by Clee, Adele
I intend to find the culprit and punish him.
The lady was not as strong as she would have people believe. In his absence, who would come to her aid? There were many ways a villain might silence a woman, some worse than death.
“D’Angelo will lead the investigation with Miss Sands’ help,” Daventry added. “You will do as he instructs, follow any potential leads.”
Relief threw the finishing blow, relegating Dante’s anger to the dust. “I’ve spent years searching for evidence, but to no avail.”
Sloane cleared his throat. “But Miss Sands has her father’s notes.” He took a moment to inform Ashwood and Cole of the facts surrounding Miss Sands’ connection to the case. From the look on Daventry’s face, he already knew. “We will examine her father’s findings and begin there.”
Miss Sands shuffled in her seat. “I’m afraid I must offer a minor objection. Should Mr D’Angelo not read the notes first? He may need time to process the information, and we cannot discount his personal and emotional interest in the case.”
Lord, this woman did not need to strip off her clothes to get Dante’s attention. She stirred him to life with nothing but her thoughtful comments. Indeed, she might fool a man into thinking she cared.
“D’Angelo?” Daventry prompted.
“I agree with Miss Sands and wish to see what’s written about my parents before we strip her father’s theories apart.”
“Mr D’Angelo may call at Howland Street and collect the notes,” Miss Sands said. “Then he can plan a strategy, decide what information to use and what to discard.”
“Agreed.” Daventry moved to the low table and poured coffee into a china cup. “D’Angelo, you will call at Howland Street today once you’ve given Sir Malcolm your statement.” He sat next to Sloane and sipped his beverage. “Now, perhaps it’s best we all hear what happened with Babington and why a case of fraud has some connection to the death of your parents.”
Dante sighed. There was little point in keeping secrets anymore. He explained how he’d located Mrs Emery’s ormolu clock, how the pawnbroker in Holborn had purchased another item from Babington—a neo-classical cameo brooch with an image of a mother cradling her child.
“My father gave my mother the brooch when I was born. To make murder look like highway robbery, the man who shot my mother ripped it off her gown and shoved it into his pocket. From my father, he stole a pocket watch, seal ring and a cheroot case painted with a unique hunting design.”
Miss Sands offered the plate of macaroons to the men. “Mr Babington stole both the brooch and the case from a Mr Benjamin Coulter who lives in Wilson Street, near Finsbury Square.”
“Coulter hangs with a set from the demi-monde.” Dante knew most scoundrels in the ton, but he did not know Coulter. The fact made him doubt Babington’s word. “Though I can’t say I’ve ever heard of him.”
“Coulter?” Daventry frowned and repeated the name a few times. “Damian Wycliff knows every rogue who dances on the fringes of respectable society. I shall make enquiries, discover what I can about Benjamin Coulter.”
Ashwood reached for a macaroon. “I suggest we gather here tomorrow afternoon to receive our instructions. In the meantime, I shall offer to assist Sir Malcolm. We should act quickly. Babington’s death must be connected to the reason he defrauded vulnerable widows, stole precious belongings. He might have lied about Coulter.”
“Cole will accompany you,” Daventry instructed. “Sloane will interview those who work at the goldsmith shop and see if anyone knows Babington.”
“And what shall I do, sir?” Miss Sands’ melodic voice breezed through the room. “Perhaps I could visit Mr Craddock’s home, make a list of his creditors, discover how Mr Babington came by the man’s vowels.”
Hell. The thought of her wandering the streets alone, probing into the louse’s affairs, sent a shiver to Dante’s toes.
“You have an assignment, Miss Sands.” Daventry glanced at Dante. “You’re to assist D’Angelo, ensure he behaves. Uncovering the truth will prove distressing. I trust you will be the voice of reason when he’s battling his demons.”
Damnation! He did not need coddling, but Daventry had a way of communicating silently, and it was clear he feared for Miss Sands’ safety, too.
“Then I have a request.” If he were to spend time with Miss Sands, he would do so without Miss Trimble’s interference. “It is impossible to conduct an investigation while Miss Sands is still in leading strings. Inform Miss Trimble that the lady is perfectly safe in my care, and there is no need for Bower to play chaperone.”
Daventry contemplated the request. “Miss Sands can decide if she requires Bower’s assistance. I’ll inform him and Miss Trimble of that fact. I take my responsibilities to Miss Sands seriously and hold you responsible should anything untoward happen.”
Dante inclined his head in agreement.
Ashwood pushed to his feet and tugged the cuffs of his coat. “If there’s nothing further, I shall call at Bow Street. See what use I can be to Sir Malcolm.”
They all stood.
“D’Angelo, sit with Miss Sands when you read through the notes.” Daventry spoke as if he’d read every traumatic line and could foresee how the night would end. “You may have questions, and she’s the only person who can provide answers.”
“While I agree wholeheartedly,” Miss Sands began, “Mr D’Angelo should be free to make his own choice.”
“It’s a suggestion, not an order.” The glimmer of compassion in Daventry’s eyes spoke of a man who had struggled with his own difficult past and knew the importance of finding inner peace. “Rest assured, we’ll catch this murdering rogue, but I warn you both, the truth is often different from the story we concoct in our minds.”
“Greed is often the primary motive for killing innocent people,” Miss Sands declared.
“Vengeance is another, Miss Sands, and you’ve made the classic mistake of presuming the victims are all innocent. Push personal feelings aside. Presume everyone in that carriage is guilty of wrongdoing.”
Dante suppressed a sigh. He would have to treat this case like any other, too. “Unlike the law courts, we work differently in the Order. When it comes to vengeance as a motive, we assume the victims are guilty of some transgression and seek ways to prove the theory.”
That said, the thought of a kind and caring woman like Daphne D’Angelo committing a sin was far beyond Dante’s comprehension.
Chapter 8
Nerves must be a familiar feeling for any woman awaiting Dante D’Angelo’s arrival. Never had Beatrice experienced such a mix of emotions when in the company of a gentleman. The pulses of desire, the need to make him smile, to beat the demons from his door, had nothing to do with his handsome features or muscular physique. All the men of the Order were prime specimens of masculinity, yet she felt nothing when she looked into their eyes.
But it wasn’t just the thought of being alone with Mr D’Angelo, alone in a candlelit room at night, that left her heart lodged in her throat. No. She feared how he would react when he read her father’s notes, read his mother’s statement where one could almost hear the ache in her voice as she made her heartbreaking confession.
A knock at the drawing room door made Beatrice jump.
Miss Trimble entered, her countenance carrying an air of disapproval which was only a mask to hide her deep concerns. “Mr D’Angelo has arrived. Shall I send him in?”
“If you would.” Butterflies fluttered in Beatrice’s chest, and he hadn’t entered the room. “It’s late. There’s no need to bring tea. The gentleman will take port while scrutinising the documents.”
Miss Trimble managed a weak smile. “You know to call if you need me.”
“Thank you, but I assure you, I am perfectly safe with Mr D’Angelo.”
The clip of his boots on the tiled floor raised her pulse a notch. He entered the room dressed in the immaculate blue coat and tan breeches he’d worn while throttling Mr Babington, and while teasi
ng her senses with candied fruit. They’d parted after their meeting with Sir Malcolm. Mr D’Angelo had other business, hence the reason he agreed to call at Howland Street later, but she had the impression he needed time alone before delving into the secrets of the past.
“Miss Trimble seems more accommodating tonight.” Mr D’Angelo’s playful grin hid any reservations he might have about proceeding down this path, but his brief glance at the leather case on the seat beside her resulted in him swallowing deeply. “I know Daventry suggested we read the notes together, but you must be tired, and I prefer to study them alone.”
Beatrice stood. She had been expecting such a reaction, a need to flee to a place where he could express his anger and frustration freely.
“Sir, may I call you by your given name?”
“Of course. It’s—”
“Dante. I know. You’re named after your paternal grandfather.”
“He was extremely charming by all accounts.”
“Then, your parents named you well.”
Their gazes locked across a space that seemed cavernous. Indeed, there was every chance she might never reach him. And for a second she asked herself why she cared.
“I assume you will afford me the same courtesy, Miss Sands, or would you prefer I call you Miss Walton?”
Hearing her father’s name spoken aloud brought to mind everything they’d both lost. “You may call me Beatrice. It seems ridiculous to adhere to formality when we know intimate details of each other’s lives.”
“Dante and Beatrice,” he mused. “It’s a tale of unrequited love.”
“It’s a Florentine tale of love at first sight, though to my knowledge we did not meet as children and you’ve not spent years pining.”
“No.” A light laugh escaped him, but his amusement died. “I’ve spent my life disconnecting, avoiding the intimacy of romantic relationships.”
She shrugged. “In that, we are different, for I hope to fall in love and marry one day.”
“You’d marry knowing life brings nothing but tragedy?” he said cynically. “You would risk experiencing the crippling pain of loss?”
“Every moment is a chance to learn, to grow, to love. We do our dearly departed a disservice if we do not forge ahead and create cherished memories. That’s what I shall strive for when this is over—a life with more than fleeting glimpses of happiness.”
He stood there, a silent observer.
“My aunt used to tuck me into bed at night and ask me to recall something special about the day,” she continued. “The simple things like birdsong, the sweet taste of candied pineapple, witnessing the bonds of friendship that exist between a group of men.”
“The sweeping stroke of your tongue when licking sugar from your lips.” He spoke as if it were an erotic scene witnessed at the Blue Jade.
“Like a new and honest friendship where there is no need to hide behind a facade.” She paused. “Let me sit with you, Dante, and help you decipher my father’s scrawled notes.”
Behind his proud countenance, she sensed an internal war raging.
“Miss Sands—”
“Beatrice,” she corrected.
“Beatrice.” The beginnings of a smile formed but faded. “You’re a woman of virtue, and I’m a consummate seducer who will seek to corrupt you the second I witness anything remotely disturbing in those documents.”
She straightened her shoulders, affronted he would think her so weak, so malleable to his will. “I’m not a child.”
His rakish gaze traced a path down the column of her throat, stopping at the swell of her breasts. “No, you’re by no means a child.”
“And I’m quite capable of refusing your advances.”
“Ah, now we come to the moment you call me a conceited fool.” He closed the gap between them until he stood mere inches away. “Like me, you crave a distraction from your nightmares. Your body would betray you the second I slipped my tongue into your mouth.”
“If you believe that, then you are a conceited fool.” And yet her mind created a passionate scene, a wild and hungry mating of mouths, something to banish the loneliness and the horrid visions of a monster.
“Beatrice, were it not for the fact I promised Daventry I’d protect you, and the fact I enjoy your company immensely, I would invite you to put your theory to the test.”
Why would she rise to the challenge when she was likely to fail? And so, she used one of Mr D’Angelo’s escape tactics—avoidance.
“Does that mean you won’t sit with me to read the notes?”
“It means I shall take the leather case and examine the contents in the privacy of my own home. Should I have any questions, I shall call on you in the morning, when the soft glow of candlelight isn’t dancing over your lips. When the heat in the room isn’t conducive to stripping off one’s clothes.”
Such seductive comments were a ploy to unnerve her.
“And yet one’s body thrums with energy at sunrise,” she teased, needing to gain some ground. “Alice said a man has a strong urge to make love in the morning.”
“I’m not a man who makes love.”
“You mean you avoid anything meaningful.”
“Who’s Alice?”
“The proprietor of the Bull in the Barn tavern in Whitechapel. She took me in when I had nowhere else to go.”
“It must have been a difficult time.”
“It was.”
He held her gaze for seconds before capturing her hand. The brush of his lips against her knuckles sent heat pooling to the apex of her thighs. After the mad tussle with her uncle, she had never thought to feel anything but hatred for men. And yet something about this man held her spellbound.
“Enjoy the rest of your evening, Miss Sands.” Offering a knowing grin, he reached past her and snatched the leather case. “Should I survive the night, we may discuss my findings over coffee tomorrow. Shall I come for you at noon?”
Survive the night!
For the next seventeen hours, she’d be beside herself with worry. What would he do when he discovered how his mother had suffered? Would he drink himself into oblivion, visit a haunt like the Blue Jade, attack some beast of a man in the cellar of a fighting den?
“Please, sir, you don’t understand. Let me help—”
“I shall see you at noon tomorrow, Miss Sands.”
Oh, the obstinate oaf!
She sighed but would have kicked the chair had she been alone. “Very well. Good evening, Mr D’Angelo. You know where to come should you have any questions. Call on me regardless of the hour.”
He turned on his heel and strode towards the door, stopped to offer a bow before heading out into the night, to whatever wickedness would occupy him once he’d absorbed every harrowing detail.
* * *
Beatrice woke with a start. It was dark, and the fire had died to nought but glowing embers. She threw back the coverlet and leapt out of bed, followed her usual routine of pacing the room and wringing her hands until the horrible visions subsided.
Tonight, it wasn’t visions of her uncle’s lecherous grin that left her heart pounding. It wasn’t the memory of Mr Babington’s lifeless body, either, but that of Dante D’Angelo—blood-soaked and gasping his last breath.
The nightmare seemed so real. If she closed her eyes, she would be back in the fetid alley, the stench invading her nostrils, death’s icy breath biting her cheeks. But she knew why she had dreamt about his mother, about Dante being the one who’d perished coming to her rescue—it was an account of an attack written in her father’s notes.
In reality, some other man had died coming to his mother’s aid, but Daphne D’Angelo had suffered terribly, had lost her unborn child in the fall.
Dante!
Was he reading that part now? Did he even know he’d lost a sibling along with everything else? Would the news be too much to bear?
Curse the devil!
She should have refused to let him leave with the leather case, insisted she sit wit
h him while he absorbed the facts. Been a pillar of support.
Should I survive the night…
Beatrice stopped pacing. Fitzroy Square was but a five-minute walk, and men like Mr D’Angelo rarely tumbled into bed before dawn. She should go to him, try to prevent him from seeking solace in reckless pursuits.
While quickly dressing, other comments flitted through her mind. By his own admission he used lust to numb the pain, but he used brandy and port, too, and there were dusty bottles of liquor hidden at the back of the pantry.
Miss Trimble usually slept with one eye open, but Beatrice waited for the longcase clock in the hall to strike the hour before heading downstairs, thankful it was midnight, not one.
She hurried to Fitzroy Square, gripping a bottle and a pocket pistol beneath her thick cloak. Footpads lingered in affluent areas at night, though Mr D’Angelo’s butler was the only mischief-maker Beatrice encountered.
“There is no one home, miss.” The snooty fellow glared over his hooked nose. “Might I suggest you return at a respectable hour?”
He tried to close the door, but Beatrice wedged her booted foot in the gap. “Inform Mr D’Angelo that Miss Sands is here to discuss aspects of our current case. I am an enquiry agent for the Order.”
“And I’m the Duke of Marlborough, miss.”
“Good evening, Your Grace. Am I to understand you’re refusing to inform Mr D’Angelo he has a caller?”
The butler sneered. “The master’s instructions are clear, miss. No lady callers permitted day or night. A man’s home is his sanctuary.”
“But I am here out of concern for Mr D’Angelo’s welfare.”
“Yes, yes, you’ve come to soothe his woes. It’s a story I’ve heard many times before. Now, if you will excuse me, I have—”
