by L. C. Sharp
“The name I was given at birth is not the name I use now.” Ash’s admission surprised Juliana. While his birth name could be discovered with a little diligence, they preferred not to discuss it. Everyone knew Ash as Sir Edmund these days. “My parents, or rather, my mother, named me Humiliation, though whether she meant mine or hers I could not say.”
“They called you Humiliation?”
Ash gave a short laugh. “I had a brother they named Sorry-For-Sin. My parents were radical dissenters.”
“Puritans,” she put in.
“Ah,” Parrish said. “I’ve known a few. They seem like good people.”
“Most are,” Ash said. Juliana loved his fairness. For all the cruel treatment dealt out to him and his brothers and sisters, he did not blame every radical dissenter for something his parents had done. He saw through the generalities to the truth beneath. “My mother was ill, I believe, and she had the raising of us. My father was working in London. He did not see most of it. Neither did I.” He’d escaped to the city to work with his father, and he saw that as abandoning them. He wore the guilt like a shroud that nobody could penetrate. Not even his wife.
Parrish grunted in acknowledgment. “I was named by the principals of the home where my keepers put me shortly after my birth. I believe they named us orphans after people buried in the nearby churchyard. At least that was what I was told. I never saw the grave of Elmore Parrish, so I consider myself the rightful owner of the name.”
“You must come to dinner one evening,” she said. “Perhaps on Friday?”
“Not Friday,” Ash reminded her. He groaned. “We have to attend a ball at Newcastle House.” He brightened. “Although we could plead illness or a prior engagement. I doubt the duke would notice our absence.”
Reminded of their appointment, Juliana begged to differ. “You know he will seek us out. He’s curious about the murder.”
Ash paused, then sighed. “Yes, you’re right.” He turned back to Parrish. “Do you have a card?” Fishing inside his pocket, Ash found his card case, a silver one with a number of dents and scratches. She must buy him a new one.
The men exchanged calling cards. Juliana had no doubt Parrish would appear at the dining table soon. She had become accustomed to finding new people at their table. Although Ash never invited the more disreputable of his acquaintance, Juliana had never met a more varied selection of people in her life. And she loved it. She learned something from every one, sometimes despite their presence instead of because of it.
Finally they reached the end of the bridge, and Parrish asked for their direction. Ash gave it without hesitation, which in itself was telling. He guarded his address because it was the heart of his concerns.
They’d reached more familiar ground now, although they still had some way to travel. However, here was where Parrish displayed his knowledge of London. Instead of taking the obvious but crowded route of Leadenhall Street, Cheapside, past St. Paul’s and up Holborn, he took a route along the smaller streets. He skirted Covent Garden, which was clever, because at this time of day the Garden was less crowded than usual, and along some streets Juliana wasn’t aware even existed, but were mostly clear of traffic. In this way they reached their destination in double-quick time.
Along the way they chatted about the state of the streets, the composition of the government, and the role of dissenters in London’s prosperity. Wide-ranging, but none of it skirting the Coddingtons or the bodies rattling in the back of the cart.
At their door, Ash helped Juliana to alight by circling her waist with his hands and lifting her down in an impressive but understated display of strength. She nestled close to him for a few seconds before stepping back, testing herself.
The thoughtfulness and kindness belied by his austere appearance didn’t surprise Juliana anymore, but she never failed to appreciate it. “You wanted to get to know him, didn’t you?” she asked.
His sudden smile warmed her. “Yes, I did. He noticed something nobody else had. Including me. The hole in Coddington’s chest was larger than I would have expected because he was standing a few steps away from his killer. I like Parrish, and I like his approach. I have a good mind to attend one of his lectures.”
“They would not allow a woman into one.” She brightened. “Perhaps I could borrow one of your coats and go as a boy.”
He groaned. “No, my dear. Dressing as a boy would have you condemned in the public eye. Murder merely makes you interesting.”
He understood the society in which she used to move better than she did at times. He was right. Public displays of inappropriateness were more fatal to acceptance than murder. “I don’t care about my reputation.”
“Ah,” he said, taking her arm to guide her up the shallow steps to the front door. “Perhaps I do.”
Chapter Seven
A blast of cold air made Ash pause as he turned the corner leading to Harrington’s Coffeehouse. He turned another corner, his quarry in his sights. They had pavements here, instead of posts driven into the ground to delineate the pedestrian part of the thoroughfare from the traffic. Some streets in the city did not even have that. A carriage could sweep to one side and eliminate a family if its driver had a mind to.
The gentleman’s club that lay above Harrington’s Coffeehouse in St. James’s Street held a number of men, some in groups, others sitting alone, perusing journals, of which there was a rack full by the entrance. Ash took one and gazed around. Nobody took much notice of him, until he saw someone glance up, and nudge his neighbor, who also sent a glance in his direction. He did not recognize them, but they seemed to know him.
A moment later, having found a spare table and with an order for coffee on the way, he understood why the two strangers had taken an interest in him. The Daily Ransom had made hay.
That journalist they had met last night had taken every advantage of the situation. “Bloody Murder at the Royal Firework Display” drew the eye. The report was as lurid as anyone could make it. While Ransom had inserted the true story in the article, he had embellished it with every adjective available. Bloody was one of his favorites.
And unfortunately, he had named Ash as a principal in the investigation. That was a pity. Ash did not seek notoriety from his work. It annoyed him, got in the way of his search for justice. People would tell him what they thought he wanted to hear, rather than the truth.
He’d called Ash a falcon again. Damn. Ash would prefer him to forget that conceit. Last year Ash had come up against the Raven, a particularly nasty example of the criminal masses, and in a particularly lurid sentence, Ransom had compared the two birds of prey.
Ash was a fair man. Ransom had to make a living. But he would rather the man didn’t make his living off him. He sighed. He’d have to make it clear that he would not tolerate such treatment.
“Sir Edmund?”
Ash looked up. One of the two men who’d recognized him had come over. He got to his feet, indicating a spare chair. “Lord Darramere,” the man told him. “We met last year outside the Duke of Newcastle’s rout.”
“He has quite a few of those,” Ash said, “but I remember you, your lordship.” Now the man had placed himself, he recalled the brief introduction.
The man waved a hand. “Darramere will do.” He glanced at the journal. “I see you’re reading about yourself.”
“About Coddington,” Ash said, “but I doubt I’ll learn anything from this.”
“You are acting for his widow?”
“I am acting for myself,” he said. “I work for justice, nothing else.”
Darramere rested his brocade-clad arm on his velvet-clad knee. This man certainly enjoyed his wardrobe. “Does justice pay well?”
Ash gave a tight grin. “Hardly at all.”
“But of course you’ve come into money recently.”
Ash set his jaw. The implication that he’d taken his wife’s jointure angered h
im. He would not answer the man, as he deserved. He was here to do a job, and he would do that, by God.
“Half of London was looking in that direction. Before her notoriety, of course.” Oblivious of Ash’s growing anger, he laughed. “Quick off the mark, sir. I compliment you.”
Ash bunched his fist and stood up.
“Ash!”
The chair next to his was dragged out, and the owner of the voice took a seat without being asked. But then, his grace the Duke of Abercorn rarely waited for an invitation.
“Good Lord, man, are you in another fix?” The twinkle in the duke’s startling blue eyes belied his accusation. The elegant blue coat, the waistcoat gleaming with gold thread, the innate elegance all spoke of a great aristocrat, but the Duke of Abercorn was far more than that.
At least he’d saved Ash from being thrown out of Harrington’s on his ear. After he’d pounded Darramere to a bloody pulp. Ash took a steadying breath, and sat down, as if he’d stood to greet the duke.
They were old—friends, acquaintances? Damned if he knew. “I look for them,” Ash replied in the same vein. “Fixes, I mean. Seek them out.”
“So you do. But from what I heard, it sought you out this time.”
Ash shrugged. “I took my family to the firework display and found more than that waiting for me.”
The duke nodded to Darramere, who gave him a stiff nod back.
“I should welcome you properly.” Abercorn sat, crossed one leg over the other in an elegant pose and lifted his finger in one smooth movement. At once, a porter arrived bearing a couple bottles of red wine, and three glasses. The duke did the honors.
Ash could hardly refuse. He lifted his glass and smiled as he took his first sip. Standard burgundy, not good enough to be remarkable, not bad enough to refuse. “So what brings you here?” Abercorn asked.
“I came to find people who knew Lord Coddington.”
“To what end?” Darramere asked. He put his empty glass down. Without a blink, Abercorn refilled it.
“Only to gain an impression of what the man was like, where he went. Last night’s attack came as a complete surprise, according to his family. His widow could not think of any reason why someone would want to kill him.”
Darramere frowned. “I thought it was a simple robbery gone wrong.”
No he didn’t. Ash had read a well-worn journal. He’d wager everyone in the room had read the account, or had it read to them. Ransom had speculated on motives for the murder, and robbery was only one of them. But Ash would play Darramere’s game. “At first, so did I. But there are a few anomalies we need to clear up.”
“We?”
“I. And the coroner.” Although he didn’t know who the coroner was, he would by the time he’d inquired at Bow Street. And he’d ensure that a reasonably incorruptible one was appointed. Asking for a completely incorruptible one would be ridiculous, but while the Fieldings and the coroner required answers, Ash had an inquiry to make. “I daresay we can clear this up in no time at all.”
“What makes you do this?” Darramere asked. “You are a gentleman, are you not?”
“And a lawyer in search of justice. I qualified as a barrister, too. I follow in my father’s footsteps.”
Darramere grunted. “I remember your father. He had no social graces, none at all.”
“Very few,” Ash agreed.
He turned his mind from his own problems. He could think about those anytime he wanted to. On the whole, he preferred not to.
“Did you know Lord Coddington?”
After two glasses of good burgundy and halfway down his third, Lord Darramere became more voluble. “Everyone who came here did. This club is a small one. We prefer it that way. Keeping out the riffraff, you know.” He swept his glass in the air in an expansive gesture. “We have this room, the library and the dining room. That’s all we need. On grand occasions when we entertain, this room is tricked out for the company.”
Entertain? Whores or gambling? Ash could hardly ask which, or whether the gentlemen here merely indulged themselves in overeating contests. Clubs existed for all kinds of activities.
“We employ the staff as we need them,” Abercorn murmured. Ah, so Ash could ask him later.
He stuck to his narrow path. “And Lord Coddington enjoyed these activities?”
“Unluckiest rascal alive,” Darramere said.
“Which made him popular,” Abercorn drawled. “Until he won.”
Gambling. “Did he win often?”
Darramere raised a heavy shoulder in a half shrug. “Sometimes. Not recently.” He started on his fourth glass of wine.
They left him to it. Ash wouldn’t find out any more from the man, and the other members appeared disinclined to talk. Rather than go around each table and receive the same information put in different ways, Ash chose to leave. He had better things to do than sit in a stuffy room with a group of self-satisfied men.
Abercorn accompanied him.
Once they were out in the open air, Ash turned on him. “How is it that you are always in places where I need to be? And you are always there first?”
Abercorn tapped the side of his nose. “Ah. Perhaps I’m looking for the same thing as you. And then again, perhaps I’m not.” They strolled to the end of the street. “You’re taking on the case?”
“I was there. It interests me.”
“And that is what matters, isn’t it?” Abercorn drew a handkerchief from his pocket and applied it to his nose, merely touching the tip. “Life is so tedious. I have never been so bored. Perhaps Coddington’s unfortunate case will stir up an ant’s nest. One can only hope. And do one’s best to stir the nest. Hand someone a sharp stick, for instance.”
“Would that someone be me?”
“Maybe.” Reaching into his pocket, Abercorn drew out an exquisite snuffbox. The edges flashed with the tiny diamonds that surrounded a painted scene. He flicked open the box with a practiced nudge of his finger and took a pinch of the fragrant powder within. “I don’t particularly like snuff, but the boxes are impossible to resist. I have quite a collection.” He offered the box to Ash, who shook his head. “Ah, I was forgetting. Puritans don’t take snuff, do they?”
“I believe a few do.” Ash knew Abercorn’s games, and was happy to play along with them, since they usually proved fruitful. “I don’t mingle with them in the general way of things.”
“No, you don’t.” He applied the grains carefully, first one wide nostril, then the other. Abercorn had an aquiline nose rather like the one Ash sported, but people called Abercorn’s aristocratic. Which, to Ash’s way of thinking, was tautological. “Neither did poor Coddington.” Thus neatly bringing the conversation back to the point. “From his activities here, I doubt he would suit Puritan circles well.”
“Women or gambling?”
“Oh, gambling,” Abercorn said without hesitation. “I believe he had a woman or two from time to time, but nothing scandalous that I heard of.”
“He could be reckless at the tables.”
Abercorn snapped his box shut and restored it to his pocket. “In fact, we at the club were considering banning him from our tables. We do not appreciate a man reneging on his debt.”
“Did he?” Gentlemen did not do that, although Ash would rather pay his tailor, a man who undertook honest work, than a gambling debt. He’d never understood polite society’s adherence to the gentleman’s code.
“Last week he did,” Abercorn continued. “Ash, can you promise to keep anything I say private?”
Ash hesitated. He would not lie, would not haver. “If it has no direct connection to his lordship’s death, I can promise not to divulge who told me.”
Abercorn had the temerity to laugh. “When the club has its collective ears flapping? Do you think that will make any difference?”
Ash took a moment to consider his
answer. “I should say that there is no need to mention my informants in open court. If you can trust the gentlemen of the club, then there is no reason the names can come out.”
After a frozen pause, which Ash rode out with some trepidation, Abercorn sighed. “He wagered me an emerald ring the other night, which was paste. When I taxed him with it, he claimed he had no idea and he would make good the debt at the end of the month. Every man is entitled to a little leeway, but Coddington had taken too many liberties in recent months.”
“I see. Did he gamble to excess on a regular basis?”
“Only when the fancy took him.” Abercorn spread his hands. “That doesn’t mean he was badly in debt. That is for you to discover.”
Yes, it was, wasn’t it? Ash tried not to sigh when he thought of the places he would have to visit. Once balked of the clubs, an inveterate gambler could take to the hells.
Paying a gambling debt would drive Coddington to the moneylenders. And that led to a name Ash was doing his best to avoid in this case.
The Raven.
Chapter Eight
While she had rid herself of most of her old garments, or had had them altered, Juliana still knew how to dress like a lady. Having roused her maid into a fine frenzy with her talk of hair powder and hooped petticoats, Juliana eventually left the house in a somber gown of dark blue with matching petticoat, somber enough for a visit of condolence. If Lady Coddington refused to see her, Juliana’s magnificence would go to waste, but so be it.
Aware of the importance of appearances, she took a sedan chair and allowed a footman to accompany her. Her mother barely moved without at least two attendants, but after briefly wondering what her mother would think, she shrugged it off.
Even if one did not know her ladyship’s direction, it was easily discerned. The hatchments above the door, the closed curtains and black-draped knocker all proclaimed the sorrow within.
Juliana sent up her card.
After five minutes, a servant came down the steps and opened the door of the sedan chair. Juliana graciously allowed him to help her out and slipped him the expected tip. The small bribe could come in useful, should she need to see her ladyship again in the future, so she made it generous.