The Scoundrel Takes a Bride
Page 11
“As it so happens, there is,” she said gravely.
A bear of a man, Mr. Bean pulled a wooden chair over from his own desk and settled it into place next to Sophia. “Then I’m glad I asked.”
Sophia folded her hands together in her lap and looked directly into Mr. Bean’s kind eyes. “There is a lead in my mother’s case.”
“Is that so?” Mr. Bean asked, the instant, keen interest in his voice layered with surprise. “I’ve heard nothing of such things.”
“The information was gathered from other sources. It is reliable,” she assured him. She couldn’t reveal her knowledge of the Young Corinthians and fervently hoped he would not demand the details.
Mr. Bean’s broad brow furrowed in concern. “Lady Sophia, I know you have engaged the services of several individuals over the years to investigate your mother’s death. Is this information from such a source?”
“No, Mr. Bean,” she replied, wanting to put his mind at ease—at least on that point. The “individuals” that he referred to had been no more than well-intentioned novices at best and charlatans at worst. The work of detection to solve long-cold crimes was still a relatively mysterious undertaking in and of itself, so the men’s failure to find any useful information was not that unexpected. But Sophia had been disappointed all the same. “I have not sought help from yet another investigator.”
“Naturally, I am curious as to the identity of your source, both for your safety and my own interest as a Runner. I will not demand such information from you, however, even though it is within my authority to do so.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bean.” Sophia smiled at him, deeply appreciative of his restraint. She had witnessed for herself just how persuasive he could be when he wanted information. His size alone had intimidated and compelled answers from scores of criminals he’d interviewed over the years. “Although I would prefer to reveal the source of my information, I cannot. I am, as ever, glad for your consideration and kindness.”
Mr. Bean’s features reddened and he cleared his throat with a harrumph of embarrassment, waving his hand dismissively. “Ah well, you cannot blame a man for being curious, and I trust you will confide in me when you can. Now, let us get to the heart of things. Tell me what you’ve found.”
“Of course,” Sophia agreed, aware that Mr. Bean would persist in his curiosity, but glad for the reprieve. “Now, where to begin. Let me see …” She paused, sorting out what was absolutely necessary to share with her mentor. “By the time I was made aware of the renewed effort to find my mother’s killer, the individual who committed the act had been identified.”
“And that would be whom?” Mr. Bean asked.
Sophia could not see the harm in giving the name. In fact, not doing so might hinder Mr. Bean’s ability to help. “Mr. Francis Smeade.”
“A gentleman?” Mr. Bean wondered aloud, tapping one beefy finger on the deep dent in his chin.
“You are aware of Mr. Smeade?” Sophia asked.
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Mr. Bean replied. “His death was as suspicious as they come—’course, a gunshot wound to the chest always is. And his being a gentleman, plus the location of the shooting … We do not find many corpses in the middle of Tower Bridge. Everything having to do with the case was odd. Or is odd, I should say …”
Mr. Bean’s voice trailed off, as though he did not want to continue. “Not to imply any wrongdoing, of course, Lady Sophia …”
“I know what you are wondering,” Sophia offered mercifully. “And the answer is no, I do not know the identity of his killer, nor does my source. But I believe there may possibly be a way to find out.”
Mr. Bean’s relief over not having to accuse Sophia of a crime was tempered by his obvious desire to know more. “Is that so?”
“Yes, indeed, Mr. Bean. It seems Mr. Smeade was employed by a gang of thieves and murderers headquartered in St. Giles.”
“You’ll have to be more specific, Lady Sophia,” Mr. Bean urged. “As you know, there are numerous gangs in that section of the city.”
Sophia took a stack of papers from her table and paged through it until arriving at the drawing of Mouse’s brand. “Unfortunately, there is very little information to be found regarding the gang. We have this, though.” She handed the drawing to him and waited for his response.
“Where did you get this?” Mr. Bean asked. He studied the sketch intently before quickly folding the paper into fourths and tucking it into his inner vest pocket.
Taken aback by his action, Sophia scooted to the edge of her seat. “Mr. Bean, why did you take the drawing?”
“Answer my question, Lady Sophia,” he commanded, his voice polite but firm.
“It was burned—branded, actually—on the back of a young boy,” Sophia replied, glancing at the corner of the drawing that peeked out from Mr. Bean’s dark blue coat. “And now it is your turn to answer my question.”
Mr. Bean looked about the room, clearly checking the location of the other Runners and clerks to make certain he would not be overheard. “I took the drawing for your safety, Lady Sophia,” his voice rumbled, pitched lower so only she could hear.
“But it is nothing more than a crude sketch. How could such a thing be dangerous?”
“You say you found the likeness on a young boy’s back?” Mr. Bean asked. “Was the boy alive or dead?”
“Quite alive, I assure you,” Sophia replied, “and on the run from the Kingsmen.”
Mr. Bean nodded in understanding, crossing his substantial arms over his equally broad chest. “Lady Sophia, I must urge you to turn the matter over to the Runners.”
“You know I want to be involved in the investigation. If I give everything over, you’ll cut me out.”
“You cannot assume such a thing,” Mr. Bean countered, his mouth settling into a determined line.
“You stole a drawing right out of my hands, Mr. Bean. Because it could, in some unknown way, put me in danger. If I am not allowed to possess a simple sketch, how can I believe your men will allow me to be involved in an investigation involving the drawing?”
Mr. Bean’s dark eyebrows lowered until they appeared to form almost one continuous line of irritation. “You’ve put me in a difficult position. I am honor-bound to reveal any information that pertains to an open case to my superiors.”
“And I am sorry for that, Mr. Bean,” Sophia admitted apologetically. “Still, it does not have to be true. If you would tell me what you know of this gang, without any more questions, then the only information you have is their connection to Smeade’s death. Surely you can’t lie about what you don’t know?”
Before Mr. Bean could answer, a loud crash sounded from the hall, followed by a heavy thud, startling Sophia.
“Let me see to whatever is going on in the outer chamber, and then we will continue our conversation,” Mr. Bean said. His level gaze promised Sophia he meant every word, then he stood and strode across the room.
He shoved against the partially open door and stepped out.
And Sophia heard a deep, familiar voice say dryly, “He’s only a Runner, Mouse, not God. There is no need to be frightened.”
12
“What is all this?” Mr. Bean demanded.
Nicholas turned to the large man who stepped out from behind a partially opened door. “I am afraid your Mr. Connelly frightened young Mouse here.”
The Runner looked first at Mr. Connelly, inspecting his co-worker’s slight build and undeniably pleasant face, then turned his attention to Mouse, who had taken up residence behind a cabinet near the front door of the office.
“Mr. Bourne?” Sophia peered around the Runner, who seemed to be in charge. “And Mouse? Is that you?”
Nicholas barely had time to register the surprise of her lovely features. Her slim figure, clad in a fashionable gown trimmed in cream ribbon, moved with swift grace as she slipped out from behind the Runner’s broad bulk and hurried past him to the boy. “Whatever happened? What are you doing here?”
“Bean,” the older man replied, accepting the friendly gesture and shaking Nicholas’s hand politely.
“Mr. Bean?” Nicholas repeated, curious as to whether he might take the opportunity to underscore just how delightfully the man’s name failed to describe him. He looked first at Sophia, whose patience appeared to be waning, then back to Mr. Bean. The Runner hardly looked in the mood for pleasantries, either.
“Very well,” Nicholas continued, releasing Mr. Bean’s paw. “As I was just telling Mr. Bean, Mouse found Mr. Connelly’s attack to be quite frightful.”
“Your attack?” Sophia asked the young Runner accusingly.
Mr. Connelly’s mouth gaped at the question. “I swear I did nothing of the sort.”
“Then what did you do?” Sophia pressed, reaching for Mouse and pulling him upright.
“I said hello to the lad. That is all. I promise.”
Sophia led Mouse around the cabinet and gently tugged him after her until they joined Nicholas. “Mr. Bourne, are you indulging your habit of stretching the truth?”
Nicholas looked down at Mouse, who was watching Mr. Connelly and Mr. Bean with fierce yet frantic eyes.
“Oh, all right. The jig is up, as they say,” Nicholas replied, patting Mouse on the back. “Mr. Connelly is not to blame for the boy’s reaction—not directly, anyway. It seems young Mouse has a bit of an aversion to the Runners, don’t you, Mouse?”
The boy kept looking back and forth at the men as if his life depended on it. “You could say that.”
“Mr. Bourne?”
Nicholas turned to the doorway. Mrs. Kirk stood on the threshold, holding a tea tray and eyeing him with calm inquiry.
“What an unexpected delight, finding you here, Mrs. Kirk.”
“I could say the same to you, Mr. Bourne,” she replied, turning to set the tray down on the cabinet vacated by Mouse only moments before.
Sophia cleared her throat and looked at Nicholas with a disconcerting gleam in her eye. “I believe we will take tea in Mr. Bean’s office today, Mrs. Kirk.”
“Of course.” The older woman lifted the tray once more and walked toward them.
Sophia intercepted Mrs. Kirk just as she reached Mr. Bean’s door. “Thank you, Lettie. I will see to the tea. If you would be so kind as to assist Mr. Connelly and entertain young Mouse while Mr. Bourne and I speak with Mr. Bean, I would be ever so grateful.”
Mrs. Kirk smiled knowingly and gestured for Mouse to follow. “Come along, Mouse.”
The boy peered up again at Nicholas, uncertainty and fear written on his worry-pinched features.
“It will be all right,” Nicholas assured him. “I’ll just be in there,” he added, nodding toward Mr. Bean’s office, “taking tea with a Runner.” He gave the boy an exaggerated wink, then efficiently nudged him in the general direction of Mrs. Kirk.
In truth, he felt a similar sort of apprehension. What the devil was Sophia up to?
“Shall we?”
Nicholas responded to Sophia’s prompting and followed her into the office, Mr. Bean bringing up the rear and closing the door behind them.
“I called at your home first. Clyde told me you’d gone to the Bow Street Offices,” Nicholas began, taking a seat in a serviceable straight-backed chair near Bean’s desk. “I was hoping you might agree to a trip to Gunter’s—an apology for my foul mood at the ball, you see.”
Sophia moved to the table and lifted the teapot lid, then, satisfied, began to pour. “A bit of luck on my part that you did so.”
“Luck?” Mr. Bean asked, taking his seat behind the desk.
Mr. Bean’s confusion over the purpose of the conversation did little to clear up Nicholas’s questions. “Yes,” he said, “what about this luck?”
Sophia turned and gracefully handed Nicholas a cup and saucer. “I was just now speaking with Mr. Bean about the case.”
Nicholas’s fingers tightened on the saucer and the cup wobbled, nearly spilling his tea. “And what case might that—”
“I see no reason to involve Mr. Bourne,” Mr. Bean interrupted, aiming a clipped smile at Nicholas. “Bow Street business is best kept within the walls of this building—and not one step beyond.”
Nicholas agreed with the man, as long as the case Sophia had been discussing with Mr. Bean was not Lady Afton’s. “I have no intention of prying any particulars regarding Bow Street business from either of you.”
Sophia prepared a second cup and offered it to Mr. Bean, then readied her own. She joined the men, taking the seat next to Nicholas. “Mr. Bean has been apprised of the recent developments in the Afton case.”
“God Almighty,” Nicholas hissed, setting his cup and saucer down on Bean’s desk with controlled force.
Mr. Bean did the same, sloshing most of the contents of his cup into the saucer, where it immediately overflowed onto the desktop. “I have to agree with Mr. Bourne.”
“Well, I do not,” Sophia replied before taking a small sip of tea. “There are many reasons why such a partnership is advisable, not the least of which is Lord Stonecliffe. When he discovers my part in all of this, his anger will be greatly diminished by Bow Street’s involvement. I must take the necessary precautions, you see.”
“Lord Stonecliffe has not been apprised of the situation?” Mr. Bean asked. He began to tap his index finger against his chin once again, frowning at her.
“No one was to be ‘apprised’ of it,” Nicholas ground out, “especially not the likes of you.”
“Nicholas,” Sophia admonished. “I would trust Mr. Bean with my life.”
“I wish I could say the same.”
“Ain’t never had no ice,” Mouse informed Sophia and Nicholas for the fifth time since they’d departed the Bow Street Office. “What’s it like?”
“Cold,” Nicholas answered the boy before reaching into his vest pocket. “Here, take this and fetch a posy for Miss Spoon, won’t you?”
Mouse caught the coin in mid-air and grinned cheekily at the two. “Don’t need a coin for such things.”
“You do if you don’t want to answer to me,” Nicholas replied sternly. “Now, go.”
Mouse took off at a trot for the flower cart farther up the block. He easily dodged around clusters of ladies and gentlemen that strolled in chattering groups, the maids with baskets over their arms who hurried purposefully along, and the occasional governess shepherding her young charges with militant ease.
“How did you explain Miss Spoon’s tie to the Runners?” Sophia asked, genuinely curious. “You took quite a risk bringing him to Bow Street.”
“Singh was nowhere to be found and I could not leave Mouse alone,” Nicholas explained in a curt, clipped tone. “I convinced the boy that you were acting on my behalf in a rather delicate situation. He absolutely devoured the story, if you must know. Now, tell me, did my comments at the ball convince you to speak with Mr. Bean?”
On the street behind them, carriage wheels rattled over pavings, the creak and groan of moving vehicles discordant background music to the city scene. Suddenly, drivers called out, shouting warnings as a heavy dray lumbered too close to the lighter conveyances. The resulting noisy confusion benefited Sophia and Nicholas, assuring no chance passersby could overhear their conversation.
Sophia gripped her reticule with both hands, the silk drawstring tightening about her wrist. “You think me so petty that I would seek retaliation for … what? Words? Your uncivil mood? Really, Nicholas. If that were the case, I would not have enough time in the day for my machinations.”
“Stop walking and pretend to inspect the hats,” Nicholas commanded, tipping his head toward Pensington’s Millinery.
Sophia obeyed, halting in front of the shop’s large glass window and looking closely at a puce chip bonnet within. “Mr. Bean has access to inf
ormation that we do not, and a staff of men to help, should we find ourselves in a difficult situation,” she explained, watching Nicholas closely as he stared with complete disinterest at a display of the latest spools of ribbon artfully arranged in the shop window. “Besides, he was the only one to take the idea of criminal psychology seriously—still is, unfortunately.”
Nicholas looked at Sophia, clearly puzzled. “Criminal psychology?”
She hesitated, not sure that she could bear it if he ridiculed her work.
“Sophia, I am aging right before your eyes,” Nicholas said dryly, looking up the street toward the flower cart. “And Mouse will be returning soon.”
Sophia’s gaze followed his and she smiled at the sight of Mouse as he stood proudly next to the cart, a charming bouquet grasped with both hands. “Are you familiar with the science of criminal psychology?”
“Not in the slightest,” Nicholas answered, one eyebrow lifting in inquiry. “Should I be?”
“Preferably not,” Sophia said sternly. “Criminal psychology is concerned with understanding how a criminal thinks. If you can enter their mind and see things as they do, then you have an opportunity to not only understand why they commit crimes, but how to treat them so that, hopefully, they will stop.”
Nicholas held up his hand and gestured for Mouse to wait. “And how would one go about learning such methods?”
“There are books by authorities in the field. Also case notes, personal interviews,” Sophia replied, her natural confidence returning as she warmed to her subject. “Access to the crime scene is vastly informative.”
“Cavorting with criminals? Is that what Mr. Bean has allowed you to do?” Nicholas remarked snidely.
“Look at me,” she demanded quietly, standing absolutely still as he obeyed. “Now tell me, Nicholas, when did you last have a drink?”
“I fail to see what relevance that information could possibly have to our conversation. Still, if you must know, I enjoyed a bit of brandy after dinner last night.”
Sophia looked into his eyes, watching as his pupils dilated to twice their normal size. Then she looked down at his hands where they rested at his sides. “Nicholas, you’re lying. You cannot go more than eight hours without a drink. If you do, you develop a tremor in your hands—which is absent at present. Also, your pupils are the size of saucers. This is the body’s natural response to the stress placed upon it by deceit.”