by Amy Corwin
As he rounded the corner, he was surprised to see a hackney jerking to a halt in front of his townhouse. Mr. Gaunt climbed down to the walkway and turned to face him.
“My lord,” Gaunt nodded as the hackney lurched away in a clatter of horse’s hooves and creaking leather.
“Have you news?” Marcus waved for Gaunt to precede him to the door.
The door opened as soon as Marcus’s foot attained the top step. His butler, Davis, as alert and efficient as ever, in sharp contrast to the Polkinghorne’s overworked maid.
“Not as such.” Gaunt removed his black hat and held it between his gloved hands. A thoughtful look wrinkled his brows.
“Join me in the library.” No need to spread any additional gossip by discussing personal matters in front of the servants, even if he was sure most of his servants were loyal.
Discreet as always, Gaunt remained silent until they’d entered the book-lined room at the rear of the house. They took seats near the windows, and Gaunt finally said, “This may be awkward, however, I would like to positively eliminate you as the responsible party and put an end to the worst of the gossip.”
“Do you truly believe it is possible to staunch the rumors?” Marcus asked dryly, stretching out his legs. “I have always found that the most salacious ones have the strongest will to survive, even in the face of facts to the contrary.”
Amusement flashed through Gaunt’s dark eyes, but his expression remained bland. “No doubt. However, it may be useful to give other tales a chance to spread.”
“And how would these other tales be granted life?”
“The, um, lady I mentioned at our last meeting, Mrs. May—”
“Mrs. May?”
“She does claim the title, and the ring she wears seems to support the notion,” Gaunt replied. “In any event, Mrs. May saw a man throw what appeared to be a child wrapped in a rug over the edge of the new London Bridge. She apparently saw enough to state that although I had something of the look of the man, it was not I.”
“And you wish her to examine me now?” The idea did have merit, even if it grazed him with a sharp edge of annoyance. Gaunt must realize he was innocent, otherwise, why would Marcus have hired him? Just to ensure that the job of murdering his entire family was completed, and that there was no possibility that Cynthia would appear later to accuse him?
“Yes.” Gaunt’s sharp gaze seemed to read Marcus’s thoughts, although his face remained impassive. “She enjoys telling the tale to anyone who will listen—and even to those who don’t wish to listen. If she were to claim it was not you…” He allowed Marcus to come to his own conclusion.
It wasn’t hard. An eyewitness who could claim Marcus was not involved would be useful, despite the risk that Mrs. May might mistakenly avow that Marcus was indeed the man she saw. The sword was a double-edged one and could cut either way.
Then there was the underlying assumption that the bundle thrown into the Thames contained Cynthia Chenneour, so Mrs. May was worth meeting.
He frowned, considering. If the mysterious bundle had contained the child, however, why had the poor child’s body not washed up on the shore somewhere? Why had no one found any trace of her? Not even a shoe, despite the reward he had offered for any small item that could be identified as hers.
None of it made any sense.
“It might be worthwhile,” Marcus agreed at last. “Though you might be putting too much weight on Mrs. May’s powers of observation.”
Gaunt chuckled. “I am trying not to do so, my lord, as the lady appears to enjoy her drink.”
“Can you find her?”
“Oh, yes. She is kicking her heels in my office at the moment, being served copious amounts of tea and cakes by Sotheby.” His eyes twinkled. “With any luck, she will be nearly sober when we arrive.”
Marcus laughed as he stood and went to the bell-pull. Best get it over with and return as quickly as possible. He ordered a carriage and within half an hour, they were walking into Gaunt’s office in what once had been an elegant townhouse before its lavish rooms were ruthlessly subdivided into offices for the Second Sons agency.
The ceiling of Gaunt’s office attested to its previous, glorious life. A lovely painting of Mount Olympus adorned the ceiling. Unfortunately, most of the cherubs, gods, and goddesses had been decapitated in the process of putting up the walls of the room, although their bodies, adorned in flowing white robes, still reclined on marble benches amongst sunset clouds and ornate columns. The room’s single window was framed by two columns, as well, forming a heroic backdrop for Gaunt’s massive desk and ornately carved chair.
Mrs. May wriggled uncomfortably in a straight-backed chair in front of the large desk. She held a saucer in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, and continued to sip her tea as she eyed Gaunt and Marcus walking into the room.
She did not rise. In fact, she placed the cup and saucer on the edge of the desk in order to grab another slab of teacake with her grubby hands.
Her clothing seemed to consist of a red satin evening gown that had seen better days, for it was stained and raveling around the hem. Over the dress, she wore a tightly fitted blue jacket, pinned together under her bosom, and a threadbare, green shawl draped over one shoulder. Fingerless black mittens covered her hands, though she might have been better advised to wear gloves, since her cracked and broken fingernails had black crescents of dirt under them.
At one time, she might have been pretty, but drink and exposure to weather had roughened her skin and turned the tip of her prominent nose a deep cherry red. Surprisingly, her hair was a rich brown without a touch of gray, and had been braided and pinned at her nape, just under the edge of her rather florid bonnet. A few strands had escaped and fluttered around her cheeks, and her gray eyes were constantly moving over the two men and the room with a wary, assessing motion.
Despite her evident love of alcohol, her sharp gaze was astute, and Marcus could understand why Gaunt had sought her acquaintanceship. Mrs. May might be poor, but she was no fool.
Gaunt flashed Marcus a quick glance as they stood in the doorway, and gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, requesting silence.
Stepping forward, Gaunt waved at Marcus and said, “Mrs. May, have you seen this man before?”
Mrs. May studied Marcus as she pushed the last slice of cake into her mouth. A few crumbs fell on her bodice, and she absentmindedly brushed them onto the floor. “Come closer.” She laughed, a few more crumbs flying out of her mouth. “I don’t bite—leastways, not unless I’m paid something for it.” Her eyes glittered with malice, and the smile lingered on her mouth as she swallowed.
Marcus stepped around Gaunt.
“Well?” Gaunt asked impatiently.
“Turn ‘im around,” she demanded. Her restless fingers picked a large crumb out of the tattered lace cradling her ample bosom, and she popped it into her mouth. “He’s a pretty one, ain’t he? Wouldn’t mind seeing him, regular-like.” She winked. “You understand?”
Mrs. May might be coarse, but Marcus couldn’t help but like her energetic approach to conversation and food. Difficult though it was to stifle a smile, he remained expressionless.
“Well?” Gaunt prompted.
“Well, what?” Mrs. May eyed him and then gave the empty cake plate a pointed glance.
“There is no more cake, Mrs. May, so I can only hope you have had sufficient nourishment to consider my question,” Gaunt replied.
She sniffed, and her rounded chin wobbled and rose a fraction of an inch. Then, almost perfectly imitating Gaunt’s tone, she said, “Very well. And where should I have seen this very fine gentleman?”
“Perhaps on the new London Bridge?” Gaunt suggested.
Marcus had to admire Gaunt’s patience. He gave no sign of any impatience or annoyance with his somewhat fragrant visitor, although Marcus noted that Gaunt remained near the door. A step closer to Mrs. May revealed a possible reason. At some point today, she’d apparently splashed a liberal amoun
t of rose water over her person. Unfortunately, the floral scent could not overcome the earthier odor of perspiration, laced with the sharp smell of alcohol.
Cocking her head to one side, she eyed Marcus. She licked her lower lip and chewed on it before her gaze drifted to Gaunt. “What is it worth to you if I say he’s the one you want?”
“Precisely the same as it is worth for you to declare that he is not the man you saw. Do you recognize him?”
“Well, it might be him.”
Marcus’s gut tightened. He kept quiet, however, and maintained his relaxed stance. No point in giving her a reason to focus on his tension and assume it reflected a guilty conscience.
“Might be?” Gaunt frowned and studied Marcus before ordering him to leave the room for two minutes.
Marcus’s brows rose, but he slipped through the door. He did leave it open a crack, however, to enable him to hear what was happening.
“Now if you would, Mrs. May, please describe the man you saw on the London Bridge—”
“Not the London Bridge—the new one. That one ain’t open, yet.”
“Precisely,” Gaunt agreed, although a tired note was slowly creeping into his voice. “The new London Bridge. Describe him to me once more, if you please.”
A heavy sigh greeted this request. “Why do you keep asking the same thing? Are you daft? Or just deaf?” She laughed at her wittiness.
Marcus imagined Gaunt’s nerves throbbing like a thumb inserted into a rapidly tightening thumbscrew in response to Mrs. May’s coy answers. She was certainly enjoying herself. Even Marcus found himself grinning, despite the thought that she seemed inclined to identify him as the man she’d seen if it would earn her an extra coin or two.
“Describe him, please,” Gaunt repeated his request, proving that while wearing thin, his patience wasn’t altogether in tatters, yet.
“Very well,” she said in lofty tones. “Looked like you, truth be told, though you’re a bit younger.”
“How do you know that?”
“How would anybody know that?” she countered sharply. “Gray hair—more gray than that bit you have. And deep-set eyes—deeper than yours, too. Black holes, they was.”
Marcus heard her chair scrape the floor as if she’d shivered at the thought.
“What else?” Gaunt prompted.
“Wore black, and it were night, so what more could there be? He had one of them long, pale faces, though, with them deep lines running from his nose to his mouth.”
“Clean-shaven?”
“Yes—like you.”
“But we have established that he was not I, so I believe we can make do without that particular comparison. Could you tell his height?”
“Weren’t a regular Tower of London like you, that’s sure.” She laughed and smacked the arm of her chair.
“So, he was shorter than I am. Was he taller than you?”
“’Course he were! Not as much as six feet, though. A few inches less, maybe.”
The door opened fully, and Gaunt stepped through into the hallway. “Would you join us?”
Marcus nodded and returned to the office, coming to a halt just inside the room.
“Given your description of the gentleman you observed on the new London Bridge, what is your opinion of this man? Is he the one you saw?”
“You are daft! You have me repeat my own words over and over, and for what? I asks you, for what? Did you not listen?” She tilted her head and eyed him with a frown before thrusting out her hand, palm up. Her gesture clearly indicated that she had reached the end of her patience and wished to end their conversation. “Pay me what you said, and I’ll be on my way.”
“A simple yes or no, and you can be on your way,” Gaunt replied.
“But it ain’t that simple. Or so it seems,” she muttered. Her hands fumbled with her flower-bedecked bonnet, resetting it on her head, before she gave Marcus a shrewd glance. “You want it to be him? Very well, then. Yes!”
Gaunt sighed.
Stepping forward, Marcus smiled at Mrs. May. “Did I not hear you say the man you saw was older and had more gray in his hair?”
“Can’t say I know what you heard,” she responded with a wink. “But it’s clear someone must take the blame. Why not you?”
“Why not, indeed,” Marcus agreed.
She retied the red ribbon of her bonnet and fluffed up the raveling ends. “Not one of us can claim complete innocence.” She grinned, revealing several missing teeth on the left side of her mouth. “Not at our age, anyways.”
“There are few who could dispute that.” Marcus studied her with a smile. “But you did say gray hair.”
“Maybe I did.” She shrugged. “Or maybe you misheard. It were night, after all. Could be just the lamplight reflecting off his hair.”
“And deep grooves running from his nose to the corners of his mouth,” Marcus said. While most men had such folds on their faces, Marcus’s could scarcely be described as deeply etched.
“But you’re shorter than Mr. Gaunt, here, ain’t you?” she retorted, her eyes glittering with evident enjoyment over their disagreement. “The man I saw were shorter.”
“Do you truly believe I was the man you saw?” Marcus asked, his voice soft with disappointment.
If Mrs. May decided to change her tale in hopes of a reward, it would only complicate matters.
She shrugged and stared at Mr. Gaunt.
“The truth, Mrs. May. One last time, if you please,” Gaunt said.
“Oh, all right. Never seen ‘im before—more’s the pity. The other were shorter, even, than this one, and older,” she stated at last with a heavy, mournful sigh. “Could use a few like this one, though. Gets lonely of an evening…”
“The truth at last. And you are sure, Mrs. May?” Gaunt clasped his hands behind his back and examined her with a frown.
Her gray eyes flashed up at him, and she frowned back. She sat up straighter and then with great deliberation, poured out the last of the tea from the teapot on the desk. After taking a loud, slurping sip, she set her cup down.
Finally, she looked directly at Gaunt. “Think what you like—there was a lamppost nearby, and I know what I seen. It weren’t him—seeing as how you aren’t in the mood to share the reward.” She snorted. “So if you’d hoped to collect—well, it’s just too bad for you. I’m not saying nothing more. I may ‘ave had a good time that night, but I know what I seen and who I seen. That gentleman were older, I’d say. At least twenty years. Maybe more. I know my men.” She shrugged her thick shoulders and arranged the drape of her shawl. “Couldn’t make out the color of his eyes, but there were silver in his hair—no mistake about that. So this one’s too young. You got the wrong man, Mr. Gaunt.” Her head tilted back as she laughed again. “No reward for you!” Her hands slapped the armrests as she looked at Gaunt, the sharp malice back in her bloodshot gray eyes. “Though you’ll be paying me, my fine gentleman, won’t you?”
Gaunt nodded as he pulled a leather purse out of his jacket. He counted out a few coins and tossed them to Mrs. May. Then he held up another shilling. “Tell us again what you remember—everything you remember. I want every detail, no matter how small. If you do, you’ll get this coin, as well.”
“I’ll repeat it as many times as you like!” Mrs. May shrugged as she tucked the coins into her purse before tucking it under her skirt and settling back in her chair.
Although she repeated her tale and responded promptly to Gaunt’s questions, she failed to add any more helpful details. The man was still an unknown gentleman with graying hair, and the bundle he threw into the Thames was still questionable, although Mrs. May seemed convinced that it was a child by the shape and the fact that she saw feet sticking out.
Twenty minutes later, Gaunt paid her the final shilling and dismissed her.
“Satisfied?” Marcus asked, watching the butler escort Mrs. May out the front door to a hackney that he paid to take the lady home. He hated to admit it, but he was relieved that the woman
had finally admitted that she had seen someone other than him.
Unfortunately, her description was vague enough to apply to almost any middle-aged, dark-haired man, including Eburne. Or even Marcus, himself, if one discounted the age discrepancy.
While he was sure no one would take Mrs. May’s word over his, she could still have made things awkward for him. Matters were difficult enough as it was, and in truth, their little charade meant nothing. No one could prove that Cynthia was alive—or dead—just as no one could prove that Marcus had had nothing to do with any of it.
Gaunt nodded. “I am satisfied, although I fear that anyone with an extra coin or two might buy any story they wish from Mrs. May. She seemed ready to claim you were indeed the man she’d seen if the price were high enough.” Amusement glimmered in his eyes, and his mouth twitched into a brief grin. “I beg your pardon, however, for refusing to introduce you and treating you rather high-handedly. I had hoped to get at the truth that way.”
“Well, I am sincerely relieved you did not let her know that I am an earl.” Marcus laughed. “We would never have gotten the truth from her, then.”
“Oh, we may have persuaded her, although the price would have been much, much higher.”
“I just wish I didn’t have the sense that she was only telling us what she thought we wanted to hear. Do you believe her description to be accurate?” Marcus asked, frowning.
“Graying dark hair, under six feet in height, and deep nasolabial grooves—I believe those details may be reliable.”
“And the feet sticking out of the bundle…” Marcus shook his head. “I wish that description didn’t sound so truthful. Do you believe Cynthia is gone, then? That I am wasting my time searching for her?”
“I cannot say, my lord.” Gaunt stared down at the glossy surface of his desk and trailed the fingers of one hand over the carved edge. “No child has been found along the Thames, but that may be interpreted in many ways.”