I reached up and gingerly touched my temple. It had stopped bleeding, but I must have looked more like a battlefield casualty than a man returning home from an afternoon call, for as I passed other pedestrians on the street, most turned to throw me a second look. I wondered how I was going to slip into Ormesby House without my mother spotting me and dropping into a dead faint.
I wanted to blame that on Barbara too, but I knew it would be unfair. It wasn’t her fault I’d been shot. In fact, to be completely honest, I might have misjudged her. Apparently she hadn’t threatened to publicize my contretemps. Then there was the gratifying way she’d come flying out of the house when the bullet hit me, and the fearlessness with which she’d insisted on sticking by my side. I could still feel her fingers in my hair from when she’d checked to see how badly I was injured, her touch as light and tender as a caress.
Still, if I had any sense I would keep my distance. Then I wouldn’t have to suffer her confounded sultry looks and mixed signals anymore. Sometimes it felt as if she had the upper hand every second we were together. And after that near-kiss...well, if my head hadn’t already hurt so much, I would have banged it against a wall.
But I couldn’t really keep my distance, could I? Someone had to clear Teddy’s name. Besides, how could I let Teddy marry Lady Helen when he had no idea what he was getting into? And my cousin John was mixed up somehow in this blackmail business too. I would just have to grit my teeth and find some way to spend time with Barbara without having any more of my...what had she called them last night? Ah, yes. Disgusting urges.
I’d just rounded the corner of Berkeley Street and Piccadilly when a gleaming town coach bearing a coronet on its panels rolled to a halt alongside me, its team of matched chestnuts snorting restlessly in the traces. The carriage door swung open.
“Ben?” My father’s voice came from the interior. “Good God, boy! Get in!”
Splendid. Still another encounter to try my patience. Sighing, I stepped into the carriage and settled myself on the velvet-covered seat opposite my father.
The horses started off again. Dressed soberly in faultless tailoring and snowy linen, my father regarded me with frank concern. “What happened to your head?”
“It’s not important.”
“Ben, I can see very well you’ve been injured. Were you fighting again?”
My father disapproved of fighting, at least outside the boxing ring—which was a pretty piece of irony, given that he was the indirect cause of practically every brawl I’d ever had in my life. Over the years, the taunts had grown slightly more subtle than the catcalls and shouts of princess the boys at Eton had hooted after me, but not much.
“No, sir.”
“Were you robbed? Were you in some kind of accident?”
“No.”
He sighed at my uncommunicativeness, until a gleam of understanding lit his eyes. “Does this have anything to do with your cousin and the inquest?”
Reluctantly, I gave a tight nod. “I suspect so.”
“What happened?”
“If I tell you, you’ll have to tell Mama, and I’d rather spare her the story.”
“I don’t have to tell her if you’d rather I didn’t.”
No, now that I considered the matter, there had to be a good many things that went on in my father’s life he chose not to reveal to my mother. “I was shot.”
He gave a start. “What?”
It was one of the few times I’d ever seen my father out of countenance. “Well, shot at,” I amended. “The ball only winged me, and I’m perfectly fine. Likely it looks much worse than it is.”
His brows had drawn down sharply in a frown. “But who shot you? Why?”
“I don’t know. I’m not even sure where the shot came from. I only assume it had something to do with Teddy’s troubles because it happened just outside Leonard House.”
“You reported it to the watch, I trust.”
“I didn’t see any point, given that I never got a look at the culprit. Finding him would amount to searching for a needle in a haystack.” I turned my head to stare out the carriage window, leading it to throb anew. “I suppose now you’re going to insist I steer clear of the whole business.”
My father studied me thoughtfully. “You really like this girl, do you?”
“It has nothing to do with any girl. I’m only doing it for Teddy.” Which was the simple truth. Teddy had asked for my help, hadn’t he? But it rankled that my father had sensed how far Barbara was involved. Of course I didn’t have the kind of regard for her he meant, but what made him think I’d been with her?
The coach was already pulling up before the imposing marble portico that marked the entrance to Ormesby House. My father sat in pensive silence for a time before speaking. “This puts me in a difficult position, Ben. On the one hand, you’re not a child and you have your own life to lead. On the other hand, if I were to turn a blind eye to the risk and you ended up the worse for it, your mother would never forgive me. And, of course, you’re my only son and heir...”
The day just kept getting better and better. I could see he was about to tell me to wash my hands of the murder investigation. He might not be as fretful as my mother, but how could a man like my father—a man who thought nothing of making our family notorious—understand the importance of helping my cousin, especially when I could be sitting at home, safe, sound and insulated from all things remotely hazardous? I wondered what Barbara would think when I bowed out. She’d probably assume I’d been so unnerved by that dashed gunshot I’d deserted Teddy in his hour of need.
“So, Ben,” my father concluded, “I suppose I’ll just have to trust that you know what you’re doing.”
I blinked in astonishment. Had I just heard correctly? He wasn’t going to insist I quit the investigation? “But I thought... I was sure...” At his questioning look, I let the fumbled sentence die. “I mean, thank you, Father.”
I could have sworn he smiled, though only for an instant. “But I agree there’s no need to worry your mother. When I go inside, I expect you to wait in the carriage until I’ve had sufficient time to ensure she’s otherwise occupied. You’re then to go directly up to your room and have your valet look at that head of yours, and you’re not to come downstairs until you’re sure you can pass your mother’s scrutiny without sending her into a swoon. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Good.” He gathered up his ebony walking stick as a liveried footman opened the carriage door. Preparing to exit, he paused to look me in the eye. “And the next time someone takes a notion to shoot at you, for pity’s sake, boy, have the presence of mind to duck.”
Chapter Eight
Barbara
It was an unusually dull dinner. Our dinners were always dull, of course, but since a man had been murdered in our house only twenty-four hours before, I’d been fool enough to suppose someone would have the respect to mention it.
Instead, Papa peered across the dinner table at Helen. Tonight she looked particularly angelic in a gown of celestial blue, with matching ribbons threaded through her golden hair. To see her, one would never guess she was at the center of a blackmail scheme and had been the indirect cause of a man’s murder. “So, did Cliburne call this afternoon?”
She gave him a wan smile. “Not yet, Papa, but Teddy is escorting Mama and me to the theater this evening.”
“We thought that was public enough to show everyone we have nothing to hide, but commonplace enough to avoid fueling gossip,” Mama said quickly.
Papa considered. “Not a bad idea.”
As usual, Mama had been holding her breath, awaiting my father’s verdict. When Papa wasn’t happy, he saw to it that no one else was happy, either. Now she relaxed, trading relieved looks with Helen.
“You’re quieter than usual tonight, Barbara.” My father speared his veal terrine with his fork. “You’ve hardly said a word since we sat down to dinner.”
Papa was right. I’d been staring at my plate,
lost in thought. In fact, I’d hardly said a word all day, at least not since Ben had disappeared over the garden gate. It was odd—while I’d been at Ben’s side, I’d remained tolerably calm, but he’d no sooner taken his leave than a nervous reaction set in, and I’d begun to tremble all over.
I must have hidden it badly too, for after returning from the garden I’d drifted past the footman posted at the front door. Frye had immediately rushed to my side. “My lady! What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Despite my attempt to sound nonchalant, there was a betraying quaver in my voice.
“Are you sure, my lady? I thought I heard a shot—”
“I’m sure. Everything’s fine.”
Then I’d made myself start walking before I could begin to babble excuses, anxious blather about meaningless noises and Manton’s shooting gallery and rackety neighbors. Frye had stared after me as I climbed the stairs, my knees like jelly under me. Once in the safety of my room, I’d sunk down on my bed, quaking from head to toe.
Of course, I could hardly tell my father I’d been shaken by a murder attempt on the strapping young Adonis I’d smuggled up to my bedroom that afternoon. “I’m simply a little tired, Papa. I barely slept last night, thinking about what happened to the Woodfords’ footman.”
“And thinking of Lord Beningbrough?” Helen asked on a teasing note.
Conveniently ignoring for the moment that Ben had been on my mind, I told myself it was just the kind of shallow, empty-headed comment Helen was forever making. Had she forgotten altogether that a man had been murdered under our roof? But I’d promised myself to be more patient with her, so I answered evenly, “I was thinking of everything that’s happened lately.”
“What an ill-mannered lout that Beningbrough fellow is,” Papa said. “But then, I’d expect no different from Ormesby’s son. In fact, it’s a wonder he didn’t turn out even worse than he did. Eleanor, your mother was friendly with Ormesby, wasn’t she?”
“I believe so.” Mama’s shoulders slumped. Papa never had a good word to say about Grandmama Merton. They’d been opposites in every way—character, temperament, background—and rivals for Mama’s time and attention as well. Anything that called Grandmama to mind met with Papa’s instant condemnation. Since everyone said I took after my grandmother, unfortunately that included me.
Sure enough, Papa’s face assumed a look of glowering disapproval. “I thought so, and it only goes to show that Ormesby has the morals of a back-alley bawd. Did you know he had the gall to ask for my support on the Divorce Bills Evidence Act? The day I shake that degenerate’s hand will be the day—”
“Not in front of the girls, William, please,” Mama begged.
Papa glanced at Helen and me as if he’d forgotten we were there. “Oh, yes. Sorry, girls.”
I could have told him not to worry, for we already knew the duke was a sodomite. But I held my tongue, since I feared any further mention of the Duke of Ormesby would only encourage one of Papa’s angry tirades, either the one about how Grandmama Merton had consorted with nothing but foreigners and whores or the one about how the Whigs were sending the country to hell in a handbasket.
“Barbara likes Beningbrough,” Helen said out of the blue. “I can tell from the way she was looking at him yesterday.”
I sat up, ramrod-straight. “If I was looking at him strangely, it’s only because of the outlandish things he was saying.”
“Quite right, Barbara.” Papa gave me that rarest of rarities, a genuine look of approval. “You may have more of vinegar than honey about you, but at least we don’t have to worry about your ending up with every ill-mannered young buck that darkens our door.”
“Thank you, Papa,” I said dryly.
He chuckled to himself. “Really, can you imagine Barbara and Beningbrough making a match of it?” He looked to Mama and let out a guffaw. “They’d be at each other’s throats—a regular Punch and Judy show!”
“I’d rather not imagine it.” Mama’s face assumed the browbeaten expression she wore whenever her opinion differed in any particular from Papa’s. “The only thing worse than worrying that Barbara will end up an old maid is worrying that she’ll end up with an unfeeling creature like Beningbrough. I’m convinced he put Cliburne up to coming here yesterday with that horrid rumor about Helen, and before we knew it, we had a dead body on our hands.”
“It’s not Beningbrough’s fault the footman was killed,” I said. “He’s really not that bad.”
“I think he’s terribly handsome,” Helen chimed in, and for once, I was grateful to have a sister who was shallow.
“Now, now, there’s no point worrying Barbara is going to end up with Beningbrough,” Papa assured my mother. “For one thing, I wouldn’t sanction such a match, what with his father being...the way he is, and for another—”
“You can’t forbid me to marry, Papa. I’m over twenty-one.”
“—and for another,” my father continued, glaring at me, “a Corinthian like Beningbrough would have to be mad to take an interest in an impudent chit like Barbara when he could have any number of respectful, obedient girls.”
I looked down at my asparagus. How very flattering.
Only the end of the meal brought a close to the lowering comments about the impossibility of my attracting a man. When Papa lit up his pipe and Mama and Helen headed upstairs to prepare for their evening at the theater, I trooped alone to the drawing room, where I discovered a maid still laying the fire.
She glanced up with an apologetic smile. “Oh, excuse me, my lady. I’ll be done in a trice.”
“Take your time.” I settled myself on the sofa and reached for my sewing basket.
The maid finished and started with a bob for the door. At the last moment she turned back. “I near forgot, my lady. I found something I thought might be important after that dreadful murder last night—”
I looked up with a stab of alarm. Ben’s blood now spattered the garden. Had she seen it? What if she’d put two and two together and realized the bloodstains were related to the shot Frye had heard? How on earth would I explain myself? I’d had Ben alone in my bedroom!
But she simply reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a little brown notebook, no bigger than her palm. “This was under the chest in the hall, my lady, the one with the curved front. I thought it might belong to one of the gentlemen who was here last night, like that magistrate’s man or the one from Bow Street.”
I nearly sagged with relief to discover her concern had nothing to do with Ben. “Thank you...Webber, is it?” I took the notebook. “I’ll see it’s returned to its rightful owner.”
She gave another bob. “Very good, my lady.”
As she let herself out, I opened the little leather-covered book. My heart skipped. Sam Garvey was inscribed in black ink on the front leaf.
The notebook had belonged to the murder victim.
I thumbed rapidly through the pages. A fleeting hope that Sam’s writing would match the lettering in the blackmail notes quickly withered to nothing, for the dead man’s hand was much straighter and more cramped.
But as I studied the entries, my excitement grew. Apparently Sam had been keeping a record of his accounts. Over the past month, three separate entries read Payment from M, with the amount £24 15s recorded beside the words. It was a huge sum for a humble footman, and together, the payments had to total at least twice his yearly wage.
I turned to the final entry before the pages went blank: Meet with M. 8:15.
Eight-fifteen—approximately the same time Helen left the dining room the night before. Could she be the mysterious M? Perhaps the payments were merely the hush money she’d asked Sam to deliver for her.
But the blackmail notes had asked for fifty pounds, slightly more than twice the sum Sam had recorded, and Sam had clearly kept the payments of £24 15s for himself. The amounts had been figured into a running total along with the quarterly payment of his salary. Besides, Helen’s name didn’t start with an M. Strictl
y speaking, she wasn’t even a Miss.
I stared down at the little notebook, racking my brain in an attempt to puzzle out who Sam’s mysterious M might be. I could rule out Cliburne. Neither his title nor his Christian name began with the right initial. In fact, I could think of only one M involved in Helen’s troubles—John Mainsforth.
Could the entries in the notebook refer to him? If so, why would John Mainsforth have paid a footman like Sam such a large amount?
Unless, of course, he and Sam Garvey had been working together to blackmail Helen.
Ben
My father rarely dined at home. More often than not he spent the evening out—“at his club” was the way my mother and I referred to it, never mind that I’d stopped at his club more than once with friends and he hadn’t been there.
But he was staying in tonight, dining with us. When I came downstairs he was talking with my mother, looking every bit the model husband and father. The two of them were laughing together over a shared memory, apparently some scrape I’d landed in when I was a small boy. My father glanced my way, and I knew he was checking to see whether I’d managed to make myself presentable.
I expected to pass muster. I’d given my valet a free hand with my appearance, and though I’d hated every minute of his fussing over me, at least my hair hid the gash in my forehead without looking too outré. In an effort to distract my mother, I’d even submitted to wearing real evening clothes and having my cravat tied in one of those finicking styles that flattered men like my cousin John but never failed to make me feel that I stuck out like a sore thumb.
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