He paused outside the woman’s door. No light came from under the crack, but a loud sawing sound reached the hallway. Good grief, someone was trying to cut through the window. His hand on the doorknob, Rex listened again. Not sawing, he realized, but snoring. No wonder the woman was unwed, if word of that got out. She was louder than a woodsman, with a whistle here and there.
Rex smiled. So Miss Amanda Carville was not quite the delicate flower he’d painted in his mind’s eye. Now maybe he could sleep without thinking of her. Who the devil wanted to share his pillow with a wheezing, gasping, whistling chorus? He might as well sleep in the barnyard.
The noise stopped suddenly. Good gods, had she choked? Knowing he was doing wrong, knowing he had no choice, Rex pushed the door in. If anyone saw him he could say he heard noises—heaven knew that was true— and came to check on Miss Carville’s welfare.
He would have stumbled over the trundle bed set up right at the entry to the room, except the snoring began again, louder now that he was closer. Nanny was fast asleep, on her back, her mouth wide open, sounding like a honking goose. If the noise did not frighten intruders away, his old nursemaid had the fireplace poker on the mattress beside her, her knitting needles on the other side. Nanny was doing her best to guard her charge against fevers and marauders and rakish gentlemen.
He shielded his candle and stepped around the cot to the four-poster bed. Amanda was sleeping, lord knew how, over the racket. Then he saw the bottles on the nearby table and supposed she’d taken the laudanum again, the poor puss. She’d likely feel muzzy in the morning, but at least she would get the rest she needed.
He couldn’t help noticing the gold curls flattened under a bit of a lace nightcap, or how the covers were pulled up to her chin, leaving no trace of a neckline or breast. He also saw the kitchen knife on the bed near her hand. “That’s good. Sleep well, my dear, and trust no one.” He turned to leave. “Not even me.”
Amanda stayed awake as long as possible. She wrote letters to her stepsister and -brother, telling them of her situation, as best she could. She did not ask for their help or support. If Edwin and Elaine believed her guilty, none would be forthcoming. If they believed her innocent, she should not need to ask. And what could they do, anyway? Neither had funds or influence or understanding of the courts.
Lord Rexford had all of them.
She looked over the clothes that had been brought from Hawley House, knowing she would never get to wear ball gowns again unless Rex succeeded. She glanced at the books he had brought her, but she’d read both of the popular novels. She rearranged the roses, and moved the violets closer to her bed. She had dinner, and then tea and biscuits, and a glass of wine Nanny recommended as a restorative. It did not restore Amanda’s patience.
The men did not come home.
Amanda could not complain. Of course not. They were young gentlemen, so the London night was their playing field. They had already done so much for her, and were trying their best. They were entitled to a night of pleasure. Blast them.
She decided to go to bed. A good night’s rest would complete her recovery so she’d be more help tomorrow. With Nanny asleep near the door and the kitchen knife at her side, Amanda was safe, well fed, clean, and comfortable. Surely she had a lot to be thankful for in her prayers, especially Lady Royce and her son. She prayed for them, too, and blew out the candle.
She lay there, waiting for sleep to come. It couldn’t tip-toe through the noise. “Nanny?”
“Mm, yes, miss?”
“You are snoring.”
“Oh no, I would never do that. Good night, lambie.”
The trundle bed was rocking with every inhale; the draperies were fluttering with every exhale. Dreadful thoughts came to Amanda in the dark instead of the solace of sleep. In another few moments she’d be in a panic again, worrying that Rex and Daniel would not come home, would not find evidence to help her case, would not save her. The trial was another day closer. Before she could talk herself into a waking nightmare, seeing Sir Frederick on the floor, hearing the prison guards bargain for her body, feel the filthy hands grabbing at her, she took the laudanum left at her bedside.
She pulled the twisted covers straight, tightened the bow of her nightcap, and said her prayers again, just in case no one had heard them the first time, over the snoring. Slowly she sank into slumber.
What a lovely dream! His lordship came into the room to watch over her, to whisper something. Amanda could not make out the words, but she knew they were tender, caring, encouraging. Then he left, and Amanda smiled in her sleep until the dream turned sour.
Of course he would not really come into her bedroom now that she was no longer so sick. Rex was a gentleman with a rigid code of honor, and had not a little fear of Nanny’s knitting needles. But what did it matter?
Amanda had no reputation left to lose. They all knew it, whether Nanny guarded her like a hen with one chick or not, whether Rex and Daniel treated her like a lady or not. She was not a lady in the eyes of the polite world. She would never marry now that she was declared damaged goods. She’d never have a home or family of her own, no babies to nurture at her breast. So why should she not enjoy the friendship of the most interesting gentleman she had ever met, the only one who truly liked her? After all, who was she saving herself for, the hangman?
Rex had pleasant dreams. He awoke still warm with the memory of a soft body next to his, gentle breath on his cheek, a mew of satisfied contentment near his pillow.
“Damn it, Verity! You know you are not supposed to sleep on the bed!”
Chapter Sixteen
R
ex found himself looking forward to the morning’s work with Bow Street. Daniel was not. He grumbled about the dangerous characters they were likely to meet, and Rex nobly refrained from likening Dimm’s cutpurses to Daniel’s crooked dealers at his favored gambling dens. With the promise of a second beefsteak breakfast afterward, Daniel went along. Someone had to look after Rex, hadn’t he? Who knew what crazy notion he’d get next. Helping the war effort was one thing; interrogating pimps and pickpockets was another; acting the mooncalf over an accused murderess was the worst of all. If playing at thieftaker would keep Rex away from leg shackles, Daniel was willing to help.
Inspector Dimm was having his doubts about his new consultant, too. Not about the results of Lord Rexford’s so-called experiments; they were a success. Dimm’s men had found evidence to convict most of those the viscount had declared guilty, the suspects who hadn’t already confessed. Dimm puffed on his pipe in his little office while the cousins stood along the wall. “It’s that there’s been a pother with my superiors. One of the gentlemen”—he blew out a black cloud of smoke—“accused my department of beating those confessions out of the prisoners.”
“Sir Nigel,” both of the Inquisitors said at the same time.
“Aye, I expect so. No matter that I swore you never touched a single one of the lawbreakers, afore or after they confessed. I just couldn’t explain how you got so good at guessing, is all. Odds were even, guilty or innocent, you’d get half right. But you got ’em all.” He tapped the diminished pile of folders and papers on his desk. “And we proved most of them, without a doubt. I couldn’t exactly explain the science behind your findings.”
“Does it matter?” Rex stared at Dimm, waiting.
Dimm stared back through a smoke ring, as if he’d find an answer in Rex’s black-rimmed blue eyes. Then the old Runner shrugged. “There’s lots of things I’ll never understand, like why it always rains on my afternoon off, or how a woman’s mind works. The way I see it, getting the filth off the streets is my job, what I was hired for, any which way I can get it done.”
For the inspector’s sake, Rex and Daniel decided to sit outside his office, at Dimm’s assistant’s desk, playing at dice as if waiting for Dimm to be free for luncheon, say, or a visit to the coffeehouse across the street. With his office door open during his interviews, they could still conduct their “experiments.”
“What, you don’t even have to see the blokes face-to-face? Is it the sweat as they walk past? Do the guilty smell more than the innocent?”
“No, that was great-grandfather’s gift—Why’d you kick me?”
Rex ignored his cousin’s complaint. “There are many factors, as I said yesterday. Many people, honest or otherwise,will perspire under trying circumstances. So today we will listen to the voices and see what we detect. One rap on the table is for the truth, two mean the suspect is feeding you hog-slop.”
There was a bit of confusion at first, what with the dice falling on the wooden desktop, but the system worked wondrously, to everyone’s satisfaction except the prisoners and Daniel, who had a rash on both of his ankles.
“Sorry, there must be fleas in here,” Dimm’s assistant apologized. “Our visitors ain’t much for bathing.”
Or for speaking the truth.
Every captive and witness was also asked if he or she had killed Sir Frederick Hawley. None had. Did they know who committed the murder, if not Miss Carville? None did.
In a short time the holding cells were empty of the night’s arrests. The innocent were set free, the guilty were sent to the courts for indictments.
Inspector Dimm was delighted. “I might get to spend some time at home, my feet up on a stool, a cat on my lap, with a good book to read.” He was happy to hand over search warrants and writs making Rex’s actions, past and future, legal. He also loaned him the use of a shriveled old man known as Duncan Fingers.
Rex took Dimm aside. “What am I supposed to do with Duncan, beside feed him and find him a place in the sun?”
Dimm laughed. “Duncan used to be the best safe-cracker in all of London. If you want to get into Sir Frederick’s secret drawers or vaults, he’s your man.”
Rex already had a huge dog and his huger, itchy cousin, an ancient nanny, a silent valet, and an alleged murderess. What was a former convict, more or less?
If Sir Frederick’s solicitor was disconcerted to have a known thief in his office, stretching his knuckles—“to keep m’fingers nimble, don’t you know”—he hid it well. Either that or he was so terrified of Rex and Daniel’s reputation that a cracksman was a lesser evil.
He was, truthfully, pleased to see someone looking after Miss Carville’s interests. He was even more pleased to see the legal documents, so he was not forced to break his client’s confidence.
“Left everything to his son, did he?” Daniel asked.
“Nothing that was not entailed. They had a falling out.”
“We heard that. So whom did he name as heir?”
“He refused to name anyone or make a will. He told me that he fully intended to take his money with him. The son will get what is left, eventually.”
“But what of the fortune Sir Frederick’s second wife brought, which was to have been Miss Carville’s inheritance? Surely that does not become part of the man’s estate?”
“Bad business, that,” the solicitor said. “But all legal. A husband has control of his wife’s monies, of course, and no other trustee was named for Miss Carville’s mother’s own fortune by the late Lord Carville. Another oversight, in my opinion. Sir Frederick had himself declared Miss Amanda Carville’s legal guardian, with my office’s assistance, to my regret. Her funds were his to dispense as he saw fit, including her dowry. He withdrew all the money and closed the accounts, over my objections that time, I will have you know. He left no wherewithal for me to finance Miss Carville’s defense beyond hiring a barrister to represent her.”
A barrister who never asked if she was guilty. The solicitor could have used his own brass, Rex thought, to hire a more competent, caring lawyer, but he did not say it. “What did the blackguard do with all that money?”
“He said he was making investments, but not through my firm. It was not my place to ask more questions.”
Not his place, when a woman and child were being stripped of their fortune? Rex did not hold the solicitor in high regard. Sir Frederick did not either, it appeared, since he did not confide his plans. “Perhaps his bank will know.”
The solicitor looked doubtful. “Very closemouthed he was. I suspected—”
“Blackmail?” Daniel suggested, his favorite theory, after the butler and the burglar.
“Of course not. Sir Frederick was a gentleman.”
Rex did not comment on how many gentlemen of title and means were mean as snakes. “What did you think he was doing with the money, then?”
The solicitor cleared his throat, then coughed. “I, ah, considered that he had another family to support. One not sanctioned by the church.”
Daniel liked that theory. “And then, when he would not wed his lover, she shot him in anger. Or maybe he was growing tired of her and her demands and she refused to be dismissed.”
Oh, lord. Rex changed the subject. “Did you know Miss Carville?”
“I knew her mother, and her father before. Good solid gentleman, he was, despite not making proper provisions. Of course he did not count on dying so young, but no one ever does, do they? He’d be appalled now.”
“Everyone is.”
The solicitor excused himself, then came back with a locked box. “I have been wondering what to do with this.”
Duncan had it open before the solicitor could find the correct key in his drawer. Meanwhile the man of affairs explained that he’d kept the contents safe from Sir Frederick by writing stringent terms into Lady Carville’s will, which she had dictated on her deathbed unbeknownst to Sir Frederick. She knew it was too late to save her fortune for her daughter, and her annuity had stopped on her remarriage, but she did have these, in her own name. Gifts from her own mother and her first husband, the box’s contents were not entailed to any estate, so were hers to bequeath.
Duncan whistled.
Daniel’s eyes opened wider. Even Rex was impressed. The box contained a dragon’s horde of jewelry: necklaces, bracelets, brooches, and earbobs, set with diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. To Rex’s admittedly untrained eye, they appeared elegant and expensive, all in the finest taste and quality. Duncan swore they were genuine.