A Most Discreet Inquiry (The Regent Mysteries Book 2)

by Cheryl Bolen

  She deserved that. And more. Why in the devil had she lied to him? And why in the blazes was she meeting that rogue Sir Ronald inside a hired hack?

  “Let me think,” he said. “The man's name reminded me of a place.”

  “Russell? Like Russell Square?”

  He pursed his lips. “No. Not Russell.”

  “I don't suppose you've ever met the man?”

  “No. Never heard of the fellow.”

  “What about Kent?”

  “Not a county, either. Of that I'm certain.”

  She leaned back and regarded him through narrowed eyes. “Captain Jack Dryden, I do believe you are pulling my leg! Even with multiple injuries, I know how sharp your mind is. You would never forget something as important as the identity of a . . . a murderer.”

  His wife knew him entirely too well. He was incapable of repressing a slight smile that tweaked at his lips. “Lambeth.”

  She gasped. “Lord Lambeth?”

  He went to nod, then knew it would be entirely too painful to do so. “Indeed. Do you know him?”

  “I've never met him. I believe he's between my age and that of my parents.”

  “I don't suppose he has a post in government?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Jack went to purse his lips, but such an act reopened a cut and hurt like the devil. “I'll wager the man's a murderer.”

  “Yes, it would seem so.” Her brows lowered. “But why did you say his name was a place? I don't know any town or square—Oh yes! You were thinking of Lambeth Palace.”

  “One of the most important residences in London.”

  “I suppose the Archbishop of Canterbury would be in perfect agreement.”

  She was lost in thought for a moment, then offered her opinion on Lord Lambeth. “The way I see it, when Lord Lambeth saw Mr. Prufoy at the widow's—where he'd come to express condolences—he realized the batman had the major's things and because Lord Lambeth was close to the major—the two men would be of the same age—he knew about his affair with my sister and likely knew of the letters.”

  “Mrs. Styles did tell me her husband and Lord Lambeth were the closest of friends. If the peer was in need of money—the widow indicated he lured her husband into gambling—he had to know letters from a duchess would be extremely valuable.”

  “As, indeed, they were. I don't understand why he had to kill the poor batman, though. Why could he not have just gone to the man's rooms when he was not there?”

  “I have never understood the workings of a murderer's mind.”

  “I wonder if he knows the importance of Captain Heffington's list?”

  “A pity we don't know a single name that was on it.”

  His eyes narrowed. That slight movement hurt like hell. “You did not tell that damned Sir Ronald about the duchess's letters, did you?”

  “How could I? You specifically told me not to tell another soul. And why do you refer to that sweet man as damned?”

  “Sweet man, my elbow,” he muttered. Jack was not about to admit that the baronet was tall and handsome. Especially not to his wife. “He's a womanizing rake.”

  She put hands to waist, stiffened, and looked askance at him. “Only that one indiscretion, to my knowledge. He and Virginia are quite happily married, and as Cornelia says—not without jealousy—disgustingly besotted over one another.”

  “Enough talk of that man. What next, Madam Schemer?”

  “We get you well.”

  “On the third day I shall be good as new.” He did not believe his own words. “What is your true opinion about the men who tried to kill me?”

  “I believe the duc d'Arblier's back in London. You must own, the very method of the attack on you sounds like the underhanded, vile kind of thing he would orchestrate. He obviously hired the worst sort of murderers to do you in—to get you out of the way because he knows you will spoil his evil plans.”

  “It does seem plausible that d'Arblier's back, but my attackers did not speak French.”

  “The duc has the resources to hire cutthroats. Perhaps Lord Castlereagh may know if the duc has managed to steal into our country.”

  A bell sounded.

  Her gaze leapt to his. “Oh, dear, that's the front door.”

  “In the absence of servants, may I suggest you get the door? I am aware that the daughter of an earl is unused to such a task.”

  “I keep forgetting we have no servants!” She tore out of the chamber and raced down the stairs.

  A moment later she returned with Fanny Hale.

  “Oh, my dearest,” Daphne exclaimed, “she has remembered the name of the nobleman who Mr. Prufoy wished to contact!”

  Chapter 11

  “My dear Mrs. Hale!” Daphne had exclaimed when she opened the door to the woman. “Do come in. Where are your children? I assure you they would have been perfectly welcome here. “

  “Thank you, my lady. Me eldest boy is most capable of looking after the younger ones,” the woman said as she entered the house, “but I thank you for your kindness in extending the invitation to them.”

  “Please excuse the chaos here. My husband and I are just back from Spain and haven't yet had the opportunity to procure a full staff of servants.” She ran her eye over the youngish mother. Fanny Hale had obviously made every effort to dress in her Sunday finest for a visit to an aristocrat's home. She wore a serviceable frock of dark gray bombazine with snow white gloves, and a white collar. She not only looked spotless, she smelled like a rose. Daphne was ashamed of herself for suspecting that Fanny Hale could ever have been a prostitute.

  At the narrow staircase, Daphne put her hand on the banister, then turned back to Mrs. Hale. “Your visit will cheer my husband. I regret to say he's met with a rather unfortunate accident. Well, actually it wasn't an accident. I believe someone—possibly the same person who murdered your Mr. Prufoy—wished to kill my husband.”

  Mrs. Hale's hand flew to her mouth as she let out a little yelp. “How dreadful!”

  “Not nearly as dreadful as what you've have to endure,” Daphne said, tenderly setting her hand to the woman's forearm. “I am blessed to still have my Jack.”

  The other woman's eyes misted.

  “Have you remembered the lord's name?” Daphne asked.

  “I 'ave.”

  “Come, let's go tell my husband. I know your visit will hasten his recovery.” Though Daphne was inordinately curious to know of the mysterious lord, she would wait until they reached Jack's bedchamber.

  When Mrs. Hale entered his room, Jack attempted to sit up, but the movement caused him to wince and collapse back into the bed pillows.

  Daphne came to sit beside him. “Mrs. Hale has remembered the lord's name.” She turned from Jack to face the dead batman's lover. “Pray, who is the lord your Mr. Prufoy was going to see?”

  “I knew I would know the aristocrat's name if I heard it, but it weren't a common name, if you understand me?”

  Daphne nodded. Would the poor woman please just tell them the name!

  “I heard my cousin—who's in service with a fine gentleman—say her gentleman has a book in his library what listed all the lords and ladies; so, I went to her gentleman's house to see the book.” She flashed Daphne a bright smile. “Me mum was well educated and taught all of us to read and write.”

  Many of those who were in service at her parents' house, Daphne knew, could not read and write.

  “The gentleman was ever so nice about allowing me to use his library when I said I was assisting Lady Daphne Dryden. I looked up and down the pages until I recognized the name.” She paused for dramatic effect. “It was Lord Braithwite.”

  Daphne gasped, her gaze darting to Jack.

  His brows lowered. “At the admiralty?”

  Mrs. Hale nodded. “The gentleman, whose name is Mr. Ashworth, said his book was the newest edition 'cause his wife likes to keep up with the nobility. According to the book, Lord Braithwite is some kind of Lord of the Admiralty.”
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br />   “You, Mrs. Hale, have been enormously helpful,” Jack said. “Pray, love, you must compensate the lady for giving us so much of her time.”

  “That's a very good idea.” Daphne faced Fanny Hale. “There's one other question I wish to ask.”

  “Yes, my lady?”

  “Did you go to Mr. Prufoy's rooms after his death? You had every right to, being the person he was closest to on earth.” Daphne met her husband's gaze. “I cannot believe we did not think of this sooner. Just because we know the wicked person responsible for his death went there to steal the papers should not have precluded us from looking there.”

  “My wife is correct once more.”

  Fanny Hale fairly cowered, her pale blue eyes as frightened as a terrified child's.

  Daphne rushed to take her hand. “My dear Fanny, if you took something—anything—from Mr. Prufoy's lodgings, do not be embarrassed to admit it. It's the very thing your dear man would have wanted. It is just that we are looking for some papers that are very important to the British government—papers we believe were in Mr. Prufoy's possession—and we must see that they don't get into the hands of the French.”

  The other woman's eyes widened. “I didn't take no papers.”

  “Do you have a key to his place?”

  Fanny nodded, patting her frayed reticule. “I do. He was paid up 'till next month.”

  Daphne turned to Jack. “We will need to search, even though we know the murderer got those letters.”

  He gave a fatigued sigh. “We?”

  “Perhaps Mrs. Hale could come with me.”

  He scowled. “You need a man to protect you.”

  “Then I shall ask Sir Ronald.”

  “You will not!”

  Daphne looked perplexed. “I do wish you wouldn't be so beastly about Sir Ronald. He's terribly nice.”

  “And I do wish you'd not keep the man in your pocket. Can you not get one of your father's footmen or postillions or such to accompany you?”

  “Very well, though I cannot like leaving you alone.”

  “Nobody would dare come here in broad daylight.”

  “You do have a point there.”

  * * *

  Daphne had the devil of a time getting away from her parents' house with the pair of burly footmen. Lord and Lady Sidworth were unaware that she had returned from Spain and were full of questions about her trip and about why she had need of footmen for so short a period of time. She gave vague answers about moving furniture at the new house. Before she raced off, she implored her mother to assist in procuring servants. That should keep her ladyship busy. Lady Sidworth was happiest when she thought she was helping others.

  Back in the carriage headed for Cotton Lane, Daphne turned to her companion. It had suddenly occurred to her that she had omitted to tell Fanny Hale about her lover's dying words. “Have you wondered how we learned of your existence?”

  “Yes, my lady. I was going to ask you about that.”

  “From the Cock & Stalk we learned the name of the surgeon who treated Mr. Prufoy when he was dying.”

  A sob broke from the other woman. “Was it my name what was on his lips when he . . . died?” She barely got the words out when her tears gushed, and her sobs strengthened.

  Even though Daphne had never met Prufoy, she, too, began to weep as she nodded and hugged the crying woman beside her.

  They could have gotten to Cotton Lane faster on foot. The streets were teeming with all manner of conveyances. A donkey-cart piled high with turnips trudged along slowly in front of them. Coming abreast of them in the opposite direction was a fine coach pulled by four matched bays. The gold printing on its jet black door proclaimed the coach the property of Richard Rowland. Windsor. After that, a hackney coach, followed by a wagon of coal, and after that, another hackney.

  Not far from the Cock & Stalk, their carriage halted, and the women got out. Daphne much preferred entering Cotton Lane in the daytime. It was no longer menacing as it had been when she was there two nights previously. The knowledge that one man had been murdered and Jack almost murdered—both of these men trained soldiers—sent her back to the carriage to request the footmen accompany them.

  “When you came here after Mr. Prufoy died,” Daphne said to Mrs. Hale when they entered Cotton Lane, “did his lodgings look as if someone had been there? Someone looking for something?”

  “Indeed they did, but I thought it be the army people because my Mr. Prufoy had told me he had papers that might be important.”

  “Do you know where he kept them?”

  She nodded. “In his Bible. And there was nothing there when I arrived.”

  Daphne found herself wondering why Prufoy had been murdered in a public house when the dark, little-traveled Cotton Lane was so much more secluded. The only explanation that made any sense was that the murderer wanted the death to look like a typical tavern brawl.

  Not premeditated murder.

  He must have wished to avoid an investigation a murder may have necessitated.

  Mrs. Hale came to stand before the weathered door and drew a deep breath, fetched the key, and opened the door. Daphne's heart went out to the poor woman who must be remembering the happy times she'd had there with her Mr. Prufoy.

  Before Daphne stepped into the narrow little house, she faced the footmen. “I merely require that you men stand at watch.” She favored them with a smile. “I'm thinking you'll be like the soldiers who guard the Princess of Wales' house—though I daresay that will require a great deal of imagination!”

  The closest to her cracked a grin.

  The small, musty room they entered was so dark, they could hardly see anything. Daphne strode to the window, pulled back the dark, heavy curtains and opened the casements. “Perhaps the fresh air will help remove the staleness.”

  The two women, silent as in church, surveyed the chamber. Even the servants' rooms at Daphne's modest new house were larger than this. A narrow stairway hugged against the side wall that was papered in a floral pattern which had almost been obscured from decades of burning coal fires. Her glance fell to the narrow chimneypiece, cold now these past several weeks. A handful of cooking implements hung from wall hooks near the hearth, and a scrubbed oak table was also near. Daphne suspected it served as desk as well as dining table. Half of the table held a small stack of books—including the dog-eared Bible—and the other half held two glasses, two cups, and two plates.

  Daphne glanced around the rest of the chamber. There was one wooden chair tucked under the table, and an upholstered chair was the only other piece in the room.

  She went to the books and began to flip through the pages. “I'm assuming you tidied the room when you came?”

  Mrs. Hale nodded. “Me dear Mr. Prufoy was neat as a pin. I didn't like to leave his things messy like those wicked men left them.”

  In addition to the Bible, there was a well-read copy of Robinson Crusoe, a volume of Thomas Gray's poetry, and a religious tract written by Hannah More. How sad. The small stack comprised one man's personal library. Daphne held each book upside down and shook, but not even a scrap of paper came loose.

  His possessions had been so meager, there were not a lot of hiding places, which was understandable, given that the man had spent much of his life following the drum. “How old was Mr. Prufoy?”

  “He would have turned forty next year.”

  More than half his life must have been spent in military service. Daphne nodded thoughtfully. “Shall we go upstairs?”

  Mrs. Hale looked as if she were glued to the dusty wooden floor. “If it's all the same to you, I would rather not. That was a special place I only went with the man I adored.”

  How utterly heartbreaking! Daphne started climbing the stairs. Each time her slipper touched the tread, the sagging wood creaked. In happier times the two lovers would have ascended the steps, hand in hand. Daphne could have wept for the poor woman's profound loss. She would have given every guinea she possessed if it could have restored Mr. Prufoy t
o Fanny Hale.

  The stairs terminated in another small chamber, exactly the size of the one below it. A wobbly railing separated the bedchamber from the stairwell. The first thing she did was stride to the window and open the heavy woolen curtains to allow light into the room. Her gaze circled the chamber. Eli Prufoy's uniform hung on wall pegs just as he must have left it, just as if it were awaiting his return. Daphne's eyes filled with tears.

  Her gaze moved to the bed, which took up most of the chamber. Just as Fanny Hale said, its coverings were perfectly straightened, not a single wrinkle or bulge. It was there where the two lovers had been so happy in each others' arms.

  Daphne's heart caught at the thought of lying with Jack—and at so many touching emotions: powerful love, gratitude that his life had been spared, and now, worry. She needed to hurry back to him.

  A quick search of the man's pockets revealed nothing. Then she took off the bed coverings, searching for anything out of the ordinary. She looked beneath the straw mattress, but nothing was there, either. After she was convinced the room contained no papers, she went to put the linens back upon the bed, and it suddenly occurred to her she had no notion of how to make a bed. It was not something an earl's daughter ever need learn.

  Knowing that Fanny Hale was not likely to return there and see her dear, tidy Mr. Prufoy's bed in a so disheveled a state, Daphne turned her back on it and started back down the stairs.

  “My dear Mrs. Hale, I don't believe there are any important papers in these rooms. Tell me, when you came here after you learned of his death, were you able to determine if anything was missing?”

  “Just the papers what he kept in the Bible. Nothing else seemed to be missing.”

  “The question I'm going to ask you next is not intended to accuse you of any wrongdoing, but I need to know everything you took away on the day you came.”

  The two women's eyes locked.

  “I knew where he kept money. In his boot. It came to fourteen guineas.”

  “I am certain—as you are—that he would have wanted you to have the money.” Daphne's eyes locked again with Fanny's. “Anything else?”