by Clee, Adele
“Out of fear. My father was not a steward. My father was an enquiry agent hired because your parents believed someone wished to kill them.”
Beatrice rummaged in her reticule with trembling fingers and handed Mr D’Angelo the letter of appointment written by his father.
“This is proof, proof what I say is true.”
Perhaps she should have waited until they had solved the widow’s case before revealing the facts. But having lived for eighteen years believing a lie, she could not keep such vital information from Mr D’Angelo.
He snatched the letter as if she had the plague and the merest touch of her fingers would infect him too. His brusque manner softened as he read, though he cleared his throat and inhaled deeply when water filled his eyes.
“May I keep this?” His voice cracked, and so he reached for his port and swallowed the soothing nectar.
“Of course. I wish to assist you in any way I can and have other documents at home that might interest you. In her wisdom, my aunt kept them. Hid them in a chest beneath the silk gowns she inherited from my mother.”
“Other documents?”
“Notes my father made regarding suspects. Details of a prior attempt on their lives. Though I am inclined to believe they knew their attacker and did not suspect him of treachery. My father would have been armed. Hence the reason he was shot first. I know it may be difficult for you to read—”
Without warning, Mr D’Angelo slid out of the booth. “Excuse me a moment.” He marched to the rear of the coffeehouse, spoke to the waiter who pointed to a narrow corridor.
A little shocked by his sudden departure, Beatrice waited. Perhaps he had downed his port too quickly and needed air. Perhaps the boyhood memories were too much to bear, and he was clutching the brick wall in the yard, casting up his accounts.
She sat fiddling with her fingers, not knowing what to do. Mr D’Angelo’s pain was like a ferocious lion trapped in a cage. Angry. Savage. Should anyone step too close to the bars, he would likely claw and bite.
Minutes passed.
She motioned to the waiter who informed her the gentleman had thrust enough coins into his hand to pay for their drinks, that he’d asked about a rear exit.
Mr Bower appeared, his large frame towering above her as she sat hunched in the booth. “Mr D’Angelo has asked me to escort you home, Miss Sands.”
“You’ve spoken to him?”
Mr Bower nodded.
“Where is he?”
A wince tainted Mr Bower’s usually passive expression. “He remembered he had business in town and asked me to convey his apologies.”
“Do not lie to me, Mr Bower. I’m not a chit making her debut.”
“I beg your pardon, miss, but I am simply relaying the message. Mr D’Angelo insisted I see you safely back to Howland Street.”
“I take it he is on foot.”
A frown marred Mr Bower’s brow. “If I may be so bold as to ask you to heed the gentleman’s advice and leave him to his business.”
Frustrated, Beatrice pushed out of the booth. “Very well. But I am not going home.” She had to discuss the gentleman’s odd behaviour with someone, and Alice was a fountain of knowledge when dealing with men’s moods. “I wish to visit the Bull in the Barn tavern. Take me to Whitechapel, Mr Bower.”
Chapter 5
Three days had passed since Dante made a hasty escape and left Miss Sands in the coffeehouse in Cornhill. She had sent letters, called at his house in Fitzroy Square and hammered loud enough to wake the dead. When all attempts to gain his attention failed, she resorted to contacting his friend and colleague Evan Sloane, worried Dante had ventured to the White Boar and taken a pounding.
He had gone to the White Boar to spar with his demons, though his bruised ribs failed to offer a much-needed diversion.
“Well?” Sloane relaxed back in the fireside chair, cradling a brandy goblet between his long fingers. “Do you not think you owe the lady an explanation? After all, she has something you want. And considering her father died while in your parents’ employ, it is only right you include her in your plans for vengeance.”
“I cannot deal with my own torment. How the hell am I supposed to deal with hers?” Time had not blurred the harrowing images but enhanced them. Bitter thoughts mingled with bad memories. They fed each other, two gluttons gorging on misery. “I watched her father perish. Am I to bear the guilt for her loss, too?”
“Guilt?” Sloane shook his head, confused. “You were a child. Why should you bear any responsibility for what happened?”
“I lived. They died.” Dante drained the last drop of brandy from his glass. “Fate dealt me an ace card, why not them?” Although watching one’s parents die could hardly be considered fortuitous.
“You lived because a coach approached and the blackguards fled. By the Lord’s grace, you were spared.”
Kill the boy last.
The two devils had argued about whether they needed to kill a child at all. The murdering bastard thought it necessary. Wounded boys grew into vengeful men. His accomplice lacked heart when it came to dimming the light in a youngster’s eyes. Those few minutes had made all the difference.
“Did the Lord not spare the coachman, too? He lived despite taking a shot to the shoulder.”
The servant died a few years later, drank himself into a stupor and toppled into the Thames. Had he been paid to stop the carriage at the roadside? Paid to aid in a murder?
“I think we both know why the coachman survived, and it had nothing to do with divine intervention,” Sloane said, echoing Dante’s suspicions. “Still, Miss Sands offers new information. There might be something written in her father’s notes to lead you to the killer. Ought you not at least listen to what she has to say?”
“I will. I need a few days. A few days to calm—”
“You’ve had a few days.”
Dante firmed his jaw and mentally darted behind his barricade. Sloane meant well, but if he did not retreat, Dante would haul out the canons, and he did not wish to attack his friend.
“Leave me be. Go home to your wife and let me drink away my troubles.”
“Over the years, you’ve consumed enough brandy to fill a king’s cellar, bedded women galore, beaten men to within an inch of their lives, and yet the pain is as raw as the day the bastard fired the shots. When will you realise your way of coping fails to bring the desired results?”
Every muscle in Dante’s body tensed, fought fiercely against discussing the matter further. He craved peace, peace, not this incessant torment. But Sloane was determined to have his say.
“You’ve spent your adult life looking for the fiend. Miss Sands has the means to help you, yet it’s as if you’re teetering on a precipice and refuse to grab the rope.”
Dante scrubbed his hand down his face. “And what if something should happen to Miss Sands? How am I to live with the fact I dragged her into this godforsaken mess?”
Sloane exhaled slowly. “Miss Sands is as determined as you when it comes to finding the man who killed her father. She intends to catch the devil whether you help her or not.”
I’m prepared to fight to the death in the hope of discovering the truth.
Dante’s temper cooled. Miss Sands was a kindred spirit, perhaps the only person who understood his internal struggle. One of the few who saw his weaknesses. But he did not want her compassion or pity. Didn’t want her to see him as less of a man because he could not control his demons.
“Tomorrow you plan to catch Babington in the act of defrauding Mrs Monroe of her sapphire ring,” Sloane continued. “Are you to follow him when he leaves? Attack him before he climbs into his carriage?”
“The plan is to wait for him inside his carriage.” And then he would grab Babington by the throat and demand to know how he came to pawn a brooch ripped from Dante’s mother’s gown.
“Had you spoken to Miss Sands, you would know she is to don a disguise and take Mrs Monroe’s place. She plans to corner Babington b
efore he leaves the woman’s house.”
Dante shot to his feet. Blood pounded in his veins. “Has she lost her damn mind? Babington will see through her disguise.” Dante needed leverage, something to trade if Babington were to spill his guts. “I need him to pay with a forged cheque, to leave the house with the ring.”
“Miss Sands has other plans.”
“Devil take it! Do you know what he’ll do to her when he realises it’s a trap? The man has no morals, no scruples.”
“When you refused to answer your door or respond to her missives, she asked for my assistance. I’m to hide in the shadows and bear witness.”
Dante released a torrent of curses.
“You only have yourself to blame,” Sloane said calmly. “You knew she’d been assigned the case. When you failed to inform her what you’d learnt on your trip to Cornhill, she visited that debt-ridden sluggard at the goldsmith shop and obtained details of Mrs Monroe’s appraisal.”
Admiration flickered to life in Dante’s chest. He recalled her determination to have him inspect the books on Babington’s shelf. Miss Sands had many fine qualities, but if he spent any length of time in her company, he was likely to corrupt her soul, ruin her for good.
“May I offer some advice?” Sloane said.
“Isn’t that what you’ve been doing this last hour?” Dante mocked.
“Miss Sands is a rather unique woman. You cannot control her or cast her aside as you might do other women of your acquaintance. She will solve this case without you, likely find the man who killed her father. Vengeance will be hers, not yours.”
“The woman has the will of the gods,” Dante complained.
“Help her. Work with her. And I’m confident you will both find a way out of this nightmare.”
Dante thought to fill his glass with brandy, but instead dropped into the chair and sighed. “Marriage has changed you, my friend, made you more philosophical, if not a little preachy.”
Sloane smiled. “Love has changed me. Vivienne deserves a man of good sense, not a drunken buffoon who plays at being a pirate.”
“Am I the only agent left who indulges in vices?”
“At present.” Sloane’s lips curled into a sly smile before he took a long sip of his brandy. “Though I doubt it will remain that way for long.”
* * *
Having crept into the hall of Mrs Monroe’s modest townhouse in Newman Street, Dante watched through the narrow gap in the door as Miss Sands invited Mr Babington to sit. She’d donned a white wig, a sheer black veil that blurred her delicate features, and widow’s weeds—though the snug spencer had only drawn Dante’s attention to the fullness of her breasts.
“You must forgive me, sir, but I had to let my housekeeper go when poor Wilfred died. My maid is so behind in her duties she is slow to respond to the bell.” Miss Sands’ voice quivered with nerves, but she brought her lace handkerchief to her nose and sniffed. “It is still difficult to believe he’s gone.”
“I understand, madam, but do not concern yourself. I took refreshment at my club.” Babington was all kindness and consideration. “There is no need to trouble your maid.”
“You are most obliging, Mr Greaves.”
Greaves was the name Babington offered upon his arrival, the name he’d used to defraud his other victims.
“I would have preferred not to receive house calls, but needs must,” Miss Sands continued, sounding desperately forlorn. “One must eat despite one’s suffering.”
“Indeed.”
A strained silence ensued. Babington did not wish to appear too eager to make his purchase, and Miss Sands wished to drag more information from the unsuspecting man’s lips.
“You must know that to part with such a precious item breaks my heart.” Miss Sands made a little whimper. “Tell me your story, sir. Tell me you plan to give my beautiful ring to someone special who will treasure it as I have.”
Babington cleared his throat. “It’s a gift for my wife. A gift to celebrate the recent birth of our son.”
Lying bastard!
“Then I hope it is to your satisfaction, sir, for I can rest knowing it will be a gift given out of love.”
Miss Sands was somewhat naive. Gifts were given for ulterior motives. They were peace-making trophies. Objects to assuage a man’s guilt. Bribes. Only once had he seen a gift given with honest affection.
“Indeed. Might I be bold enough to ask to see the ring, madam?”
“Of course, sir. You said your sister saw my small advertisement in the magazine at her modiste’s.”
Mr Craddock had advised all of Babington’s known victims to place a discreet notice in the periodical distributed to modistes in town. Dante had spent days spying on the publisher until assured of his innocence.
“Yes, she noticed your elegant description and applied to the publisher for your direction. She believed it would make a perfect gift for my darling Anna.”
Various women had applied to the publisher. Dante had traced all but one who had recently vacated a lodging house in Holborn. No doubt the woman sold favours for a living and knew when it was prudent to disappear.
Dante peered through the gap in the door and watched Miss Sands hand Babington the green leather box. The cad removed the sapphire fleur-de-lis ring and held it up to the light.
“Some consider it rather crudely made,” she said, referring to Mr Craddock’s appraisal, “but I’ve been told it’s sixteenth century.”
“I’m not sure I would agree,” Babington replied. “I’m more inclined to think it a replica, albeit a rather convincing one. Might you have the original receipt or proof of purchase?”
Presumably, Craddock had informed him of the lack of provenance.
“Sadly not. Wilfred bought it in Stratford not long after we married but kept no paperwork.” Miss Sands paused. “You should know I require two hundred pounds for the ring, sir.”
“Two hundred pounds for a secondhand ring?” Babington sucked in a breath. “Be reasonable. I can give you a hundred in notes now, Mrs Monroe.”
Dante’s hands thrummed with the need to pummel the devious scoundrel. He wished they would hurry to the part where Babington gave the forged cheque and slipped the ring into his pocket.
“A hundred! Heavens. I cannot part with it for less than one hundred and eighty pounds, sir.”
“Hmm.” Babington fell silent while he continued examining the midnight blue sapphires. “That is more than I wished to pay.”
“I have someone else calling to look at the ring later this afternoon,” Miss Sands said, not wishing to make it too easy for Babington. “Perhaps you should think on the matter, call tomorrow to see if it’s still for sale.”
No doubt Babington’s heart raced at the prospect of losing such a valuable piece. By Dante’s calculation, it was worth well over three hundred pounds.
“It is exactly what I’m looking for.” Babington sounded resigned to the fact he would have to raise his offer. “Might you take a cheque written against Sir James Esdaile and Company? I took the liberty of writing it for one hundred and sixty pounds, presuming it was a fair offer for a ring of this description.”
Babington delved into his coat pocket and presented the crisp note.
Miss Sands hesitated. “I’m afraid I must push you to a little higher, sir.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Mrs Monroe.”
“The money must supplement my paltry jointure.”
“Then accept the cheque along with ten pounds. That’s the highest I’m willing to go.”
Based on the fact Babington intended to leave a forged cheque, he could have offered the full price, but he seemed to enjoy the cat-and-mouse game and did not wish to rouse his victim’s suspicions.
“Very well.” Miss Sands accepted Babington’s payment, asked if he required written confirmation of the purchase, or if he would like to take tea. “A quiet house can be a depressing place, and I should like to hear more about your wife and son.”
�
�Proof won’t be necessary.” Babington stood. “And I am eager to hurry home and present the gift to my wife. Perhaps I might arrange another time to call and take tea. I’m certain Anna would like to accompany me.”
“That would be wonderful.” Miss Sands clapped her hands. “But forgive me, I’m a little confused.”
“Confused?”
“Who will you bring to tea when we both know you’re not married?”
Good Lord! Dante thought he was to deal with Babington, prevent him from leaving and confront him with the truth. He’d not expected her to question the scoundrel’s story.
Babington coughed. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’ve told me a tale, sir. You strike me as a man who indulges in all manner of vices. Your eyes are cold and hard and carry a selfish streak that is evident in the arrogant curl of your lips, evident in the way you grip your walking stick as if you might beat anyone who questions your intentions.”
Walking stick? Dante had not witnessed Babington enter the house, and so this was Miss Sands’ way of informing him the fiend had a weapon. Damn the woman for putting herself at risk when she could have let Dante deal with the matter.
Babington’s rasping laugh was meant to intimidate. “A man must spin a tale to secure the best price. But the deed is done, Mrs Monroe. You have the cheque, and so I shall be on my way before you say something you may regret.”
“Is that a threat, sir?” she said, raising her veil.
“Take it however you please, madam.” He moved towards the door, blocking Dante’s view. “Suffice to say, I shall refrain from calling again.”
“When the magistrate discovers you’ve used fraudulent means to steal a sapphire ring, Mr Babington, you will struggle to make house calls from your cell in Newgate.”
Babington remained motionless for a time, every muscle frozen, though in his mind he was surely plotting how he might silence the woman. A swipe with his stick would do the trick.
He swung around and raised his stick aloft. “You interfering old—”
Dante was about to rush into the room when Miss Sands cried, “Take one step closer, and I’ll shoot.”
