Chapter Twenty-Three
Two days later, Rosie perched on a chair on the premises of Kent and Associates. She’d always loved visiting her father’s office located near Soho Square. Sandwiched between a bakery and a pianoforte maker’s shop, the building had been remodeled due to a fire a few years back, and the understated elegance of the present suite with its oak paneling, studded leather seats, and stone fireplace suited her papa perfectly.
At present, no discordant sounds came from the piano maker’s, but the tantalizing scent of fresh gingerbread wafted from the bakery. While the moist, spicy-sweet treat had been her favorite as a girl, as an adult her ubiquitous slimming plan curtailed such indulgences. At the moment, however, she would have given her eyeteeth for a slice. Knowing what was to take place this morning, she’d been too nervous to take more than a cup of tea at breakfast.
Next to her, Polly murmured, “You’re fidgeting worse than Violet.”
Botheration. Rosie stilled her tapping slipper. She slid a glance at Mama, who sat in a chair by Papa’s desk, embroidering a handkerchief. This was not a good sign: Mama only did needlework when she was upset and needed distraction. As Rosie watched, her mother put in precise pink stitches that formed Sophie’s initials, a complex garland surrounding them.
Since the attack, Mama had sewn a dozen of these handkerchiefs.
She’d also had been glued to Rosie, the present danger dissipating the tension between them. For Rosie, reconciliation was a relief. While she didn’t like that the other had kept the truth from her, she understood why. And she loved her mother too much to sustain the separation.
She’d decided to bury the hatchet—and the whole business of Coyner along with it. Nothing had happened, so what was the point in excavating such ugliness? Dwelling upon the horrid business would only lead to further friction with her mother.
No, she decided, she would not think about the matter ever again.
Anyway, she had more important things to contend with: Andrew would be arriving shortly.
Immediately after the attack, he’d apprised Polly and Revelstoke of the truth. Calm as could be, he’d told them that he’d been escorting Rosie home when they’d been shot at. He hadn’t said what they’d been doing together (thank goodness!), but he also made no effort to hide the fact that, whatever it was, they’d been doing it alone and in the middle of the night.
Luckily for Rosie, Polly and Revelstoke had been more concerned about the attack on her life than her less than proper behavior. If they didn’t ask, there was no way she was going to tell. Besides, being a widow, she had new freedoms, so perhaps she could just brazen the whole thing out.
When Andrew had announced his intention to alert Papa, however, she’d protested.
To no avail.
“Your life is in danger, and I’ll do everything in my power to keep you safe,” he’d said in a tone that brooked no refusal. “My guards will arrive directly, and you will stay here and under their protection until I’ve made arrangements with your father. Do you understand?”
She’d bristled at his high-handedness, but his hard expression had warned her against arguing. His aggression reminded her that he’d earned his success in one of London’s darkest, most dangerous trades. Yet beneath his dictatorial manner, she sensed his fear for her, which had convinced her to comply.
That and the fact that he’d taken a bullet for her.
Luckily, the wound turned out to be a graze. Nonetheless, knowing that he’d risked his life for hers had melted her defenses. Thus, she’d said simply, “Yes, Andrew.”
He’d given her a terse nod and walked out with Revelstoke. That had been at dawn yesterday. Since then, Rosie knew that Andrew had met with Papa, the two of them devising a plan to protect her and her reputation.
“I can’t help fidgeting,” Rosie whispered back to Polly. “This business has me all aflutter.”
“Who wouldn’t feel that way after being shot at?” Polly said sympathetically.
“Oh, I’m not aflutter over that. With Papa and Andrew on the case, I feel perfectly safe.”
It was true. She had complete confidence in the two men. In fact, after the initial shock of the attack had worn off, she hadn’t been so much afraid as she had been infuriated. Just when the clouds seemed to be clearing from the horizon, why did fortune have to shower her with more slings and arrows?
Polly blinked. “What are you worried about then?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” she said under her breath. “Papa and Mama are about to be in the same room as Mr. Corbett.”
Polly gave her hand a squeeze. After all, what could the other say about the awkward and fraught-with-peril situation of introducing one’s lover to one’s parents?
Why do these things always happen to me? Rosie was torn between mortification and worry. She prayed that her parents would treat Andrew with respect—and was prepared to rise to his defense if they didn’t.
The door opened to reveal her father and his partners, Mr. McLeod, a brawny Scotsman, and Mr. Lugo, an equally imposing fellow who hailed from Africa. The two partners, who had known Rosie since she was a girl and were like uncles to her, nodded silent greetings and retreated to the back of the room. Andrew came in next, his gaze finding hers, and a curious thing happened.
Her anxieties eased; his mere presence anchored her.
He approached, bowing to her and Polly. “Good day, ladies.”
While Polly smiled at him, Rosie tried to hide the fact that she felt as giddy as a schoolgirl. Andrew was a gentleman through and through, from his manner to his character to his impeccable looks. As always, his tailoring fit his virile form like a second skin.
She saw the bulge beneath the sleeve of his sage green jacket and blurted, “How is your arm?”
“’Twas but a scratch, my lady.” His tone was formal, but the warmth in his eyes made her heart skip like a pebble across a pond. With seemly courtesy, he produced a small box from behind his back. “With my compliments for your full recovery.”
“Oh. How kind.” She smiled at him. “What is it?”
“Open it.”
Untying the plain string, she lifted the lid. A petite loaf of gingerbread sat nestled in paper. Glazed with white icing and bejeweled with bits of candied lemon, it looked mouth-watering.
“How did you know that gingerbread is my favorite?” she said.
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “A lucky guess.”
Before she could thank him, her mother’s cultured voice cut in.
“Mr. Corbett, I have something I wish to say to you.” Mama approached Andrew, her demeanor somber as her grey cashmere dress. Her slim shoulders were rigid.
Andrew inclined his head, the gesture polite and edged with wariness. “Yes, ma’am?”
Rosie’s breathing suspended. Please be nice to him…
“Thank you, sir. For helping to save my girl,”—Mama’s voice cracked—“again.”
Seeing Mama’s anguish, Rosie felt heat well behind her own eyes. She would have gone to her mother, but Papa got there first. He wrapped an arm around Mama’s waist, and she leaned into him the way a climbing bloom does a sturdy trellis.
“Think nothing of it,” Andrew said quietly. “It is my privilege, ma’am.”
“We are in your debt, Corbett. I cannot, however,”—Papa cast a severe glance in Rosie’s direction—“approve of the circumstances under which this recent rescue took place.”
Rosie flushed, sneaking a peek at Andrew who remained at the side of her chair. His expression was entirely neutral. He said nothing, neither denied nor argued the charges. At the same time, his manner conveyed that he was going to continue doing as he damn well pleased.
How she wished she had his self-possession. His strength and sophistication. Instead, her confidence was as fragile as porcelain—and as for worldliness?
She was a girl who still collected dolls.
But you’re not a girl any longer, you’re a woman. For once, the voice in her head championed her on. You’re a widow who has the right to live an independent life.
Act with maturity, and they will see you in a different light, Andrew’s deep tones advised.
Exhaling, she addressed the room at large. “It was irresponsible of me to leave the house that night without telling Polly and Revelstoke,” she said candidly, “and for that I apologize. I’m also truly sorry for having caused everyone worry in the past few weeks.”
“Bit longer than that,” Papa muttered.
“Let her finish, Ambrose,” Mama murmured.
“I intend to turn over a new leaf,” she told her parents. “From now on, I’ll be honest with you and accountable for any decisions I make.” She looked at Andrew, the approval in his eyes bolstering her courage. “While you may not approve of my decisions, I ask that you respect them. I am a grown woman—a widow, as a matter of fact.”
“We’ll discuss these decisions of yours later,” Papa said. “For the time being, I suggest we focus on a plan to keep you safe.”
She wondered if now was a good time to announce her intention to move into the house on Curzon Street. No assailant was going to stop her from carrying on with her life—and, more importantly, she refused to endanger the lives of her family. What if Polly or the earl had opened their front door during the shooting and got caught in the crossfire?
She shivered. No, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow that to happen.
Seeing her father’s stern expression, however, she decided a Fabian strategy was in order. She’d wait for the right moment to spring the news.
“Yes, Papa,” she said meekly.
Papa escorted Mama to a chair. He leaned against the front of his desk to address the room.
“Given the details Corbett provided us,”—he acknowledged Andrew with a nod—“my partners and I have devised a strategy for moving forward. Time is of essence here, so we’ve divided the tasks. McLeod will lead the search for the assailant.”
The brown-haired Scot, who’d been leaning against the back wall, straightened.
“I’ve recovered the shot,” McLeod said. “Two bullets were lodged in the Revelstokes’ front door, so we’re looking at a double-barreled firearm. No one got a good look at the shooter, but Corbett identified the horse as a bald-faced chestnut. Jem, his driver, got a couple shots off, and thinks he scored a hit in the assailant’s left shoulder. So I’ve got men canvassing the rookery for an injured cove who rides a marked mount and uses a twin-barreled gun. Folk in the stews can be tight-lipped as clams, especially in the face of authority, but we won’t give up until we find the villain.”
“Thank you, Mr. McLeod,” Rosie said gratefully.
The Scot’s craggy features softened with a smile. “Rest easy we’ll keep you safe, Miss Ros—I mean, my lady. And Annabelle sends her best.”
Rosie adored Annabelle, Mr. McLeod’s beloved auburn-haired wife. “Please give my regards to her and the girls.”
“I was just thinking,” Polly piped up, “that perhaps Revelstoke and I could help?”
The earl frowned. “In your condition, kitten, I hardly think—”
“I don’t mean that I would search for the villain,” Polly said hastily, “but we know those who are well equipped to do so. Who witness everything that goes on in the stews.”
“Ah. The mudlarks,” Revelstoke said.
Through her work at the foundling academy, Polly had befriended the mudlarks, children thus called because they made their living scavenging the banks of the Thames. And, during the course of his adventures, Revelstoke had once saved the life of the mudlarks’ leader.
“The Larks would help. They have eyes and ears everywhere,” Polly said earnestly.
“I’ll talk to them after this,” the earl said.
“Thank you both,” Papa said. “In the meantime, Lugo and I have begun investigating the list of suspects, who fall in two categories: enemies of Corbett and,”—his amber gaze darkened—“those who might wish Rosie harm.”
“The shooter was after Lady Daltry,” Andrew said flatly. “The gun was aimed at her. And if perchance the killer was after me, I can handle my own enemies.”
Papa’s dark brows winged. “How many do you have, sir?”
“More than some, less than others,” Andrew said blandly. “My point is that we must focus our energies on Lady Daltry’s enemies—and God knows she’s just inherited her share. There are six people with one hundred thousand reasons to want her dead.”
“Peter Theale, Antonia and Alastair James, Lady Charlotte Daltry, and Misses Sybil and Eloisa Fossey.” From the back of the room, Mr. Lugo rattled off the list in his distinctive bass. “All are potential suspects.”
“Yesterday, Lugo and I met with Daltry’s executor, Mr. Mayhew.” Papa took up where his partner left off. “Mayhew confirmed that the money is Rosie’s until death or remarriage. If either of those events occur, then the terms revert to those of Daltry’s original will in which Peter Theale is the main beneficiary.”
“Which makes Theale a prime suspect,” Mr. McLeod commented.
“Yes, but shares of the wealth would also be disbursed to the other relatives—including Alastair James. Mr. James isn’t a blood relation per se, but he cultivated a friendship with Daltry. Indeed, after Theale, James has the most to gain at five thousand pounds per annum. The ladies would each receive a yearly stipend of two thousand pounds.”
“Kent and I will look into Theale and James first,” Mr. Lugo noted.
“I’ve compiled financial information on both of them,” Andrew said.
All heads swung in his direction.
“You have?” Papa looked surprised. “It’s been a little over a day since the shooting, and such information takes time to track down.”
“Information is part of my business,” Andrew replied. “In my experience, following the money is the quickest way to find the culprit.”
“A philosophy I happen to share.” Papa cleared his throat. “Tell us what you know, sir.”
“In a nutshell, both coves are in dun territory. Theale comes from a line of younger sons and inherits his poverty through natural bad luck. His attempts to gain a fortune at the gaming tables have not improved his situation, however. He’s in five thousand quid to a moneylender at a rate that doubles that debt within six months.”
“But Mr. Theale seems so nice,” Rosie said in surprise.
Andrew’s lips quirked. “Some of the nicest coves I know reside in the Marshalsea: debtor’s prison doesn’t discriminate. But I understand what you mean. Theale’s gaming seems an act of desperation whereas Alastair James pursues his vices with the dedication of a true rakehell. He has his vowels scattered through every gaming hell, bawdy house, and tavern in Covent Garden. And earlier this month at White’s, he placed a thousand pound bet with a crony over who could eat the most mincemeat pies.”
She canted her head. “What was the result?”
“The sod emptied his accounts—in more ways than one,” Andrew said derisively. “It’s only a matter of time before he faces the music or makes a run for the Continent.”
“Quite thorough, Corbett.”
Papa sounded impressed—and Rosie knew he wasn’t easily impressed. She, too, admired Andrew’s prowess. His power and command of this (and any other) situation.
“Maybe we ought to hire him on, Kent,” Mr. Lugo said. “Save us the shoe leather.”
“Bloody hell, we can’t afford the fellow.” Beside Mr. Lugo, Mr. McLeod shook his shaggy head. “You ken the kind of blunt his club pulls in?”
“Maybe he’ll work gratis.” Mr. Lugo flashed straight white teeth. “On account of the family connection.”
At Mr. McLeod’s guffaw, Rosie blushed. She slid a look at Andrew, worried about how he might react to the men’s good-natured jibing. Thankfully, he didn’t look annoyed. In fact, he seemed… pleased?
“If the two of you are finished,”—Papa sent his partners a quelling look—“we’ll move on with the plan. While McLeod searches for the shooter, Lugo and I will pay a visit to Theale and James. To my mind, the hiring of a cutthroat suggests that a male perpetrator is more likely, so we’ll deal with the ladies after. At any rate, I have a feeling that Emma will want to handle the interrogation of the female suspects.”
“Emma is coming all the way from Scotland?” Rosie said in surprise.
“We wrote the rest of the family about your troubles,” Mama replied. “I predict Emma, Thea, and Violet will be arriving forthwith.”
“Don’t forget Harry,” Papa said, referring to his younger brother, a scholar at Cambridge. “Lord knows we need all the help we can get. In the meantime, Rosie, you’ll have a pair of guards assigned to you. You’ll move back home, and you’re not to go anywhere alone. In fact, you’re not to go anywhere period until this case is concluded.”
Rosie appreciated her father’s concern, but there was no way on earth that she was going to endanger him, Mama, or her siblings. And she also wasn’t about to be treated like a wayward girl. To be locked in her room while the adults made decisions for her.
She had plans of her own—and for once she didn’t want to have to plead, pout, or charm to get her way. She wanted to address the matter head on, as a mature woman would.
“I appreciate everyone’s help,” she said earnestly, “but there’s something I need to tell you.”
“What is it?” Grooves of tension deepened around Papa’s mouth.
You can’t delay this forever. ’Tis now or never.
Her hands gripping in her lap, she declared, “I’m moving into my own residence.”