by Clee, Adele
“Yes, if that is the price of justice,” Beatrice said confidently.
Coulter turned to face them, his conceited mask abandoned, replaced by a tortured expression that drew attention to the deep crinkles around his eyes.
“You’re wasting your time. You’ll never find evidence to prosecute the person responsible, and in the process, you’ll lose a damn sight more than you’ll gain.”
Dante firmed his jaw. “If that’s true, if you know so much yet had nothing to do with the murders, how is it you’re still alive?”
Coulter cursed beneath his breath.
“You may as well tell your story, sir,” Beatrice added.
Silence ensued—their whole case hanging in the balance.
In a somewhat plaintive mood, Coulter glanced around the sumptuous drawing room as if he were to sail to India and never return to his precious homeland again. His mocking snort was aimed at no one in particular.
“Happiness is like a spectre in the night,” Coulter said cryptically as he dropped into the chair. “You may creep out of bed, follow it across the landing, try to capture its essence, but you will always return disappointed.”
Dante tried to make sense of the man’s ramblings. “Chasing happiness is chasing the unobtainable.”
“Indeed. A man must embrace his unhappiness, deal with problems with an air of detachment. But how does one do that when one has suffered a great injustice? How does one find peace when one continues to breathe life into their insufferable tale?”
The nightmares, the constant memories, the hatred for the world, all fed the belly of the beast—the story of the past.
“Peace comes when you realise you have power over your thoughts,” Beatrice replied. “That your thoughts control your destiny.”
A ghost of a smile touched Coulter’s lips. “I listened to the inner voices urging me to run and hide. But I should like to be free of this burden, and so I will tell you anything you wish to know.”
For a moment they sat there, not saying a word.
One question burned in Dante’s mind. “You had a brooch belonging to my mother, a cheroot case of my father’s. How did you come by items stolen moments before they met their demise?”
Coulter relaxed back in the chair, water filling his hazel eyes. “Because it was my carriage that arrived at the scene, D’Angelo. I saw both blackguards flee, saw the bodies sprawled on the roadside, saw the boy clinging to his mother, trying to shake her awake.”
A boulder-sized lump formed in Dante’s throat. He tried to recall his rescuer’s face but could remember nothing other than how it felt to have his heart ripped from his chest, have his world come crashing to the ground.
“When I gave chase, the murdering devil dropped his loot.”
“Why did you not hand it to the local magistrate?” Beatrice asked.
“The magistrate would have assumed it was highway robbery, not a murder orchestrated to keep a secret.”
Dante considered the man who bore no resemblance to his mother. “You visited my mother at Farthingdale.” It was obvious now.
Coulter nodded. “You must understand, my whole life has been a lie. I was a young man, full of hope, and with a burning passion to uncover the truth.”
“You have reason to believe the countess is your mother, sir?”
“I am the illegitimate son of Lord Summers and the Countess of Deighton. I was raised in Lancashire by a distant cousin of the countess, told of my real lineage moments before my adopted mother took her last breath.”
While Dante had no reason to dispute the claim—many aristocrats sired children with their lovers—it was hardly a motive to commit murder.
“My mother visited the countess on the day she died. I presume she went to discuss the fact, offer proof you were her half-brother.”
Coulter frowned and shook his head. “Not half-brother. The earl has never sired a child with any of his mistresses, though I have it on good authority he tried. The countess wished to marry Lord Summers, but her parents insisted she marry the earl. Her affair with Lord Summers began before her marriage and continued until he died ten years ago.”
Dante took a moment to absorb the information. “You think my mother was Lord Summers’ child?”
“Yes, and so is the current Earl of Deighton. They were both fortunate enough to be born with their mother’s dark hair.” Coulter brushed a swathe of burnished copper hair from his brow. “The countess was visiting Lancashire when she gave birth to me. Had I been born with ebony locks, she might have taken me home. But I have Lord Summers’ colouring, and so she invented a story of a stillbirth and paid her cousin to care for me.”
They spent a few moments lost in thought. Strange how one twist of fate could wreak untold havoc on the lives of so many.
Dante studied the libertine who might be his uncle. “So, explain how you’re alive and my parents are dead. If I understand you correctly, you’re insinuating the countess hired someone to murder her daughter, possibly to ensure her eldest son inherited the earldom.”
“It has to be the reason they all perished.” Coulter pursed his lips and frowned. “But if you know what Babington stole from me, then you know I’m alive merely because I blackmailed the countess.”
Beatrice looked confused. “Mr Babington stole Daphne’s brooch and Alessandro’s cheroot case. I don’t see how either of those things would give you any hold over Lady Deighton.”
Coulter sat forward. “I speak of the letters.”
“Letters?” Beatrice and Dante said in unison.
“The letter sent to my adopted mother. The one signed by the countess, detailing the financial provision made for me.” Coulter waved his hand impatiently. “Another, thanking her for taking care of the burden. The letters Babington stole from my desk.”
“Mr Babington made no mention of any letters,” Beatrice said.
Now Dante knew why someone had ransacked Babington’s home. Realising the letters were more valuable than a brooch, had Babington tried to extort money from the dowager? Had she hired someone to do away with Babington and retrieve the evidence of her infidelity?
One might consider the current earl a suspect. No man wanted to lose an earldom, be named a baseborn son. But Dante’s uncle rarely ventured to town, preferred a quiet, peaceful life in Hertfordshire with his wife and growing brood. Dante would only visit the Earl of Deighton when all other lines of enquiry failed.
“Does the dowager know the letters were stolen?” Dante said. Was that why Coulter offered the warning upon their arrival? “Do you fear she might seek to silence you?”
Coulter flopped back in the chair. “The woman is the devil incarnate. I’d put nothing past her.”
“Sir, are we to assume you found an ally in Daphne? When she visited the countess, did she present the evidence on your behalf?”
“I lent Daphne the letters because she wanted to confront her mother, accuse her of hypocrisy.”
Suspicion soured Dante’s mood. If Daphne had the letters, how did Babington steal them from Coulter’s drawer? “But my mother died hours after visiting the countess and must have had the letters on her person.”
“The countess denied writing the letters, called them forgeries, and threw Daphne out. She met me at an inn out of town while en route to Farthingdale. It’s how I happened to be on the road that night. I took supper at the inn, frolicked with a serving wench, but couldn’t shake the feeling of impending doom.”
Beatrice cast Dante a sidelong glance before saying, “And so you rode after them but—”
“Arrived too late,” Dante finished.
Coulter dragged his hand down his face. “If only I’d have left the inn earlier, gone with them, done—”
“You would have been killed, too,” Dante said, for he was experienced enough to know when a man spoke from the heart.
“I visited the countess after Daphne’s death, told her I had the letters hidden in a safe place, that if anything happened to me, they would be published in the Her
ald.”
Beatrice gave a weary sigh. “And you never sought justice for Daphne?”
“No, Miss Sands. I blotted out the memories with wine and women and would have taken the secret to my grave had you not knocked on my door today.”
Dante understood the man’s need to bury his guilt. And without catching the countess in the act of murdering her daughter, or with no substantial evidence to support the claim, no court in the land would agree to a prosecution.
“I pray you will find it in your heart to forgive me,” Coulter said. “Forgive me for confiding in Daphne. Forgive me for rescuing you from your nightmare, D’Angelo, only to send you back into the clutches of hell.”
Morbid thoughts of the past filled Dante’s mind, and he could do nothing but incline his head in response.
“Just one more question.” Beatrice waited for Coulter to nod. “If you knew Babington had stolen these things, why did you not seek satisfaction?”
“I knew someone had stolen the items and only suspected Babington. It wasn’t until you called today that I was able to make the connection.”
“I see.” Beatrice seemed satisfied.
Dante pushed to his feet. He needed air, needed to be away from here. “We shall not take up any more of your time. No doubt we’ll have further questions. I trust we can call again.”
“Of course.” The fellow stood and considered Dante with keen interest. “Babington did not steal all the items the villain dropped that day. I have your father’s pocket watch if you’d like it.”
Dante tried not to gasp or cough, but the surge of emotion choked him. “Yes, I would like that.”
Coulter gave a weak smile and left the room.
Beatrice was at Dante’s side in seconds. She rubbed his upper arm. “What a wonderful surprise. Did you not keep anything of your father’s when you sold Farthingdale?”
He shook his head. The thought of touching his parents’ belongings had caused unbearable agony.
“Do you regret not taking a small memento?”
Holding his mother’s brooch had brought the memories flooding back, not just the harrowing ones of that fateful night, but happy memories, too.
“I regret it more than I could ever explain in words.”
She pressed her forehead to his upper arm and sighed. “I left my mother’s dresses behind, too. But it’s different for me. I have no memory of her.”
He might have taken her in his arms, lost himself in her mouth, but Coulter returned with the treasured possession.
“Here, take it.” He thrust the watch and chain into Dante’s palm. “I’ve wanted to give you this for a long time, but—”
“I understand.” Dante curled his fingers around the cool metal. “We’ll let you know the results of our investigation. And if you think of anything else that might prove pertinent, you can find us at our office in Hart Street. Covent Garden, not Bloomsbury.”
Coulter considered Beatrice with a libertine’s interest. “So, men pay you to solve their problems, Miss Sands.”
“People pay me to solve crimes, sir.”
Dante was torn between embracing the fellow who might be his uncle and delivering a swift upper-cut to his jaw. “And I am tasked with beating those who overstep the mark.”
Coulter laughed. “Ah, an intrepid duo. I see it now.”
Beatrice straightened her shoulders. “I have one question before we leave. Do you know why Alessandro hired an enquiry agent?”
The man thought for a few seconds. “To gather evidence against the countess. To force Lady Deighton to admit her failings. And because they feared the truth might get them killed.”
Chapter 15
They sat in the carriage outside Mr Coulter’s townhouse, silent, Dante’s mood subdued as he considered the pocket watch resting in his palm. Sharp shuffled in his box seat, waiting for instruction. A few times, Mr Bower cleared his throat, a gravelly grunt to get their attention.
“Is something wrong?” She’d thought Dante would be beaming with joy upon being reunited with his father’s watch. Hearing the story, learning of his potential connection to Mr Coulter, must have taken its toll. “Dante, we knew it would be difficult, but we’ve learnt so much today.”
Without warning he reached across the carriage, took her hand and placed the timepiece in her palm. “This isn’t my father’s watch. It belonged to Henry Watson. He bought it in London during our visit. I recall my father telling him he should have had his initials engraved into the shield emblem embossed on the case.”
Tears welled. Tears for the man who couldn’t wait to return home yet met a grisly end on the roadside one winter’s night. Tears for the man seated opposite, who had every snippet of happiness snatched from his grasp.
Beatrice slipped the watch into her reticule. Later, when alone in Howland Street, she would take time to study the object, run her fingertips over the surface, hug the instrument to her chest.
“I’m glad it belonged to your father,” Dante said, though his shoulders bore the weight of his disappointment. “You have nothing of his. And I know your heart is pounding with excitement though you’re trying desperately to hide it from me.”
She’d made a pact never to lie to him. “I’m both sad and delighted.”
“I find myself equally conflicted.”
The need to cross the narrow space and comfort him took hold, but he reached into his pocket and removed what appeared to be the chitty found in Mr Babington’s study. After a brief glance at the receipt, he rapped on the roof and instructed Sharp to take them to Holywell Lane, Shoreditch.
“Shoreditch?” She could think of only one reason he would want to go there. “You mean to visit the shop where Mr Babington pawned his diamond ring?”
“Babington pawned other items, yet this was the only receipt he kept. Clearly he had every intention of returning to the pawnbrokers. I want to know why.”
“But that was four months ago. I doubt the pawnbroker agreed to such a lengthy loan term. And if he did, the interest would be colossal.”
One might question why he pawned a diamond ring in Shoreditch and not in a more affluent part of town. But then he’d probably stolen the ring from someone in Mayfair.
“You’re probably right, yet the receipt is burning a hole in my pocket.”
“Every day, we get closer to finding the fiend, closer to solving this case.” Closer to separating and going their own way in the world. “I wonder what my next assignment will be. I pray it’s something less taxing, like finding a lady’s missing pug.”
“Finding a daft dog won’t be thrilling enough for a woman who courts danger.” A muscle in his cheek twitched. “Perhaps we should ask Daventry if we can work together again. We complement each other in many ways.”
“We do.”
“And I enjoy your company.” He shifted in the seat, rubbed a hand along his powerful thigh. “I enjoy your company immensely, as I hope to prove after dinner this evening if you feel inclined to accept my invitation.”
Her pulse fluttered in her throat. “I enjoy every moment spent with you, Dante. Just make sure I don’t have to pull a pistol on Bateson to gain entrance.”
“Does that mean you’ll come?”
“Isn’t that up to you?”
Her brazen comment left him grinning. “I could make you come now.”
“I’d rather you strip me bare when you do.”
With it being a little less than a mile to Shoreditch, it was better to focus on the case and not the sparks of sexual tension that would have them writhing on the seat, desperate for physical contact.
“How do you feel about Mr Coulter?” She had found his story credible. When giving his account, she’d seen the sensitive man, not the pleasure-hungry rake. “Do you believe his tale?”
“I want to believe him. His story fits with everything we’ve learned so far, but I cannot find it within myself to trust him.”
“No, you find it hard to trust anyone other than your friends at
the Order.”
“And you,” he added quickly. “I trust you, Beatrice.”
Oh, Lord! The need to touch him, kiss him, devour every aspect of his being came upon her again. She had spent the morning struggling to think of anything but how wonderful it felt to hold him inside her body, to feel full with Dante D’Angelo.
But they spent all their time journeying from one place to another, questioning suspects, never having a chance to examine whether this unique friendship had a future.
“You’re the only person I trust, Dante.”
The only person in the world she loved.
* * *
The smell hit Beatrice first. Having spent months living in a tavern in a grim part of town, one would think she’d be accustomed to the stench of stale sweat and musty clothes, to a room so thick with tobacco smoke it irritated the throat.
Mrs Crockett puffed on her pipe and continued to choke them with her filthy habit. “Diamond ring? Diamond ring!” She cackled, the shrill sound enough to send birds scattering. “Wait! Let me nip upstairs and search through my jewels, see if I’ve misplaced the bugger.”
Dante slapped the receipt on the counter. “It quite clearly states that he pawned a diamond ring at Crockett’s Emporium, Holywell Lane, Shoreditch. You will check your records, and you will do so now, madam.”
The woman with thinning grey hair drew her black shawl around her shoulders and appeared suddenly frailer than when she’d hurried to greet them at the door.
“I’ve got used petticoats, plates and pots, will give you a shillin’ a piece if you have any spare, but I ain’t never had the funds to give a loan against a diamond ring.” Mrs Crockett glanced at the note. “Maybe when I marry that sultan who’s asked for my hand, things might be different.”
Another loud cackle made Beatrice wince. “A man is dead, Mrs Crockett—stabbed to death in the street—and this note was on his person. Perhaps he had no intention of recovering the ring. Probably had a gaming debt to settle and so pawned his mother’s precious jewels.”
“I hear you, dearie. But I told you. I ain’t loaned against a diamond ring.” She squinted and looked at the chitty. “Besides, two months is the maximum loan term, not four.”
