The Mystery of Mr Daventry: Scandalous Sons - Book 4

by Clee, Adele

  Sybil was about to insist they settle their business quickly, when the sound of a mumbled conversation and the clip of booted footsteps echoed along the path.

  “Ah, right on cue.” Julia paused to cough. “Here come the real villains in this game. The night would not be complete without a dose of revenge.”

  Villains?

  Revenge?

  Was this woman not behind the evil machinations?

  But no, two men burst through the enveloping fog.

  Sir Melrose Crampton came to a crashing halt. Shock, then fear held him rigid. Sybil was more taken aback by the arrival of Mr Warner.

  “What the devil is going on?” Sir Melrose’s frantic gaze darted to Lucius, to Sybil, and then back to Julia Dunwoody.

  Mr Warner’s face turned ashen. He looked like he might cast up his accounts. He clutched Sir Melrose’s arm with an intimacy that belied their positions. “Good God. You said we were coming to collect the j-journal.” The weasel waved a finger at Lucius. “Why the hell is he here?”

  “Warner, you conceited arse.” Lucius’ face was granite hard. “Know that as soon as I’m free of my restraints, I’ll throttle the last breath from your deceitful body.”

  “Why are you so shocked, Sir Melrose?” Julia’s slow smile built. “You wanted Atticus Atwood’s journal in exchange for the vowels and the title deed. I’m here on your orders. To reclaim the documents you used to blackmail me.”

  Sir Melrose’s hollow cheeks quivered. “I assumed you had the journals in your possession.”

  “Yes, I am about to make the exchange.” Julia spoke as if her son were a mere commodity. A pawn to barter. “Am I to blame for your early arrival?”

  “But … but.” Sir Melrose couldn’t find the words to contradict the panic etched on his face. He sucked in a deep breath and seemed to regain his composure. “Yes, well, the Royal Society will be grateful to you, Mrs Dunwoody. Though I’m confused.” The man’s beady eyes settled on the satchel gripped by Alcock’s meaty paws. “I thought Mr Daventry possessed Atwood’s work.”

  “Miss Atwood had access to her father’s journals. I merely used my son as leverage to force her hand.”

  Cold-hearted hag!

  Lucius muttered an obscenity.

  “How you obtain the journals is your affair,” Sir Melrose replied. “You serve national interests, madam. It’s only right the work of an eminent scientist is held by such a prestigious academy as the Royal Society.”

  “Ballocks!” Lucius shouted.

  “Ballocks, indeed.” Julia covered her mouth but suppressed another cough. “What my son means, Sir Melrose, is that everyone here knows you’re a liar. You mention the Royal Society’s need to obtain the journals, yet you specifically asked for one journal. The one containing details of a riot in Smithfield Market. One look at Miss Atwood’s satchel confirms the lady has brought but one book.”

  “Not just one book,” Sybil corrected.

  She was beginning to understand the woman’s reason for bringing everyone together. Now, Sybil didn’t have to wait for Julia to give Sir Melrose the notebook with the fake evidence. She could have her own revenge.

  “Yes, I have the journal containing witness statements from those at the market,” Sybil continued. “And I have a notebook with letters confirming Sir Melrose is a member of a select club known as Gorget’s Garrett. I understand it’s a molly-house.”

  Warner inhaled sharply. “Damnation. We should leave.” He tugged Sir Melrose’s sleeve again. “We don’t need to listen to this nonsense.”

  “That’s right,” Lucius countered. “Listen to your lover. The man whose naked picture we found in your library. The man whose likeness is drawn on the reverse of an invitation card for the Garrett. I’ve seen the proof that confirms Mr Cribb was also a member. You remember Mr Cribb. The man who was murdered in the market.”

  “We also have Mr Proctor’s notes.” So much for the truth being one’s best friend. Lies after more lies tumbled from Sybil’s mouth. “Before being savagely murdered, he discovered the late-night habits of the Duke of Melverley’s steward. That gives you a motive, Mr Warner.”

  Why else would Mr Proctor have asked to meet Lucius?

  “And now you have a dilemma,” Lucius said. “We all know the truth, Sir Melrose. You’ve already murdered three men—Cribb, Proctor and Atticus Atwood. How do you propose to keep us silent?”

  Sir Melrose turned deathly pale. “Look, I may be guilty of blackmail, but—”

  “The fact you’re willing to go to extreme lengths to obtain the journal is proof of your guilt,” Lucius pressed.

  “Warner is equally guilty,” Julia said, but this time her cough made her retch. The Scot patted her back until she could breathe easily again. “Warner withheld my allowance from the Duke of Melverley. Warner is the one who suggested you use me in your scheme. Knowing of my weakness for the tables, he employed a card sharp. He made sure I ran up debts, made sure I had no choice but to return here and steal the evidence of Sir Melrose’s crimes from my son.”

  Sir Melrose looked like he might retch, too. He scrubbed his face with his bony hand and whimpered. He exchanged nervous glances with Warner, who suddenly shuffled backwards and bolted.

  “Peregrine?” Sir Melrose shouted at his accomplice. Panic turned to anger. “Don’t leave me to answer for your crimes!”

  “Hellfire!” Lucius thrust his bound hands at the Scot. “Untie me quickly, before Warner gets away.”

  “I’ll catch the devil.” Alcock thrust the satchel at Sybil, forgetting there was a loaded pistol inside, and gave chase. Mere seconds passed before she burst back through the misty gloom. “Mr Wycliff and his friends nabbed him by the boathouse.”

  Mr Wycliff appeared, hauling Warner behind him by the scruff of his neck. His friends Mr Trent and Mr Cavanagh followed behind to join the crowd gathered on the narrow path. The men were dressed in tatty breeches, poorly fitted coats, coarse shirts and blue striped neckerchiefs.

  “I believe you have a runaway,” Damian Wycliff mocked, dragging the weasel forward. “Let’s hear the fop’s confession, shall we?” He released Warner and gave him a hard shove.

  Warner almost plunged headfirst into the river. “There’s nothing to confess. Can a man not help a troubled friend?”

  “Don’t blame me for this debacle,” Sir Melrose countered.

  “Who else should I blame? Had you been scrupulous when picking your lovers, none of this would have happened. Mr Cribb was hunting for a goose ripe for the plucking. And you’re a damn goose.”

  “Keep your mouth shut!” Sir Melrose turned to Mrs Dunwoody. “This is your fault. If you’d just given me the journal as I asked.” He raised his arm as if ready to strike the woman.

  The Scot stepped forward. Lucius did, too.

  Everything happened quickly then.

  “God, I’m tired of this game.” In one fell swoop, Lucius lunged, threw his bound hands over Warner’s head and yanked the rope against the man’s windpipe. “Confess to the murder of Mr Cribb.”

  Warner choked and spluttered. His face turned beetroot red as he struggled to breathe. He thumped Lucius’ arm, kicked and tried to wriggle free.

  Lucius gritted his teeth. “I warned you I’d take your last breath. Now bloody confess.”

  Warner stabbed his finger at Sir Melrose and croaked, “He k-killed Cribb.”

  “Liar!” Sir Melrose cried. “Warner killed Cribb, and the runner who lived on Stangate Street.”

  Lucius choked Warner again, much to the delight of Alcock, who appeared as excited as if she were watching acrobats and tightrope walkers at Astley’s Amphitheatre.

  Warner’s knees buckled. He batted Lucius’ hands, begging to speak. “I’ll confess—” He gasped for breath as Lucius released his grip. “I—I killed Proctor … but … only because he knew about the Garrett, knew Melrose and I were … were—” Warner pointed to his lover. “He killed Cribb.”

  “Silence, buffoon!” Sir Melrose’s g
aze shifted to the path.

  Mr Trent and Mr Cavanagh moved to block all means of escape.

  “Which one of you devils killed my father?” Sybil choked back a sob. She didn’t want to think that one of these vile men had entered her house while she slept. Had murdered a man who lived only to do good deeds.

  Both men looked blank when she repeated the question.

  Alcock stepped forward. “Answer the lady else you’ll get my fist down yer measly throat.”

  Sir Melrose denied any involvement.

  “I—I might have silenced the man,” Warner wheezed, “had he not saved me the trouble and died in his sleep.”

  Both men were liars. Yet every instinct fought against the idea that her father was murdered. There had been no sign of a struggle. No scratches. No bruises. Nothing to suggest foul play.

  Because of the delicate nature of their work, and because of Mr Proctor’s death, Lucius had assumed the worst. Perhaps grief had formed the basis of his quest for vengeance.

  “I am tired of this game, too,” Julia Dunwoody said. She walked calmly up to Mr Warner, though her shoulders were hunched and her cloak trailed the ground. She spat blood-stained spittle in his face. “I hope you rot in hell.”

  “Step back, Mother.” Lucius sounded nervous. “He’s liable to kick you into the river.”

  The woman smiled. “You’re a good person, Lucius, not like me.” She cupped his cheek with a surprising level of tenderness. “I’m sorry I’m not the mother you needed. But I know what these men are capable of, and I’ll not have them threaten you again.”

  Julia stepped away and hugged the Scot. Then she whipped a knife from a sheath strapped to her calf and turned on Sir Melrose. “Give me the deed else I shall gut you like a fish.” She pressed the tip of the blade to the man’s chest. “Now!”

  With shaking hands, Sir Melrose reached into his coat and withdrew the folded papers.

  “Angus, take the deed and check the information.”

  The Scot obeyed. He snatched the papers and scanned the script. “Aye, this is the deed for Millhouse.”

  “Take it and leave,” Julia said, but did not lower her weapon.

  “I’ll nae leave now.”

  “We agreed.”

  “I’ll nae leave ye.”

  Julia gave a resigned sigh. “Remember how helpless I was as a child?” She coughed again. “I’m not helpless anymore, Angus.” She stared into Sir Melrose’s eyes. “I can take only one of you with me,” she said, bitterness coating every word as she plunged the blade into Sir Melrose’s chest. “And Warner has less chance of escaping the noose.”

  For a few heartbeats, everyone gawped in stunned silence.

  Julia grabbed hold of Sir Melrose as he sagged forward, his mouth and eyes wide with shock, with pain. With surprising strength, she held on to him as she plunged into the river.

  “No!” Lucius cried. He relinquished his hold on Warner, instructed Wycliff to take the steward prisoner and dived into the river after his mother.

  “Lucius!” Fear chilled Sybil to the bone. “Lucius! Merciful mother! Someone help him!”

  How did a man swim with his hands bound?

  How did a man swim with cold limbs?

  Bower appeared through the fog. She had forgotten he’d been tasked with following Sir Melrose. The butler stripped off his coat without uttering a word and dived into the Thames.

  “Trent, hold Warner.” Mr Wycliff shrugged out of his shabby coat and entered the water, too.

  Angus dashed tears from his eyes. “I’d help, lass, but I cannae swim,” he said, his voice shrill with horror as he held his lantern aloft. “Julia hadnae thought the lad would follow.”

  Despite her parting comments, Julia Dunwoody knew little of Lucius’ character. She didn’t know of his abiding loyalty, of his determination to see justice prevail. She didn’t know that his need to feel loved had him clinging on to the thinnest shred of hope.

  From the depths of the fog, someone surfaced and gasped.

  The cries of boatmen rent the air, followed by shouting and violent splashing.

  Terror held Sybil in a stranglehold.

  Lucius was her life, her love.

  She couldn’t lose him.

  “I can’t see him,” came a distressed voice from the misty gloom.

  A scuffle behind resulted in Alcock giving Warner another swift punch to the gut.

  “You there!” came another call from the darkness. “Grab his arm. Drag him out.”

  A minute passed, maybe two.

  “Cavanagh!” Mr Wycliff cried, grabbing hold of the low bank. “Give me your damn hand.”

  Mr Cavanagh raced forward, and with Angus’ help hauled Mr Wycliff from the river.

  “Lucius, where’s Lucius?” Sybil’s body shook more than Mr Wycliff’s cold, tired limbs. “Did you find him?”

  Oh, Lord, please say you found him.

  Mr Wycliff bent his head and gasped for breath. Mr Cavanagh practically tore the man’s sodden shirt from his back, demanded Alcock give up her greatcoat and draped the garment around Wycliff’s trembling shoulders.

  “Where’s Lucius?” A sob caught in Sybil’s throat.

  With a shaky hand, Wycliff gestured to the river. “In … in a boat.”

  The giant wave of relief lasted mere seconds before another terrifying thought took hold. “Tell me he’s alive.”

  “Yes … he’s alive.”

  “Thank God. And Bower?”

  “The other man? A boatman dragged him out.”

  Angus stepped forward. “And Julia?”

  Mr Wycliff closed his eyes and shook his head. “She s-sank as if she had a lead b-ball strapped to her ankle.”

  “Nae a ball, weights sewn into the hem of her cloak. She nae had but a few weeks left and wanted a quick end.”

  Anger flooded Sybil’s veins.

  Julia had worked out the perfect plan for revenge. Yet again, she had failed to consider how her actions might affect her son.

  “I need to go to him, to Lucius,” Sybil said. Before his demons surfaced and gnawed through their leash. “What shall we do with Mr Warner?”

  Damian Wycliff rubbed his arms in a frantic bid to keep warm. “We need to deal with the matter now. I—I suggest we go straight to P-Peel. We all heard Warner’s confession.”

  Warner blubbered and pleaded for clemency. He tried to shake free from Mr Trent’s grasp, and so Alcock punched him again.

  “You’re coming, too,” Sybil said to Angus. “We need everyone to make statements regarding tonight’s events. It’s the least you can do for Mr Daventry.” She turned to Mr Wycliff. “Where will they take him, the men in the boat?”

  “To the boathouses.”

  “Then I must hurry. I’ll meet you there.” She thrust the satchel at Benedict Cavanagh. “Take care of the evidence.” She had more important things on her mind. “Perhaps remove the pistol before we hand it to Peel.”

  And without further ado, she picked up her skirts and darted along the path.

  * * *

  Sybil found Lucius in a boathouse, free of his bindings, wearing the crude, colourful garb of a navvy, his wet clothes in a pile on the floor. He sat before a brazier, staring into the flames. Sybil thanked the two men who had pulled him from the river.

  “Don’t scare me like that again.” She touched his shoulder and drew her hand through his wet hair. When he met her gaze, she said, “For one awful second, I thought I’d lost you.”

  “Forgive me.” His chin trembled from the cold. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  “No, you were not.” Upon hearing her raised voice, the boatmen made themselves scarce. “What if you haven’t been as careful as you claim? We’ve made love many times. What if I am with child? I don’t want to raise your son on my own.”

  Her father once said that to live for the future was to live for a fantasy. Yet one could not underestimate the power of optimism.

  The blue flecks in his eyes sparked to life.
“The reckless man in me hopes I have been careless.” He pulled her between his legs, wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed his cheek to her abdomen.

  She hoped he’d been careless, too. A perfect fantasy appeared in her mind, them living together at Bronygarth with a rabble of reckless children.

  “I’m sorry, sorry that’s how your mother met her end. Sorry that you had to witness the distressing event.” Sybil suppressed her anger by running her hands through his hair as he hugged her. Julia Dunwoody was a selfish woman who caused suffering with her thoughtless actions. “Angus said she’d sewn weights into the hem of her cloak, that she had but a few weeks left to live.”

  A brief silence ensued.

  “It’s strange,” he said, meeting her gaze. “For twenty years, I’ve struggled with the thought she was dead, buried at Bideford Park. And yet now I feel oddly at peace.”

  “Perhaps because she’s not the helpless mother you imagined. She could have contacted you, could have eased your fears. It seems she had her own demons to battle.”

  “Yes.” The word escaped him on a sad sigh.

  “Mr Wycliff will be here in a moment. He suggests we take Warner to see Peel tonight, that we explain everything.”

  “I’ll not tell Peel about the Order.”

  “There’s no need. We will tell him exactly what we told Damian Wycliff. Though I shall have to confess to forging some evidence.”

  A weak smile touched his lips. “I did wonder about the witness placing Sir Melrose at the Garrett.”

  “Once Julia had the journal and notebook, I assumed she would visit Sir Melrose and claim back her vowels. As soon as Sir Melrose read the letters, I knew he would hunt for the witness.”

  “You thought we could set a trap?”

  “That was the idea. But it’s all over now.”

  After a brief pause, he said, “Do you believe them? Warner and Sir Melrose? Do you believe they’re innocent of Atticus’ murder?”

  Sybil cupped his cheek. Heavens, she wanted to kiss him, wanted to rub the warmth back into every inch of his body. “I’m inclined to believe my father’s heart gave out. That he died in his sleep. He looked so peaceful when I found him.”

  After a moment’s contemplation he said, “Yes. I have to believe you’re right.”