Alex sat at his desk and stared at the closed door to his dressing room, lost in thought.
He was worried about Angelique. Despite her assurances that she was fine, she had been pale and drawn when they had returned, wandering listlessly about his office, her mind a million miles away. Well, not a million, but more like the distance from here to the Tower. Or maybe Bedford Square.
He’d had a bath drawn for her despite her protests, more to create a soothing diversion than anything else. He’d also washed and changed, making him feel refreshed and, for the moment, reassured that he was still in control of his world and his place in it. He’d been out in his club, ensuring that his employees had already started the process of preparing for the evening’s entertainment, and the routine of that too had settled him. He could now address the pressing problem of the Marquess of Hutton with a clearer head.
He was wondering if he shouldn’t start the process of extracting Hutton and finding him passage on a ship destined for some far corner of the earth, regardless of the idiot’s protestations. The marquess didn’t seem to understand just how much trouble he was really in. He seemed to think that his title was like a magic spell protecting him from the law. And while it might protect from some things and put him beyond reach of punishment from others, murder was not one of them.
I was set up.
Alex made a face. It was unlikely. But Alex couldn’t ignore the sliver of doubt that was nagging at his gut. And he would be not only remiss but foolish to ignore it. At the very least, it deserved to be acknowledged and examined. He sighed, reaching for a piece of paper and his quill. Assuming, just for the moment, that Hutton was telling the truth and that someone had set him up for a crime he didn’t commit, that left a whole host of questions that he did not have answers for.
His quill scratched over the paper, and he stared down at the single word he’d written, the most obvious question of all.
Why?
In Alex’s experience, people’s actions were most often driven by greed. Money was power, and everyone had their price, whether they wished to admit it or not. In Gerald Archer’s case, one might guess that someone may have set the man up now if only to extort him later. Except the pieces didn’t really fit. One did not publicly frame a man for murder when one wished to privately leverage him.
In addition to the mysterious note Hutton claimed to have received, Alex had told Matthews to look for any mail that had been delivered to the Hutton home in the event that there was some sort of demand, but he wasn’t hopeful. Alex tapped the edge of his quill on the ink pot. If not money, then what? Sex, coupled with jealousy and rage, usually explained whatever money didn’t. But Hutton did not have a lover, or at least the sort that one didn’t pay by the visit, and there was no talk or evidence of betrothals or any other assignations. He dismissed that idea for the time being.
Alex scowled. He couldn’t shake the thought that he was missing something here. Something important. He picked up his quill again, going back to his original idea. Money, he wrote. More specifically, the Hutton fortune that had seemingly disappeared into thin air. Now that had all the hallmarks of extortion done right. Secrecy. Magnitude.
Alex wished fervently that the old marquess was still alive to question. Or even the marchioness. Except they were both very conveniently dead. One of apparent disease, and the other of a highway robbery gone wrong. And now their son had been disgraced and sat in the Tower of London, faced with the very real possibility that he would be hanged for a crime that he didn’t commit.
Alex sat up. Perhaps he was missing something because he wasn’t looking at the big picture.
What if someone was not only trying to destroy Gerald Archer? What if someone was trying to destroy the entire Hutton family?
Or perhaps he was just being overly dramatic and overthinking all of this. He ran a hand through his hair in irritation.
“Alex?”
He jerked, ink splattering on the paper before him. His eyes flew to the door of his bedroom and the figure that was standing in it.
Angelique was bundled in one of his robes, her feet bare, her wet hair combed back from her face and left to dry down her back. He could smell the scent of his lemon soap laced with sandalwood, and while that should have been simply familiar, his scent on her was, instead, painfully arousing. Every ounce of blood he possessed surged to his groin, and he smothered a moan.
It had seemed like a good idea at the time, bringing her here, where he knew she would be safe. But now he realized he should have taken her to the offices of Chegarre & Associates in Covent Square. Or maybe to a bloody inn a hundred miles from the outskirts of London. Because having Angelique here, in his space, wearing his scent and his clothes, was testing his sanity.
Her cheeks were no longer pale but flushed with color, and Alex wasn’t sure if that was a result of the bath or her discomfort with her current state of dishabille. He tried not to let his eyes linger on the turn of her ankle or the gentle curve of her calves where they disappeared under the burgundy silk of the robe.
He tried not to remember the lines of her thigh, how they had felt clenched on either side of his waist. Or the flare of her hips, and the way he had caged them, bringing their bodies together. He tried not to recall just how smooth her skin had been as he had explored the valley of her spine and the ridges of her ribs and then the delicious fullness of her breasts. If he let himself dwell on how she had arched against him, her nipples hard and tight, her mouth hot and needy, he was no longer confident that he would be able to act with any sort of honor.
The edge of his bed was visible beyond her, and he averted his eyes. Though, really, it was irrelevant. Should he give in to his baser urges, he would take her wherever was at hand. The floor. The wall. The desk. The chair he was sitting in. Probably all of them. Twice.
“Are you all right?” he asked gruffly, shifting slightly in a vain attempt to escape the discomfort of his arousal.
“Yes.” She stayed where she was, which was a relief.
He set his quill to the side, trying to get his body under control. “I asked Matthews to fetch your clothes from Bedford Square when he retrieved Tildy, but he isn’t back yet. He’ll take your housekeeper to our offices first and see her settled. I’m sorry for your current attire. Or lack of it, as it may be.”
She shook her head, stepping into the room. “Please, Alex, don’t apologize. I cannot ever repay you for what you’ve already done.”
The robe gaped slightly at her neck, and he swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. Jesus, he was in trouble. He’d never in all his life been so affected by a woman.
“What is that?” She gestured at the document in front of him.
“Thoughts.” He shifted again, trying to concentrate on her words and not his libido. “No,” he corrected himself, “not thoughts. Questions.”
“About what?” She stepped farther into the room and chose one of the chairs on the far side near the hearth, tucking her feet up underneath her. Now all he could see was her neck and head, her entire body hidden from view by the voluminous robe. That should have helped. It didn’t.
“A lot of things. Your family, mostly. About how your brother may have found himself where he is. In order to understand what is happening now, I need to better understand what happened in the past.” He welcomed the distraction. The return to the real problem at hand.
He saw her take a deep breath. “Ask what you must. I’ll try my best to answer your questions.”
He held her eyes. “You might not like some of them.”
“There have been a great many things that I haven’t liked in my life in these last years, Alex. I won’t shrivel up now.”
“I know that. I just…” He just what? Wanted to spare her the grief?
“Ask me your questions, Alex.”
“Tell me about your father.” He needed to start somewhere. This seemed as good a place as any.
“He was an only child. Inherited his title when he was twenty-two. Married my mother when he was fifty-one.”
“Mmmm.” He had come across those details in Chegarre’s ledgers, but it still surprised him that the old marquess had waited so long to take a bride, especially being that, at the time of his succession, he was the last of his line. Alex’s experience had taught him that such men were usually anxious to secure the longevity of their title. As it was, the marquess had been twice the age of his bride. The age discrepancy wasn’t unusual, but the fact that she was his first bride was.
“It was a love match,” Angelique said from her chair, as if she could read his mind. Her voice sounded more than a little wistful. “When we were younger, my father was fond of telling us that the day he met my mother was the best day of his life. That she had been the most sought-after woman of her season, and that he couldn’t believe she had chosen him.”
“Mmmm.” Romantic, Alex supposed, if not sensible.
“He loved my mother more than life itself,” Angelique continued. “There is nothing he would deny her. Nothing he wouldn’t do for her.”
Like sell off vast Hutton holdings? The question slid into his consciousness with a whisper. He’d uncovered nothing in the old marquess’s past that would explain his actions. But he had not considered the marchioness. And love drove people to do strange things.
“What was your mother like?” Alex asked carefully.
“What do you mean?” Angelique frowned.
“Did she have…any vices?” Alex almost winced, but he kept his tone even.
Angelique stared at him. “Vices?”
“Gambling? Addictions? Spending habits that were…unsustainable?” All things he’d seen that certainly weren’t exclusive to the male gender.
“No.” Her hands had curled over the arms of her chair. “That wasn’t her at all. She preferred the company of her family over the company of the ton. Her pride and joy was her family, and there wasn’t a day that went by that she didn’t tell us how happy we made her. That she had dreamed of being a mother from the time she was just a little girl and the realization of that dream had made her the luckiest woman in the world. As children, we spent more time with my mother than we did with our nurses.”
Alex drummed his fingers absently on his knee. The former Marchioness of Hutton sounded like a bloody saint, not a woman who would be a likely candidate for debilitating scandal.
“My father was never the same after she died,” Angelique said quietly. “He had been her greatest protector, but he couldn’t protect her from death. He became a hollow husk of himself when she was gone. Distanced himself from everything and everyone, including us.”
“Did he speak to anyone after she died? Confide in anyone?”
“About what?”
Alex shrugged. “Anything.” Sheep pastures. Coal mines. Missing money.
Angelique shook her head. “My father only had one friend he counted as a true confidant. Lord Burleigh’s father. He was like the younger brother my own father never had. But he himself died of a sudden apoplexy not even a year before my mother died.” She paused. “I can’t think of anyone else my father would have opened up to.”
Well, that wasn’t helpful either. “Did your father take a mistress?” Alex asked. “Someone who might have made him…less lonely?”
Color rose in her face, but she didn’t look away. “Not that I am aware of.”
Alex made another note. Given what Angelique had told him about the nature of her parents’ relationship, it wasn’t surprising that the old marquess wouldn’t have taken a mistress after his wife’s death. But it was certainly something to be investigated further. Information often surfaced in the most unlikely of places.
“Tell me what you know about your father’s death.” The account he’d read said simply that the marquess had been the victim of a highway robbery gone wrong.
She took her hands off the arms of the chair and clasped them in her lap. Her expression was stark. “He was on the road to Bath when he was accosted. His carriage was run off the road and destroyed. He was found a short distance away, robbed and shot, along with his driver. They never caught the highwaymen responsible.”
Alex hid a frown. To run a carriage off the road and then take the time to extract the occupants and shoot them somewhere else seemed extreme. Not unheard of, but most highwaymen he knew were about timing. And finesse. Minimize the damage, maximize the take. He made another note.
“I’m sorry, Angelique. For your loss and for bringing this up again.”
She nodded silently.
“Did your father have any enemies?” he asked.
She was quiet for so long that he thought perhaps she hadn’t heard him. “You think someone had him killed?” she asked suddenly.
Alex flinched. The thought had been creeping around in the back of his mind, and he’d had no intention to vocalize it at this point. Certainly not before he could prove anything.
“I don’t know,” he replied honestly.
Her eyes were unreadable, though her face was pale. “No,” she said eventually. “At least, I was never aware of any enemies my father may have had. He was very well-regarded.”
“What about your mother?”
Angelique shook her head helplessly. “No.”
“What about your brother? A wager gone wrong? An investment gone sour? Anything?”
She shook her head again. “I don’t…I don’t think so. I do know he just invested in some sort of shipping company with Seaton and his father. He’d done so once before, but the cargo was lost to storms and Gerald lost his money. Our money.”
He watched her face. “You don’t believe that?”
“I don’t trust Seaton.”
That made two of them. “What kind of shipping company?”
Angelique shrugged. “Imports of some sort. He wouldn’t tell me. Or he couldn’t.”
“Mmmm.” Alex made another note. That might be more relevant.
A knock on his office door broke the silence. Alex stood and strode to the door. Matthews waited on the other side, hefting a trunk in his sizable arms. “The housekeeper is settled,” he said without preamble, setting the trunk inside the office with a thump. “Her ladyship’s clothes.” Matthews reached into his coat and withdrew a thin packet of paper. “Her mail. And the note I believed you wanted from his lordship’s room. Took me damn near a half hour to find it. The man is not overly…neat.” He handed Alex the entire stack.
“Thank you, Matthews. And well done.”
His driver nodded. “May I safely assume that her ladyship will remain here this evening?”
“Yes.” Alex wasn’t letting her go anywhere. Not without him.
“Very good, Mr. Lavoie.” Matthews nodded with approval and then disappeared. Alex closed the door and returned to his desk. Angelique was already unfolding herself from her chair. He set the small pile of mail that Matthews had retrieved on the corner of his desk, keeping the note Matthews had discovered in Hutton’s rooms separate.
“Go through your correspondence,” he said quietly as she reached his desk. “Tell me if there is anything there that is unusual or unexpected.” He didn’t expect her to find anything, but it was worth checking.
She nodded, her fingers quickly sorting through the missives. She set aside a handful and opened two more before adding them to the pile. “Bills,” she said. “Two social invitations for my brother. Clearly delivered yesterday,” she muttered. She opened another, and he didn’t miss the way her face hardened.
“Who’s that from?”
She shook her head as if she wasn’t going to answer but then seemed to change her mind. “A request from Lord Seaton framed in flowery compliments. He wishes to call on me and offers the reminder that a beautiful lady such as myself needs a protector. And that he would be honored to have the privilege of seeing to my every need. In my brother’s absence, of course.”
Alex forced himself not to react, though there was a childish part of him that wished to rip that letter from her fingers and throw it into the hearth. George Fitzherbert didn’t deserve her. He didn’t even deserve the right to suggest it.
“Perhaps he is still in love with you.” It was an effort to keep his voice even.
“He was never in love with me,” she sneered, and crumpled the letter in her fist, letting it fall to the desk. “Seaton is in love with Seaton.”
Satisfaction set in hard, and Alex realized he was no longer just acting like a jealous swain, he had become one. And he didn’t care.
Angelique reached for the last letter and unfolded it, her eyes scanning the text. “And a letter from Lady Burleigh offering whatever assistance she and her son can provide at what she calls this ‘very difficult time.’” Angelique looked puzzled.
“Is that odd?”
“I haven’t seen her since my mother died. Yet she came with Lord Burleigh to break the news of my brother’s arrest. And now is offering her support.” She sighed. “I can’t imagine what she thinks she can do, but I suppose that I should be grateful.” She put the letter down.
“Mmmm.” No extortion notes, no threats, no demands. Nothing of any interest.
The note that Matthews had retrieved from Hutton’s rooms, however, was a different story. It was folded in a neat square, the Bedford address printed clearly under the marquess’s name. He unfolded it and laid it out on top of the letter so that Angelique could read it as well.
The writing on the inside matched the writing on the outside, a heavy, sloppy script that said exactly what Hutton had described. That the Earl of Trevane had, in his possession, a diamond necklace of substantial value, hidden from his wife in the bottom drawer of his study desk. A large number of the words were misspelled, and Alex frowned.
“Whoever wrote this was educated,” Angelique said before he could.
“But not smart enough to muddle the syntax as well as the spelling.”
“Rather odd, don’t you think?”
“Very.” Alex picked the paper up, turning it over and examining the broken seal for any clues. But the sealing wax was ordinary, as was the paper—a middling grade that could be had at a hundred different shops. He turned it back over and examined the address, holding it up to the light. A faint, circular indentation on the surface of the paper was just visible, evidence that a coin had been pressed into the missive.
“Why do you suddenly look so pleased?” Angelique demanded.
“I know where this came from.”
Her eyes widened. “What? Where?”
“A place called the Lion’s Paw.”
“What is that?”
“A tavern.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There is a depository in that tavern,” Alex explained. “Messages can be dropped into a lockbox anonymously from the alley that runs behind the building. They need to have the address written on the front and be wrapped with two shillings. The proprietor keeps one, and the other goes to the boy who delivers the message.”
Angelique was staring at him. “That is the most…” she seemed to be flailing for a word, “absurd thing I’ve ever heard. Who would ever need to send an anonymous message?”
“Besides the person who sent a note to your brother trying to appear as something that he isn’t?”
Angelique’s jaw flexed. “But how does this help us?”
Alex refolded the paper and tucked it into his pocket. “Because sometimes, my lady, it pays to have friends in absurd places.”
* * *
As they entered the Lion’s Paw, Angelique was enveloped by the delicious aroma of cooking meat, rich ale, and wood smoke. The floor was neatly swept, the walls whitewashed and clean, and the long tables and benches filled with patrons devouring meals.
A pretty, young redhead drifted by, her arms laden with empty tankards. She couldn’t be much more than thirteen, but she held the promise of an extraordinary beauty. Her face creased into a smile the moment she spied Alex. “Mr. Lavoie.” A dimple appeared in her lovely cheek. “Here for supper?”
Alex smiled back at her and shook his head.
“An ale, perhaps?”
“Not today, but thank you. Is Gil around?”
“In back, I think. I’m going there anyway so I’ll check for you. Wait here.” The girl disappeared, but in minutes she returned, the empty tankards replaced with a tray of full ones.
“Gil’s in back. Told her you were here.” The girl tipped her head toward the rear of the tavern.
“Thank you.”
“Of course.” The serving girl’s eyes slid to Angelique, curiosity evident in their green depths.
Alex made no effort to introduce them, and the girl didn’t seem to expect it. Instead she simply shifted the tray in her arms and continued on through the press of bodies.
“Follow me,” Alex said, and Angelique fell into step behind him as they wove their way through the crowd. Near the rear of the tavern, a group of raggedly dressed boys sat around a table, some of them eating bowls of stew and crusts of thick bread, others simply sitting and seemingly waiting for something. As if on cue, a bell rang above the rear entrance, and one of the boys jumped up.
“My turn,” he said, as if daring anyone to contradict him.
He vanished from view into the rear. Within seconds, he reappeared, shoving something into his pocket and pulling his cap down low over his ears. He made a beeline for the front door of the tavern and was swallowed by the darkening street.
Angelique looked up at Alex, puzzled, but he was already ducking under the low lintel of the entrance where the boy had just exited.
“Alexander Lavoie.” The voice was rich and musical and unmistakably female. “My daughter said you were here. To what do I owe the honor of your delectable presence?” It was also unmistakably sarcastic.
“Gil.” Alex stepped forward, and Angelique could now see the owner of the voice. She was petite with thick red hair that matched the pretty serving girl’s. Her complexion was creamy, her eyes a startling shade of jade, and the apron she wore over her gown could not hide her voluptuous figure.
It also didn’t hide the two pistols she wore at her hips.
Alex caught the woman’s hand and bent over it, kissing her knuckles with all the courtly flair one might have once found in the halls of Versailles. The woman smiled faintly, though her eyes slid past Alex to rest upon Angelique. There was none of the idle curiosity that her daughter had displayed. Instead there was unapologetic assessment. Her shrewd gaze traveled from the toe of Angelique’s serviceable boots, up past her equally serviceable dress and cloak, until it stopped at her face. Angelique met her eyes steadily.
“She’s not really your type, is she, Lavoie?” the woman said.
Angelique blinked.
“I didn’t realize I had a type,” Alex replied, sounding amused.
“You most certainly have a type, Lavoie, and that type wouldn’t ever be caught standing in this tavern.” She paused, her full lips compressing. “Don’t tell me she’s here to ask for a job. Because I’ve got nothing right now, not even for you. Those boys out there eat too much.”
Alex chuckled. “Gilda, this is Angelique. My vingt-et-un dealer. And you couldn’t afford to hire her.” He turned to Angelique. “Angelique, this is Gilda. The proprietor of this fine establishment.”
“A pleasure,” Angelique said, more out of habit than truth. The woman’s scrutiny was not a little unnerving.
Gil was examining Angelique again. “Your vingt-et-un dealer, Lavoie?”
“Yes.” It was Angelique who answered as she met Gil’s gaze again. “His vingt-et-un dealer.”
Gil snorted under her breath. “And I am but a humble brewer.” She moved to an enormous hearth where a heavy black cauldron bubbled and reached for the long-handled wooden spoon that rested on the top. She gave the contents a stir and then wiped her hands on her apron. “The Duchess was here this morning and mentioned you were in love, Lavoie. I didn’t actually believe it until now.”
Angelique’s heart stopped before starting again at an unnatural pace.
“You know me better than that, Gil.” Alex chuckled again, though this time it sounded a little off. “And you certainly know better than to believe everything the Duchess says.”
“Of course.” Gil’s lips were curling into a smirk.
Angelique focused on keeping her breathing even. There was a small corner of her heart that was swelling with something that was far too dangerous to identify. A small, irrational part of her that wanted, if only for a moment, to believe that this man was capable of loving a woman like her. She knew better, of course. Alexander Lavoie was one of the best men she had ever met—would likely ever meet—but he did not belong to her. She doubted he would ever belong to anyone.
“You must be very clever,” Gil said to Angelique. There was a challenge of some sort in her words, though Angelique couldn’t begin to fathom what it was.
“With numbers,” she answered simply.
“And cards,” Alex added. “You should see what she can do at my gaming tables with a bottle of French brandy and a proper gown.” His tone still sounded odd.
“I’ll take your word for it.” Gil’s smirk widened.
Alex scowled. “You might learn something.”
Abruptly, Gil turned from Angelique. “Why is she here?”
“She is standing right here,” Angelique said evenly. “And is capable of answering questions all by herself like a big girl.”
A gleam of approval touched Gil’s eyes. She shot Alex a sly look. “Like I said, Lavoie, not your type at all.”
Alex’s expression darkened further.
Gil looked back at Angelique. “Very well, why are you here?”
“Because I have a stake in what Mr. Lavoie is…investigating.”
“Ah. I was wondering how long it would take to get to this part.” She paused. “What do you want?”
Alex tsked from behind her. “You make this all sound so mercenary.”
The redhead lifted a single elegant eyebrow.
Alex lifted the flap of the bulky pouch strapped across his chest—the same one he’d worn over his military uniform earlier. Angelique hadn’t paid much attention to it on the way here, so preoccupied was she with the bizarre note that had been recovered from her brother’s possessions. But she stared now as he extracted three powder horns. There had been a crate of those horns just outside the chapel in the Tower. She remembered because she had huddled behind it, watching the retreating forms of the warders.
“Perhaps I simply wanted to bring you a gift.” He held one out, and Gil took it, examining the exterior.
“You steal a warship recently?” she asked, upending it to open the top. “This is naval issue.”
“Ah, I had forgotten you have recently begun dabbling in the commercial sea-trade business.”
“Dabbling is profitable,” she murmured. “Where did you get this?”
“You ask too many questions when presented with a gift, Gil.”
She was examining the contents. “This is good powder.”
“The best in all of England.” He gestured at the pistols at her hips. “For when you need it the most.”
“Hmph.” Gil made a face and recapped the horn. “What’s this going to cost me, Lavoie?”
“Information.”
“Be more specific. And remember there are only three horns here, Lavoie. Not a barrel.”
“And I have only a single question, so I think you are getting the better end of this deal.”
Gilda put a hand on a curvy hip and waited.
“The Marquess of Hutton. One of your boys delivered a message to Bedford Square recently.” He gestured to a heavy iron box mounted to the wall by the back door. The top was hinged, but a padlock kept it securely fastened. The key, no doubt, was safely hidden somewhere beneath Gil’s apron. And her pistols.
Gil stared at him for a moment before she threw her head back and laughed. “Yes,” she finally said. “They most certainly did.”
Angelique sucked in a breath. Alex had told her as much, but for the first time, they actually had a confirmation of something and not another puzzle.
“Is there any way to determine who it was from?” Angelique asked.
Gilda scoffed. “Of course not. That defeats the entire purpose of this system. No one is going to pay to send an anonymous message if they can’t do so anonymously.”
Angelique shifted. “And you deliver a lot of these anonymous messages?”
“You’d be surprised how many individuals do not wish to have their missives traced back to them through servants or postmen or any other inconvenient witnesses,” Gilda drawled. “Between the peers and politicians, the lovers and the criminals, it’s a wonder I can keep track of it all.”
“Yet you remember that there was something amusing about the message sent to the Marquess of Hutton.” This time it was Alex who sounded mildly annoyed.
“Since I like you, Lavoie,” Gilda purred, reaching for the other two horns of gunpowder, “and since I like your taste in…gifts, I will share a little something with you.” She tucked the powder horns into a cupboard far away from the hearth. “The messages I’ve had delivered to Bedford Square addressed to the Marquess of Hutton in the past years have paid for half of this bloody tavern.”
Angelique stared at the woman, feeling her stomach lurch. Years? Long before her brother inherited the title. What sort of anonymous messages would her father have received?
“How many years?” Angelique asked suddenly, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Alex nod slightly. “How long did the marquess receive these messages?”
Gilda shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe four, five years?” She paused and slanted a look at Alex. “This is more than one question, Lavoie.”
“And you have been well compensated.”
“True.” She considered him. “I might have something further you would be interested in,” she said.
Alex uncrossed his arms. “What?”
“This will cost you more than three horns of His Majesty’s best gunpowder,” Gil said silkily.
“Once I know what it is, I’ll be the judge of that. Keep in mind I do not have a clipper full of goods to barter.”
“Fair enough.” Gilda retraced her steps back to the cupboard where she had stored the powder and wrestled out another bulky iron box, similar to the one that was mounted on the wall. This box too was locked. She produced a key from somewhere beneath her apron and, within seconds, was rummaging through the contents.
Angelique was trying to assess the implications of the newfound knowledge that her father had been receiving anonymous messages for years. From whom? And for what purpose?
It took Gil but a minute to find what she was looking for. “Sometimes,” she said, closing the box, “my boys are unable to deliver a message. Usually because the recipient has either died, been arrested, or fled the country. The boys don’t get their shilling unless it’s delivered so they are quite resourceful. But in the Marquess of Hutton’s case, he was out of London when this was sent. And I am made to understand he died on that trip.”
She held out a folded square of paper, a little yellowed around the edges, the wax seal starting to crumble. The Marquess of Hutton, Bedford Square was written across it in dark ink.
Angelique took it from her, hating that her fingers were trembling slightly. This was the last message to have been sent to her father. It hadn’t reached him before he’d left for Bath. Before he’d been shot by a highwayman on a lonely stretch of road.
The urge to rip it open was like a physical pain. But she wouldn’t read it here. Not in this tavern, not in front of this woman. She had no idea what she might find. What secrets her father had kept from her. But deep down, she knew, whatever it was, it wasn’t going to be good.
“Did you read it?” Alex was asking Gil.
“Of course I didn’t read it. One can’t be forced to reveal things one does not know, and I’d like to keep it that way. I’m convinced it will help me live longer.” She was stowing the box back into its hiding place.
“Yet you kept this.”
“Only a fool would discard something that might be worth something to someone later on.” She straightened, her lips curved into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“What do you want for it?” Angelique asked. Stupid, really, that she should be asking, because she had nothing to her name that this woman would want. But this belonged to her. This one clue that might offer answers that had been elusive for too long. And she’d be damned if she walked out of this tavern without it.
“Just how clever with numbers are you?” Gil cocked her head thoughtfully.
“Very.” There was no need to dissemble.
“If I gave you a shipping manifest and the subsequent receipts submitted to me from the customs houses, how long would it take you to determine if they matched and if the percentage of tax withheld was correct?”
“Depends on how large a cargo.”
Gil pursed her lips. She bent and, from the same cupboard, pulled out a battered ledger. She opened it and snatched at the slips of paper that had been stuffed between the pages before they could fall to the floor. She passed Angelique one, a long, neat itemized list of cargo that had come in on a ship called the Phoenix. “This is the ship’s manifest. And this is what the customs house gave me.” She handed Angelique a second sheet. This sheet was not nearly so neat, with columns of numbers and percentages noted beside them and the calculations written at the end in messy confusion.
Angelique quickly compared the manifest numbers, for bales of cotton and their corresponding weight, to the number written on the custom house sheet, noting a number of anomalies. She scanned the sums and the calculations, again finding errors. Nothing one might notice at first glance. But small things like this would add up. Especially over time.
“How long would that take you?” Gil asked.
“I’m done.”
She saw the woman’s mouth fall open slightly. “That’s impossible.”
“If you asked me to look at this because you suspect that the custom house is cheating you, it appears you are correct. There are anomalies in the calculations.” Something that was obvious to Angelique and would have become obvious to Alex, once he’d taken time to examine them. But probably not as obvious to an individual who was not as skilled at math.
Color flooded into Gil’s fair cheeks.
“Who is currently doing your books?” Angelique asked.
“Me,” Gil muttered. She looked uncomfortable and embarrassed.
Alex cleared his throat. “If you suspected something, why didn’t you ask me to—”
“I don’t need your help. You are a busy man.” It sounded defensive.
And Angelique, more than anyone, understood just how hard it was to ask for help. How hard it was to admit that someone had taken advantage of you. How helpless you felt.
“I’m going to kill them.” Gil’s embarrassment had turned into anger. “Serves me right for doing business on what’s supposed to be the civilized side of the law.”
“There is no civilized side,” Angelique murmured. “Just thieves who use it better than others to hide their crimes.”
Gil looked at Angelique with startled interest.
“Alternatively, I would suggest that a visit to the custom house to demand compensation with interest would be far more rewarding.” Angelique held out her hand for the ledger. “Give that to me.”
“Why?”
“So I can determine just how much they owe you. Believe me, I have some experience with individuals taking what is not theirs.”
Gil blinked at her and then wordlessly passed her the ledger.
Angelique flipped through the receipts, careful not to frown at the ink-spattered ledger pages that had been Gil’s attempt at arithmetic.
“Give me twenty minutes, and I’ll have you a total.” She glanced at the pistols at the woman’s waist before raising her eyes. “How you go about collecting that total, I’ll leave up to you.”
Gil held Angelique’s eyes for a heartbeat before she transferred her gaze to Alex. “Not your type at all, Lavoie,” she said with a laugh.
Alex was frowning at her. “Angelique, perhaps—”
“Go have that ale, Mr. Lavoie, and let me work. It is what is owed to this woman.” She put the ledger on top of a counter, pushing a handful of bowls out of the way.
Gil laughed again and pulled Alex in the direction of the public room. “I can see why you’re in love, Lavoie.”