John spent an entire day along the banks of the Thames looking for clues. At first, he’d dismissed Mrs. Simpson’s suggestion. But he couldn’t stop thinking about it. And when he applied logic, he realized there were certain clues which made the task less of a fool’s errand than he’d first supposed.
For example, he could guess that the original owner of the angel had been a person of means. The angel might not have cost a king’s ransom, but it was the sort of luxury item only the upper classes bought. Even if she had been a gift bestowed by Mr. Allston, which John thought was the case, a poor man or woman would not cast the item away, no matter how much they wished to be rid of it. No, she’d have ended up at a pawn shop, if that were the case, and not the river. Therefore, her first owner had money.
Second, she’d come from somewhere upstream of Blackfriars, where he’d found her. Therefore, she hadn’t been thrown off London Bridge, which was downstream. And he could eliminate much of central and eastern London. A place along the Thames, west of Blackfriars, where wealthier people might frequent? It narrowed the search down considerably.
John walked slowly, looking for any likely cast-off point and anyone who regularly frequented the area—fishermen, fruit-sellers, and the like. He’d learned a great deal in the past two years under Judge Fielding about how to get people to talk, how to judge if a few pennies or just a friendly ear would get someone to open up.
He’d been at it for nearly six hours when he struck gold. East of the Palace of Westminster lay the fields of the Royal Horseguards. This bit of the riverbank was a grassy lawn, a popular place to walk or bring children to play. The road along the Thames here was a popular promenade for carriages to take in the river views. On the green, John found an old beggar, missing one leg, huddled under a thin blanket, a beggar’s cup before him.
London was full of beggars, and they were often very territorial. John took a chance.
“I remember the bloke,” the man said knowingly. “Carriage stopped by that tree over there. And a gentleman gets out. He looks ’round, so I figures he’s up to somefing. Walks over to the bank, he does, takes somefing from his pocket, and heave-hos it into the drink.”
John had the angel in his pocket, and he showed it to the old man. “Was it this figurine?”
“’At’s it! Saw a flash of color as he frew it, and I thinks to meself, that looks like somefing nice. So I crawled over to see if I could get hold of it, and I got a good look at her. Only she moved away too fast for me. And I weren’t about to swim fer it. But you tell me why a gentleman frows away somefing like ’at when I’m sittin’ right ’ere? He could have given it to me, couldn’t he? ’Elp out an old soldier. Bloody selfish fob. Ain’t that always the way with them types?”
“Can you describe the man?”
“There somefing in it for me?” the old man asked, squinting up at John’s face.
“Most definitely.”
“All right. He were a young man, real bloomin’ peacock. Cloak of dark green all velvet-like, shiny black boots. Wore one of them wigs with three rows ’a curls at the bottom. Blond it was. Pale as a lady’s arse. Pale face too.”
“Tall? Short?”
The beggar shrugged. “Average size I’d say. Not as built up as you. But not so small as you’d notice.”
“Right. And the carriage?”
“Fit for a king. Black. Had a design on the side, like they do. Family crest or wotnot.”
“Do you remember the design?”
The beggar gave it some thought, scratching his chin. “Don’t say as I recall, guv’nor.”
John frowned. There were several hundred upper-class gentlemen in London who could fit the description. “Was there, perhaps, a lion in the crest? Or a dragon? Or—”
“Moons!” The beggar’s face lit up, his grin revealing only nubs of teeth. “It just come to me! Sorta like when the moon’s just a sliver, right? Two of those, back to back.” He made a motion in the air. It looked like two back-to-back “C’s.”
“Excellent. You’ve been most helpful.”
“I’ll say! Surprised meself, rememberin’ that. Hope you’ll be generous to an old soldier?”
John gave him five shillings with which the man was exceedingly pleased.
The next day John met with Judge Fielding at cock’s crow along with the five other Bow Street Runners. The judge was a blasted early riser. John was given three new assignments, each of which took more time in walking about the city than they did in fulfilling the task itself. When one of the inquiries took him to St. George’s Hospital, he took a moment to stop in at the library there. St. George’s taught medical students and had a large room filled with medical books as well as histories and maps and documents of all sorts. The master on duty allowed John to peruse an almanac of British noble families. There he found the crest he was looking for—two backwards half moons, which were, in fact, the letter “C” for Claridge.
The Duke of Claridge had a residence on St. James’s Square, close to the Pall Mall where Allston had his shop, and a mere ten-minute carriage ride from where the beggar had seen the young gentleman throw the angel into the river.
John should have felt triumphant at the success of his sleuthing. But something about the matter disturbed him, caused an uneasy ache in his belly. It had been some time since John had had dealings with anyone at the level of a duke, and such dealings had always been unpleasant at best, as in his school days. In the matter that had broken his parents, the nobleman in question had been utterly contemptable. And then there was Allston’s reaction when John had first shown him the angel, the way he’d staggered. There was something worrisome in this business.
The next day, John reported to Judge Fielding and was given nothing more to do until that evening, when he was to participate in the apprehension of a dangerous cutthroat near the docks in Millwall. Having nothing pressing to do until then, John made his way to the Duke of Claridge’s residence.
It was on the north side of St. James’s Square. The Square was one of the most expensive addresses in London. It had a fenced garden and pond in the center surrounded by broad avenues on all sides. Three- and four-story mansions of brick and stone and marble lined the square on three sides with smaller homes on the fourth. The Claridge residence at Number 21 was one of the grandest on the square.
It would intimidate most people. It didn’t intimidate John, who was not the deferential sort and, anyway, had no love for the upper classes.
He stood at the fenced green and regarded the house for a time. Should he?
He really shouldn’t. What business was it of John’s? Was it a business worth bothering a duke? Yet the angel he carried in his pocket weighed heavily. And, well, why not? He’d walked all this way. And he’d spent effort getting this far. What were the odds he’d have found the exact beggar who’d seen Claridge toss the angel away? That would all be for naught if he stopped now.
He crossed the avenue and rang the bell. A butler answered, bald and with a face as wooden as a ship’s prow. John presented his card and stated his business. The butler left him at the door and went off to “inform the duke.” After being made to wait for quite half an hour, no doubt to impress upon him the value of the duke’s time, John was shown to a gentleman’s study. At the desk sat a young man whom the butler addressed as “Your Grace.” The Duke of Claridge. The butler left them alone.
The Duke of Claridge fit the beggar’s description to a “T”. He was impeccably dressed in a velvet frock coat—this one gray—a ruby brocade waistcoat, a white shirt with acres of ruffles at the neck and sleeves, and a blond wig with, yes, three rows of curls. His face was strong with a large Roman nose, small pink mouth, and deep-set blue eyes. He was decidedly handsome, a pale beauty with his powdered skin, light eyes, and blond wig. He had that ethereal affectation in spades. But where John found that appealing in Alec Allston, in this man, it merely set his teeth on edge.
Or perhaps it was his title. That also set John’s teeth on edge. He was young for a dukedom, but it was not uncommon for nobles to marry late and have their heirs when they themselves had one foot in the grave.
The duke put down a pen as if he’d just finished writing. He didn’t offer John a seat in one of his gilded chairs but kept him standing at the desk like a petitioner.
“Mr. Trent of Bow Street. You asked to see me about a lost item?”
“I did, Your Grace. This item.”
John took the angel from his pocket and put her on the desk. Claridge’s reaction was immediate. He stared at the angel with what might have been horror and was certainly shock.
“Why... why bring this to me?” he demanded, his imperious tone marred by a hitch.
It was an interesting choice of words, John thought. Why bring this to me? Neither confirming nor denying he’d seen her before.
“I found her in the Thames. Do you know the sculptor, Mr. Alec Allston?”
A muscle twitched in Claridge’s jaw, but his face remained impassive. “I’m familiar with the name.”
Bollocks. He was lying. He was more than familiar with the name, John would bet. There was something here. Something about the angel frightened the duke or at least disturbed him. There weren’t many reasons John could imagine for that.
“She was given to you as a gift,” John said slowly, feeling his way along it. “A gift you didn’t welcome. So you stopped your carriage along the Thames and threw her in the river.”
The duke’s nostrils flared. “Someone was spying on me? Well, what of it? It’s entirely within my rights to dispose of something which belongs to me.”
“No doubt, Your Grace. Unless the reason involves something you don’t wish to have widely known. I daresay, it reminds me of a stage play. Statues smuggling gold or cursed emeralds. Documents containing birthrights secreted in clocks. That sort of thing.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! If you must know, it was a gift made to me with chains of affection that I did not wish to bear. That’s all there is to the matter. And how it concerns you, I have no idea.”
The duke’s tone was scathing, and his cheeks had sprouted red blotches. He was heading for a full-on rage. Well, hells. John hadn’t intended to fight. But the duke’s arrogance was precisely calculated to step on his rawest nerve.
“Ah! Yes I see,” John said jovially. “Curious. I got the impression from Mr. Allston that he had personally given the figurine as a gift. Therefore, he must be the one who gave it to you with ‘chains of affection’. Most curious.”
That took the wind out of Claridge’s sails. His jaw dropped open and he stood, slowly, one hand bracing his weight on the desk. He gaped silently, his mouth working but nothing coming out. He looked like something you’d see at the fishmongers’ in Covent Garden.
John smiled. “Not that I’m implying the two of you were involved in a love affair.”
Claridge’s gaze darted behind John, as if to assure himself that they were alone. He dropped his voice, his words shaky. “You craven dog. You’re trying to blackmail me.”
“No, Your Grace. I don’t want your money. Though you might stop with the ‘craven dog’ comments, if you please.”
Steady, John. Steady. He had to be careful not to go too far, or he could get himself in hot water.
The duke stared at him for a long moment, as if taking his measure. Then his impassive expression returned, his face so blank it chilled the room. “I admit to nothing. But you obviously want something from me. Tell me your purpose and be quick about it.”
“Not money but... I do want the story behind this lady.” John picked her up from the desk. “Nothing incriminating, nothing... personal.”
“What ‘story’? What do you mean?”
“Where did you meet Mr. Allston?”
The duke considered him with hatred in his eyes, as if deciding if he had to speak or could throw John out. Apparently, there was something here he feared because he spoke, every word carefully chosen. “My father hired a sculptor to carve a coffered ceiling in the dining room. My mother was fond of the seashore, so the design was filled with seashells, sea birds, and the like. The sculptor and his apprentice were here for six months.”
“Allston was the apprentice,” John guessed.
Claridge gave a tight nod.
“And during that time, you gained young Allston’s affections.”
“These things happen. It was no fault of my own,” the duke said icily.
John doubted that very much. Allston was handsome now. He would have been delectable as a youth, irresistible to a fellow of certain inclinations. And John could not fathom the Allston he’d met being bold enough to leer after a nobleman’s son. No, any intimacy would have been instigated by the man in front of him.
“You dallied with a young tradesman, and he gave you his heart,” John said in a quiet and not unsympathetic voice.
“That’s where you’re wrong!” the duke sneered. “I never dallied with the man. Our bond was one of... of pure friendship. And yes, a form of love, I suppose. But the noblest kind. We never sinned. Not once!”
John blinked. Oh really? His mind conjured up images of elevated poetry readings, tortured glances from across the room, and heartfelt endearments written with perfumed ink and then thrown on the fire.
How monstrously tedious.
“I’m not to blame if someone fixes their obsession upon my person. Allston gave me that figurine a few weeks ago. He came to the house, stood right here in this office, and told me he expected nothing from me but that I have the angel on my tree every year in remembrance of... of our one-time friendship. Needless to say, I did not wish to have such memories foisted upon me at every holiday season. It would be unbearable! Not when I’m there with my wife, trying so hard to—”
The duke stopped abruptly, his mouth snapping shut. There’d been real emotion in his voice, an echo of torment, a thread of pain. He had loved Mr. Allston, then. Once. But with a man like this, his family and his standing in the world would always come first.
Poor Allston, John thought. Pearls before swine. And not even a tumble to show for it.
“That will do,” John said, sliding the angel into his pocket.
Claridge struck the desk with his palm. “Yes, it will certainly do. Now get out! And if you ever speak of this, I will deny it with every breath in my body and every power of my station, which I assure you is considerable. So if you hoped to catch me out for some vile purpose—”
“Not at all,” John said easily, heading for the door. “Merely inquiring as to a lost item. Thank you, Your Grace.”