by Clee, Adele
“Precisely. So what happened to the rest of your father’s work?”
“I have no idea.”
Beatrice knew very little about her life before moving to Rochester.
“It’s not just that. Mrs Pickering’s statement lacks basic information. There’s no description of the caller, no mention of the name given. We don’t know how long he stayed, if he came on horseback, by foot or by carriage. We don’t know what my mother did when he left.”
Beatrice grew a little defensive. “I’m sure my father asked those questions. His notes on the attack in the alley are extremely thorough.”
“Indeed, so thorough they contain an important piece of evidence.” He took a few calming breaths. “The brute attacked my mother in White Cross Alley in the parish of Shoreditch. One might ask what she was doing there alone and on foot, but Sloane said the alley leads off Wilson Street.”
“Wilson Street? Mr Coulter lives on Wilson Street.”
“Exactly. The question is, did Mr Coulter live on Wilson Street in the spring of 1805? If not, perhaps we’re looking for a relative.”
Beatrice’s heart raced. It couldn’t be a coincidence and was the first new piece of evidence they had. She made a note of it in her book before looking at Mr D’Angelo. His expression remained impassive, but his heart must be pounding too.
“I shall add Mr Coulter to our list of suspects.”
He propped his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers. “We need to go back to the beginning, unravel every tangled thread in this web of deceit.”
“Then we should visit Mrs Pickering and take her statement.” Beatrice was desperate to know if her father had asked pertinent questions or if he’d deliberately avoided recording anything that might identify the villain. “And we must discover why Alessandro D’Angelo sought my father’s help.”
At some point she needed to take Dante’s statement, too, have him relive that dreadful carriage ride. He might hold a vital clue to the mystery and be totally unaware. But he wasn’t ready to make the journey, not yet.
“Agreed. You said you wrote to Mrs Pickering. Did someone in Tidworth give you her forwarding address?”
Beatrice frowned. Did he not know what happened to the housekeeper? “Mrs Pickering is still the housekeeper at Farthingdale. When you sold the estate, the new owners wanted someone with experience.”
Dante closed his eyes briefly, pinched the bridge of his nose, heaved a sigh. “When I inherited, I told Lorenzo I wanted rid of Farthingdale, wanted to sell it intact, and he dealt with the matter on my behalf.”
“I see.”
And she did see. Dante didn’t wish to hear of people haggling over his parents’ belongings. Had he kept nothing from the house? Did he regret the decision? Was that why he clung to the brooch, or was it nothing more than a useful piece of evidence?
“Perhaps I will take coffee,” she said, pushing to her feet. “I shall nip and ask Mrs Gunning to make a pot, as we’re likely to be here all day. I won’t be long.”
Beatrice left him alone and went in search of the housekeeper.
“You must ring if you need anything,” Mrs Gunning said.
“Mr D’Angelo is studying evidence, and I didn’t want to disturb him.”
Mrs Gunning gave a sad sigh. “He’s been here for hours, said he couldn’t sleep, said that by reading about what happened to his mother in the alley, he hopes to become numb to the words.”
Beatrice touched Mrs Gunning’s arm. “Once we find the culprit, I’m certain he will focus on building a bright future and not wallow in the memories of the past.” She wasn’t certain at all, but lived in hope.
The woman offered a weak smile. “I pray you’re right, miss. But I’m not sure it’s good for him, reliving it day after day.”
No. Most people would break under the pressure.
Beatrice returned to the study to find Dante staring at the wall, lost in thought. “Mrs Gunning will bring coffee and biscuits shortly.” She smoothed her skirts and returned to sit in the chair opposite the desk. “I thought we might send Mr Sloane to Farthingdale. He has a manner most women find appealing. No doubt Mrs Pickering will melt beneath the richness of his voice and the warmth of his emerald stare.”
“You find Sloane’s manner appealing, Miss Sands?”
“In a brotherly way. I had the pleasure of meeting his wife two weeks ago. Vivienne came to Howland Street to help me with Mrs Emery’s case.” She’d suggested Beatrice meet Dante, thought they’d have a better chance of success if they worked together.
“Sloane vowed never to marry, but he fell in love.”
“They seem happy.”
“Ridiculously so.”
While Dante gave no cause to think he was anything but delighted for his friend, those dark eyes held a hint of sadness.
“Are we agreed?” she said, concentrating on the matter at hand. “Mr Sloane will go to Farthingdale and take the housekeeper’s statement?”
“Yes.”
“And I thought Mr Cole could investigate Mr Coulter. It’s best you’re not seen in the vicinity of Wilson Street. If Mr Coulter knew your mother, then there’s every likelihood he knows you.”
“Agreed.”
“Have you thought where we might begin our enquiries?”
Silence descended like a hazy mist of suspicion.
“Your father struck me as a man of means. When he died, what happened to his property?” Dante must have realised he sounded quite blunt, and so softened his tone. “There’s a chance the attacks are unrelated. Perhaps the culprit wished to silence your father and had no choice but to dispense with the witnesses. Was he working on another case before Alessandro hired him?”
What? He suspected Henry Watson was the intended target? Surely not. No. She couldn’t bear the thought of innocent people losing their lives because of her father’s profession.
“I know very little about my father. My aunt and uncle rarely spoke about my parents. They found it too upsetting.”
Equally, the question of her father’s property raised an important issue, one she had been struggling with for some time. One she hoped to solve with her newly acquired skills as an agent and her contacts within the Order.
Beatrice cleared her throat. “I have reason to believe I inherited my father’s house, though I have never seen the will, never received any communication from his solicitor, and have no proof the property belongs to me.”
Dante frowned. “Where is the house?”
Heat rose to her cheeks. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? Where did you live before moving to Rochester?”
She shrugged. “I was but five years old and remember next to nothing. Aunt Margaret avoided the topic, said there was no point dredging up old memories. But I believe we moved from Hampshire.”
“Hampshire?” The chair creaked as Dante sat back. He considered her through narrowed eyes, and it seemed like an age before he spoke. “It’s time to switch roles, Beatrice.” The fact he’d uttered her given name with some tenderness caused alarm. “We have one obvious line of enquiry, a matter we must address before we can proceed with our investigation.”
“Which is?” Her heart stopped for a beat or two.
“This is where I ply you with brandy to numb the senses. Where I take your hand and lead you through the darkness.”
The darkness? But the only wickedness she’d encountered was—
Fear took command of her senses as she came to the obvious conclusion. “Please tell me you’re not suggesting we question my uncle?”
“You know it is the only logical course of action.”
Beatrice shot from the chair. She had to grip the desk for balance as blood rushed to her head. “No, Dante.” No! No! Please, no! “I cannot go back there.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. Sheer terror gripped her throat.
“No,” she reiterated. “There must be another way to find the information. Perhaps Mrs Pickering knows where my father li
ved.” When one was swept away by a raging torrent, one clung to any blade of grass sprouting from the riverbank.
Dante stood, rounded the desk and took hold of her arms. “I know how hard it is to confront your nightmares, but you must see we have no option.”
“No, no. I need more time.” A lifetime would be insufficient.
“There is never a right time. But you can meet him in a public place, the taproom of the local tavern. I doubt he will speak honestly to me, so you must drag the truth from his lips by any means necessary, lie, make false promises. I shall watch from the next table. We’ll take Ashwood. He can search your uncle’s house while we keep the devil occupied.”
Her whole body shook in response. She had stopped listening when she realised she would have to sit with the scoundrel.
“Dante, what’s logical is me taking your statement, is you recounting every minute of that carriage ride eighteen years ago. But I would not ask it of you. Please don’t ask this of me.”
Without warning, he pressed his lips to her forehead—a reassuring gesture, though her stomach flipped when he kissed her temple and inhaled the scent of her hair.
If she looked up, gazed into his eyes, she sensed there would be a repeat of what happened last night. And while she wanted nothing more than to feel the heat of his lips, to draw in the earthy essence of the man she cared for more than she should, Mrs Gunning was likely to knock on the door at any moment.
Instead, she fell into his arms, pressed her cheek to his chest and listened to his erratic heartbeat.
“Dante, my uncle has a way of manipulating me, of making me pity him. That’s how he lured me into his trap, how he hurt me.” The pain of betrayal went deeper than sore lips and bruised thighs. They’d healed within days. “I’m too weak to—”
“You’re strong, courageous.” He kissed the top of her head and stroked her hair. “You’ve helped me more than you know, and I believe confronting your uncle will help you, too.”
The more he spoke, the more she thought of slanting her lips over his and exploring the warm, wet depths of his mouth. Now she knew why he used lust as a distraction. Lust had a way of commanding one’s senses, of emptying the mind of anything but the clawing need for pleasure.
The brief clip of footsteps in the hall preceded the study door bursting open. Beatrice shot back, would have stumbled again had Dante not gripped her elbow. Upon hearing a cough too deep to be that of Mrs Gunning, she dared to glance at the door.
Mr Ashwood stood in the doorway, wearing a grin similar to that of Mr Sloane’s the previous evening. Now they just needed Mr Cole to catch them in a clinch, and all the gentlemen of the Order would know of her attraction to their colleague.
“Miss Sands is a little distraught.” Dante did not turn around but kept his gaze trained on her. He seemed annoyed by the interruption. “We’re both finding aspects of this case difficult to deal with.”
“Indeed,” came the only smooth word from Mr Ashwood’s lips.
Thankfully, Mrs Gunning appeared, carrying the tea tray. Mr Ashwood relieved her of the heavy burden, and she hurried back to the kitchen to fetch another coffee cup.
“Perhaps I can help,” the gentleman said, pushing aside the papers on the desk to make room for the tray. “Let’s sit, and you can explain the problem.”
Dante dragged another chair closer to the desk.
Having taken the extra china from Mrs Gunning, Mr Ashwood closed the door and took to playing maid.
“While it’s traumatic to witness the horrors of some criminal cases,” Mr Ashwood began as he poured coffee into a cup, “crimes that affect us personally prove infinitely more disturbing.”
He gestured for Beatrice and Dante to sit together, while taking a commanding position behind the desk. Dante explained the dilemma but avoided any mention of her uncle’s attack.
“So, your uncle is the only person who can shed light on your father’s work in the years preceding the shooting,” Mr Ashwood stated. “Equally, based on the fact there has been no mention of an inheritance, and you’ve passed the age of majority, one presumes your uncle has something to hide.”
Mr Ashwood was right on both counts, but that didn’t make the thought of seeing John Sands any easier.
“I left Rochester because my uncle attacked me, Mr Ashwood. No doubt he holds a wealth of information in that twisted mind of his. While I try to tell myself he acted out of character when he made his lewd remarks, I believe I saw the real man that night.”
Instinct said John Sands knew something about Dante’s parents. It’s just she didn’t want to be the one to drag it from his lying lips.
“And you’re frightened to confront him?”
“I fear I lack the experience to coerce him into any sort of confession.” She feared she might pull a blade and stab the devil in the heart.
“But you did a remarkable job with Babington.” Dante’s tone brimmed with admiration. He leant forward, took a cup of coffee from the tray and handed it to her. He held her gaze as she gripped the saucer. “Let me help you. Let me help you punish the rogue, so you never have to think of him again.”
His words echoed the statement he’d made last night, though this time he meant to accompany her to Rochester, meant to keep her safe, not devour her mouth and set her body ablaze.
But the thought of meeting John Sands again sent her stomach roiling, roiling as if she were on a ship amid a violent storm, a ship destined to crash into the rocks and plunge to the depths of the sea. She sipped her coffee, though it did little to allay her anxiety.
“And Miss Sands made a valid point,” Dante said. “As an eyewitness to the shooting, I need to make a statement about what happened on that road.”
Despite Mr Ashwood sitting opposite, she reached for Dante’s hand. Oh, she knew how difficult it was for him to make the declaration. She knew he’d done it to show he understood her pain, too.
Mr Ashwood’s expression turned solemn. “A few weeks ago, I applied to the local magistrate for information relating to the shooting. He could not locate the paperwork and said it must have been lost when they moved offices. Suffice to say, anything you can remember, D’Angelo, would prove useful in finding those responsible.”
They’d reached a point in the road where they must decide whether to continue along the treacherous path full of thorn bushes and brambles, or remain in no-man’s-land forever. But they had come too far on this perilous journey to turn back now.
Ignoring the voice of caution, she released Dante’s hand and straightened. “I shall meet my uncle, though I want to know you’re close by, Dante,” she said, forgetting that calling him by his given name would raise eyebrows. “I shall do this once, and if I fail to gain what we need, we must find another way to gather the information.”
“I have every confidence you’ll succeed, Miss Sands. And once we’ve dealt with your uncle, you may take my statement.”
Beatrice nodded. She looked at Mr Ashwood. “Sir, might you be free to assist us? We thought you could search my uncle’s house while he is distracted in the tavern. I can draw a map of the rooms, tell you where to look. But you would be taking a significant risk.”
Mr Ashwood cast a mischievous grin. “As your uncle is a suspect in an investigation, I have an excuse to be there. As a man who upholds the law, one must enter a building when they encounter a door left wide open. And as few men are brave enough to question a member of the aristocracy, it will be one of the rare times I’ll be glad I have a title.”
Chapter 11
The Sir John Falstaff coaching inn in Higham stood on a popular road running past Gravesend and Rochester. A route used by merchants and seafaring men travelling to Dover, by lovers fleeing controlling parents and seeking sanctuary across the English Channel, by thieves and crooks who knew those heading to the port carried all their precious possessions.
The inn was but a two-mile ride from her uncle’s house. If Mr Ashwood had played his part in this charade and delivered
the note without arousing suspicion, John Sands should arrive at the Falstaff inn at around seven o’clock.
Beatrice sat at the round oak table in the bay window, staring out into the darkness, dreading the moment she saw the face that haunted her dreams.
In the rowdy taproom, men shared stories, laughed, clinked mugs, sang songs and drank themselves silly. One man sat in silence, his back mere inches from hers, so close they would bang chairs if one of them stood. So close, she could feel the power of his aura enveloping her like a steely cloak of protection.
Occasionally, men glanced in Dante D’Angelo’s direction, but no one approached his table. Two men had approached hers, a local tenant farmer and his labourer.
“Why, if it ain’t Miss Sands,” the fair-haired young man had said.
“So it is,” added the farmer, whose weather-beaten face reminded her of an old leather boot. “Your father said you’d taken a job as a governess in a fancy house in London.”
Beatrice had smiled despite being reminded these people believed she was John Sands’ daughter. It was just like her uncle to make everything appear respectable. She had wanted to say she’d washed mugs in a grimy tavern, kept company with crooks, now caught fraudsters for a living and kissed handsome rakes without giving a thought to her reputation.
“Yes, I’m travelling to Dover with the family and took the opportunity to see my father.” She’d tried not to retch upon uttering the last word.
The men had glanced around the taproom, looking for a well-to-do couple and their prim brats.
“The family are staying with friends in Chatham, but their coachman will return for me within the hour.”
The men simply lifted their chins in recognition. Left her to drink her hot punch and watch melted wax trickle down the candle in the table lamp.
Dante fidgeted behind her, then whispered, “He should be here soon.”
She didn’t reply but closed her eyes and said a silent prayer, a prayer for courage, for strength, a prayer to keep the devil from her door.
