“Peter Theale, Antonia and Alastair James, Lady Charlotte Daltry, and Misses Sybil and Eloisa Fossey.” From the back of the room, Mr. Lugo rattled off the list in his distinctive bass. “All are potential suspects.”
“Yesterday, Lugo and I met with Daltry’s executor, Mr. Mayhew.” Papa took up where his partner left off. “Mayhew confirmed that the money is Rosie’s until death or remarriage. If either of those events occur, then the terms revert to those of Daltry’s original will in which Peter Theale is the main beneficiary.”
“Which makes Theale a prime suspect,” Mr. McLeod commented.
“Yes, but shares of the wealth would also be disbursed to the other relatives—including Alastair James. Mr. James isn’t a blood relation per se, but he cultivated a friendship with Daltry. Indeed, after Theale, James has the most to gain at five thousand pounds per annum. The ladies would each receive a yearly stipend of two thousand pounds.”
“Kent and I will look into Theale and James first,” Mr. Lugo noted.
“I’ve compiled financial information on both of them,” Andrew said.
All heads swung in his direction.
“You have?” Papa looked surprised. “It’s been a little over a day since the shooting, and such information takes time to track down.”
“Information is part of my business,” Andrew replied. “In my experience, following the money is the quickest way to find the culprit.”
“A philosophy I happen to share.” Papa cleared his throat. “Tell us what you know, sir.”
“In a nutshell, both coves are in dun territory. Theale comes from a line of younger sons and inherits his poverty through natural bad luck. His attempts to gain a fortune at the gaming tables have not improved his situation, however. He’s in five thousand quid to a moneylender at a rate that doubles that debt within six months.”
“But Mr. Theale seems so nice,” Rosie said in surprise.
Andrew’s lips quirked. “Some of the nicest coves I know reside in the Marshalsea: debtor’s prison doesn’t discriminate. But I understand what you mean. Theale’s gaming seems an act of desperation whereas Alastair James pursues his vices with the dedication of a true rakehell. He has his vowels scattered through every gaming hell, bawdy house, and tavern in Covent Garden. And earlier this month at White’s, he placed a thousand pound bet with a crony over who could eat the most mincemeat pies.”
She canted her head. “What was the result?”
“The sod emptied his accounts—in more ways than one,” Andrew said derisively. “It’s only a matter of time before he faces the music or makes a run for the Continent.”
“Quite thorough, Corbett.”
Papa sounded impressed—and Rosie knew he wasn’t easily impressed. She, too, admired Andrew’s prowess. His power and command of this (and any other) situation.
“Maybe we ought to hire him on, Kent,” Mr. Lugo said. “Save us the shoe leather.”
“Bloody hell, we can’t afford the fellow.” Beside Mr. Lugo, Mr. McLeod shook his shaggy head. “You ken the kind of blunt his club pulls in?”
“Maybe he’ll work gratis.” Mr. Lugo flashed straight white teeth. “On account of the family connection.”
At Mr. McLeod’s guffaw, Rosie blushed. She slid a look at Andrew, worried about how he might react to the men’s good-natured jibing. Thankfully, he didn’t look annoyed. In fact, he seemed… pleased?
“If the two of you are finished,”—Papa sent his partners a quelling look—“we’ll move on with the plan. While McLeod searches for the shooter, Lugo and I will pay a visit to Theale and James. To my mind, the hiring of a cutthroat suggests that a male perpetrator is more likely, so we’ll deal with the ladies after. At any rate, I have a feeling that Emma will want to handle the interrogation of the female suspects.”
“Emma is coming all the way from Scotland?” Rosie said in surprise.
“We wrote the rest of the family about your troubles,” Mama replied. “I predict Emma, Thea, and Violet will be arriving forthwith.”
“Don’t forget Harry,” Papa said, referring to his younger brother, a scholar at Cambridge. “Lord knows we need all the help we can get. In the meantime, Rosie, you’ll have a pair of guards assigned to you. You’ll move back home, and you’re not to go anywhere alone. In fact, you’re not to go anywhere period until this case is concluded.”
Rosie appreciated her father’s concern, but there was no way on earth that she was going to endanger him, Mama, or her siblings. And she also wasn’t about to be treated like a wayward girl. To be locked in her room while the adults made decisions for her.
She had plans of her own—and for once she didn’t want to have to plead, pout, or charm to get her way. She wanted to address the matter head on, as a mature woman would.
“I appreciate everyone’s help,” she said earnestly, “but there’s something I need to tell you.”
“What is it?” Grooves of tension deepened around Papa’s mouth.
You can’t delay this forever. ’Tis now or never.
Her hands gripping in her lap, she declared, “I’m moving into my own residence.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Did we do the right thing, Ambrose?” Marianne murmured later that evening.
Shucking his robe, Ambrose got into bed and gathered his wife against him. He stroked her silky hair, pensively watching the play of light and shadow on their bedchamber walls.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But short of locking Rosie in her room—an idea I’m not entirely opposed to—I don’t know what else we could have done. You know what she’s like when she’s set her mind on a course.”
“Of course I know. Where do you think she got that damnable tendency from?”
His lips twitched. “You mustn’t blame yourself. If anything, I ought to have been firmer with her as a child.”
In his mind, he saw Rosie as a small, bright-eyed poppet, and his chest tightened. How had time passed so quickly? In a blink of an eye, his little girl had grown into a woman… and now she was facing mortal danger.
“I was too lax when it came to discipline,” he said heavily.
“You did your best, darling. Rosie always found some way to charm or cajole her way out of trouble.” His wife sighed. “After we rescued her from that monster, we were both careful with her. Too careful, in retrospect, and me especially. I regret hiding the truth from her. I should have listened to you, Ambrose, and told her about Coyner’s despicable plans much sooner.”
“You wanted to protect her. You’re a devoted mama and always have been.” He kissed her forehead. “We’ll keep Rosie safe, I promise you. I’ll have my best men posted on Curzon Street. It’s but a five minute carriage ride away, and we can protect her there as well as here. And Corbett,” he said after a moment, “insists on contributing to the watch. The truth is my men are stretched thin, and I could use the additional guards.”
“What do you think is going on between Rosie and Corbett?” Marianne mused.
Ambrose didn’t want to think about it. By nature, he preferred to face reality straight on, but the idea of his daughter engaged in illicit activity with a man—a brothel owner, no less—wasn’t something he cared to contemplate, much less talk about.
His better half didn’t seem to share his reluctance.
“They’re lovers, aren’t they?” she said quietly. “I’ve never seen Rosie look at any man in that way before. And Corbett—well, I’d say he’s more than halfway in love with her.”
Ambrose frowned. “Surely you’re not condoning the behavior?”
His wife lifted her head from his chest, a hint of amusement in her emerald eyes. “I’m no prude, darling. If you’ll recall, I was a widow myself and had a rather unconventional affair.”
“That was different. I was a policeman, not a pimp,” he pointed out. “Besides, it was only a matter of time before we got married. My intentions were always honorable.”
“And you don’t think Corbett feels the
same way about Rosie?”
“Can a pimp be honorable?” That sounded priggish, even to his own ears. Heaving a sigh, he sat up against the pillows, drawing Marianne up with him.
“That was unfair,” he acknowledged. “If I’m logical about the matter, I have no quarrel with what I know of Corbett’s character. Other than his chosen trade, he has shown himself to be a man of principle. Years ago, he helped you to find Rosie. During the debacle with Revelstoke, he stood by his employee with uncommon integrity. Then there is all he’s been apparently doing to protect Rosie.”
With Ambrose, Corbett hadn’t been exactly forthcoming, but he’d admitted that he’d watched over Rosie from afar. He’d said casually that he’d “called in a few favors” to quiet the talk and “negotiated an understanding” with Josiah Jenkins, the owner of the now defunct Prattler.
For his own piece of mind, Ambrose had hunted down Jenkins that afternoon.
“When I spoke to the owner of The Prattler,” he said, “he told me that Corbett paid him a thousand pounds to shut his business down. One thousand pounds to quell that bloody poem. I don’t know whether to shake Corbett’s hand in gratitude or tell him to get his head checked. And what do you wish to wager that he’ll refuse my offer to reimburse him?”
“And you still don’t like him?” His wife’s brows arched.
“Whether or not I like him isn’t the issue. What kind of life will Rosie have, married to a man in his profession?”
“You’re assuming they’ll get married,” Marianne said dryly.
His shoulders tensed. “If he intends to merely dally with our daughter, then by God—”
“Before you call Corbett out, I’d like to point out that the dallying is likely going the other way around.”
Ambrose frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Darling, you know Rosie. You know how much having a position in Society means to her. Because she’s a bastard,”—Marianne’s voice quivered with the old guilt—“she’s had to contend with the ton’s cruelty, and now she thinks she has what she wants. A title that will translate into respectability. I doubt she’s willing to give that up—even if she has feelings for Corbett.”
“She can’t think to have an affair indefinitely,” he said hotly.
“Widows and married ladies do it all the time. Society turns a blind eye as long as everything is done with discretion. And Corbett is nothing if not discreet.”
“I won’t allow it. No daughter of mine, widow or not, is going to carry on in that disreputable fashion,” he declared. “If she has feelings for him, then she damned well better do the right thing.”
“So you do want Rosie to marry Corbett.”
He opened his mouth—and shut it.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “Am I truly considering a procurer for a son-in-law?”
“Better the devil you know. And you want to know the truth?”
He cocked a brow.
“I’d rather have Corbett in the family than Daltry any day,” his wife said with feeling.
Ambrose couldn’t argue with that. “So we’re just going to… accept Rosie’s carrying on with Corbett?”
“Precisely.” A calculating gleam entered his spouse’s gaze. “You know how Rosie is: if we try to stop her from seeing Corbett, she’ll only want to do so more. Thus, we must stand back and allow her to make her own decisions. In other words—treat her like the adult she claims to be.”
“Claims being the operative word.” As much as he loved his daughter, he couldn’t help but question her judgement. “How can we trust that she will act in her own best interests?”
“What choice do we have? She has her independence now.” Marianne’s tone turned contemplative. “And I begin to think that not trusting her may have been the root of this fiasco.”
“How do you mean?”
“By being overprotective, I may have made Rosie doubt herself,” she said slowly. “In retrospect, I think I’ve added to her insecurities by trying to shield her from the truth. By communicating to her—unintentionally—that I didn’t believe in her ability to handle reality. Now she doubts her own instincts, and it is my fault.”
“You cannot take responsibility for that,” he said. “And I do not think Rosie suffers from an excess of self-doubt.”
“Don’t you?” Marianne’s smile was edged with sadness. “She exudes confidence and charm, no doubt, but do you think a truly confident woman would care so much what the ton thinks? Would seek acceptance above all—even love?”
He hadn’t considered the matter from this angle before. The idea that his bright, brave, and beautiful daughter might believe herself lacking in any way raised a welt on his heart.
“How can we help her?” he said tautly.
“We nudge her—gently—in the right direction. I think it would be in the best interests of everyone if you got to know Corbett better. Make sure that he is, indeed, a man of character and a suitable husband for Rosie. You wouldn’t mind doing that, would you, darling?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, the muscles there fine-tuned to paternal stress. “I suppose not.”
“Thank you.” His wife’s lips brushed his jaw. “I knew you would understand.”
“I understand one thing for certain.”
“What is that, my love?”
“I’m keeping Sophie under lock and key,” he said darkly. “I’ve learned my lesson. No gentlemen are getting near our other daughter.”
Marianne laughed. Apparently, she thought he was joking.
“I adore it when you get protective.” Her hands wandered, and he felt himself responding, as ever, to her teasing touch. “You’re my hero, Mr. Kent.”
He rolled over her. “Don’t you forget it, Mrs. Kent.”
He kissed her smiling mouth with a need that had only grown deeper and fiercer with time. She responded with an ardor that always heated his blood. Together, they reaffirmed with their bodies and hearts the love that would see them through anything.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The next day, with Grier by his side, Andrew entered Will Nightingale’s coffee house in the heart of the Seven Dials. Nightingale’s was an ancient institution, a relic from another time when the public gathered in such venues to learn the news of the day and engage in the free exchange of ideas. Although the rising popularity of tea and private clubs had led to the demise of coffee houses, Nightingale’s showed no acknowledgement of the times.
The interior hadn’t changed much in the twenty-odd years since Andrew had first stepped foot into the place. It still had the same shaved wood floors and smoke-tinged air, the heads of bleary-eyed game serving as décor on the walls. He did notice a few new paintings: the amateurish watercolors sprang up like bizarre blooms in the field of furry trophies.
The place was bustling as always, serving boys dashing back and forth with silver pots, refilling the famous pitch-dark brew for the customers clustered around long tables. As potent as the coffee was, however, it wasn’t the secret to Nightingale’s longevity. That lay at the table set in a private alcove at the back of the room.
Andrew strode toward the alcove, Grier at his heels.
“Try not to kick the hornet’s nest, will you?” the Scot said under his breath.
“Someone kicks first, I’m not backing away,” Andrew said evenly.
He needed his full focus on protecting Primrose. This meant he had to clean his own house. To end the feud with his nemesis Malcolm Todd, one way or another.
When he and Grier neared their destination, a pair of hulking guards blocked their access to the table, waiting for their master’s decree.
Bartholomew Black, sitting on a throne-like chair, jerked his chin at Andrew. “Him only.”
Grier cast Andrew a look of warning before being led off.
“Good morning, sir.” Andrew bowed deeply—fitting when one was greeting the most powerful man in London.
Those who didn’t know Black might mistake him for a doddering eccen
tric. He certainly dressed the part: from his lace-trimmed shirt to his embroidered puce waistcoat to his satin breeches, he looked as if he’d stumbled in from the previous century. Yet the dark eyes that looked out from beneath that ridiculous periwig were as sharp as a blade, and the beringed hands that were dumping sugar and cream into coffee could just as casually end a man’s life.
Anyone who didn’t respect the King of the Underworld was a fool.
Andrew was no fool.
Which was more than he could say about Black’s son-in-law, Malcolm Todd. Todd occupied the seat one down from Black’s right, a position rife with meaning. Black keeping the chair to his right empty was a subtle yet symbolic reflection of the state of affairs. Everyone knew Todd was chomping at the bit to inherit his father-in-law’s power; Black, however, showed no signs of relinquishing the reins to his kingdom.
While Black commanded respect, Todd deserved nothing but contempt. A small, bald man with a round face and a vicious nature, Todd would stoop to any means to gain more power.
“Corbett,” Todd said in his sneering manner.
Andrew calibrated his bow to his degree of respect. “Todd.”
“Hah.” Black let out a bark of laughter, turning to his son-in-law. “Made a leg for me, didn’t he, and a fine one, too. But you? Not as much as a bob o’ the ’ead.”
Todd’s face reddened. “I don’t give a rat’s arse what the bugger—”
“And there’s your problem. You don’t care about doin’ the pretty, but Corbett ’ere,”—Black jabbed a blunt finger in Andrew’s direction—“’e does. Understands class, don’t ’e, and that’s the difference between ’im and you. Why ’is club draws all ’em fine coves with the fat purses while yours attracts the common riffraff.”
“His blighted club is not better than mine—”
“God Almighty, shut your gob.” Black aimed a squinty-eyed look at Todd, and the latter shut up. He turned his gaze to Andrew and gestured regally to the seat on his left. “Sit.”
Andrew complied, and a serving boy rushed forward to place a dish of coffee in front of him. As he took a sip of the thick, fortifying brew, Black waved a hand, and the guards pulled a velvet curtain across the alcove, sealing them in privacy.
The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6) Page 18
