“Instead of catching scores of felons to make London safer for all of us? Perhaps you ought to inquire at the magistrate’s office how many crimes he has solved this week alone, how many true miscreants he has seen sentenced, with facts and confessions to prove his cases, not smoke and mirrors and personal vendettas.”
Sir Nigel ignored the interruption. “And that shady character connected to Whitehall who pulled strings for you. I’ll see him brought down, too. Why should anyone trust a fellow who always stands in darkness?”
“Strange, I would trust him with my life, and have. As has General Wellesley, along with the lives of half the army. Any foul attempt to discredit the Aide might very well sacrifice our own soldiers.”
Sir Nigel waved his fist in the air. “Justice, I say! Justice will be done.”
“Justice? Is it justice to abuse a gently bred young lady of two and twenty years by tossing her to ignorant guards and common thieves without a conviction? She could have been placed under house arrest, or remanded to a family friend.”
“Everyone knows she is guilty.”
“Now you are judge as well as jury? I thought the lowest cutpurse or pickpocket got a fair trial.”
The onlookers were shaking their heads in disapproval.
Like the experienced barrister he was, Sir Nigel sensed he had lost the goodwill of the listeners. “Bah!”
“Bah, indeed, traducing the justice system you say you hold dear. But let us ask our charming hostess.”
Lady Arbuthnot was looking anxious, with her ball turning into a political debate, if not a duel.
Rex asked her how old her lovely daughter was.
“Nineteen,” she answered with uncertainty as to his purpose.
“And if she found herself in the wrong place, at the wrong time, in a situation far beyond her understanding or experience, would you not expect her peers to deal with her as a lady?”
“Of course.” She glared at Sir Nigel. “I have known Amanda Carville her entire life. She is a sensible, kind-hearted miss who always acts just as she ought. If she claims she is not guilty, and Lady Royce shows she believes the girl is not guilty by taking her into her home, and a brave officer from the general’s staff puts his own honor at stake for her, I, for one, am willing to believe her.”
“She is innocent.” Rex stated without hesitation. Daniel nodded his head in agreement.
“Two officers.”
“Bah!” Sir Nigel repeated. “Of course the young bucks will back her story. Amanda Carville is nothing but a light skirt.”
Rex held onto his temper with effort—and with another jab in the ribs from his cousin. He might be black and blue in the morning, but he would not be counting twenty paces, leaving Amanda without protection. “No,” he told Lady Arbuthnot and the circle of eager guests who surrounded them. “The only one who claimed Miss Carville’s disgrace is the man who wanted to keep her dowry for himself, after he stole her inheritance.”
“He did?” Lady Arbuthnot gasped. A few of her friends fanned themselves with their hands. “I never knew. But I never did like that Hawley monster. That poor child.” She glared at Sir Nigel, who made her a cursory bow, turned on his heel, and left without another word, shoving one portly matron aside.
Lady Arbuthnot asked Rex, almost as if he had prompted her, “My dear Lord Rexford, when did you say your mother was due to return to London?”
“Momentarily, depending on her own health and the weather,” he said, trying for any plausible excuse for the delay. “Meanwhile she has ordered her beloved godchild placed under the care of thoroughly trustworthy women, who watch over Miss Carville’s sickroom night and day.”
Lady Arbuthnot beamed at Rex and Daniel, then at her friends. “Excellent. Do you know, I believe my daughter has a dance open after all?”
“So does mine!”
“And mine.”
Oh, Lord.
Chapter Fifteen
They went to the Cocoa Tree next. The gamblers and gossipers there were not as fusty as the members at White’s Club or Boodles. The cousins’ reception was not warm, but their money was welcomed at the tables, especially when word arrived, as it always did, of the confrontation with Sir Nigel Turlowe.
“What did that Shakespeare chap say?” a castaway gentleman watching their game asked. “Something about, first, kill all the lawyers.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to the downfall of that social-climbing jackass.”
The son of a marquis, the drunk had never worked a day in his life. The son of an earl, Rex understood about wanting to make something of oneself, but not on the backs of others. He raised his own glass, although he took a mere sip. “May he at least be proved wrong about Sir Frederick Hawley’s murder.”
“You say the gal did not blow his brains to smithereens?”
One of the card players gagged.
Rex frowned and said, “No, Miss Carville had cause to dislike the man, but she is a lady.” That stopped any possible comment about Amanda’s supposed fall from grace. Rex reinforced his point with adding, “She is Lady Royce’s godchild, don’t you know.” He figured that the countess’s social standing ought to be good for something.
“Stands to reason, with you taking up the cause.”
If the man was hinting for more gossip, he was wasting his time. “Family,” Rex said, almost choking on the foreign word. “I never met the female before.”
The cousins earned their acceptance at the table by losing, and by paying in coins, not in vouchers to be collected some time in the vague future. “Not like Sir Frederick’s usual habit, eh?”
But no one claimed to hold the dead man’s vowels. One down-at-heels young baronet owed Hawley a small sum, in fact, and wondered if he had to pay the heir.
A debt of honor was a debt of honor—that was the consensus among the inveterate gamblers, no matter the legality of the thing. And Sir Frederick’s family needed the blunt. The son was trying to restore an ailing estate, wasn’t he? And who would marry either of the girls now, guilty or not, without a generous dowry?
Rex made sure he lost to the baronet.
They moved on to a new gaming club Daniel patronized where the company was less lofty, less bound by scruples than greed. The wine was watered; the dice were likewise suspect. Again, Rex and Daniel swore Miss Carville was innocent. And an innocent. She was home ill, wasn’t she? And again, they found nothing damning about Sir Frederick. No one liked the man, but no one seemed to hate him enough to kill him. As at the previous establishment, no one knew his friends, if he had any.
Their next stop was at McCann’s Club, a favorite among military men. Rex wanted to look around, to spot a familiar figure, listen for a familiar voice. The Aide, Major Harrison, or Mr. Harris, was either disguised so that Rex would not recognize him, or he was not wearing a disguise at all, in which case Rex would still not recognize him. Either that or he was not there. The manager swore he never heard of the man, by either of his names, but if an elderly gentleman fitting the description did happen to come by, the manager would give him a message from Rex. Rex held his coin away from the outstretched hand. No, he had no message. And no, he discovered, the upper rooms were not open to guests. They were reserved for the club’s proprietors, with two guards watching the stairwell.
The cousins moved on to one of Daniel’s more frequent haunts, a gaming hell just like the one where they’d been in the brawl, where they would not be welcome or safe anytime soon. The dive was noisier than any of the more genteel clubs, dirtier, with rougher company, higher stakes, and cheaper liquor.
Daniel was too familiar with the low clientele for Rex’s comfort, knowing every serving girl by name, every sot passed out in the corners, all the toothless old gamblers, and the hard-eyed younger ones, who cleaned their filthy fingernails with stilettoes.
This was no place for his kin, no matter how big and strong Daniel was, or how friendly the whores. Rex decided it was a good thing he’d come to London when he had. Someone had to rescue dunderheaded Daniel before he caught the pox or a knife in the back.
Rex thought for a moment about going upstairs with one of the cleaner-looking bar maids, to slake the entirely inappropriate and totally unquenchable thirst for Miss Amanda Carville. He’d gone too long without a woman, he told himself. That was all it was: A man had certain needs. The only reason he thought of those needs and Amanda in the same breath was that he’d rescued the girl. He’d carried her and washed her, and tucked her up in bed. Now he felt protective of her, possessive, even.
He felt more than brotherly, though. Amanda was vulnerable, appearing so fragile and soft, but she was deuced appealing, too. No painted doxy stood tall and straight, with a lady’s careful carriage. No wench in a gaming den had that glow of intelligence about her or the educated speech. No whore wore her innocence like a crown. And no, he knew a tumble on dirty sheets would not satisfy his need.
Neither would a visit to a higher class of courtesan at one of the luxurious bordellos. For that matter, he could have answered any of the come-hither glances from the widows and wanton wives at Lady Arbuthnot’s, but the lobster patties had seemed more appetizing. Damn, the only woman he wanted was the one he should not, could not have. The sooner he left London, the better.
For tonight, Rex was tired of the cards and the smoke-filled rooms. Never a gambler, he was bored with losing his brass to loosen tongues. They never found that Sir Frederick won or lost vast amounts, only that he seldom bought a round or left a coin for the dealer or paid his debts early. The man was a niggard, everyone agreed, a mean drunk, and not mourned overmuch, but he had no obvious enemies.
Rex had no idea if their appearance had changed anyone’s mind in Amanda’s favor. If the patrons of every walk of life, from the glittering
ton
to the gutter, felt that of course Miss Carville had committed the crime, they were wise enough to keep their lips sealed when the cousins were nearby.
So Rex felt he was getting nowhere but poorer, and Daniel was getting drunker. “I think we have learned all we are going to,” Rex told his cousin, hauling the larger man to his feet with effort. “We have done what we can for Miss Carville’s reputation by staying out this late to prove we are not sitting in her pocket, or her bedchamber. So come, tomorrow will be a busy day, and I do not like leaving her alone all night.”
Daniel stumbled after him, but once out in the air seemed to regain his footing and his common sense. He leaned toward Rex and shook his finger. “You are too involved, my boy. Dangerous, don’t you know.”
“I was speaking of my dog, Verity. She is not used to London ways or being without me. I do not know if anyone fed her, or let her out afterward.”
Daniel leaned against a lamppost and took off his shoe to scratch his toes.
At home—Lady Royce’s home, Rex reminded himself lest he get to thinking he belonged here, which he definitely did not—he poured two last glasses of excellent brandy while Daniel and Verity made one more foray to the pantry to see what there was to eat. Neither of them was ever full, but Rex had not eaten much that evening, so they all shared a potluck meal of cold meats and cheese and bread. Not even Nanny’s sister could ruin those.
Rex consulted his notes, planning their next day’s campaign. Bow Street came first, and he tried to encourage Daniel to attend with him. “It’s interesting and a worthwhile enterprise.”
Daniel set down his makeshift sandwich. “I get hives just thinking about all the lies they’ll tell.”
“But we can winnow out the guilty ones quicker than the detectives can. You know, making the world a better place.”
Daniel snorted. “Yes, and have people looking sideways at us wondering how, just like the army, where we were making the world safe from the Corsican. Research and science, my arse. And if you are thinking anyone will appreciate the effort, remember that Spanish officer at Cifuentes who kept crossing himself and praying every time we walked by.”
“Well, we need the warrants from Inspector Dimm, so we owe him an hour or two. Then we can go to Hawley’s solicitor, his bank, and his house to search.”
“For what? You’ve got the gun.”
“For the reason someone wanted him dead.”
Daniel took a big bite of his sandwich, then broke off a piece for the dog. “What if it was an ordinary burglar who was surprised by Sir Frederick? I know the report said the windows were all shut when the Watch arrived, but the thief could have walked in and out the front door.”
“Past Miss Carville? No, but a robber could have used the servant’s entrance, with the staff all elsewhere, when he heard her return home. No one said anything was missing, though.”
“Maybe the thief didn’t have time, with Amanda storming in. Besides, if the killer was after Sir Frederick’s purse, we’ll never be able to prove it.”
“Unless he happens to be one of the raff and scaff Dimm drags in off the streets for us to question.”
“I suppose.” Daniel took the rest of his meal—his fourth or fifth of the evening—and went up to bed, Verity following the scent. Rex stayed behind with his notes. They still had to find that valet. Perhaps Murchison had discovered something.
The valet had been waiting up, despite the late hour. He shook his head no. Nothing was known about Brusseau’s new place of employment? Another head shake, but one word:
“Frère,”
in French.
“Brusseau has a brother? A fine lot of good that does us, if we cannot find either. Keep trying.”
Murchison wrinkled his nose at the stench of cigars and cheap perfume clinging to Rex’s uniform, but said nothing. There were advantages, after all, in having a valet who did not speak much.
Then Rex was alone. He ought to climb into bed and rest his weary leg. Instead he pulled the sash of his robe tighter and took his candle down the hall. He’d just check on Miss Carville, make certain she was not still feverish. After all, Nanny was getting old, and could not watch over her every minute.