by Liz Carlyle
How perverse. How pathetic.
But the girl’s smile had become a grin. “Ta, then,” she said, her mood and her step lightening as she turned to swish away. “Have a lovely afternoon.”
But at the last instant, he thought of something and caught her wrist, more roughly than he’d intended. She must have made a sound of surprise, for a silence fell across the room, mistrust surging, every eye turning.
“Sorry.” Lazonby released her. The girl flashed a carefree glance all around. After a moment’s hitch, the tavern regulars fell back into conversation.
That was a small thing, too; a village thing, to watch out for one another. He was just an interloper, unknown to them all, for though Hackney lay on the fringe of greater London, it was a small place still.
The girl was looking at him enquiringly.
“Are you permitted to sit a moment?” he asked.
“Suppose so,” she said, already sliding onto the opposite bench. “Yours was the last from the kitchen.”
Lazonby fished in his pocket, then snapped a shiny new florin onto the table.
“Coo!” said the girl, picking it up. “What’s that?”
“Two shillings,” he said. “Newly minted.”
The girl turned the reverse to the light. “Ooh,” she said. “Pretty enough to be a necklace, that is.”
“Would you like that?” he asked. “To make a necklace of it? I can get it drilled with a hole, and a silk cord to wear it on.”
Her smile fell. “What would I have to do for it?”
“Nothing like that,” he said gently, sensing her unease. “It’s just that I’m not from here, and I require a house.”
“A house?” Her eyes widened. “Can’t think ’ow I’d help with that.”
“I just wanted to know about the village,” he said. “It looks pretty. And friendly. And it’s close enough to London to go by train or omnibus, isn’t it?”
“Nearly so,” she said, pointing over her shoulder. “ ’Bus comes up Bethnal Green Road. And there’s to be two stations open next year. Kingsland and . . . bless me, but I forget.”
“Hackney,” said the lone occupant of a table some five feet away. “ ’Ow could you forget that one, Min?”
The girl laughed. “Right you are, Mr. Fawcett! Hackney Station.”
Fawcett leaned nearer. “What sort of house are you looking for, sir?” he asked more conversationally. “Something to let? Or freehold?”
Lazonby shrugged. “Either, if it’s the right sort of house,” he said, trying to take the man’s measure. “It’s for my maiden aunt. She fancies village life, but she’s of an age where I need to get her out of Shropshire and closer to London—not too close, though, if you take my meaning.”
“Oh, aye,” said the man, waggling his brows. “Got a mother-in-law in Croydon—and that’s close enough for me.”
Min giggled again. And the man, Fawcett, smiled. He wanted to suggest something, something to his own benefit, Lazonby’s instinct told him. So he pressed on, pointing through the window. “I’ll tell you what I like,” he said. “I like that house. Has it ever been for sale?”
Fawcett’s shoulders fell almost imperceptibly. “Funny you ask,” he said, pushing away his empty pint and withdrawing a pipe from his coat pocket. “Changed hands per’aps two years ago.”
“You . . . had something else in mind?” Lazonby ventured.
Fawcett looked surprised. “Matter of fact, I did,” he admitted. “Got a brother with a place to let. But it’s a few miles north, and not much of a village.”
“Ah,” said Lazonby. “Thank you, but I doubt it would suit her.”
“Oh, well.” Fawcett shrugged. “But that one, with the blue door, ’tis let now.”
“Let, eh?” said Lazonby. “Long term, do you reckon?”
“Couldn’t say.” Fawcett was shaking tobacco from a leather pouch into his bowl. “Just a brother and sister there now. Keep to themselves, for the most part.”
“Cook says they’re Americans,” Min added. “Dunno, meself. They look reg’lar to me.”
“Seen them, have you?” said Lazonby, slicing off a bite of sausage.
“Mrs. Ashton goes to church most Sundays,” she answered. “Very involved in their good works, she is—schools and orphanages and such—but the brother, now, never seen much o’ him.”
“Stays in London much of the time, I believe,” said Fawcett, mashing his thumb deep into the bowl. “Has work of some sort in the City.”
“Name’s not Ashton, though,” said Min thoughtfully. “Water . . . something.”
“Waterston?” Lazonby suggested.
“No, Coldwater,” Fawcett interjected, as if it had just sprung to mind.
“Hmm,” said Lazonby. “Aunt Aggie won’t budge without I offer her a large garden and a house near to the church.”
“Not that near one, for ’tis nonconformist,” Min warned, dropping her voice. “She’ll want St. John’s, I daresay. It’s but a little ways on.”
“Oh,” said Lazonby. “But she’s spry enough, too. Yes, that house really is quite perfect. I don’t suppose this Coldwater could be persuaded to give up the lease?”
But Fawcett no longer radiated interest. He stood, intent on smoking his pipe. “I’d doubt it,” he said, dropping some coins onto his table. “Well, I’d best get back to the shop, Min. Good day to you both, and good luck to you, sir.”
Min shrugged as he left. “There’s folks will do near anything for money,” she said a little sadly. “You might offer for the lease?”
“The sister, though,” said Lazonby pensively. “She’s a widow, it sounds. I’d hate to displace her if she’s happy.”
“Per’aps she in’t?” said Min hopefully.
“I wish I knew,” he said musingly. “I’m not in a huge rush. That house, it would be well worth waiting on. Perhaps they mean to go back to America someday? If that’s where they’re from.”
Min leaned over the table and dropped her voice. “I could ask around,” she said. “My ma knows the woman who takes in the washing there.”
Lazonby chewed another bite of sausage. “Mightn’t that tip this Coldwater chap off?” he said after swallowing. “The fellow might run up the price ridiculously high.”
Min’s eyes widened. “Oh, no, sir, I wouldn’t let on!” she said earnestly. “I’ll just have a bit of a coze with her next she’s by. I’ll just find out everything I can about them.”
Lazonby smiled. “Well, that would be kind of you,” he said. “I’ll tell you what, you keep that florin—call it a finder’s fee—and I’ll bring you another for your necklace.”
“Coo!” said Min again.
“In a few days’ time, let’s say?” he suggested. “But don’t put yourself out, or get in trouble. Just take in what gossip comes your way. Promise?”
Shyly, she tucked the coin away. “Oh, don’t fret o’er me, sir,” she said. “I could talk the ears off a jug and none the wiser.”
He let his eyes rest upon her, savoring for a moment the innocence and honesty the girl exuded. It was rare his Gift brought him any pleasure at all; rare that he saw anything beyond the malice or the deceit or the greed inside people. Over the years, he had learned it was best to simply shut it all out; to ignore it as one might a faint ringing in the ears.
A pity more people were not like Min, who wanted simply to help him, and not even for the coin but for the kindness of the thing. The sweet moment, however, was severed when the girl glanced at his glass and sprang up.
“Lord, you’ve gone dry as a bone, and here’s me, running my mouth.”
“You were helping me,” said Lazonby.
She cut an apprehensive glance at the kitchen door. “Mightn’t look that way to everyone.”
Lazonby eyed her calmly across the beaten table. “You were helping me, Min,” he repeated firmly. “If there’s anything said, you point them this way. My name’s Smith.”
“Thank you, Mr. Smith.” Her smile war
med again as she bobbed to him. “But I’d best fetch another pint, all the same.”
By the time the clock at St. Martin’s tolled half past one, Anisha was closing the file on Napier’s desk. She had passed better than two hours undisturbed and yet felt oddly frustrated. The file laid out a case that was just as Rance had explained it, in pristine, methodical order.
It was perfect.
Too perfect.
There was nothing in Peveril’s murder—at least nothing that had been documented—to indicate anyone besides Rance had had cause to wish him dead.
On a surge of frustration, Anisha jerked from her chair and went to the window to stare pensively at the courtyard below, or what she could see of it. The midday rush of bureaucrats was apparent from the sea of black top hats bobbing toward greater Westminster. Only one man remained immobile and wholly apart from the crowd—a thin young man tucked into the shadows, leaning back against the brickwork, a dark folio wedged under his arm.
Anisha drew a sharp breath.
Jack Coldwater?
Despite the fact that he’d cast off his usual mackintosh, there was something in the arrogant lift of his chin that made him unmistakable, even from this height. And in that moment of shock, the young man glanced up at the window, his gaze piercing.
As if the sill had scorched her fingers, Anisha jerked back from it.
She returned to Napier’s desk and tried to collect her thoughts. It was nonsense, of course. Coldwater was not watching her. She had come in through Number Four, on the street side. Moreover, he could not know which window was Napier’s—nor even that she had come to see Napier. And Rance’s fears aside, Coldwater could have no interest in her. He was a newspaper reporter.
And where better to find something scandalous to write about than Scotland Yard?
That was it, of course. Coldwater was simply lying in wait, hoping to unearth some scrap of nefariousness that would help sell tomorrow morning’s paper.
Anisha realized she was chewing her thumbnail again. She jerked it away, plopped back into Napier’s chair, and returned her attention to the real crisis by paging through the documents one more time.
Every piece of paper in Napier’s file—save two—was carefully logged and numbered. There were pretrial statements from Sir Arthur Colburne, and even his daughter Miss Elinor Colburne. Six gentlemen who had witnessed the quarrel between Rance and Peveril, as well as three who had lived adjacent to Peveril in the Albany, had been interviewed, and most, it appeared, had testified at the trial.
A man by the name of Wilfred Leeton had been interviewed three times—he, Anisha recalled, had operated the hell, though like most of his ilk, he’d maintained that the gathering had been a social one, and that any gaming had been incidental. Still, Anisha could see from the late Mr. Napier’s copious notes that Leeton had ceased such entertainments not long after the murder, having turned to other financial endeavors.
Anisha dutifully copied all their names and jotted down the gist of their testimony and statements. In this way, she slowly reconstructed not just Nicholas Napier’s old case but a sort of time line of events as well.
There were two documents, however, that fit none of these categories. Tucked into the back of the file like an afterthought were two bits of paper, each about seven inches square, which were clearly torn from Leeton’s personal stationery. They were gaming vowels—or more precisely, informal notes of hand—one dated the night of Peveril’s murder, the other two days prior. The latter one indicated that Mr. Leeton—or more properly, the house—owed Rance Welham £900. This had been refolded many times, much like the bits and pieces of paper Rance was forever shoving in his pockets.
The more recent one had been folded but once, and set forth that Lord Percy Peveril owed Mr. Welham the sum of £1,350. Oddly, on this one, someone had circled the engraving of Leeton’s name and house number, and penciled beside it a phrase: B.H. Syndicate? It was a hand Anisha now recognized as the late Mr. Napier’s, though she had no idea what it meant.
Anisha glanced at the amounts again. Those were quite large sums. And both, of course, legally unenforceable, could it be proven they were gaming debts; even Anisha had been in England long enough to know that. But for the gentlemen of the ton—and for Leeton, who aspired to do business with them—such promises were more binding than the laws of England. More sacred than the Ten Commandments. A gentleman might put off his haberdasher or his vintner or even his mistress. But she knew from Lucan’s many misfortunes that a gentleman paid his gambling debts within the week—if not sooner—or was forever shamed.
Closing the file, Anisha mulled it over. Rance, according to the Crown’s case, had killed a man who’d owed him money. Peveril’s IOU had been given under duress, but given nonetheless. Nicholas Napier, however, had made a case that the men had quarreled over money, or perhaps over the insult. Something about it struck Anisha oddly.
An instant later, however, she heard a hard, purposeful tread coming across the old oak floors, and she knew that Napier approached.
On impulse, Anisha flipped the back of the folder open and snatched the notes. Later, she was never certain why she did it, but in the confusion of the moment it seemed somehow to matter. Moreover, the notes were not documented on the file log.
Swiftly, she tucked them up one of her sleeves, sliding them round her wrist so that they cupped inside her cuff. By the time Napier strode through the door, she was up and draping her shawl over her hair.
“Ah, you have written down a great deal, I see.”
Anisha smiled. “My hand is so cramped, I believe I may have copied the entire file.”
His gaze flitted over hers, then he came round the desk to flip the file open. “You must pardon me, my lady,” he said, his eyes going to the log sheet, “if I do not entirely trust you.”
“Well, I cannot say you did not warn me.”
Feeling only a little guilty, Anisha moved to the other side of the desk and began to tidy her own papers, making a pretense of rearranging them. Napier did not sit—he could not, for she had not—but instead stood and went meticulously through the file, matching each document to the log attached to the file’s front.
When at last he reached the back, Anisha held her breath and prayed.
For an instant, he hesitated, a furrow down the middle of his forehead. “Well, that’s everything, then.” He shut the file with a snap and looked up at her. “Is there anything else, Lady Anisha, that the Metropolitan Police might do for you?”
“Not today.” Brightly, she smiled. “But tomorrow, dinner at six. Don’t forget.”
Napier’s meeting at the Home Office must have been dull, however, for it seemed to have given him time to grow suspicious. “I confess,” he said, “you seem altogether too pleased about that dinner for my comfort.”
“I am pleased,” she said. “I enjoy your company. Besides, I needed another gentleman to make up my numbers. You will do perfectly.”
“I beg your pardon?” Something in his face fell, then darkened. “Your . . . numbers?”
Lightly, she touched her temple. “Oh, yes, did I not say?” she returned. “I am giving a dinner party.”
“A dinner party?” he said, his outrage apparent.
“Indeed, but this is one you will wish to attend,” said Anisha in a conspiratorial tone, “for it is in honor of Lord Bessett and Miss Anaïs de Rohan.”
“I beg your pardon?” he said again. “In honor of Bessett and . . . who?”
“Miss de Rohan,” said Anisha cajolingly. “Bessett’s fiancée. Surely you must know her? She is, I believe, the eldest daughter of the Vicomte de Vendenheim-Sélestat. I take it you had not heard the happy news?”
“Lord Bessett—” Napier’s face darkened like a storm cloud. “Lord Bessett is marrying de Vendenheim’s daughter?”
“Marvelous, is it not?”
“Marvelous?” he bellowed. “Tell me, ma’am, is there any conniving thing those people will not do to—”
&
nbsp; “What people?” she cut in.
“The St. James Society!” Napier gritted. “Was having the Queen in his pocket not enough for your brother? He had to marry Bessett off for the cause?”
Anisha drew herself up to every fraction of her fifty-eight inches. “Mr. Napier, my brother earned the Queen’s loyalty by risking his life for England,” she said tartly. “And at present, he’s on a ship bound for Calcutta, completely unaware of this betrothal. Moreover, scarcely two hours ago you thought he’d arranged for me to marry Bessett.”
Napier hesitated for a moment, his eyes narrowing. “Oh, this cannot be coincidence,” he said grimly. “The fact that one of the most powerful men in the Home Office—a man high above me—is now going to be a pawn of the St. James Society? It is beyond mortal comprehension, madam. It is unconscionable.”
Anisha looked him straight in the eyes. “Well, I am admittedly new to London,” she said. “But I had somehow understood this de Vendenheim fellow to be a singularly independent and hard-nosed man. The very personification of good triumphing over evil, et cetera. So the notion of him being anyone’s pawn is . . . well, vastly enlightening.”
Napier realized then what he’d just said. He fell utterly silent, his face coloring.
Pulling open his top desk drawer with a ferocious yank, he dropped the Peveril file into it and slammed it shut with a bang! Clearly, he wished her to go.
Anisha did not go.
“Mr. Napier,” she said, gentling her tone. “Admittedly I am not the most fashionable of society’s hostesses, but I am inviting you into our home with all goodwill. Moreover, I am offering you an incredible social opportunity.”
“Ah, looking high again, am I?” He turned to stare out the window now, refusing to hold her gaze. “You think I’ll jump at the chance to hobnob with the ton? Well, you may think again, my lady.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, who gives a fig for the ton?” she said sharply. “No, I am offering you the chance to befriend de Vendenheim’s daughter and future son-in-law—a man whom, by your own admission, you are already inclined to like. Indeed, no one else from the Home Office has been invited. Not even the Home Secretary himself.”
