by Shana Galen
Adrian agreed with her assessment. It was strange to sit here with Sophia and discuss what he considered work. He’d never had a partner, never had anyone to agree or disagree with his thoughts and impressions. When he’d thought of Sophia, which was probably not as much as he ought, he thought of her safe at home, busy with her societies and ladies’ charities. He never considered that while he was in Amsterdam, she might be in Morocco, doing much the same work as he.
Or had she? Adrian wondered. He knew so little about Agent Saint. He understood why now. No doubt Melbourne and the Barbican group didn’t want it common knowledge one of their top operatives was a woman. Her gender made her that much more valuable. No one suspected a woman of being a spy—at least he never had.
Sophia started to say something else, but Hardwicke’s thin wooden door opened, and the scrawny red-haired clerk stepped into the opening. “Lord Smythe, Mr. Hardwicke will see you now.” His eyebrows went up, and the freckles stood out on his pale skin when he noticed Sophia, who had risen with Adrian. “May I help you, madam?”
She smiled. “Lady Smythe. Also here to see Mr. Hardwicke.” She glided to the door ahead of Adrian, who clenched his fists rather than grab her wrist and force her to sit back down. He’d had this entire interview planned, and now he knew she and her intuition were going to make a muddle of his well-laid plans.
Adrian followed Sophia into Hardwicke’s office. The man stood behind a desk that might once have been a fine oak piece. Now it was scratched and worn and messy with scattered files and papers.
“Mr. Hardwicke,” Sophia said, extending her white-gloved hand.
Adrian watched as Hardwicke’s eyes opened wide and the round gentleman hurried around his desk to take her fingers and kiss them. Adrian shook his head. She did have a way about her. No denying that.
“Ah, Lady Smythe,” Hardwicke stammered. “What an unexpected pleasure. Lord Smythe.” Hardwicke gave a quick bow.
“I’m sorry we don’t have an appointment,” Sophia was saying. She moved about the office in the way women do, picking up knickknacks and touching papers and the contents of the desk absently. Adrian seated himself in one of Hardwicke’s chairs and watched her work. He could see how being female benefited her. He would have had to find a way to get Hardwicke out of the office or come back later to peruse the man’s things. Sophia could do so without so much as raising an eyebrow. Adrian admired the way she worked, even as he cursed inwardly that she’d have knowledge before he would. He’d have to ask her to share. He hated having to ask for anything.
“Please take a seat, Lady Smythe,” Hardwicke said. “May I offer you refreshment?”
Sophia seated herself with a flourish and waved away Hardwicke’s offer. “I’m afraid you’re going to think this very strange, Mr. Hardwicke, but we’ve come with some questions for you. They pertain to your business associate Mr. Jenkinson.”
“Oh?” Hardwicke paused in the act of sitting, his expression turning from curious to wary. Interesting, Adrian thought. But he had to stop Sophia before she made a mistake.
“Darling,” he said, putting his hand on her arm so she knew he was not just speaking for Hardwicke’s benefit. “Allow me to ask the questions.” From his pocket he pulled a sheet of vellum on which he’d jotted down the most effective questions and the order in which they should be asked. He didn’t need the sheet; he’d committed it to memory. But he wanted to show Sophia he had a plan.
She didn’t look quite as impressed as he’d expected. “You have a list?” she asked, her voice light. But he could hear the tone of annoyance underneath.
“I’m prepared.”
Her brows shot up. “And I’m not? You don’t need a list for an interrogation”—she glanced at Hardwicke apologetically—“not that this is an interrogation. You need only ask questions that follow the natural progression of the, er, discussion. My lord,” she added belatedly and in a tone that was somewhat less than submissive.
“Nevertheless, I’ll ask the questions.”
“Fine.”
But he could tell she didn’t mean it. He could tell this was not the last he’d hear from her.
Hardwicke was looking from one to the other with interest. “If you two need to discuss this alone…”
“That won’t be necessary,” Adrian said. “I’m here to inquire about your relationship with your late business partner, George Jenkinson.”
“I see.” Hardwicke steepled his fingers. He was a round man, middling height and losing his mud brown hair. His head was shiny where it peeked through the long strands he’d combed over to conceal his loss. He had unfashionably bushy sideburns and longish, unruly hair. Eyes were brown, Adrian decided. Nothing remarkable about the man—except his business partner had been murdered. “Isn’t that Bow Street’s task?” Hardwicke asked. “They already came with their questions.”
“Lord Liverpool asked us to make additional inquiries,” Sophia said, jumping in where she was most definitely not wanted.
“Why?” Hardwicke narrowed his eyes.
“We’re close friends with the prime minister.”
Adrian could have told her that while an answer like that might mollify Mrs. Jenkinson, it would not appease a man like Hardwicke.
“What does friendship have to do with finding a murderer?”
Sophia opened her mouth to say God only knew what, and Adrian interrupted, “I have some experience at this sort of thing. Now, if you don’t mind, Mr. Hardwicke, I’ll ask the questions.”
The man’s mouth thinned, and he sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his considerable girth.
“Where were you on the night of Mr. Jenkinson’s murder?”
“At home.”
“Do you have any witnesses who might corroborate your alibi?”
“Alibi?” Hardwicke sat forward, slammed his palms on the desk, making the piece shake precariously. “I’ve done nothing wrong. I don’t need witnesses, and my whereabouts on the night of the murder are not an alibi.” He stood. “What the hell is this? Excuse my language, madam. I think you’d better leave.”
Adrian rose. “I think you’d better answer my questions.”
“I’m a businessman, not a criminal. If you proceed to threaten me, I’ll call the constable.”
“Go ahead. I’d like him to hear what you have to say.”
Hardwicke blinked, not expecting his bluff to be called. “B-but—”
Adrian sat, crossed his arms over his chest. “Go ahead. Send your clerk. I’ll wait.”
When the man made no move to call for the clerk, Adrian glanced around the office and tapped his fingers. “What kind of business do you do here, Mr. Hardwicke? I sincerely hope it’s all aboveboard. Wouldn’t want to call the constable in if you have anything to hide.”
“Why, you bast—” Hardwicke glanced at Sophia. “Begging your pardon, madam.”
“Mr. Hardwicke, if you’d allow me to speak a moment,” she said, “perhaps we might come to a better understanding.”
Adrian glared at her, silently urging her to close her mouth. He had Hardwicke right where he wanted the man. Why was Sophia interfering?
But Sophia, though she must have felt his stare—the shop girl across the street could feel his stare—steadfastly continued. “We don’t think you’ve done anything wrong, do we, Lord Smythe?”
Adrian glared at her harder.
“Well, we don’t.” She leaned forward, her eyes beseeching and full of compassion. How did she manage that? “But Lord Liverpool is such a dear friend, and he is most distraught by the loss of his only brother. You understand?”
Damn him. Hardwicke was nodding and looking sympathetic. “I do. I feel the same way. It’s been most upsetting.”
“Of course it has.” She leaned forward, patted Hardwicke’s hand. “You must be beside yourself with grief.”
Hardwicke was nodding more vigorously now. Adrian wanted to reach out and smack the man. Who cared about his grief? His partner was dead. If Hardwicke
was really concerned, he’d help the investigation.
“And we’re both so sorry for your loss.” She indicated Adrian.
Hardwicke gave Adrian a dubious glance.
“But in the interest of finding the real murderer,” Sophia said, as though implying Hardwicke could not possibly be a suspect. Adrian gritted his teeth. Her methods were not his, but they were not completely without merit. “Might you answer a few questions? Might you tell us where you were the night of Mr. Jenkinson’s murder?”
“Certainly. As I told your husband, I was at home.”
“A man like you,” Sophia said, sitting forward and toying a little with the plume in her hat, “must have a manservant or two. Were they at home that evening?”
Adrian was torn between watching Sophia stroke the feathery plume—he’d never seen her act so coyly—and admiring the way she flattered Hardwicke without making it seem like flattery. A manservant was more expensive than a maidservant. Judging by the state of the offices, Hardwicke couldn’t afford either.
“I have a housekeeper,” Hardwicke said. Adrian was surprised to hear it and thought the scullery maid Hardwicke paid to straighten and clean twice a week might be surprised at her elevation in status, as well. And Adrian was willing to wager Sophia didn’t know that much about Hardwicke. But Adrian had not been idle this afternoon. He’d done his research.
“And was she working that evening?” Sophia asked.
“No. As I told your husband, I have no witnesses. But I don’t need them. I didn’t kill George Jenkinson.”
“Then who did?” Adrian asked.
Hardwicke shook his head. “Damned if I know. Pardon the language, madam.”
“Hardwicke owed you money,” Adrian said, returning to the list of questions he’d formed. “How much?”
Hardwicke narrowed his eyes. “A considerable sum. You think I killed him for money?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time greed played a part in murder.”
“It wasn’t like that,” Hardwicke said, speaking to Sophia. “George and I were friends. Several years ago we invested in a shipping venture. The ship sank, and we owed our creditors a considerable sum. I paid what was due and told George he could repay the debt when he had the blunt.”
“That was very kind of you—” Sophia began.
“Yes, kind,” Adrian grumbled. “Why were you so… kind?”
“I told you. George and I were friends.”
“With a considerable sum standing between the two of you, a friendship might sour.”
“But George was paying me back,” Hardwicke said. “He’d already repaid me six thousand pounds.”
Adrian glanced at Sophia. She met his gaze. Her face was neutral, no sign of triumph in her eyes. She hadn’t known about the repayment.
Bloody hell. There went Hardwicke’s motive. Why would he kill a man in the midst of repaying his debts? Unless Hardwicke wanted the business all for himself…
“I wonder if you have any ideas as to where Mr. Jenkinson acquired the funds to repay you,” Sophia said, looking only half-interested.
“I have no idea.”
If that was true, Adrian would eat that feather Sophia persisted in stroking.
“When I called on Millie Jenkinson recently—Millie and I are both members of the Benevolent Society for the Aid and Prosperity of Orphans—she mentioned her husband had recently made the acquaintance of several foreigners. Do you think that might have something to do with the repayment?” Sophia blinked, looking completely innocent, as though the idea just occurred to her. But Adrian was no longer so much a fool to believe that.
Adrian had considered that Jenkinson’s meetings with foreign men might have something to do with acquiring money to pay his debts, but he had several questions planned to lead Hardwicke to that topic. He frowned at Sophia. Where was she going with this?
“I wasn’t aware you were acquainted with Mrs. Jenkinson,” Hardwicke said, melting a little more and smiling at Sophia. Adrian gripped his chair in frustration. This was an interrogation, not a social call. Hardwicke didn’t need to like them to answer their questions.
In fact, Adrian preferred Hardwicke stopped conversing with Sophia altogether.
“The plight of orphans is, naturally, something that concerns both of us.”
Adrian sighed. Heavily. Why were they talking about orphans?
“And now she’ll have her own little one,” Sophia said with a smile.
“Yes.” Hardwicke frowned, and Adrian leaned forward. So, Hardwicke knew about Millie Jenkinson’s infidelity. Had Jenkinson shared that with him, or was it common knowledge? And damn him if he hadn’t thought to pursue that avenue of questioning.
Still, Sophia’s haphazard approach annoyed him. Could they not exhaust one line of questioning before beginning a new? What had happened to structure? Order? His plan?
“So distressing that the expectant father will never meet his son or daughter, especially considering he’d recently come into some money.”
“I wouldn’t say that…”
“But, Mr. Hardwicke, you said yourself Mr. Jenkinson was repaying the debt owed you.” Sophia blinked again, appearing without guile.
Hardwicke looked at Adrian, and Adrian raised his brows. He didn’t know how he’d lost control of this interrogation, but he knew better than to try and regain it now.
“I don’t like to speculate,” Hardwicke began slowly. Adrian’s pulse jumped, but he kept his face carefully blank. Sophia continued stroking her plume and blinking.
Hardwicke stood, paced his small office. “I think it was the French.”
“Oh!” Sophia put a hand over her heart.
“No need to worry, dear lady,” Hardwicke assured her. “Bonaparte is safely exiled, and for my part, none too soon—”
“About the French,” Adrian interrupted before Hardwicke started giving unwanted opinions on Bonaparte. “You think they’re in some way responsible for Jenkinson’s death?”
“As I said, I don’t like to speculate, but those foreigners Mrs. Jenkinson mentioned were French. I didn’t like that, George associating with frog-eaters.” He looked at Sophia, and she nodded her support. “I met one once. I was leaving George’s, and one was coming in. I warned George against doing business with them, but he ignored my warnings.”
“Warnings?” Adrian asked.
“He said he knew what he was doing. And then a few weeks later, he began repaying the money he owed. It doesn’t take a spy to put two and two together.”
“No, it doesn’t take a spy,” Adrian said, leaning back in his chair.
“And do you think the Frenchman had anything to do with Mr. Jenkinson’s death?” Sophia asked.
“Who else would have killed him?”
Adrian could think of a host of others with more reason and motive than some mysterious—possibly imaginary—Frenchman. He wasn’t yet willing to fully discount Hardwicke as a suspect.
“Well, thank you for your time,” Sophia was saying. She rose.
Adrian shook his head. “We’re not done here.”
“Oh, my lord, I’m so sorry. I know we haven’t addressed all of the questions on your paper, but we really can’t afford to be late.”
“Allow me to escort you out.” Hardwicke took Sophia’s elbow.
What the bloody hell was going on? Sophia was leaving, Hardwicke was escorting her out, and Adrian hadn’t even begun to ask all the questions he wanted. And now she was talking about being late for something. This was why he preferred to work alone. He stomped after Sophia and Hardwicke. “Lady Smythe.”
She turned and smiled at him. “We must hurry if we don’t want to keep Cordelia and your brother waiting.” She turned to Hardwicke. “Lord Smythe’s brother is hosting a dinner party tonight. I’m afraid I need a few moments in my dressing room so I can look presentable.”
“Oh, my dear lady,” Hardwicke said, “I’m sure you would look well dressed in nothing.”
Adrian halted, and Hard
wicke gave him a hasty glance, the rotund man’s face turning purple. “I-I… what I meant was…”
“I know what you meant.” Sophia patted Hardwicke’s arm, and Adrian stepped between the two, took her hand, and placed it on his sleeve.
“Yes, we know exactly what you meant.” He leaned close to Hardwicke. “I’m going to check on these Frenchmen. If anything you’ve said doesn’t fit, I’ll be back.”
He strolled out of the office, pulling Sophia in his wake. It was time he put an end to Sophia’s “assistance.” Time he made sure she understood who was really in charge.
Eleven
Sophia stalked after Adrian. “Will you be threatening and intimidating every suspect we encounter?” she asked as they stepped into the twilight of early evening. “Or only those who give us valuable information?”
Adrian cut her a glance and began a brisk walk. It was no hardship for her to keep up with him, but she slowed anyway, not liking having her pace set for her.
“Hurry up. Hardwicke’s information isn’t valuable. He told us little to nothing.”
“He corroborated Millie’s statements about the foreigners.”
Adrian glanced at her then back at the deserted street ahead. “After you told him what Mrs. Jenkinson said. He didn’t mention it of his own accord.”
Sophia frowned. He had a point there. Hardwicke could have taken her statements and used them to fabricate information to point suspicion elsewhere. She should have been vaguer when mentioning Millie’s statements. “You’re right,” she murmured. “That was my mistake.”
Adrian skidded to a stop. He turned to her. “What did you say?”
She sighed. “I can admit when I’m wrong.”
He began walking again. Quickly. “This is the first you’ve done so.”
“That’s because this is the first time I’ve been wrong about this case.” But Hardwicke’s comments about meeting a Frenchman outside the Jenkinson residence fit with her initial theory. The murderer was someone who had been in the house and knew its layout. She blinked, coming out of her musings, and saw Adrian several steps ahead of her. “Why on earth are you walking so quickly?”
