Angelus had offered the use of one of his gambling establishments for the evening. If the people invited assumed they would be given a chance to wager in elite company, so be it. The stakes would indeed be high.
Cass had arrived early to make certain of all the details, though her host only looked at her with pitying tolerance and informed her that his servants had everything in hand. She was fizzing with anticipation, though, and checking and rechecking helped her pass the time and settle her nerves.
This gambling hall had the look of a stately home, a stone mansion in the heart of London. Once it had belonged to a marquess. With debt it had changed hands, and now it belonged to a man of no background at all. The grounds around it were slight compared to the wealthy’s country estates, but for a city property, it was lavish indeed to have one’s own patch of green. A stone staircase stretched up from the street to the building itself, another barrier between Angelus and the rest of the world. As Cass had climbed the steps, she felt herself crossing from one world to another: from Miss Benton to Mrs. Benedetti, from who she’d been before to the person she’d become.
But really, she was always Cass, and always had been and would be.
Now everything was ready. In the grand, turreted mansion, every window blazed with light. It was a beacon, beckoning in the fortunate invited.
Or so they thought themselves.
Inside, the entrance hall stretched wide and yawned high above. It was a restful space, almost sleepy in its rich, muted colors and welcoming furnishings. Go on, then—stay a while. While an army of discreet servants welcomed guests, taking wraps and greatcoats and hats and sticks, Cass stood at Angelus’s side to observe everyone as they entered. Conscious always of effect, their host was garbed in his usual black and silver, and a chandelier threw down flame light that made him all glitter and shadow.
At his side, Cass was all bright color, and her presence there drew puzzled gazes. Isn’t that the Ardmore bastard? The old duke’s daughter . . . ?
She should have worn her best gown, the green cotton print that had never seen wear while she played the part of Mrs. Benedetti. But she couldn’t forget the blue silk of her first ball at George’s side, the first gown altered for her. The gown George had undone so reluctantly and so eagerly at once.
It was much too fine for tonight, and it had been left behind at Ardmore House. But Selina, careless of her belongings as someone who had possessions beyond number, said Cass might take whatever she liked once the case was complete.
Maybe Cass should have taken some and turned them over to Janey to sell. There wouldn’t be another five pounds next week. Instead, she’d taken nothing—but Selina had sent something over all the same. It had arrived at Mrs. Jellicoe’s lodging house that afternoon, with a note written on expensive, scented paper.
My lady’s maid still had your measurements,
you tricky creature. I look forward to seeing you
tonight.
This gown was a compromise: a little of the ton, a little of plain Cass. It was of beautiful fabric, orange as a sunset, and that was all there was to it. No ornamentation, no embroidery, and certainly no ruffles. It laced up the back, but Janey—always around now, and ever-welcome—had helped Cass into it and could help her out of it again until she was able to have it altered to fasten in the front.
She would like having a sister. She had let her heart grow too small, protecting it. Being everything she thought she had to be. Now she wanted to be herself, the worried and loving and eager parts all together.
If she didn’t do Charles’s work, or Fox’s work anymore, what would she do? A part of her would miss the feeling of purpose. The gratitude, too—when it came. Best of all, the feeling of right being done. Injustice lessened. Talents put to use. She liked that bit of it.
She’d just close this case first. This one last case. Because Cass Benton took pride in her work, whether her heart was in it or not.
On a related note, George had not yet arrived. But he’d be here; she was sure of that. Whether he could coax his father to attend as well . . . she rather thought he would. Ardmore would not be able to resist a chance to gamble with his greatest creditor.
There was plenty to look upon as she waited. First had come the widow of Gregory Knotwirth, the opium eater whose body had been fished from the Thames after a long disappearance. Mrs. Knotwirth was a thin woman of about sixty years, much the age her late husband had been. She was carefully correct in gray edged with black, a woman who had just put off full mourning as according to custom. The strain about her eyes, the wobble in her voice as she greeted Cass and Angelus, indicated that she had not put off her loss along with her blacks.
John Gerry came next, crabbed and leaning on a cane that Angelus complimented effusively. As the two men compared ebony walking-sticks, Cass noted the arrival of James Cavender, a veritable tulip in fashions that even young men would have shied from. He greeted Gerry with both pleasure and puzzlement, then chased both away by accepting a glass of champagne in his left hand and brandy in his right.
Lionel Braithwaite arrived; then Lord and Lady Deverell. Lady Isabel and Callum Jenks. Augustus Fox, rumpled and stout and tired. A dignified elderly man Cass didn’t recognize, whom Angelus identified as the elder brother of Francis Lightfoot, who had poisoned himself in despair when his son died. Selina, resplendent in gold satin and waving a cheerful greeting from the side of her middle-aged husband, Lord Wexley, a serious-looking fellow who regarded his wife with adoration.
A very old woman, her hair dressed high in curls of powder-white, entered on the arm of a youth barely old enough to shave. Angelus stepped forward to meet her, his strides covering the ground of three of her own. “Lady Pollard. So glad you were able to join my gathering.”
In her papery, wrinkled face, the faded eyes were alert and sharp. “You said my Thomas would want me here.” She clutched at the arm of the young man next to her, stooped back swaying. “This is his grandson, named for him. Thomas Whiting.”
And Cass’s heart broke a little. This was the mother, then, and the grandson, of the man who had died in what might have been a hunting accident. Every person touched lives, and every loss was deeply felt. One could not know by how many.
She hoped everyone in the entrance hall noticed the arrival of Lady Pollard, who had lost her younger son and lived on. And she hoped the sight struck them to their hearts.
A few others arrived then, people unconnected with the tontine at all—but who held sway in society, and who would Talk About Things. And be listened to. Lady Teasdale, dignified and shrewd; Mrs. Gadolin, young and eager, whose tongue never stopped running. One or the other of the patronesses of Almack’s; Cass had never yet learned which was which.
The entrance hall was getting rather full now, the buzz of conversation slightly strained. Should they move along? They had not been directed to. Where would their host lead them? When would the gaming begin?
Everyone here had clearly thought they’d be part of a much larger group, and they weren’t sure what to think. Without a group of one’s peers to follow, what was the right thing to do?
Last of all, if Cass was recalling the invitation list correctly—and she always did—came the Duke of Ardmore and his son and heir. George Godwin, Lord Northbrook, who had squeezed his injured shoulder into a beautiful coat, and who wore a sling on his right arm. Whom she had dosed with laudanum and left so that she wouldn’t have to see the pain in his eyes or feel it within herself.
How wrong she’d been.
She shut her eyes and tried not to think of all that. They belonged in different worlds and he’d no need of her anymore. She should be grateful she’d come to know him; he’d led her to expect more of her life than work and worry.
But she wasn’t grateful right now, even as she looked upon him again. She was worried. She had that sense of dread that something was not as it ought to be, the same sense she’d felt when Lord Deverell’s study remained shut while his wife screamed a
bout Charles’s fall.
From a trellis that had never been broken, but had been cut. And mended, with the arrogant certainty that no one would ever check.
Cass overheard a thread of conversation between Angelus and Lady Isabel, something about paintings he had acquired from her. George supposed the late Morrow, Isabel’s first husband, had sold to the crime lord as well as to the Duke of Ardmore. The duke, too, had sold to Angelus—or rather bartered, in exchange for forgiveness of some of his debts.
As she listened, a familiar form—scented faintly of oranges—came to stand at her side. She breathed in, smiling, but did not know what to say.
But he did. He always did. “A new gown?” said the voice she loved in her ear. “You are lovely.”
She was lovely, he said. Not the gown. Her throat caught before she replied. “It is indeed new. It was a gift from your sister.”
“Ah, I hoped you had bought it for your own enjoyment. But to accept a gift, given with good wishes and liking, is very pleasant, too. I hope it brings you great joy to wear it.”
She turned to look up at him. Did he look different? Had she hurt him? No, he offered the same quirk of the eyebrow, the same curve of the lip as always. His eyes, though, were fixed upon hers, as if he could not look enough. “I wondered if I would see you tonight.”
All that nervousness she thought she had dispelled returned in a quick swoop. “I’ve too much pride to leave a job undone. And I’m not going to let another woman take credit for my work.”
“Lady Isabel Jenks?” George looked confused.
“No.” Cass grinned. “Mrs. Benedetti.”
“Ah.” He returned her grin. “She is to be returned to the ether whence she came, then, having served her purpose.”
“She’s already gone,” Cass confirmed. “The problem is that there were two patterns. That’s why we didn’t spot them at first. We were trying to fit them together, but they were two separate things, and—”
Just then, Angelus seemed to tire of keeping his guests penned in the entrance hall. With the end of his walking stick, he struck the marble floor. Hard, once, then when the buzz of conversation did not immediately cease, again. Ebony rang on stone, and in the sudden silence, it echoed.
“Follow me into the drawing room,” he called out. “We will have food and drink. You must make yourselves comfortable.”
And so they did, proceeding into a room that resembled an ordinary drawing room as little as the Prince Regent resembled Cass. Yes, this room was draped in red velvet and cloth of gold, and adorned with paintings that looked old and costly. But there were no tables. No chaises. No sofas or tables or any type of furniture other than chairs. Twenty-four of them, identical, arranged in a circle. On each one was a name card.
Murmuring, people sidled into place. Some chose to accept beverages from the servants who passed behind them; some took dainties on tiny plates, which were swept away by those same capable servants as soon as the food had been consumed.
Last of all to take his seat was Angelus. Theatrically, he then raised his hands. Those sitting beside him leaned away, as if he had created a stage with the lift of a finger. And then his voice sounded, and the unraveling of the evening began.
“You all know me by reputation, if not by sight,” he started. “I counted on your eagerness to meet the elusive Angelus in person, and to join in the most exclusive of games. We will not be gambling tonight—my apologies, Ardmore; I know you are disappointed—but we will be playing a very exciting game instead. It is called tontine, and it is forty years long.”
Cass watched the familiar faces: Deverell, Ardmore, Gerry, Cavender, Braithwaite. They were good, very good. Even now, none showed anything but puzzlement. For the sake of those in attendance who did not know, Angelus explained the terms of the tontine’s formation so long ago; the original members; the recent deaths.
“As the holder and investor of these funds, I was naturally interested when two enterprising people informed me that they suspected criminal interference. One of them”—he nodded to George—“was Lord Northbrook, whom you all know. The other was a Bow Street Runner named Cassandra Benton.”
Augustus Fox lifted his head sharply. Cass met his gaze, wondering if he’d protest that she wasn’t formally a Bow Street Runner. She’d told Angelus that she wasn’t, that women couldn’t be.
“A private investigator,” she corrected. “Hired by Lord Northbrook to protect the Duke of Ardmore.”
Fox’s heavy brows lifted. “And a Bow Street Runner in nearly every sense of the word,” he added. “I should know, as I’m the magistrate over that court.”
Cass became the focus of every gaze. This was notoriety at last, and she did not mind it as she’d thought she might. It was honest, and the freshness of truth buoyed her like air in her lungs. She smiled and gave a little waggle of her fingers to the remainder of the circle. “Hullo, everyone.”
“But that is Mrs. Benedetti,” squeaked Mrs. Gadolin. “She’s the . . . the natural daughter of the old duke. Isn’t she? I had tea with her! What will my dear Gadolin say?”
“And so scandalous—I saw her knock at the door of White’s!” said the pinch-faced patroness of Almack’s.
“You only saw that if you were watching,” pointed out Lady Teasdale.
“And Miss Benton’s birth, while no concern of yours, was decidedly within wedlock,” interjected George.
This did not stop the clamor.
“Is she a duke’s daughter or isn’t she?”
“An investigator? With no connection to the duke? But . . .”
“I saw Northbrook dancing with her at the Harroughs’ ball. Do you suppose . . .”
“I cannot credit it. I invited her into my home!”
At last, the Duke of Ardmore bestirred himself to speak. “So did I.”
Lady Isabel, too, said it, “So did I.”
And then so did Selina, adding, “And I would do it again. At any time.”
The other women fell silent, looking at Cass, then each other, then Cass again.
At last, she realized why: because they were worried.
She had underestimated the women of the ton, just as she had herself. She had thought they made no difference, but they were the backbone of society. They were the hands of the city, the conscience of Parliament, the womb of the world. They were divided into so many pieces that she’d not seen their worth. It was easy to overlook it, especially when the men who ran the government and made the laws were convinced they did it on their own.
They didn’t. These matrons mattered in countless ways, large and small. A woman who gave pleasure to her friends by throwing a truly splendid tea had made a difference to them. If she paid her servants a good wage, she made a difference. If she carried water in for her charwoman to spare the elderly woman’s aching back, she had made a difference.
If she invited a Bow Street Runner into her house, she made a difference. But she might worry about what sort of difference it would be. Would it be the sort that would strip away her own consequence?
No, Cass wanted to tell them. It’s all right. You will only make your hearts bigger.
George was sneaking looks at her. She made herself meet his eye. She wouldn’t pretend she was unaware, and she wouldn’t dodge from his gaze as if she feared him. He was part of the job, and she would tie it all up neatly and put it behind her.
Her knees shook, and she was relieved she was sitting down.
“I am reluctant to take any credit.” George spoke up. “Anyone could have done what I did. My own role was nothing compared to Miss Benton’s, though I wish I could say otherwise.”
Her mouth dropped open.
“Also,” he added, “she is descended from gentlefolk. We all care about a person’s accomplishments, but we are in the habit of caring about antecedents, too. There you have it, then. Miss Benton deserves your respect.”
Damn the man. He was tossing about that R-word again. There was nothing so dangerous as words that
started with R.
“Thank you,” she said, feeling the words wholly inadequate. “And thank you all for being here today. This evening. Ah—tonight.”
“You’ve no flair for the dramatic at all.” Angelus sighed. “Tell the good people why they’re here, Miss Benton.”
“Right.” Cass cleared her throat. Wiggled on her seat. Lifted her chin and spoke the matter simply. “We’ve sorted out which of you is a murderer.”
Chapter Nineteen
“Don’t just tell them,” said Angelus. “Make it amusing.”
George laughed. From across the tight little circle, his father glared.
It wasn’t funny, really. But he was in the same room as Cass again, and even though the tontine case was about to be wrapped up and knotted and stowed away, now everyone here knew who she really was and what she’d done. Under her own name.
That made him happy, a sort of happiness that twisted him all up inside.
“Oh,” said Cass. “All right. Um—well, when Lord Northbrook hired me to investigate what we began to call the tontine case, he first had me keep watch on Lord Deverell. The man was his godfather and he had a great fondness for him. At the same time, he vowed to watch over the safety of his own father.”
“Some job he did,” bit off Cavender. “Since the duke almost died.”
“I doubt that very much,” said the dry little voice of Gerry. His knobbly fingers worked the head of his cane, twisting it. “Ardmore was never in such danger as you professed, was he, dear boy?”
Angelus frowned. “You’re quite spoiling the story. Don’t interrupt Miss Benton.”
Cass blinked at this. Unused to having elderly men chastised on her behalf, probably. “Right. So . . . Lord Northbrook was suspicious of the deaths of Mr. Whiting, Mr. Knotwirth, and Mr. Lightfoot.” With every name, she nodded to that man’s loved one. “If you all will forgive me—each of those deaths took advantage of a characteristic the victim was known to possess. So Lord Northbrook and I assumed that if further crimes were to be carried out, they would follow the same pattern. We soon learned that we were wrong.”
Lady Notorious (Royal Rewards #4) Page 23