How convenient. “Thank you. I am greatly relieved.”
Since the study seemed like a logical place to start searching, she set off in that direction. She didn’t encounter anyone else in the corridor, and a quick peek into the study confirmed it was empty.
“Havers,” she mumbled when she stepped inside and pulled the door closed behind her.
Lord Van Middleburg’s private area was a mess. Books and papers covered the entire surface of his desk and two side tables. Even one of the chairs held a stack of books. It was daunting enough to make her want to run in the other direction; she considered it. What little time she had to search for clues would be spent sifting through the baron’s belongings. Still, Lady Van Middleburg might be the mastermind behind the attack, but she had required someone’s assistance. Sophia wagered on her husband being that man.
She ran a quick glance over the books stacked on the side tables and chair as she made her way to stand in front of the desk. A closer view of the mess dashed her spirits.
She sighed. Where to start?
There were more books than papers, so she began with the opened post left discarded on his desk, fighting the urge to organize as she worked. As it turned out, her worries about wasting her time were justified. She found nothing of importance in the papers. It would have been wiser to seek out and search Lady Van Middleburg’s chambers, but Sophia wouldn’t have enough time now. Her absence would be noticed before too long.
Halfheartedly, she moved on to the books, not expecting to make any great discoveries. The abundance of tomes around the room suggested Lord Van Middleburg was an avid reader, but his treatment of books left much to be desired. Pages were bent at the corners, some were ripped, and others showed evidence of past meals. Evangeline, her bibliophile sister, would be scandalized by the man’s abuse.
Sophia reached for a black leather-bound book that had been left open and placed face down on a stack of papers. Turning it over, she noted the cracked spine and carefully flipped through the loose sheets.
3 August, 4 August, 5 August.
Each page of the book was dedicated to a day of the month. Times and locations had been scribbled across the pages in barely legible handwriting. Perhaps it was an attempt by Lord Van Middleburg to keep organized, although the task usually fell to a gentleman’s secretary.
At first, it appeared nothing out of the ordinary was written in the book—a meeting with a banker here, a lecture there—but as she looked back a few months, she began to notice a pattern of late night appointments occurring in early spring.
Midnight – Griffin. Simply designated with the letter G or letters BG at times.
She knew no one by the name of Griffin, but Lord Van Middleburg’s book suggested they were well acquainted.
“What are we going to do about the wool in your ears?” a man asked from the doorway.
Sophia jumped. “Margrave,” she said with an edge of irritation when she recognized his voice. She spun to face him. “Do not sneak up on me like that. What are you doing here?”
He returned her glower and closed the door. She hadn’t heard it open. “I could ask you the same.”
“I am a member of the Mayfair Ladies Charitable Society. I was invited. You were not.”
He sauntered toward her, appearing as calm as he would strolling through the park while her heart was still thrashing in her chest from the scare. “We agreed you would leave Lady Van Middleburg to me. I could have sworn you heard me, but now I must question if your ears are stuffed with wool.”
She sniffed indignantly. “They are not, Lord Ludicrous, and I agreed to nothing of the sort. How did you make it past the butler?”
“There was no butler manning the terrace door, and Lady Van Middleburg’s servants are preoccupied.”
“You walked inside without permission?”
He arched an eyebrow. “It was more practical than dancing.” As he reached the desk, he held out his hand. “Whatever you have there, I will take it. You should run along before someone finds you snooping.”
She rolled her eyes and passed the book. She would leave when she was good and ready. “It appears to be Lord Van Middleburg’s schedule. Heaven only knows why he seems to keep it himself rather than entrusting his secretary with the task.”
Crispin thumbed through the pages. “Perhaps he has something to hide.”
“Such as a regular rendezvous with a man named Griffin?”
He looked up from the book, curiosity brightening his eyes and stoking her excitement. She might have found a real clue.
“The baron hasn’t met with the man in four weeks,” she said, “but prior, it was a weekly engagement. Here, let me show you.”
She reached across him to turn the pages. The back of her arm brushed his chest; he inhaled sharply. She pretended not to notice his reaction to her touch, but satisfaction swelled inside her. When she reached the appropriate page, she pointed out the words.
“Midnight, Griffin. The times and days change, and sometimes he designates the meeting with the letters BG, or simply G. What do you make of it?”
Crispin’s brow furrowed as he flipped the pages, presumably verifying her claim about the baron’s recurring engagement. “Griffin is likely a place rather than a person. There is a tavern located on the South side of London with the name Ye Olde Black Griffin—BG—but it is not the sort of establishment gentlemen of means frequent.”
She smiled. “Yet, you are familiar with it.”
He glanced at her briefly before returning his attention to the book. “I have frequented a number of places most gentlemen wouldn’t dare to tread.”
“You’ve intruded on a ladies’ gathering. No need to state the obvious.”
He stifled a grin; his gorgeous hazel eyes sparkled. Their color was as changeable as he was.
“I must admit, I expected a lecture when I saw you standing in the doorway,” she said.
“Indeed?” He arched a blond brow. “I was under the impression lecturing was a poor use of my time. You pay me no heed in the end.”
“There, there.” She patted his forearm as if to comfort him. “Do not take it personally, my lord. I am much too independent-minded to blindly follow anyone’s direction.”
“You are a vexing woman, Sophia Darlington. Yet, I find myself uncommonly pleased to find you here today.”
A genuine smile broke through his control. The world around her brightened, and she recalled the reason she had always been drawn to him. Her memories of Crispin as a young man were quite nice, like the time he had tracked Cupid to a fox den when the dog went missing. He and the poodle fell in a bog on the way home and had returned smelling like boiled eggs and Hades, but Crispin had been laughing. He had always found the humor in even the worst of situations in those days. It did her heart good to realize that part of him still existed.
“I rather like this mellow version of you, Crispin.”
“Do not grow accustomed to it,” he teased. “There is a meeting on Van Middleburg’s schedule for tonight. I should follow the baron and see which of us is right. Is Griffin a man or a tavern? Do you care to place a wager?”
“Not unless you take me with you.” She smiled sweetly. “To keep you honest, of course. You could say anything you like to win the bet, and I would be no wiser.”
“Your faith in me is touching.” He closed the book. “Neither of us will follow Van Middleburg, I think. All we are likely to uncover is the name of the baron’s mistress.”
“Ew! No, thank you.”
“Once again, we are of like mind.”
She nibbled her lip, considering the proximity of the attack in the alley with the baron’s upcoming rendezvous. Perhaps Crispin’s queries into the Stanhurst murders had brought him too close to discovering a secret Lord and Lady Van Middleburg wished to keep hidden.
A scandal? If so, it must be a terrible one for the baron and baroness to sanction violence. Sophia didn’t seek skeletons in others’ closets, but the Van Middlebu
rgs had thrown down the gauntlet when they had deemed Crispin an enemy.
“We shouldn’t dismiss tonight’s meeting out of hand,” she said. “Lady Van Middleburg was desperate to keep you from talking to her cousin. What if there is a connection between her attempt to frighten you into leaving the duke alone and this meeting? You must admit the timing is suspect.”
“If you had found Lady Van Middleburg’s schedule, I would be more apt to agree. Her husband has done nothing to rouse suspicion.”
“Law,” she huffed under her breath. “Do not pretend to be a dullard. I am not fooled. It is common knowledge husbands and wives come together to protect one another from outward threats, even if they despise each other behind closed doors.”
The corners of Crispin’s mouth twitched. “You are too clever for your own good, Sophia. I suspect this quality will be to your detriment.”
“I am not afraid. You will protect me while coming to rely on my brilliance.”
“You have everything planned. Should we join that amateur sleuthhound club you mentioned?”
“Perhaps we should see this mystery to its conclusion before making any rash decisions.”
He laughed, and it was the most beautiful sound in the world. He sobered too soon, however, and his serious mask slipped back into place.
“There is no real danger in Van Middleburg’s study, and you have been helpful. Nevertheless, I must see this mystery to its conclusion alone. It is too risky to involve you.”
He missed the point of a partnership. Life was filled with rutted lanes, but traveling with one’s helpmate made the journey meaningful. Her mother had repeated this sentiment many times over in her diaries, and Sophia had taken it to heart.
“I could use your assistance now, however,” Crispin said.
She blinked in surprise. “Of course. What can I do?”
“Return to the drawing room.” He took her by the shoulders, turned her toward the door, and gave her back a gentle push. She dug in her heels and glowered at him over her shoulder.
“I want to be of real assistance, Margrave.”
“You are.” His voice was kind and his gaze soft—one might even say admiring. “I need you to keep the baroness occupied while I search her chambers. Only you are able to walk into the drawing room without creating an uproar. I need you.”
“You are not fobbing me off?”
“I promise, I am not.” He flashed a smile that made him breathtakingly handsome and left her too pliable by half. “Please, darling?”
“Oh, very well,” she murmured, “if you promise to come to Wedmore House this afternoon with a full report of what you find in the baroness’s chambers.”
“I will call later.”
Mollified, Sophia crossed to the door and peeked into the corridor. Finding it empty, she slipped from the study and returned to the drawing room. She joined her aunt on the sofa and attempted to pay close attention as Amelia Hillary addressed the assembly, but her mind kept wandering.
Where is Crispin now? I wonder what he has found in Lady Van Middleburg’s rooms.
Unfortunately, the opportunity to learn of the fruits of his search never arose, because he never arrived at Wedmore House. At half past ten, disgruntled and submersed in self-pity, Sophia trudged upstairs to ready for bed. He had claimed he needed her. He said please. And she had been too blinded by a smile as exciting and uncommon as the sighting of a rare bird to realize he’d only wanted to get rid of her.
The sound of a carriage coming down the street jolted her from her doldrums. It is him. Sophia hurried to the window to tug the curtains aside. The carriage drove past.
“Law,” she mumbled.
The red-tipped glow of a cheroot in the square caught her eye. Lord Kellerman was hiding from his wife again, sneaking outside for a smoke and a nip of brandy from his flask. She didn’t know who she felt sorry for more—the henpecked husband or his deceived wife.
Is that how life would be for her and Crispin? Him filling her head with whatever she wished to hear while he did exactly what he wanted without her being any wiser? She dropped the curtain into place with a disheartened sigh then retrieved her mother’s diary. It always brought her comfort, and Sophia needed the hope her mother’s words instilled more than usual tonight.
Around midnight, she extinguished the light and checked the street once more for any sign of Crispin. All was quiet, but oddly, Lord Kellerman was still in the square, puffing away on another cheroot. The glowing red tip was like a warning signal, flaring brighter as he inhaled. Gooseflesh rose on her arms, and a sense of foreboding descended over her. Everything was not as it should be.
Sophia shook off the ridiculous notion and returned to bed. She had never been one to engage in fancy, and she refused to start now. Nevertheless, the feeling of unease lingered long after she crawled under the covers.
Twelve
Dressed in dark wool work clothes, Crispin lounged in a dark corner of Ye Olde Black Griffin, blending in with the dock men who had crowded into the tavern after their shifts. The best disguises made one into another face among the masses, but the soot rubbed into his skin would be a devil to scrub clean. Fortunately, his valet would understand. Filth clung to Kane, too.
A serving wench slammed two tankards of ale in front of Crispin before bustling away to serve another table. He passed one to Kane. The younger man took a long draught before sighing with pleasure. “This rot tastes like heaven. Almost makes wearing these disgusting clothes worth it.”
Crispin chuckled and took a drink. He and Kane smelled like dead fish and a month of hard labor, but one could not be choosey when purchasing the clothes off another man’s back.
“I wish Sophia was as easy to appease,” he said, not daring to address her formally in present company. No one appeared to pay them any notice, and he wished to remain invisible. “It will take more than a stout ale to make her forget I did not keep our appointment this afternoon.”
Finding a serving wench at the tavern willing to talk had been more challenging than he’d anticipated. There had been no time to return to Mayfair before meeting Kane at the small set of rooms the Counsel kept for sanctuary nearby.
Kane slanted a grin in his direction. “Don’t look to me for advice about your troubles between the sheets. You’ll have to discuss that with your woman.”
“Bugger your advice,” Crispin grumbled in good fun. “That is not the nature of my troubles.”
“If you say so...” Kane teased. “Why not offer her a reason to forgive you? Toss her a morsel of whatever we learn tonight. Nothing too sensitive, but something that tells her you value her contribution. After all, we wouldn’t know about any of this if she hadn’t found what she did.”
Crispin couldn’t deny Sophia had a unique ability to notice what others didn’t. Would the pattern in Van Middleburg’s schedule have been noticeable without her pointing it out? He would like to think he would have seen it himself, but he doubted it. Perhaps his protégé was correct. He should thank her for her aid and solicit her thoughts about whatever information he and Kane gathered this evening.
Crispin bounced his knee, mulling over what it could mean if he shared a small piece of his work with her and built on her insights. The prospect was slightly intoxicating.
“When Sophia was younger,” Crispin said, “she would ask her sisters to choose a page from a book of their choice, glance at it once, and then recite word for word what was on the page. Her memory is amazing. Have you ever met another person with that capability?”
Kane dropped his head back and loudly groaned toward the ceiling. “Please stop blathering on about how wonderful she is and marry the girl. Can a man not savor his drink in peace?”
Crispin laughed. “Sorry to disturb.” He spotted the woman he’d spoken with earlier serving a table across the room. Nodding discretely in her direction, he said, “I hope her information is useful. She demanded a heavy enough purse.”
“Made you pay handsomely, aye? You
are losing your touch.”
Crispin shrugged, indifferent to Kane’s teasing. He hadn’t attempted to charm the serving wench. His head had been too full of Sophia, his body too hungry for her to pretend he wanted another woman. The innocent brush of her arm against his chest in Lord Van Middleburg’s study had wrecked his rationality—although he would rather bite through his tongue than admit the affect Sophia had on him.
Weakness is for cowards. His father’s voice echoed in his memory, snuffing out his jovial mood.
The tavern door whipped open, admitting a warm gust of stench from the streets as Baron Van Middleburg entered. Crispin signaled Kane, a quick tap of two fingers to the chin. They slouched on the chairs, sinking into the shadows. The baron was late. Half an hour ago, his associates—all men of the merchant class—had gathered in a private room in the back.
Over the rim of his tankard, Crispin observed the baron’s progress through the crowd. Van Middleburg spoke with no one and walked with his head down. Perhaps he feared being recognized, but the tavern’s patrons barely spared him a glance. Crispin, on the other hand, refused to look away.
“Someone of his rank does not socialize with men beneath him,” Kane mumbled. “He is up to no good.”
Crispin agreed, but he kept his own counsel. Van Middleburg wasn’t the only member of nobility involved in whatever this was. When he had questioned the serving wench earlier, she recalled a younger man accompanying the baron to the tavern until a couple of months ago. Her description of the man matched Lord Geoffrey. Crispin expected Lord Geoffrey’s older brother to walk through the door any moment.
After a quarter hour passed with no sign the Duke of Stanhurst would be joining the others, Crispin abandoned his watch. “Let’s discover what this meeting is about, shall we?”
Kane quirked an eyebrow, grabbed Crispin’s tankard, and dumped half the contents on his chest. “Ready.”
“You never take half measures on anything.”
His valet-turned-colleague shrugged. “What would be the purpose? Either do it right or save the effort.”
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