all, even interrupting the practiced patrician boredom of Frobisher’s face. “But how could this writer know such a thing?” He looked suspicious. “And after all, might it not simply be some sort of trick by Delacroix himself?”
“Meanwhile he escapes to the continent.” Eleanor could see his point.
“Or more likely,” Rosamond’s face was dark, and Eleanor knew she must be reminded of her own ordeal with Screwe, “he waits for them to dismiss their armed guard and become complacent.”
Tilly pulled a face. “You are bleak.”
“But it makes sense.” Eleanor could see her point. “The Aldleys are not searching for Delacroix, they are only guarding against him. If the letter did come from him, it would not aid him in his escape.”
“It only serves a purpose if his intention is to stay in England and accost them further.” Frobisher nodded and took Rosamond’s hand. “As usual, your logic is sound my dear. I only wish you did not have to turn your mind to such things.”
“Well, well. I had not thought of it before. But I suppose you have some history with Delacroix, yourself.” Tilly looked momentarily ashamed, but bounced back immediately. “However, we should not assume the worst. What if this person simply witnessed Delacroix’s demise? Then there is nothing to fear.”
“I am not afraid of Delacroix.” Rosamond sounded confident. “He has no idea that I have assumed my true identity, or even that I returned to England. And I imagine he has much more pressing concerns on his mind. Being a fugitive with no money is not an easy life.”
Uneasy speculations plagued Eleanor. What if it was Screwe who killed Delacroix, to prevent him from giving damning information to the authorities? The two had teamed up at some point. What if the letter was from a still very alive Lord Screwe?
Eleanor hoped Rosamond was not having such thoughts. “If the writer of this letter is only a witness to Delacroix’s death, it would be better had he saved his ink for a note to the authorities pointing out the location of the body.”
Tilly smiled sadly. “Quite. That would be the thing to do—assuming he is completely innocent. Of course there are always shades of grey. And a dirty dish like Delacroix could easily get himself killed while attacking someone, or trying to steal a horse. We know enough of him that we should not assume the scribe of this message is an entirely bad sort of person.”
Eleanor felt pangs of guilt. Was she an entirely bad sort of person? Was Delville? After all, his prisoner was an utter reprobate fiend. Did that not justify a great deal? She found herself thankful for Tilly’s rather kindly tendency toward moral equivocation, yet felt compelled to tease her about it. “I believe we are all familiar with your saintly desire to redeem even the nastiest of scoundrels.”
Tilly scoffed. “Sainthood is of no interest to me at all. But everyone, even the worst person, has a story about how they got to where they are. Circumstance is as important as action. But Delacroix’s is not at all a sympathetic tale.”
“Poor, poor Lady Aldley.” Rosamond looked pale and troubled. “If it is not Delacroix, one wonders how the letter writer would have known to write the Aldleys at all. Is the case such common knowledge as that?”
“Certainly, within the ton.” Tilly tapped her fingers to her lips, then reloaded her plate with more biscuits. “We have to accept that the person who wrote the letter is probably of gentle birth.”
Eleanor could see that Rosamond was troubled. As interesting as the topic was, it was time to change the subject. “I understand that you have invited some company to Blackwood, Tilly.”
“Oh yes!” Her grin was wickedly gleeful. “Lord Laurentian and his ward, Miss Fitzpatrick. I do hope they will accept, for they are certain to be exceptionally diverting company.”
“Frobisher and Rosamond were just mentioning her.” Eleanor had only been referring to Auchdun. “Are you well acquainted?”
“Not in the least. But Rutherford knows Laurentian, her guardian, so we thought we might as well
invite them both.”
The duchess wore the tight lipped, tormented smile of someone who had a secret to keep, but who desperately wished she could share it and show how clever she was. Eleanor supposed she was congratulating herself on contriving to throw Auchdun and Miss Fitzpatrick together, as this was so obviously the intention behind the invitation.
Eleanor did not want to ruin Tilly’s fun, so she did not admit that she had already sorted out the matchmaking scheme. She would watch to see how things unfolded, but surely making a match could not be that easy.
Chapter 16
Delville slipped into Frobisher’s study, happily inhaling the scent of leather and books with a loud sniff.
Frobisher was replacing a volume in the bookcase and had his back to Delville, who poured a drink and plopped himself into Frobisher’s favourite chair.
Frobisher turned around and examined Delville coolly. “Will you not have a drink and sit down? Please, take my chair.”
“Thank you, Frobisher. That is terribly kind. I suppose you are just feeling especially indulgent as you will miss me so much when I am gone.”
“Quite. You have hit the nail on the head.” Frobisher gave him a hopeful look. “And when might that be?”
“I leave today, for I have it from Rutherford that he and Tilly have already gone ahead and invited the Fitzpatrick demoness. She might be arriving any day now, and I cannot risk being here when she pays you the inevitable call.”
“So soon?” Frobisher took the empty tumbler from Delville’s hand and set it on the sideboard. “Then I suppose you should be off to see about your luggage arrangements. Some little thing always comes up last minute.”
“I have no things to worry about. I will simply buy a new wardrobe when I am in London.”
“So it is to be London, is it?”
“I cannot think of a better place to hide at the moment. I would leave a forwarding address, but I do not wish it to fall into the wrong hands accidentally.”
“You mean into Miss Fitzpatrick’s hands.”
