Alex had asked Angelique to wait in the pretty blue drawing room of Chegarre’s offices. He’d had a black expression on his face when he’d returned from the second floor of that brothel, and his explanation of what Seaton had told him had been bitten off in short, abrupt sentences. Alex had muttered something about needing more information from the Duchess, and they’d come here directly.
Miss Moore was in Woolwich for the day, the young boy called Roddy had informed them, and wasn’t expected back until later this evening. Alex had frowned and then disappeared, but now she could hear him in the hallway giving the boy muffled instructions. She wondered if Alex would have her do Chegarre & Associates’ books next. After straightening out Penny’s, she was fairly certain that there wasn’t anything left that would surprise her. She’d handed the madam back her books with the suggestion that she dismiss the expensive physician that was charging her far too much to regularly examine her girls. God knew Angelique had dealt with enough physicians during her mother’s illness, and none of them had ever been able to offer more than a sad shake of their head and a lancet. But there were plenty of retired army surgeons available who were both more practically skilled and knowledgeable. And cheaper. Angelique knew that too.
She wandered around the room, once again taking in the expensive décor. Fit for a duchess, indeed, she reflected idly, thinking of Miss Moore’s nickname used not only by Alex but those people who seemed to know the woman best. Angelique stopped by the small table by the settee. On the surface was a piece of sheet music—something someone must have set down at one point and forgotten about. It was Handel’s Giulio Cesare, and Angelique recognized it instantly. When she was younger, she’d heard the aria sung by an opera singer with a voice like an angel— Her hand froze over the music. The earlier sense of déjà vu she had experienced when first meeting Miss Moore returned, only the explanation now presented itself with startling clarity.
She had once seen the woman who now called herself Miss Moore on one of the grandest opera stages in London. The woman who had scandalously gone on to become the Duchess of Knightley and then disappeared after the duke’s death. Though it was now vastly obvious that she hadn’t disappeared at all.
Angelique let her fingers trail over the edge of the sheet music to the pretty porcelain dish that sat beside. In it, a handful of engraved cards rested. “Chegarre & Associates” was printed across the smooth, creamy surface, the Covent Square address on the opposite side. They looked similar to the cards her parents had once used to announce their arrival when they went out on social calls. When she was younger, she had always wanted a card of her own. Always thought that she would have one, her name written in an elegant script beneath that of her husband.
Angelique picked one up, frowning. Her eyes skipped over the word Chegarre and then back again, picking out individual letters, rearranging them in her mind. For a moment, all she could do was stare, something that felt like admiration and awe unfurling. And she couldn’t help the grin that suddenly crept across her face.
She became aware of a movement in the doorway, and she turned to find a tall, broad man standing just inside, his hands clasped behind his back, his ice-grey eyes perusing her with shrewd interest. He was dressed entirely in black, with sun-bleached blond hair tied back in a careless queue. A sword rested in a battered sheath at his waist, and the overall effect made her think that he might just be a pirate.
“Good afternoon.” She said it first.
“Good afternoon, Lady Angelique.”
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir,” she said.
“Ah. Of course, my apologies. Captain Maximus Harcourt at your service.” He gave her a slight bow.
Which was ridiculous because Captain Maximus Harcourt was the tenth Duke of Alderidge. Angelique may not take part in society, but nor did she live under a rock. She still read the papers, and if she believed everything she read, then this man was wealthy beyond imagining, if not unconventional. “I should be calling you Your Grace, then,” she said.
Alderidge sighed. “If you must. I’d prefer Captain.”
“Very well.”
“Ah. Splendid. My favorite corsair got my message.” Alex strode into the room with a leather-bound book in his hands that didn’t look that different from the ledgers she had just perused at a brothel down the street. He frowned slightly. “Did you fly here on a magic ship?”
“Good afternoon to you too, Lavoie,” the duke replied. “And I hadn’t yet left for the docks. I was here.”
“Mmmm. How fortuitous. I assume the Duchess has kept you informed of the current situation?”
“Of course.”
With the same clarity that had struck her earlier, Angelique had a very good idea exactly why the Duke of Alderidge had been here long before they had arrived. She gazed at the duke thoughtfully before turning her attention back to Alex.
“Are you going to request I do the books here next?” she asked Alex, staring pointedly at the volume in his hands.
“No. That wasn’t what I was going to ask at all.”
“Because you were worried that I’d realize that Miss Moore is actually a duchess?”
Alex blinked at her.
“This is lovely,” Angelique said, turning over the engraved card she still held in her hand. “And I assumed, when I first came here, that Chegarre was the name of a man. I suspect that generally makes everything so much easier at the outset.”
“Mmmm.” Alex was watching her closely. The duke simply stared.
“Chegarre is nothing except a clever anagram.” She placed the card back gently in the porcelain dish. “Her Grace and Miss Moore are the same person.”
“Yes.” It was the duke who finally answered, slanting Alex a sideways look.
“I didn’t tell her that. Though she figured that out a hell of a lot faster than you, Alderidge.” Alex sounded delighted.
The duke scowled. “I didn’t realize it was a competition.”
“Everything with you is a competition.”
“Is your wife here right now?” Angelique asked Alderidge.
“No, she—” Alderidge stopped. He sent another scathing look toward Alex.
Alex held up his hands. “Didn’t tell her that either. But you just did.”
The duke shook his head, exasperation stamped across his features. “Why am I here, Lavoie? What, exactly, is it that you need?”
“Ships,” Alex said. “Indiamen. Specifically those trading opium with the Chinese.”
“My ships don’t run opium.”
“I know that. But you spent a great deal of time pottering about in India. Surely there can’t be so many Englishmen with fleets of ships making the run between India and China and then on to England’s bonny shores?”
Alderidge frowned. “You’d be surprised. The East India Company licenses many private traders for opium. Though not so many with more than one ship.”
“Burleigh,” Alex said.
Angelique held her breath. Alex had told her that Seaton, in his drugged state, believed that Burleigh surreptitiously owned the ships that he, and later, Angelique’s brother, had invested in. Which couldn’t possibly be right. Burleigh had never mentioned that to anyone. And he didn’t have the wealth to—
“I can’t recall hearing that name.” The duke’s forehead was creased.
Angelique wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed. Of course Burleigh didn’t own ships.
“What about the name Cullen?” Alex asked suddenly.
“Yes.” Alderidge nodded slowly. “That name is familiar. Owns at least two ships, I think, but I can’t be sure. Could be more. Though it wouldn’t be that hard to find out.”
What? Angelique felt her insides pitch.
“And could you also discover when he bought those ships?” Alex asked.
Alderidge shrugged. “Of course. Though,” he added, “he owned ships at least four years ago. I was in Calcutta when I first came across that name.”
“Calcutta? Planning another holiday so soon, Captain?” The smooth voice came from behind them. Angelique started and whirled.
A man stood casually just inside the room, and for a brief moment, Angelique wondered if he might be a long-lost descendent of the Tudor kings. He possessed patrician features, pale eyes, and red-gold hair. He was dressed subtly, yet immaculately. A large ruby ring glinted from his hand where it rested on the top of a silver-handled ebony walking stick. A striking man, Angelique thought—almost beautiful—except there was a cold remoteness to him that made her shiver. No matter how civilized he might look, this was a dangerous man. She knew that instinctively, without having witnessed the way both Alex and Alderidge had tensed like drawn bows.
“The museum is just down the road if you’re looking for a painting to steal, King,” Alex said. “I understand there’s a new canvas on display that no doubt appeals to you—a raft full of dead and dying sailors.”
“Ah, but there can be beauty in death, Mr. Lavoie. Especially when captured so exquisitely by a skilled young artist.”
“What do you want, King?” It was Alderidge who spoke, and his eyes were glacial.
The man called King stroked the top of his walking stick. “Nothing that concerns you, Captain,” he replied. “I’m here to see Mr. Lavoie.” His pale eyes came to rest on Angelique. “My lady,” he greeted cordially. “A pleasure. Gilda speaks quite highly of you.”
Angelique shifted, wondering just exactly how well-known she had truly become along the fringes of London’s underworld. And not at all sure if she was comfortable being the recipient of compliments from this man.
“When you tire of Mr. Lavoie, my lady, I’d be quite pleased to welcome someone with your aptitudes to my little corner of the world.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a card, crossing the room to hand it to her. “I think you’d find such an arrangement very rewarding. And profitable.”
Beside her, she felt Alex twitch. And Alderidge’s hand had gone to the hilt of his sword.
She took it carefully. It was similar to the ones that lay in the porcelain dish beside her, except this one had only a silhouette of a crown in the center and Purveyor of Fine Art written in an elegant scroll underneath.
“I beg your pardon, but who are you?” She straightened her shoulders, meeting his eye. If she had learned anything in the last years, it was that shying away from something potentially unpleasant was pointless.
King smiled in much the same way Gil had, shrewd approval touching his eyes. “A friend.”
Alex slid neatly beside Angelique, as if to shield her with his body. “Not quite. Though my brother-in-law, who, for some godforsaken reason that I do not know nor do I ever care to, calls this man such.” His face was like granite.
“Your brother-in-law?” Angelique asked.
“The Duke of Ashland,” King supplied silkily. “How is your sister, by the way, Lavoie? Settling into married life?”
“Your sister is a duchess?” Angelique hissed.
“When it suits her,” Alex replied, not taking his eyes off King.
What the hell did that mean? And just how far did the tentacles of Chegarre & Associates reach?
“Your brother-in-law sent me a message this afternoon. He mentioned you’d queried him earlier in the morning but he had been unable to provide an answer. He thought I might be able to assist. And I am always willing to help out a loyal friend.”
“Are you, indeed?” Alex folded his arms. “Very well. Though I suggest you say your piece, King, and go, before the good captain here cuts you into little ribbons. I’m not sure he’s entirely gotten over the last…matter of business that you had with his wife. And as much as it grieves me to say, he is enormously talented with that blade he insists on wearing. And I do so enjoy a good demonstration of swordsmanship.”
King only gazed coolly at Alex. “I’m sure you would enjoy that, Lavoie.”
Alex smiled, his scar almost pulling his lip into a snarl.
“You had inquired about a death. Two of them, to be precise.”
“Yes.”
“You were correct. The young lady that the Marquess of Hutton allegedly gutted like a market sow in the Earl of Trevane’s study was indeed a contract.”
Angelique blinked, trying to make sense of that sentence. And the casual way in which it had been delivered. A contract?
“That job was noticeable because it paid a great deal more than what a contract of that nature usually does. An easy target, a clean, quick kill, with no cleanup or cover-up required. Though I am told that the timing was important. And the client required a receipt.”
“I beg your pardon?” Alex was staring at him.
“The client wanted a receipt. No names, of course, but a written document that spelled out the terms and payment.”
“Who the hell does that?” Alderidge demanded.
“It’s unusual, but clients want what they want. Some ask for proof of death in the form of a personal item taken from the body. In this case, the client wanted a piece of paper. Call it a trophy if you will.”
Angelique shuddered.
Alex looked troubled. “Who paid for the contract?”
King shook his head. “I was not able to determine that.”
“And the killer?”
“Gone to ground for a period of time. As the smart ones do.” He paused. “I can likely find him, but it might take a while.”
“Someone paid to have that girl killed?” Angelique was feeling a little nauseous.
“Yes.” King’s pale eyes returned to her.
“And you know this how?”
“One hears things.” King’s fingers were tapping the top of his walking stick. “Just as one hears things about the death of a marquess that occurred last June, on a road south of Bath.” King was gazing at her impassively, but not unkindly.
Angelique was trying to keep her breathing even. “It was a robbery. My father was killed by a highwayman.”
King tipped his head. “The robbery was secondary.”
Angelique felt Alex’s hand find hers. She grasped it for all she was worth, as if the contact would help her hold on to what was left of her composure. “You’re saying my father was assassinated.”
“Yes. My condolences, for what they’re worth.”
“Oh God.”
“Are you sure?” It was Alex who demanded it.
“Yes. The individual responsible, however, is dead. Killed this past winter by a driver who was faster with his pistol than he was. I’m afraid the trail ends there.”
Angelique watched spots dance around the edges of her vision and wondered if she might faint. She’d never fainted in her life, but this seemed like a reasonable place to start.
“Sit,” commanded Alex, and pushed her down into the nearest chair.
Alderidge had moved to the side of the room, but returned with a glass of amber liquid. “Drink this,” he said. “You’re awfully pale.”
“I think paleness is allowed when one discovers that one’s father has been killed by an assassin and one’s brother has been set up to look like one,” she said weakly, though she took the glass from the duke’s fingers. She took a sip and let the liquor burn a trail of fire down her throat.
“How intriguing,” King observed. “A positively diabolical plot.”
“While I certainly appreciate your assistance, you can see yourself out anytime,” Alex said in a low voice.
“Ah. Of course.” King sounded unruffled. “Well, be sure to give my regards to the Duchess. And do keep my offer in mind, Lady Angelique.”
He was gone when Angelique looked back up. “That man. What is he?”
“A lot of things,” Alderidge muttered.
“An assassin?” She couldn’t believe she was actually asking.
“Not exactly. He just seems to know them all.”
Of course. Because that sounded completely reasonable. “Is he telling the truth?”
“In this case, yes. If it was Ashland who asked, then he would be truthful.”
Angelique took another, larger sip. It made her eyes water, but the spots seemed to have disappeared. She looked up at Alex. “Why did you ask your brother-in-law about…about that girl? And my father?”
Alex blew out a breath. “I think everything that has happened in the last five years is connected. I think someone has been trying to destroy your family for a long time.”
“But why?”
“That is what I can’t seem to determine. But I have a very good idea where to start.” He sat down beside her. “Ships, as I understand, are very expensive. Yet at least four years ago, Vincent Cullen somehow found enough money to buy two.”
She felt her heart stop for a moment as she understood what he was suggesting. “You think Burleigh was extorting my father?” She was trying to picture the nervous, frail man as a cunning criminal and failing badly.
“The coincidence is rather disturbing. And I hate coincidences.” He opened the book in his hands. “I can find nothing on record that suggests that Vincent Cullen is anything other than what he purports to be. A middling baron living with his mother in a modest home in the south of London.” He scanned the page and snapped the book shut. “And nothing to suggest that his father was anything beyond that either.”
“He was my father’s best friend,” Angelique said, trying to understand the why or how of what Alex was suggesting.
“Yes,” Alex said with a sigh. “He was that.”
“But if Vincent needed money, my father would have given it to him,” Angelique said unhappily. “If only because he was his best friend’s son. My father paid for Vincent to attend Harrow, for God’s sake, because he knew his family couldn’t afford it. I can’t believe he would turn around and extort my father. And for what?”
From a folder, Alex pulled out a stack of paper, and Angelique recognized the anonymous notes that had been sent both to her father and her brother. “I brought the extortion note,” he said, unfolding the first. “The good captain here has some experience with these. Perhaps he has some ideas.” As he unfolded it, another paper fluttered to the floor. Angelique bent to pick it up. It was the letter from Burleigh’s mother, obviously caught in between. She started to set it aside before she froze, the hairs on the back of her neck standing straight up. With shaking hands, she put her glass of whiskey on the floor, afraid she might drop it.
Alex noticed. “What’s wrong?”
Wordlessly, she placed the letter on Alex’s knee, beside the note that had never been delivered to her father.
“Jesus Christ,” Alex whispered, looking between the two.
“It was from her. From Lady Burleigh. The Shakespearean passage. The demand for money.”
“The writing is the same.”
“I never noticed.” Angelique pressed a hand to her mouth. “But I can’t believe that. She was my mother’s friend. She came to sit with my mother when she was dying. Held her hand.” She stopped abruptly. “Vincent knows.”
Alderidge cleared his throat. “Unless Burleigh is stupid enough to believe that his mother planted a tree in their kitchen garden that grew money, he is aware.” The duke crossed his arms. “It would seem that he owns ships that were very likely paid for with your father’s fortune.”
“Vincent was the only other person who knew my brother needed money,” Angelique whispered. “He knew how desperate he was. And he was with him that night. He sent him that note.” It was becoming too hard to ignore the pieces that were fitting together in a horrible puzzle. “Was it him? Who had that girl killed?” Another thought struck her, worse than the last. “Who had my father killed?”
Alex stared down at the evidence before him, his face furrowed in concentration.
“But why?” she asked into the silence. “Why would he—they―do this? What did our family ever do to make them hate us so much?”
Alex finally looked up. “I think it’s past time we found out.”