Nine

Spare Heirs Society

Report of Events

30 September 1813

It’s now known that Mr. Reginald Grapling has been taking funds from the Westminster Boardinghouse for more than two years, beginning when he was first assigned the task of its protection in June 1811 under the authority of the Spare Heirs Society. The discovery of the missing amount (for exact accounting, see appendix C) was made by Mr. Henry Fairlyn while conducting an audit of the Westminster Boardinghouse books for Madame Molloy, proprietor of the house. The audit was administered after allegations against Mr. Grapling were raised by one of the women residing at WBH, Miss Maggie Redmond. This information was presented to Mr. Fallon St. James dated yesterday, 29 September. At Mr. St. James’s instruction, a full investigation was launched. The missing funds were retrieved after a raid of Grapling’s home led by Mr. Kelton Brice. Grapling was not present to be apprehended at that time.

At eleven o’clock this morning, Mr. Grapling was found having tea in the drawing room of Madame Molloy’s establishment. Minutes later, Miss Maggie Redmond was found unresponsive on the floor of her room at the same location. Miss Redmond’s body was bound, gagged, and covered head to toe in shallow wounds from a knife. When she was found, she wore only the locket that witnesses claim Mr. Grapling gave the woman as a gift months prior—a token of his affection. The depth of Miss Redmond’s wounds suggests that she was allowed to bleed out for most of the night. Mr. Grapling had the murder weapon in his possession downstairs where he waited for her passing…

• • •

Spring 1817

“All of London society is here,” Hardaway hissed through clenched teeth.

Fallon scanned the church, attempting to count in rough terms how many were in attendance. “I would estimate it at half of society,” he murmured a moment later. “Of course, there are many who don’t come to town who I’m also taking into account.”

“I meant why are so many people here?” Hardaway asked in his version of a whisper—which was more of a low rumble that the first pew of people in front of them could surely hear.

“It isn’t often a lifelong bachelor and ton darling is finally chained to a lady.” And Fallon had called in a few favors to make sure there were strong numbers present. There was no point in holding a wedding as a diversion from recent disasters if no one came to the event. He didn’t want his friend to marry without reason. Guilt already plagued him over the necessary ruthlessness he’d had to use in sacrificing one of his oldest friends’ bachelorhood. For that high a price, the wedding had to be worth discussing for weeks on end.

“I’m not some spectacle to be viewed in the park, and don’t call me a ton darling.”

Fallon glanced to Hardaway at his side with a suppressed smile. His friend needed to lash out at him to relieve his anxiety over waiting for his wedding to begin. It was the least Fallon could do to rib the man into a fight to distract him. “Today you are both of those things. Isn’t it a beautiful occasion?”

“Shut it before I hit you, St. James.” Hardaway drew back at his own words and turned to stare at him. “You’re far more loquacious as of late. It’s odd. I like it, but it’s odd.”

Fallon didn’t respond. It was true. He’d spoken more in the past few weeks than he had in a year. There was only one change to his schedule where he could place blame for such an oddity: Lady Isabelle Fairlyn.

The woman and her excessively cheerful nature had somehow crawled under his skin, and the situation got worse every time he saw her. Now he found he was talking more often than before. The worst of it was that he wasn’t speaking of anything of importance; they were…almost leisurely discussions. He gave an inward shudder and adjusted his stance at the front of the room, his gaze sweeping the crowd.

Where was Lady Isabelle this morning? He’d yet to catch even a glimpse of her. She must have been keeping her sister company. Or perhaps she was too upset by the wedding to sit about and wait for it to begin. It was taking quite a while to get started.

Fallon resisted the urge to pull out his pocket watch and check the time, knowing many eyes were upon him while he waited at the altar. He wasn’t accustomed to being at the front of a crowd of people, much preferring to rule from the shadows, where he could check the time if he chose. He spotted Ash Claughbane and his new wife, Evangeline, chatting quietly with each other. Claughbane hadn’t seen marriage on the horizon until it happened either, and to his lifelong enemy’s daughter no less. Everything was changing, but the happiness he saw on Claughbane’s face gave Fallon peace of mind about that fact.

“Where is my bride?” Hardaway hissed at his side, drawing Fallon’s attention back to the event at hand. “She should be here by now.”

As should her sister. Yet Isabelle was nowhere to be found. The crowd was growing louder as the people gathered grew impatient. Then Victoria appeared in the back doorway of the church, music played from the balcony above their heads, and the rumble of the crowd died down. The lady’s eyes darted around the room, searching. Isabelle… She hadn’t been with her sister then. Which raised the question: Where was she?

Looking out across the faces of those in the church, he saw that he wasn’t the only one to notice Isabelle’s absence. Her name was mouthed in wordless whispers by quite a few people while others craned their necks, looking for her. Something was wrong. Isabelle knew enough about society to know she couldn’t abstain from this event. She would know of the reality of society expectations. Everyone would talk. She must have been more distraught by this day than he’d imagined. If she wasn’t here, where was she? He needed to find her.

But gasps pulled him from his thoughts. Victoria had stopped moving when she was only halfway to the front of the church. She stood rooted to the floor for a moment, and her eyes darted around the room before landing on Hardaway with a wary look.

“What…” Hardaway breathed at his side, his body going rigid with tension as if preparing for a brawl in an alley.

Lady Victoria looked to be preparing for the same eventuality. She parted her lips as if she was about to say something; then in the next second, she picked up the bottom of her gown, turned, and took off at a run.

Fallon turned to ask Hardaway what had happened between them, but his friend was already running after his would-be wife. “Victoria!” he bellowed just before he disappeared at the rear of the building.

Fallon blinked. This was certainly one way to divert attention from the recent fire.

He wouldn’t have recommended this course of action, but now that it had occurred…it wasn’t an altogether bad outcome. Everyone would certainly discuss this over tea for a long while. He should be pleased, but all he could think about was the one end of the rope left to unravel.

Where was Isabelle?

* * *

The front doors of the museum rattled beneath his hands as Fallon pulled on the handles. Locked. The museum wouldn’t be open for another hour yet. But Isabelle must be here. He pushed off the thought once again that Grapling had taken her, that she was in danger. This was simply Isabelle mourning her sister’s wedding. There were no games here, no pawns, only Isabelle. He took a breath. If not the museum, where would she go? He’d already asked after her at her home, and any friend or family member she would think to visit had been present at the almost-wedding. Stepping to the side, he lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. He peered in the window, unwilling to walk away just yet.

A shadow of movement caught his eye beyond the main hall of the museum. Perhaps Isabelle was here after all.

He turned and descended the steps, scanning the sides of the building for a secondary door. Rounding the corner of the large stone structure, he moved down the narrower side street, toward the door that Isabelle must have used if she was in fact here. A moment later, he threw it open with a nod of satisfaction before charging up the service stairs that led to the upper rooms. The area was for the use of the librarians who worked in the building, but that didn’t slow Fallon. He was no stranger to clandestine trips into service areas.

Within seconds he’d reached the upper floor, where Isabelle had once given him a tour. He would surely find her here, staring at a painting, forlorn over her lost love. Or had she truly moved on to Grapling just as the man had planned? Perhaps he could offer her some comfort in the fact that her true love was still today an available bachelor. If he told her about the failed wedding, would she run to fawn over his friend? Some selfish part of him wished he could keep the information secret a bit longer. Then he could keep her to himself—if only for the afternoon.

Fallon had built an empire upon secrets and omissions of details, but he knew he must tell her the truth about her sister’s failed wedding. At the same time, he knew she only wanted friendship from him. And he had no room in his life to have her as more than a friend. It was fact, reality, no matter how much he wished it were not.

His booted feet fell in silent steps on the thick rug that ran the length of the room leading to the main gallery. It was rather eerie to walk the halls of the museum with the building this silent. Many painted sets of eyes watched his progress as he wound his way toward the area with Isabelle’s family’s collection. It was odd, though… He’d seen movement through the front window, yet all was quiet inside. There were no light footsteps as Isabelle moved around the room, no chatter as she talked to a maid—only silence.

He quickened his pace, unsure what he would find after all. When he reached the opening to the large gallery where Isabelle’s family’s art collection was housed, he finally understood the silence.

He paused for only a heartbeat as the shock of the scene before him tensed his muscles for battle. Then he was running.

“Isabelle?”

The walls where the paintings had been displayed were bare, the room empty. Isabelle was on the floor, limbs in disarray as if she’d fallen and hadn’t moved since. She was bleeding. The scene was all too familiar. Not again. Not Isabelle.

“Isabelle,” he tried again, sliding to his knees beside her. Silently begging for her to be alive, he turned her head to see her face. He braced himself for the sight of whatever damage had been inflicted on her to bring her to this state.

Her eyes were closed but not blackened. He cupped her cheek in his hand and brushed a stray curl from her forehead. She was still warm. He could now see a cut in her hair above her left eye from the blow that must have brought her down. The hair around the wound was matted, dark red, and growing worse by the second. He pulled out his handkerchief and pressed it to her head to stop the bleeding, but she needed more assistance than he could offer her. There was blood everywhere. He had to help her. He leaned over her, pressing his ear to her breast. Her heartbeat was steady. But her breathing was already faint. God, how long had she been here? He should have come faster. He should have known she would come here.

“Isabelle!” He shook her gently by the shoulder, but she didn’t rouse. She needed a doctor. He had to go for help. Was there no one else in the building? There must be…

He leaned back on his heels, looking around the room more warily than before. She’d been left here like this on purpose. It was a message. He scowled down at the locket around her neck for only a fraction of a second before he ripped it from her throat and stuffed it into his pocket, unable to revisit the familiar scene in his mind.

He scanned the floor around her for the object that had caused her head wound, partially to understand how it had happened and partially to arm himself against a possible unseen foe. But the room was empty except for a piece of paper at her side. Picking it up, he quickly scanned through the words.

Dear Father,

Everything has been stolen from me. I’ve lost my love to my own sister, and today I lose my sister as well. You should have seen that my heart belonged to Mr. Kelton Brice long before he became Lord Hardaway, just as you should have seen that my interest in this art collection would lead to this day. I’ve arranged for the paintings to be sent somewhere you will never find them. And I remain as a constant reminder of what you lost. Now we’ve both been stolen from. This is a small theft in the face of what you’ve done to me, but it’s a start. My sacrifice today will show the world who you truly are. Enjoy the outcome of your selfish concerns.

—Isabelle Fairlyn

Was this simply coincidence?

His mind had jumped to Grapling as her attacker, filling in the gaps as necessary to make the man guilty of this crime. Had Isabelle set out to steal from her family and had something go horribly wrong? It couldn’t be.

Then he saw the minutely printed string of letters and numbers along the bottom of the page. Anyone else would dismiss the line as scribbles, but not Fallon. He scanned the line, once, then twice, his heart racing with the information he found there. Between the code and the last line of the note, he knew he’d been correct in the beginning. This was Grapling’s work.

“Enjoy the outcome of your selfish concerns,” Fallon whispered as he dropped the note to his knee and looked down at Isabelle where she lay on the floor as he pieced together all that he knew. There was something familiar about those words—as if he’d heard them before. Were they from a well-known book or a line of verse? He shook his head and stuffed the note into his pocket. He would have time to consider that riddle later. Right now Isabelle’s well-being was a larger concern.

He couldn’t risk raising the alarm or have her seen to by a doctor here. He was the only witness. The code he’d seen in the bottom corner of the note was even more concerning. He was one of the few men who could read such a message since he’d invented it as a means to give orders in writing to his men. He hadn’t used it in years, but he remembered it.

Four copies. Can you find them in time? No more or it wouldn’t be sportsmanlike.

There were four copies of this blasted note, and he was in possession of only one? Where were the other three? Where would he start? Questioning the Post and finding known forgers to prevent additional copies from being made to begin with, but those steps would have to wait. Right now he had Isabelle to deal with. Even if he concealed the copy he’d found here, others placed all blame for the theft on her shoulders. Even if no one believed their claim, the scandal was enough to ruin her. Isabelle had nothing to do with this. She was as Grapling had claimed: a pawn.

Fallon’s brows pulled together, making his head ache. There was no way around it. Until such time that the other notes were accounted for and the artwork recovered, Isabelle would be in the thick of a scandal—another one, considering what her sister had just done.

The Spare Heirs, however, had a doctor. The situation could be kept quiet.

Fallon was already scooping Isabelle up in his arms. He’d known Isabelle’s father for years. This was a matter of protecting a lord’s daughter. Fallon was simply doing his job. Help a friend in need, gain an owed favor…

But this was Isabelle. This wasn’t about business, future gain, or future debts to collect on.

Her thin frame draped over his arms like a coat on a cold day. Shifting her so her head rested against his chest, he looked down into her pale face. Ever the wood nymph who now haunted his dreams, luring him into brightly lit clearings, her cheeks still held the slightest hint of rose. He clung to the sight of her color-filled cheeks. She would live.

“You’re going to be fine, Isabelle.”

He wasn’t certain which one of them he was reassuring, but he continued talking anyway, all the way through the museum, down the stairs, and into the street.

“Everything will be all right. I’m going to take care of you. I’ll sort this out in no time. I’ll fix it. It’s what I do. I care for an army of gentlemen. I have a doctor on staff. If anyone can retrieve paintings, it’s me. I’ll make this scandal disappear for you. I know you would prefer it if a knight saved you, but there were none available today. I’ll have to do. You’ll be all right, Isabelle. You’re safe now.”

When he turned the corner, his driver spotted him and jumped down to open the carriage door. He asked no questions, only watched Fallon grow near with wide-eyed concern. His men knew better than to ask. It’s why this would work. He could care for Isabelle at headquarters, hide her there until matters were solved.

No one would pry. No one would find out. And if they did…he would have to put a contingency plan in place. He glanced down at the lady in his arms. Her father wouldn’t like any of this, but he could be made to understand. The gravity of his actions weighed on his shoulders even more than the woman in his arms. It must be done.

“Back to headquarters. She needs to be seen by Dr. Mathers. Tell no one else of this.”

“Yes, sir,” his man replied as Fallon climbed inside the carriage, still holding Isabelle against his chest.

As the carriage began to move, he wrapped his arms more tightly around Isabelle. Holding her as one might hold a sleeping child, he cherished every faint beat of her heart against him.

“Not much farther now,” he murmured into her hair as he pulled her close. “You can make it. Stay with me, Isabelle. Please stay with me.”