The door swung open, a stout matron wearing a cap glaring out at him.
Toting a crying babe in each arm, a third one strapped to her back, she demanded, “Wot you want, eh? Spent an ’our, I did, getting the sprats down and there you go, knocking loud eno’ to wake the dead.”
“My sincere apologies, madam.” Wick bowed. “I’m Wickham Murray, and this is Lady Beatrice Wodehouse. My man was here earlier, and he said you had information regarding Randall Perkins…whom I believe you know as Ralph Palmer?”
“Why are you after Ralph?” she asked bluntly.
Wick decided honesty was the best policy. “We suspect he may be involved in a plot against Lady Beatrice. One that has thus far involved arson and kidnapping.”
“That ne’er-do-well. Wouldn’t surprise me one bit.” Snorting, the woman stepped aside. “Come on in, then. I’m Mabel Palmer. You can speak to my ’usband David ’bout ’is scoundrel o’ a nephew.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Palmer. May I?” Wick extended his arms, intending to relieve her of one of her squalling burdens. He owed her that much for waking the babes.
Her eyebrows shot up. “Lardy-dardy, ain’t you a gent? Don’t mind if I do.”
Before Wick knew it, he had a babe in each arm and another strapped to his back. He amicably took on the task, bouncing the babes as he walked into the flat. Within a minute, the two in the crooks of his arms were cooing up at him, the third one dozing against his shoulder.
“How the bloody ’ell did ’e do that?” Mrs. Palmer muttered to Bea.
Bea’s mouth quivered. “I have no idea, ma’am.”
They were in the main living area, which contained the kitchen, a table and chairs, and a tangle of children playing on the floor. A curtain hung across a doorway to the right, through which a man passed. He was barrel-chested and balding, his bushy whiskers in sore need of a trim.
“David, this ’ere’s Mr. Murray,” his wife said. “The toff who wants to know ’bout that no-good nephew o’ yours. Ralph done ’em wrong, just like ’e done us.”
David Palmer gave Wick a once-over. “Why’s the cove got the triplets?”
“Do you want ’em?” Mrs. Palmer retorted.
In answer, Palmer sat in one of the chairs, putting his feet up on an old crate. “Pull up a seat, Mr. Murray. You keep the babes, and I’ll tell you what you be wantin’ to know.”
* * *
Wick’s ability to engage with people never failed to amaze Bea. From farmers to underworld denizens to his own upper-class family, he found a way to connect. His charm was more than skin-deep; his true beauty lay in the way he treated everyone as his equal.
As a result, three strange babes were snuggled happily against him as their father, an out-of-work carpenter, related his story of woe concerning his nephew Ralph Palmer…who did indeed match the description of Randall Perkins, from his belligerent attitude down to the birthmark on the left side of his face.
“Now Ralph, ’e didn’t ’ave an easy start to life. ’E was teased by the bullies on account o ’is birthmark and then ’is ma and pa, my older brother, cocked up their toes when he was twelve. Me and Mabel took ’im in, tried to do our best by ’im—”
“But a bad seed will grow into poisonous fruit,” Mrs. Palmer declared from the cooking area where she was peeling potatoes. “Ralph was trouble from the start.”
“How so?” Bea asked.
“’E ne’er took to schooling, always involved in fisticuffs and the like.” Mr. Palmer sighed. “By the time the lad was sixteen, ’e ’ad more than a few brushes wif the authorities. ’E ran wif a bad crowd, see, and they led ’im to do stupid things. The females, especially. Weren’t nothin’ the lad wouldn’t do to impress a pretty face. One time, ’e lit Roman candles in an abandoned warehouse and set it on fire—”
“He committed arson?” Wick said alertly.
“Not on purpose. Like I said, ’e was trying to impress some fancy piece—”
“’E’s a liar, thief, and criminal, and I’m tired o’ you making excuses for ’im.” His wife tossed a peeled potato into a wooden bucket. “’Ave you forgotten Ralph got you sacked from your job and left you to pay the damages?”
“Damages?” Wick asked.
Mr. Palmer huffed a breath. “For years, I was the principal workman for a builder—”
“Good-paying job, that was.” His wife plunked another potato into the bucket. “’Til that bounder Ralph ruined it all.”
“Do you want to tell the story, or do you want me to do it?” Mr. Palmer asked.
“Go ahead and tell it,” she grumbled. “But don’t go making light o’ ’is misdeeds. You always were too kind-’earted, David Palmer, and look where that’s got us. Living in this cesspool, that’s wot.”
“As I was saying,” Mr. Palmer went on, “I worked for a builder, and ’e trusted me wif the keys to ’is workshop. A workshop that ’ad tools and materials, all o’ it worth a pretty penny. About a year ago, I woke up to find my keys and Ralph gone. ’E used my keys to get into the workshop and cleared it out.”
“And left us ’olding the bag.” Wielding a knife, Mrs. Palmer took her rage out on a carrot. “All our savings and our ’ome went toward paying for ’is crime.”
Bea had a great deal of empathy for the Palmers, who seemed like decent folk. She knew intimately what it was like to have the actions of kin affect your future, whether you liked it or not.
“We ’ad to pay the debt,” Mr. Palmer said stiffly. “It were a matter o’ honor. Ralph may not care ’bout the family name, but I do.”
“And where did that get us?” Mrs. Palmer demanded of the room at large. “After that incident, Mr. Palmer couldn’t get steady work, despite being the best carpenter this side o’ the Thames.”
“The lady and gent don’t need to ’ear all our troubles, Mabel.” Clearing his throat, Mr. Palmer said, “Ralph was responsible for our misfortune, but ’e weren’t the only one. I blame that female ’e was stepping out wif as well. ’E was always short o’ the ready trying to keep ’er ’appy.”
“That one was always be’er than she ought to be,” Mrs. Palmer agreed. “Didn’t ’ave the common courtesy to pay us a visit. Only met ’er once, in the street wif Ralph, and Miss Hoity-Toity all but ran away rather than be seen wif us.”
“What was her name?” Bea asked curiously. “What did she look like?”
“Mary Smith…don’t know much else ’bout ’er. She did ’ave looks and knew ’ow to do ’erself up like a lady,” Mrs. Palmer said reluctantly. “Blonde, blue-eyed, and pretty, like one o’ em porcelain shepherdesses.”
“When was the last time you saw Ralph or this Mary Smith?” Wick asked.
“Since ’e ransacked the workshop, Ralph knows be’er than to show ’is face ’round ’ere.” The carpenter slid a significant look at his wife, who went on chopping as if she wished it were Ralph on the block instead of the vegetables. Lowering his voice, he added, “But a few days ago, I ’eard talk about ’im being in town.”
Bea’s pulse sped up, her gaze meeting Wick’s. Randall Perkins—Ralph Palmer, that was—might be in London this very moment?
“Where was he seen?” Wick asked.
“Someone said they spotted ’im at The Baited Bear, but I talked to the barkeep—a friend o’ mine—and ’e couldn’t confirm seeing my nephew. I’m sorry I ain’t got more to tell you and even sorrier for whate’er trouble Ralph’s caused you both,” Mr. Palmer said gruffly.
“It’s not your fault, sir,” Bea said. “You’ve been most helpful.”
She rose, the men following suit.
The carpenter took back his sleeping babes. “Least I can do.”
“My company is always in need of good men.” Wick took out his card, leaving it on the crate. “If you’re looking for work, tell the manager I sent you.”
Surprised emotion tautened the carpenter’s face. “Sir…I don’t know what to say…”
“Thank you will do,” his wife declared. “Or H
allelujah!”
34
Unable to sleep, Bea came down to breakfast early the next morning. She was glad to see Wick already in the dining room, a freshly filled plate in front of him. He rose to greet her courteously and asked the room’s other occupant—a footman—for some of Cook’s currant jam. As soon as the servant departed, Wick took her into his arms and kissed her thoroughly.
“God, I missed you,” he murmured.
She ran her fingertips along his smooth-shaven jaw, inhaling his spicy-crisp cologne.
“I didn’t sleep nearly as well without you beside me,” she admitted.
Due to the dowager’s presence, they’d mutually decided to forgo their bedtime activities for the time being. Wick didn’t want to do damage to Bea’s reputation, and Bea didn’t want her future mama-in-law to have additional reasons to dislike her. For despite Wick’s assurances to the contrary, she knew that the dowager did not think she was a suitable match for her son.
While she could learn to live with the Dowager Viscountess Carlisle’s ill opinion of her, she didn’t need to add to it. It was clear that Wick loved his mama, and the dowager doted upon her younger son. The idea of causing strife in the relationship churned Bea’s stomach.
“We’ll figure out better arrangements soon.” Wick kissed her knuckles. “You could, of course, let me make our engagement public. If you don’t mind a small wedding, I could get a special license. Then you’d be mine, and this nonsense of sneaking into bedchambers would be done with.”
“Let’s not worry about that just yet.” She forced a smile. “With the discoveries we made yesterday about Randall Perkins—or Ralph Palmer, I should say—I know we’re getting close to unmasking the villain. We can’t afford distractions, and there’s no harm in waiting a while longer to make things official.”
And to make sure our happiness will last.
She trusted Wick, trusted that he cared for her. And she couldn’t deny that her feelings for him were deepening day by day. He was everything she’d ever hoped to find in a lover, a partner, a husband. Yet so many things remained unsettled. Not only was there a secret adversary to stop, but Wick’s surveyor, Mr. Norton, had yet to deliver his report. In her experience, the journey to happiness never went as planned…
“As you wish, angel.” Wick released her hand. “Why don’t you fill a plate, then, and we’ll plan our next steps.”
Bea was returning from the sideboard with coddled eggs, juicy sausages, and sliced tomatoes just as Carlisle arrived. He made up his own plate and joined them at the table.
“Do you think this Ralph Palmer character is in London?” he asked, forking up a bite of kippers.
“Possibly,” Wick said. “But after meeting with the Palmers, Beatrice and I went to the Baited Bear and the barkeep confirmed what Mr. Palmer told us: he didn’t know anyone who saw Ralph Palmer personally. So the sighting could just be a rumor.” He took a drink of his coffee. “I could dedicate men to finding Palmer, but that’s looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack.”
“My intuition tells me Grigg is the more important lead,” Bea agreed as she buttered a crisp slice of toast. “Thankfully, we have Mr. Lugo assisting us in that regard.”
“Lugo knows what he’s about,” Carlisle said. “He and my brother-in-law Ambrose have solved some of the most difficult cases in London. You’ll have your answers soon enough.”
The butler arrived with the paper, setting it next to Wick.
“Bloody hell.”
At Wick’s vehement oath, both she and Carlisle stared at him.
Heart thudding, she asked, “What’s the matter?”
“I’m going to throttle McGillivray. He and the Potteries Coalition are behind this,” Wick ground out. “They threatened to go public if I didn’t go along with them, and now they have.”
“What’s happened, brother?” Carlisle said quietly.
“This.” Rising, Wick threw the paper down on the table.
Even from her angle, Bea couldn’t miss the headline printed in bold capitals:
INVESTORS FLEE GLNR AS MURRAY FAILS TO DELIVER ON PROMISES.
Her chest clenched as she saw the white lines of anger carved on Wick’s face.
“What…what will you do?” she stammered.
“I don’t know.” His hazel eyes were hard, remote. “The investors were already getting agitated; once they see this they could start jumping ship. And others will follow like lemmings. The whole project—our company—could go under.”
“Whatever I can do, Wickham…” Carlisle began.
“Stay here and look after Beatrice,” Wick said tersely. “I’ve got to get to the office.”
Before Bea could think of what to say, he strode from the room.
* * *
Wick had expected mayhem at the offices of Great London National Railway.
What he found there exceeded his worst expectations.
An angry mob had gathered in front, and it took the escort of six guards to get Wick through the front door. Even so, he didn’t escape unscathed. He was wiping raw egg and rotted produce from his sleeve as he entered Garrity’s office.
Garrity was seated at his desk, Kent on the other side. Both wore grave expressions.
“It was McGillivray,” Wick bit out, stalking over to face his colleagues. “He and the Potteries Coalition threatened to take us under and support the competition if we didn’t start laying track.”
“One cannot blame them,” Garrity said coldly. “We have failed to keep our end of the bargain to them. To all the investors who entrusted us with their money.”
Guilt speared Wick. He knew that the other was right. They had failed…no, he had.
Devil take it, why didn’t I do better? How could I let down my partners and investors, who were counting on me? What the bloody hell is wrong with me?
His frustration and anger at himself felt brutally familiar.
“Perhaps there is salvaging the situation yet. If we were to issue a counter-statement with a plan and timeline, we might be able to staunch the bleeding.” Kent’s bespectacled gaze was not unsympathetic. “Any word from the surveyors?”
“Norton’s verdict should be arriving today or tomorrow.” Wick’s gut tautened as he let himself consider the worst-case scenario.
What if Norton can’t come up with an alternative plan? What then?
In his head, he hadn’t allowed for the possibility—or rather, he’d believed that, whatever Norton’s findings, he could find a way to make things work. That, with time, he would sort out a solution, the way he always did, even with the most difficult of negotiations. In his arrogance, he’d believed that he could manage anything.
Failure had never been an option. Until now…when it was staring him in the face.
“Norton’s verdict is no guarantee of a solution,” Garrity said flatly. “The only immediate action that will prevent certain disaster is gaining Lady Beatrice’s support of our plan. For God’s sake, Murray, it’s clear you’re going to marry the woman. What’s hers will be yours anyway, so she might as well get used to the idea now.”
“That strategy worked well for you, didn’t it?” Wick retorted.
He knew his point hit home when Garrity said nothing, his eyes narrowing into dark slits.
Two years ago, Garrity had undergone a crisis in his marriage when he’d tried to force his wife’s hand in a matter regarding her inheritance. He’d nearly lost Gabriella as a result, and in the end he’d discovered that nothing mattered more than his wife’s love. Since Wick had witnessed first-hand his mentor’s painful soul-searching and ultimate redemption, he knew Garrity had learned his lesson.
“Fine. We’ll buy Lady Beatrice and her goddamned tenants a new refuge.” Garrity’s jaw muscle ticked. “In Staffordshire—on the bloody moon, for all I care. Make her an offer she can’t refuse.”
“I started with that tactic. It’s not about the money. Camden Manor isn’t just a piece of land to Beatrice.” Hell, he didn�
�t know how to make his partners understand. “It’s not…replaceable. Trust me, I’ve tried—”
“Try. Bloody. Harder,” Garrity said.
“In the interim, we should assemble the investors,” Kent cut in. “I could give a demonstration of the new engine. Perhaps the technological advances we’ve developed will reignite some confidence. It will buy us more time to get the rest of our plan in order.”
“Good thinking,” Garrity said curtly. “I’ll personally contact our largest stakeholders and assure them that while plans have been delayed, they will proceed. I’ll tell the clerks to toe the company line. All right, gentlemen, we have our tasks: let’s each do our part.”
Wick left the office, his chest tight. He knew what his part was: to get the railway built. Which meant he either had to renege on his vow to Beatrice and ask her once again to sell her land—or fail the company and people who’d trusted him.
Either way, failure and dishonor were closing in.
35
When Wick arrived home, the conversation he dreaded having with Beatrice was delayed by the appearance of Mr. Lugo. The three of them met in the drawing room, Beatrice perched on the settee, Wick standing behind her, the investigator facing them both. A strapping fellow, Mr. Lugo had mahogany skin and penetrating eyes, his deep voice bearing the accent of his native Africa. He declined the offer of tea and got straight to the point.
“I have started making inquiries into Thomas Edgar Grigg,” he said. “While the case is in its early stages, I believe I have some information that may be of interest.”
“Since we spoke to you only two days ago, I’m amazed you have any information to share,” Bea said with clear admiration. “Your reputation is obviously well earned, sir.”
Mr. Lugo inclined his close-cropped head in acknowledgement. “To begin, Grigg was an only child born in Manchester. Both his parents died when he was in his adolescence, and he worked as a coal miner as a young man. He managed to catch the eye of a coal merchant’s daughter visiting from London, a woman by the name of Madeline Johnson. He married her and got into the family business.
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