Title Sinful Tales of Desirable Ladies

by Lucinda Nelson

  “To me, that is not a bad thing. She is right in many respects that women should be allowed to speak their minds without it being a scandal.”

  Shaking his head, Thomas grinned. “Then you are truly a matched pair. You realize I only want her to be happy.”

  “Just as you should.”

  Dismounting their horses at the grey and brown shabby warehouse that Thomas pointed out, Solomon observed the activity as workmen unloaded a wagon of wooden crates and carried them inside. Structures of similar rundown appearance lined the river with men in drab clothing working in and around them. “This place just might attract Edward,” Solomon commented, gazing around. “Cheap, out of the way, well away from the places I myself might frequent.”

  “Would Lord Oakshire also have the same notions?” Thomas asked.

  “I cannot see him doing so, but if he is the one engaged in this fraud, then I am so very wrong about everything I know of him.”

  Heading to the front door, Thomas opened it for Solomon, permitting him to enter first. The huge room was stacked with crates as the workmen continued to unload the wagon, ignoring the visitors. “Where is the owner?” Solomon asked.

  Gazing around, Thomas replied, “I do not see him. Permit me to go and inquire.”

  Leaving Solomon’s side, Thomas made his way to a man who Solomon guessed to be a foreman directing the labor. The two men spoke, and the foreman shook his head, then said something else to Thomas. Solomon suspected bad news when Thomas returned with a grim expression crossing his features.

  “The owner is in Brighton,” he said, his tone disgusted. “I asked that man over there if he had seen the person who rented the warehouse, and he did not. So we are no further along with this.”

  “Damn it.” Solomon scowled. “Did he say when the owner will return?”

  “A few days. This is certainly not what I had expected.”

  Blowing out a gust of breath, Solomon said, “Well, I suppose we should pay a call on the constables. Perhaps they have better news.”

  The chief constable, John Downing, bowed low as Thomas introduced him to Solomon. “I fear we have little good news for you, Your Grace,” Mr. Downing said as he offered chairs for them at his desk. “Albert Johnson is still resisting all our efforts to persuade him to tell us who employed him to murder you.”

  “Has he said anything at all that may prove helpful?” Solomon asked him.

  Mr. Downing made a face. “His only words are not worthy of your ears. He is stubborn and uncouth, and appears to believe his employer can and will kill him in a very uncomfortable way even while in our custody.”

  Thomas eyed Solomon sidelong. “Then our theory is correct. Perhaps Mr. Crane does not have that kind of capability. One needs an enormous amount of influence to murder a man while in gaol.”

  “And Aldric Oakshire would,” Solomon continued, glum. “We are still left with nothing but questions.”

  “He did make an interesting comment, Your Grace,” Mr. Downing said thoughtfully, “though it does not help us much.”

  “What would that be?”

  “He seems to believe that if he does not talk, his master will have the same power and influence of Your Grace even without the title. He will get Johnson released from prison if he succeeded in killing you yet was caught while doing so. That belief is certainly keeping him loyal to his employer.”

  Solomon met Thomas’s sharp gaze. “How can anyone free him if he was caught murdering you?” Thomas asked, bewildered. “No one would do that, would they?”

  “My guess is that his employer lied to him for that very reason,” Solomon replied. “Maintain both the threat of a nasty end as well as the fiction that he will never hang for his crime.”

  “And it is working,” Downing added. “He believes that once you are dead, he will be freed provided he does not tell us who hired him.”

  Thomas stared at the far wall. “I wonder if we might be able to persuade him to change his mind on that belief. Convince him that his master will not either get him released nor can he harm him. Puncture his reasons for staying silent.”

  “How?” Mr. Downing asked.

  “Is he in with other prisoners?”

  “Of course.”

  “What if we were to plant a constable among them,” Thomas went on after a quick glance at Solomon. “Perhaps make Johnson believe that he was caught also trying to kill you, and that he was hired by the same employer.”

  Solomon shook his head. “If the constable were to give out the wrong name, Johnson will be suspicious.”

  Thomas snapped his fingers, growing excited. “Wait a moment. What if Johnson is playing us for fools and does not even know the name of who hired him? In truth, would either of our suspects give his true name to a man like Johnson?”

  “I certainly would not if I were the nefarious type,” Solomon replied, pulling the drawing from his pocket. “Let us show him the drawing of Edward and gauge his reaction.”

  Mr. Downing rose. “Permit me to bring him to you, Your Grace.”

  He bowed and left the room, leaving Solomon and Thomas to continue to speculate. “If by showing him the drawing,” Solomon said slowly, “we might be able to convince him that his employer is not infallible.”

  “Drive a wedge into his loyalty,” Thomas agreed with an excited nod. “Then when he confesses, we have our man.”

  “If he confesses,” Solomon cautioned. “He may still hold onto the hope he will be released without punishment.”

  “True enough. If a constable were to gain his trust, he may get him to talk even without naming one of our suspects.”

  “What have we to lose?” Solomon asked.

  Mr. Downing swung open the door and gestured. “Bring him in.”

  Two uniformed constables dragged Albert Johnson into the room, his hands manacled in front of him. His face, bruised and swollen, showed the marks of fists. Solomon and Thomas stood as Johnson sneered, his expression unrepentant and arrogant. “I haven’t changed my mind, Duke,” he snapped. “You be wasting your time.”

  Without bothering to answer, Solomon unfolded the drawing and held it in front of Johnson’s face. The assassin stared at it, his eyes widening slightly. Watching him closely, Solomon saw him swallow hard before clenching his jaw and shunting his eyes away. “You know him,” he said softly. “This is the man who hired you.”

  Johnson swung his eyes back to Solomon, his gaze as hard as flint. “I never seen that man before in my life.”

  “Your mouth lies but your face tells the truth.”

  Anger boiled in Solomon even as grief swamped his soul. “His name is Edward Crane and he hired you to kill me, did he not?”

  Johnson’s lips compressed tightly, and he did not reply.

  “Tell me, did he use an Irish brogue when he spoke to you?”

  Again, Johnson cut his gaze from Solomon’s, and he said nothing.

  “That is what I thought.” Solomon glanced at Mr. Downing. “I have what I need, Chief Constable. Please let it be known that Albert Johnson confessed to being hired by my business partner, Edward Crane, and that he will be hanged as soon as his case is brought to the Crown Court.”

  Mr. Downing bowed. “I will, Your Grace.”

  Johnson’s sneer vanished. “I never told you nothing. You can’t go about saying that, you will get me killed.”

  Solomon offered him a shrug and a grin. “Oh, but you did tell me, Mr. Johnson. I have been learning how to read faces, and yours is a book. I read the truth in your eyes, your posture. You know the man in this drawing, you know he has an Irish accent, and you would not unless you met him. The only way you would have met him is if he hired you to murder me.”

  “That is not proof.” Johnson tried to regain his lost arrogance. “I cannot be hanged on that.”

  “Oh, yes, you can. As I am a Duke, I have great influence on the courts. My word will be taken without question. I offered you a chance at escaping your fate if you talked, but now you will hang
. Unless of course, your employer does not slaughter you first. Good bye, Mr. Johnson.”

  With a gesture, Solomon ordered the constables to take Johnson back to his cell. As he begged and pleaded for Solomon to not spread the word that he talked, Johnson was dragged from the room and Mr. Downing shut the door behind him. “Are you certain about this, Your Grace?” he asked.

  Solomon refolded the drawing and returned it to his coat pocket. “I am. Please collect your constables and come with Thomas and I to arrest Edward Crane.”

  Chapter 26

  Miss Teresa Wolcott

  “I would like to go for a walk,” Teresa said after she and Amelia ate luncheon in the dining room. “Would you like to go with me?”

  Amelia shook her head. “I need to lie down.”

  “Are you feeling poorly again?”

  “No, my stomach is fine.” Amelia smiled. “I am just tired. Make sure you have an escort.”

  “I will. If I come across a market, is there anything I can bring you?”

  “More of that soothing tea if you can find it. Thank you.”

  Thus with an armed mercenary named Charles striding behind her, she strolled away from the park-like grace of Solomon’s mansion.

  The rain had held off, yet the air scented of it as though it hovered just beyond her sight. The clouds hid the sunlight behind them, giving her some respite from its rays even though she carried a parasol.

  As she had never been in this part of London before, she gazed around at the city’s bustle that appeared very much like the busy street that ran in front of the Wolcott townhouse. Wagons and coaches rolled along the cobbled street, hansom cabs with the drivers high above the horses pulling them passed her by.

  People of many social standings strode past her from both directions.

  Spotting a tea shop, Teresa went inside, her hulking escort behind her. The smiling shopkeeper bowed, and offered her samples of his many products.

  “No, thank you,” Teresa replied. “Do you have a tea that soothes the stomach?”

  “Indeed, I do.”

  After he wrapped her tea in a paper, Teresa paid for it and left the shop, the package under her arm.

  Instantly, she was slammed to the side, hard enough to make her stumble to remain on her feet, and she lost her grip on her package. A fraction of a second later, the sound of a shot struck her ears. She heard a grunt, and spun around.

  A man with reddish hair and a pistol in his hand stood in the street amidst the snorting and spooking horses.

  His eyes met hers for a brief few seconds before he turned and ran into the mix of shouting people, dodging a team of rearing and plunging horses.

  Then he vanished. Cursing abounded as riders, coachmen and drivers fought to get their beasts under control.

  Though unhurt, Teresa trembled, her hands quivering from reaction. If he had not pushed me, I would be dead now.

  Stunned, feeling slightly sick to her stomach, she stared, unseeing, in the direction the shooter ran. “I almost died.” She whispered. “I almost died.”

  Pedestrians ran toward her, shouting questions, and a Bow Street Runner charged into the fray, bellowing orders for calm.

  Stunned by the speed with which everything happened, Teresa gaped, still shaking, not quite certain what she should do.

  Then she discovered her mercenary guard, Charles, yanking a handkerchief from his pocket, his face a mask of pain.

  “Oh, no.”

  Hurrying to him, pushing aside her fears, Teresa took the cloth from him and bound his bleeding upper left arm. “You saved my life,” she said over the noise of the shouted questions as people converged on them.

  He gave her a lopsided grin. “It is my job to guard you, Miss Wolcott.”

  “You could have been killed.”

  “That is the risk we take in our line of work.”

  “What happened here?” demanded the Runner as he strode up to them. His eyes took in the bleeding mercenary, and then widened.

  “A man tried to shoot me,” Teresa replied, gesturing toward her guard. “My escort saved me and took an injury to his arm.”

  “Do you know who that man was?”

  “No, I do not. He ran across the street and disappeared.”

  The Runner followed the direction of her pointing finger, then shook his head. “He is long gone by now. Might I have your name, Miss?”

  “I am Miss Teresa Wolcott. You may know my brother, Thomas.”

  “Indeed I do,” the man replied with a grin. “Very well known among us. Why would that fellow try to kill you?”

  Teresa hesitated, not sure if she should explain how someone was out to murder the Duke of Thornehill as well as herself. Deciding against it, she replied, “I do not. Now I must get home and have a surgeon care for my servant.”

  “Of course. May I escort you there?”

  “I would be glad of your protection, sir.”

  After introducing himself as Kent McIntyre, the Runner dispersed the crowd with barked orders as Teresa added her own handkerchief to Charles’s arm to help stop the bleeding. “Will you be all right?” she asked him.

  “Of course, Miss Wolcott. This is merely a nuisance.”

  “Even nuisances can become large problems,” she replied tartly.

  While she wanted to ask him questions as to how he could react so fast, the presence of Mr. McIntyre deterred her. She did not want him to know her servant was truly a mercenary hired to guard her, for that would raise too many questions in the man’s mind.

  Instead, she answered his inquiries about the red haired man and the shooting.

  “He had reddish gold hair and blue eyes,” she said. “Not very tall, but was slender. He wore workmen’s clothes and a cloth cap.”

  “So you got a good look at him?”

  “Yes.”

  “I will spread the word about him,” Mr. McIntyre told her as they walked. “We may find him, but there are too many red haired, blue eyed men in this city.”

  “I know you will do your best.”

  Mr. McIntyre gaped as Teresa led the way to Solomon’s huge house, set back from a wide and quiet lane, and partly concealed by tall hedgerows. “This is the Duke of Thornehill’s residence.”

  “Yes,” Theresa replied. “My family and I are his guests.”

  “Is he truly the Devil Duke I read about?” he asked, eyeing her askance.

  Teresa laughed. “He is a kind and generous man. And that is all I will say about him.”

  Mr. McIntyre saw them to the door, then offered her a small bow and a smile. “If you think of anything else that might help us find the man who tried to kill you, your brother will know how to find us.”

  “Thank you, Mr. McIntyre.”

  Solomon’s steward, Mr. Upton, happened to be walking across the foyer as she entered with her bleeding guard. He paused mid step, then crossed the remaining distance to them in rapid strides. He offered her a quick bow, his eyes shifting between them. “What happened, Miss Wolcott?”

  “A man shot at me,” she explained “My guard pushed me out of the way, but he was struck.”

  “Thank God you had him with you,” Mr. Upton said. “I will have the cook brew you some hot tea, Miss Wolcott. You appear shaken.”

  “I am. Will you please care for this brave man? He may need a surgeon.”

  “I certainly will. Your sister-in-law is in the solar if you wish to join her.”

  “No, I will return to my quarters. Please have the tea sent there.”

  “Yes, Miss Wolcott.”

  Teresa climbed the stairs to the spacious rooms Solomon gave her during her stay there, and closed her door behind her. Seating herself in an armchair, she stared into the cold hearth, thinking of what had just occurred.

  After her tea arrived, Teresa sat and drank it, feeling its soothing heat spread through her. The more she pondered what had happened, the more she realized she had once again escaped death by a narrow margin. “Next time I might not be so fortunate.
”

  ***

  Solomon Eli Dunn, the Duke of Thornehill

  Exasperated, disgusted, Solomon stared at the office devoid of Edward’s presence. The furniture remained, and the desk still held paperwork pertaining to their combined import business, but a quick look into some of the drawers indicated Edward took with him anything that might incriminate him. Solomon sat down and slammed the drawer closed.