The countess patted her hand. “Royce men are simply irresistible. I know.” Then she added, proudly, “Jordan is a handsome devil, isn’t he? Except for that nose, of course. That must have come from his father’s side of the family. Along with his truth—his love of the truth, that is, and his mulishness. Once he understands the consequences, he will do the right thing.”
Now Amanda had to speak up. “No, I swore not to force him to the altar. That would be the wrong thing for him, and thus for me. What happiness could I find, knowing he is miserable? He is not at fault, so why should he suffer? He did not seduce me; I went to his room. You must not blame him.”
The countess blamed herself, the tainted meat, and her weak stomach for not arriving sooner. She had her own opinions about the source of her son’s aversion to the married state, but she let that topic fall for now, pouring the chocolate into the delicate china cups. “I am only happy he is home, here with us.”
“He does not intend to stay in London, so do not expect too much.”
Lady Royce smiled over her drink in satisfaction, an expression that would have sent Rex scurrying for the countryside. “Oh, I think I might have found the way to keep him here. We’ll just have to convince him to enjoy London while we can. And we will not speak more about last night.”
Amanda shook her head. The countess made it sound as if Rex were here on holiday. “You are forgetting about Sir Frederick.”
Lady Royce set down her cup. “I cannot forget that awful man and how he treated your mother. I am glad he is dead, glad you are now free to make your home with me.”
Amanda’s throat closed, choked on tears of gratitude no hot drink could relieve. “I feared I would have no place, if . . . if I have a future at all. You cannot imagine how your kindness relieves me.”
“Recall, I said there were to be no tears. There are advantages to being a noblewoman of a certain age and authority. People have to listen to you.” She stood and rang for a servant. “Now come, get dressed in your prettiest frock. We are going out so I can show off my godchild. I always wished for a daughter, you know.”
“Out?” Amanda dreaded the stares, the whispers behind her back, the actual backs that turned when she approached so the countess’s friends did not have to acknowledge her. No matter what Lady Royce declared, not even a countess could force anyone to accept an accused murderess in their midst. From what Amanda knew of the beau monde, they just might accept a killer sooner than a female who had skipped down the primrose path. The ink of scandal might rub off on their own daughters, contaminating them with lax morals or, worse, with minds of their own. The countess might have great standing in London’s high society, but Amanda was not willing to put it to the test. She raised a hand to her forehead. “I am not feeling quite well, yet.”
“Neither am I, but if you are well enough for midnight trysts, you are well enough for a stroll through Hyde Park.”
So much for never mentioning last night again. “But I cannot bear to go out in public. Everyone will stare.” If they did not throw stones at her.
Lady Royce was undaunted. “All the more reason to look your best. Too bad you cannot wear some of your mother’s jewelry,” she said, looking at the finery Amanda had taken out to show her. “But I suppose that would be too brazen, a young woman in mourning wearing colored stones or diamonds, with her relation barely cold in the grave. You do have dark gowns, don’t you?”
Lady Royce’s efficient dresser had arrived and was already going through Amanda’s wardrobe, laying out her more subdued apparel, which meant her older, less fashionablegowns. When Amanda mentioned that, her ladyship declared that her abigail could make the proper alterations in a moment’s work. “There is no need for solid black, under the circumstances. There is every need for you to hold your chin high. Remember, you did nothing wrong.”
Amanda waited for the servant to take an armful of gowns away with her to the sewing room. “Well, I ought not to have gone to Rex’s chamber.” If the countess could refer to it, so could Amanda.
“No, I meant, you did not shoot the scoundrel. We shall forget that other business.” Again. “My gudgeon of a son seems to have.”
A man did not forget one of the most moving, stirring, intense events of his life. The most idiotic thing he had ever done! Hell, he should have jumped out the window and been done with it. Furious with himself for his lack of restraint, the countess for making him feel three years old, and his father for never explaining anything to him, he did what any sensible chap would do. He pounded on his cousin’s door and aggravated someone else.
“Get up, you clunch. You have to make sure they don’t do a flit. I’ll go track down some of the others on the list, but I cannot let the cursed females wander about by themselves. It isn’t safe, for one thing, and they might just get in a coach and not come back, for another. Lady Royce is threatening to take ship for the antipodes if necessary.”
Daniel threw his pillow across the room, missing Rex by a yard and hitting the dog, who turned tail and ran, with the tarts Rex had brought his cousin to tempt him from bed. “You do not know a thing about women, do you? Just bribe one of the maids to tell you if they pack. You and that Dodd bloke are already blackmailing each other, so have him notify you if they take a trunk with them. They might say they’re donating old clothes to the poor house, but don’t believe ’em.”
“How do you know so much?”
“I have a sister, don’t you know.”
“She tried to run off?” Rex knew Daniel’s sister was supposed to have her come-out next year, but she was still a child in his mind.
“No, but one of her friends tried to elope when I first came home. Her father asked my help. We caught up with the chit, of course, which seems to have been the would-be groom’s plan from the start, because he did not hide his route nor hurry his horses. Seems he wanted to be rich, not married. The girl’s father paid him off to keep quiet. Then I beat the stuffing out of him.”
“This is different. It’s a legal matter. In addition to speaking of booking passage to foreign regions, her ladyship wants to put Amanda on exhibit first. Taking her to parties and teas, to show the
ton
that she, the countess, is not concerned. She could have her friends or servants gather clothes and such for a journey. So we shall have to keep watch.”
“We?”
“If I have to go, so do you. She was speaking of the opera tonight.”
“The opera?” Daniel turned green again. Rex left the room in a hurry.
Lady Royce was not plotting an escape for this afternoon, Rex reasoned. She was too busy planning an evening of torture. He set out about his business, Amanda’s business, more determined than ever to clear the charges before the month was over.
On his way to that Bond Street jeweler with J.J. as his initials, Rex kept his ear tuned for following footsteps, and his mind keyed to prickles of intuition. The weather was excellent for once, so a great many people were out and about the street of shops, making it difficult to spot anyone in particular on his trail. His instincts told him nothing except how the upper class spent its afternoons, spending fortunes on items they did not need.
The jeweler told him nothing, either. He’d done some business with Sir Frederick, but that was all. Now that the man was dead, Joshua Jacobs could admit to altering some jewelry for the man, exchanging a few precious stones for glass or paste. Jacobs also purchased the real gems, to be recut and used in other settings.
No, he had no idea what Sir Frederick was doing with the money. The necklace was his first wife’s, the baronet had sworn, so the diamonds were his to do with as he wanted.
“Not if they were entailed to his son’s wife, they weren’t.”
It happened all the time, Mr. Jacobs told Rex, when the nobs were under the hatches. Minor titleholders especially, who held heirlooms that were seldom documented or drawn, unlike the more famous pieces of the better families. The toffs Jacobs usually encountered kept the real stones to sell one at a time. Sir Frederick’s need for cash must have been urgent.
But why? That was the question. Why had he closed his accounts, stolen Amanda’s money, and cashed in as many of his assets as he could get his hands on, and still lived like a pauper?
Jacobs raised his hands. “How should I know? I am nothing but a shopkeeper.”
An honest one, Rex judged. He thanked the man and left a gold coin on the counter in appreciation. The jeweler handed it back. “Perhaps something for your lady?”
“I don’t have a lady.”
“Your mother?”
“I barely have a—” Then he saw a tray full of opera glasses and ornate lorgnettes. If they were going to the opera, Amanda might need a magnifier to see the stage, and to stare down the gawking audience. He selected a delicate lorgnette with various colored stones embedded in the gold handle, to match whichever of her mother’s jewelry she chose to wear. He ended up paying far more than he intended for information, but a Town beau was supposed to send flowers to a young lady he had partnered in a dance the night before. Surely what they’d shared deserved a lot more than a nosegay, not that anyone had to know, of course. He told himself a quizzing glass was entirely proper for a friend to give. Just in case, he added silver opera glasses for the countess to his purchase, so his gift to Amanda did not look as particular. He ignored the rings entirely.
His next stop was debtors’ prison.
The Fleet was not as noxious as Newgate, and the guards were lax in enforcing the rules, or more greedy.
Roger Vandermere, one of the R.V.s on the Aide’s list, had a private cell, with a bed and a chair and table. All the comforts of home, the man explained, which was lucky, since his own house had been claimed by the duns and the constable. He’d be living at the Fleet for some time, unless he managed to pay off his creditors.
Now here was man who ought to be bribable, Rex thought, estimating how much money he had on him. No transfer of funds was necessary, however, because Vandermere wanted to talk. He was deuced lonely in prison, he said, and bored. His friends did not stop by, afraid he’d ask for a loan. He was not afraid to answer Rex’s questions, either. Perhaps word of Rex’s reputation had not reached inside the prison walls, or else the man had nothing to fear.
Rex already knew Vandermere couldn’t have killed Sir Frederick Hawley, not from his current address. Vandermere laughed when he asked about a hired assassin. “If I could afford to pay the going rate, I wouldn’t be here, would I?” He’d be at the baize tables and the horse track, trying to win back his fortune.
He did know the late, unlamented baronet, to his regret. They’d been partners, he gladly told Rex, with a group of other men, investing in a shipping scheme that could not fail. Except it did. The reason the capital was lost, as well as any profits, was that Hawley had not made the final payment on time to ensure the cargo was shipped. Then he claimed the goods were stolen before he could negotiate another deal. No, Vandermere did not know the other investors, only the banker, Breverton. Vandermere suspected the project had something to do with smuggled goods because words like “warehouse” and “Calais” were mentioned, but he never inquired too closely. “Better not to know, eh?”
Hawley had refused to make good on the missing investment, saying he had lost his own fortune and did not have enough of the ready. Instead of tripling his money as the baronet had promised, Vandermere had lost it all, his house, his carriage, his mistress. That last hurt the most, especially when the disloyal wench never came to visit. Nor did Sir Frederick come. “I guess that was lucky, or I might have been the one to send the dastard to his maker, and then where would I be?”
In a smaller cell.
So Sir Frederick was indeed connected to a shipping venture of some sort, which led Rex to Joseph Johnston, the merchant who had taken on Sir Frederick’s valet. Johnston was away from home when Rex called. Brusseau was there. No, he did not kill Sir Frederick. No, he was not in the house at the time. His late master had told him he was not needed. How could he know who killed monsieur when he was not on the premises?
Everything he said was true, to Rex’s disappointment. “You have a brother?”
“
Oui.
That is no crime, no?”
“Where is he employed?”
“Why, so you can call at his employer’s residence and lay suspicion at his door? No, I have answered enough of your questions. Mademoiselle Carville had cause to wish Monsieur dead. That is enough, no?”
No.
He found Johnston at his offices near the docks, where the air stank of the tidal mud and Johnston’s cigars. “I am busy, as you can see.” He waved purchase orders, bills of lading, crew rosters, and a few gilt-edged invitations at Rex. “I do not have time for any half-pay officer playing at detective. You can show yourself out.” He picked up another document, this one with an official seal on it.
“A moment more, please. I merely wish to know if Sir Frederick had dealings with your company.”
“I take on many investors to finance my ships, and I do not keep track. The bank handles that.”
“Breverton’s Bank?”
“Among others. The contracts are all legal.”
“Are they written up by Sir Nigel Turlowe, by any chance?” Rex guessed.
“Among others. Is that what this is about?” Now he put down the papers and took his cigar out of the corner of his mouth, setting it atop a stack of ship’s logs. “You want to put some of your blunt on my ships? I’ll tell you what I tell all the swells: I cannot guarantee anything. Ships sail, get blown off course, get pirated or shot at. If you can stomach the risk, I’ll be happy to have more backing.”
Paying for information was one thing, paying to smuggle goods in from France was another. Rex answered the man with another question of his own. “Why did you hire Brusseau, a Frenchman?”