by Liz Carlyle
“Oh, a tale, is it?” said Napier. “Coming from you, I oughtn’t be surprised.”
“Well, let us call it a legend,” Lazonby corrected. “The legend of a talented but radical young newspaperman named Jack Coldwater—he’s had a long and storied career on two continents, our Jack. And now he is going to save us a vast deal of unpleasantness, and spare your sainted father’s reputation in the bargain.”
“Is he indeed?” snapped Napier. “I wonder how?”
“Because he’s elusive as quicksilver,” said Lazonby with a huge grin, “and dashed hard to catch hold of. I tried like the devil to figure him out and failed miserably—as, I fear, will you.”
CHAPTER 2
A Quiet Coze in the Two Chairmen
Situated as it was in a quiet Westminster backstreet, the Two Chairmen had long been the turf of civil servants and undersecretaries, drawn there not by its particularly fine ale, but by its food swiftly served. Save perhaps for those rarified few who sat in the House of Lords, the government’s business waited for no man, be he hungry or not.
On this particular drizzly day, Sir George Grey fell upon a slab of gammon steak like a man with no time to spare.
Royden Napier, however, had suffered inappetence for days now, and merely rooted his food around on his plate, as if doing so might uncover some truffle of a clue about the mysteries that had so recently come to plague him.
And the conversation—well, that was looming, too, he did not doubt. The home secretary had not invited an underling to dine with him in a common public house just to discuss the weather.
“Wot, din’t yer like it?” asked the harried serving girl who snatched the dishes up.
Napier managed a tight smile. “I had a late breakfast.”
With a saucy shrug, she swept away, bearing their dirty plates aloft as she edged sideways through the crowd now streaming through the door. At the last moment, however, she spun around to smile at the home secretary.
“ ’Nother pint, Sir George?”
He held up two fingers, and tilted his head at Napier.
Once she was out of earshot, Sir George leaned back in his chair, his grand, graying mutton-chops seeming to sink as he drew a long-fingered hand down his face. He was not a happy man.
“I cannot like it, Royden,” he said, not for the first time. “It’s been well over a week now. How can this newspaper chap have simply vanished into thin air?”
“Not air, sir, but water.” Napier flashed a rueful smile. “Jack Coldwater’s name was found on a passenger log for a Boston-bound freighter. She sailed two days after Sir Wilfred’s death.”
Napier hated lying—though strictly speaking, it was exactly what he’d seen. But that name, he suspected, had been the work of Lord Lazonby, or someone in his service. How hard could it be to bribe a clerk to jot down the name of an imaginary passenger?
“Hmph!” said Sir George. “Back to the States, eh? Well, we must find him there. We cannot have killers—even accidental ones—running from the Queen’s justice now, can we?”
“No, sir. Of course not.”
But this one, he said inwardly, we are never apt to catch.
Sir George shook his head. “I greatly respected your father, Royden,” he said. “You must know that. But my God, how did he manage to bungle this old murder case so badly?”
Napier was too proud to hang his head. “I do not know, sir,” he said again. “I am struggling to come to terms with it myself.”
Which was the understatement of the century.
“And now we have Rance Welham—or Lord Lazonby, I should say—exonerated after years of public humiliation and harassment by the newspapers,” Sir George complained. “And the real killer, Sir Wilfred Leeton, living a life of luxury—and being knighted for it! Really, it is too much to be borne.”
Napier didn’t know what to believe.
The case had begun years ago, when two young gentlemen had quarreled over a card game in Sir Wilfred’s home. Some had claimed the quarrel was more about a woman than cards, but however it had begun, it had ended with a duke’s son accusing Lazonby, then simply Mr. Welham, of cheating. The following day, the duke’s son had been found stabbed in his rooms.
But now, if Lazonby was to be believed, Sir Wilfred had been the killer—and he’d been paid a lot of money by some very dangerous men to get rid of Lazonby, whose luck at the card tables had been intolerably good.
The story held just enough credence to make Napier uneasy.
“Recall, sir, if you will, that there was a witness—a porter at the Albany—who identified Lord Lazonby as the killer all those years ago.”
“A witness, yes.” Sir George stared at him across the scarred wooden table. “One who recanted on his deathbed. One whom Lazonby has long claimed was bribed by someone. And I think we both now know who that someone was.”
“Sir Wilfred, it would appear.” Napier cleared his throat a little roughly. He felt as if something was caught in it—his integrity, perhaps. “Well,” he finally added, “we’ll have our friends across the pond on the lookout for Mr. Coldwater. And I have placated poor Lady Leeton as best I can. I think she still cannot grasp her husband’s perfidy.”
“Indeed, who can?”
“Indeed. So . . . what further would you have me do, sir?”
They both knew, however, it was a rhetorical question. The Crown’s original murder case was so old the files had damn near molded. One man stabbed and another dead by his own hand, and all of it over a card game turned ugly. And now, years later, Sir Wilfred had apparently confessed to the stabbing, and been accidentally shot.
Allegedly accidentally shot.
But in any case, there was nothing further to be done; everyone save Lazonby—and now Sir Arthur’s disturbing daughter—was dead or had vanished. And Lazonby had cleverly stymied Napier’s further investigative efforts, as he had been doing for years.
But to be fair, had the Crown had left Lazonby with any choice?
Oh, Napier would forever loathe the arrogant devil. It stung to admit, even to himself, he might have been mistaken about the man.
Well, he hadn’t been mistaken, damn it. Not entirely.
And neither had his father. In his youth, Lazonby had been a cardsharper of the worst order. More than a few men had thought the scoundrel had got what he deserved.
“And this witness, this Elizabeth Ashton,” Sir George went on. “Went off to America and took her aunt’s name, eh?”
“It seems Sir Arthur’s sister married a Mr. Ashton, owner of a struggling newspaper—the Boston Examiner, I think it was—but the Ashtons were childless, so perhaps that’s why.”
Napier forbore pointing out the lady’s tendency to alter her name as it suited her purpose. So far he was up to three, he was fairly well certain, and still counting.
“Well, I pray she isn’t a troublemaker like her brother,” said Sir George. “Where did Jack Coldwater come from, by the way? I thought Sir Arthur Colburne had only daughters.”
Napier lifted one shoulder, and told another of his almost-lies. “A bastard, Lazonby alleges, by some actress whose name no one recalls,” he said. “Miss Ashton claims her father acknowledged the child amongst close family. She says she lost touch with Coldwater for a time, then he turned up in Boston and went to work in the Ashtons’ newspaper business.”
Claims. Alleges. Says.
Christ, he’d sunk all the way down to Lazonby’s level. Weasel-words, indeed!
“An illegitimate son,” Sir George murmured. “I cannot claim surprise. I knew Sir Arthur Colburne in passing—a charming rakehell, forever on the verge of financial ruin. What is the daughter like?”
Napier was inexplicably reluctant to answer. The truth was, he had tried not to remember, despite the fact it was his job to remember everything. But the lady was a conundrum wrapped in an enigma. Alas, Napier loved nothing better than a mystery.
Perhaps it was that dichotomy—her intelligent, almost ruthless eyes and stubb
orn mouth, contrasted with that luminous skin and alluring scent—which had so roused his attention. And his suspicion.
What was she like? Ethereal was the word that came most readily to mind. And yet ethereal implied heavenly, and there was nothing angelic about Elizabeth Ashton.
“She is a lady,” he said reluctantly, “and quite tall and striking in appearance.”
“Striking?” Sir George set his head to one side. “In what way?”
Frustrated, Napier shook his head. “Her eyes are a remarkable shade of green,” he said. “Or perhaps it’s blue. Like . . . a cat. And her face—it is almost luminous—like something out of a Romney portrait. And her hair is quite—”
He jerked to a halt, realizing that he wasn’t perfectly sure what color her hair was.
“Quite what?” urged Sir George.
“—lovely,” he finished awkwardly.
Sir George cocked an eyebrow. “My word, Royden. You sound smitten.”
Napier opened his mouth to snap out a retort, then remembering his place, shut it again. “Not in the least,” he finally managed. “I have my eye on her, that is all.”
“Yes?” said Sir George almost hopefully. “To what end?”
Napier’s shoulders fell. “To no end, sir, truth be told,” he finally answered. “This case is likely never to be resolved. And I think we both know it.”
Sir George sighed deeply. “Still, the Home Office must give every impression of taking this matter seriously,” he said. “Do . . . something, Royden.”
“Such as?”
His answering smile was wan. “Interview her again,” he said. “Handle it personally—but gently, of course. At least we’ll be seen banging on the lady’s door.”
“She lives out in Hackney,” said Napier dryly. “No one’s apt to recognize me.”
The girl came back with two tankards and set them down with heavy clunk!—a sound of true finality.
“So that’s it, then.” Sir George threw up his hands. “Sir Wilfred was guilty, Lord Lazonby wasn’t, our police have been humiliated, and Jack Coldwater has fled, never to be apprehended. Does that about sum up this bloody mess?”
Napier could not bear to answer. The clamor in the pub had risen now—but not loud enough to drown out his guilt.
Finally, Sir George gave him a thin smile. “Well, none of this is your fault.”
“It happened on my watch,” Napier returned. “And on my father’s.”
“Ah, yes. Your father. That brings me to another topic.” Sir George looked suddenly uncomfortable. “I’ve had another letter from your grandfather. From Lord Duncaster.”
Napier stiffened. His paternal grandfather, Henry Tarleton, sixth Earl of Duncaster, was a bitter old man, long estranged from Napier’s father. Indeed, Napier had never even laid eyes on his grandfather until last autumn, when Sir George had sent him to the vast family estate in Wiltshire to investigate a curious letter.
“Meddling again, is he?” Napier grumbled.
Sir George waved his hand as if it were no matter. “He presumes upon our old family friendship. Do you know, I believe I am to this day the only person connected to the Metropolitan Police who was entirely certain of your late father’s exalted family connections.”
“Which was just as my father wished,” said Napier tightly.
Sir George set both hands flat upon the tabletop and cleared his throat.
“Duncaster acknowledges, Royden, that you’re now his heir,” he finally said. “Lord Saint-Bryce, your father’s elder brother, has been dead two months, God rest him, so you’re all that’s left. And, simply put, Duncaster wishes you to come home.”
Napier stiffened. “The only home I have ever known, sir, is London.”
“And whose choice was that?” asked Sir George quietly. “I took a particular interest in your father, not because I was close to him, for I wasn’t. No one was. He took care to see to that. But our long-standing family friendship—ah, that was one thing your father could not alter. Nicholas might change his surname to Napier. But that Tarleton blood? Oh, blood is immutable—much as you might wish otherwise.”
“I’ve never given it much thought, one way or the other,” said Napier.
“I believe you have,” said Sir George softly. “You went home last year at Lord Hepplewood’s behest.”
“Twice,” said Napier tightly. “I went to Wiltshire twice. Once by your order to investigate that strange, rambling letter which he sent to you, not me. And yes, I went a few weeks later for his funeral. I . . . I still don’t know why I did.”
Sir George’s face tightened. “Royden, you are wasting yourself here in London. And now your life has a greater purpose.”
“Sir, how can you say that?” Napier shoved back his chair with a sharp scrape. “By God, I’ve given my life to this department and to this city. And how can any purpose be greater than truth and justice?”
But the question rang hollow, even to his own ears. Always Napier had aspired to follow in his father Nicholas’s footsteps. And now . . . and now he did not know even the meaning of truth. Or of justice.
Worse, he was beginning to wonder if he’d even known his father.
Napier had always believed that to accept anything Lord Duncaster might offer him would be rejecting all that his father had sacrificed for when he’d left the family and changed his name. Was there not honor in living by one’s own wits? Or in wishing to succeed without the support of a rich and powerful family?
But what, precisely, had Nicholas Napier sacrificed?
Surely not his own honor? Surely he had not wished merely to punish Lord Duncaster over a quarrel? Could a man be so prideful—so bent on retaliation—he might sacrifice his own morals for money? That he might take bribery and convict an innocent man?
Surely it was not possible.
“I shouldn’t have said a greater purpose,” Sir George amended, drawing Napier from his reverie. “Just an unexpected turn. Lord Hepplewood was Duncaster’s best friend. And now, within the space of six months, Duncaster has also lost the last of his three sons. To outlive one’s children—dear God! That sort of grief is incomprehensible to me. Now your grandfather has no one.”
Napier scowled. “He has his widowed sister, Lady Hepplewood, still happily ensconced beneath his very nose,” he said, “not that she has ever spared my lowly branch of the family a kind word.”
Sir George opened both hands expressively. “Look, as I said, I did not know your father Nicholas well.”
“No, you did not.” Napier’s words came out more harshly than he’d intended.
“I did not,” said Sir George more gently. “Nicholas Napier was a man who kept his own counsel and did his job with ruthless efficiency. He wanted nothing from his family. But really, was his father Duncaster the ogre he made out? And if he was, can a man not mellow with age?”
“Mellow with age?” echoed Napier. “Duncaster is hardly a bottle of brandy. Besides, the man must have one foot in the grave, and most of his toes.”
Sir George leaned a little across the table. “All the more reason to go,” he said quietly. “Perhaps your grandfather wishes to make peace? He must be nearly eighty, Royden. You are his only grandson. His heir. And someone . . . someone must see to things.”
“I do not see why that someone must be me.”
But he had known for a while now that there mightn’t be anyone else.
Had he somehow imagined he could avoid this?
All three of Duncaster’s sons were dead. The eldest had died without children. And now the middle son, who’d sired only daughters, had recently passed on to his great reward—mere weeks before he was to marry again, with every hope of begetting an heir that might saw off Hanging Nick Napier’s embarrassing branch of the family tree.
Napier had wished his uncle well in his efforts. He already considered himself sawn off.
But his uncle, Lord Saint-Bryce, had been in his fifties, and the gleeful anticipation of bedding a beautiful woma
n half his age had apparently done the poor fellow in. Either that or Lady Hepplewood’s incessant nagging. From what little Napier had grasped, the old dragon had dogged her nephew’s every step, determined to marry the poor devil off again.
Napier thought again of the oddly scribbled plea Hepplewood had written Sir George all those months ago. The old man’s rambling notions suggested someone at the vast family estate wished him ill. So Napier had gone, at Sir George’s insistence, to see what nefariousness was afoot in Wiltshire.
Except that there had been no nefariousness. Hepplewood had been nearly insensible upon Napier’s arrival, and had never really regained himself. He had simply begun to suffer, Lady Hepplewood claimed, of his family’s curse, senility.
Another mystery solved.
Napier shook his head. He did not need another.
Sir George extracted a letter, and pushed it across the table.
“I promised Duncaster I’d beg you,” he said. “And I do. Beg you, that is. Go, and at least placate him. I’ll have your duties here in London seen to until you make up your mind.”
“Make up my mind?” Napier looked at him incredulously. “To do what?”
“To stay here and waste your blood and your talent,” said Sir George, “or to go home, and take up your duty as Lord Duncaster’s heir.”
“Heir!” Napier spat out the word. “I’m a bureaucrat’s son.”
“Nonsense,” Sir George admonished. “You have the manners, the education, and all the bearing of a gentleman. Indeed, you are a gentleman born.”
Napier shook his head again, and felt his lips thin.
“He is an old man, Royden; likely frail and near death. Don’t you wish to hear his side of it?”
No, damn it all, he didn’t.
Or at least . . . he hadn’t.
Not until Lazonby had clouded his life with what Napier so desperately wished to believe were lies about his father. But now he was beginning to question all he’d believed in. That his father was a stoic hero; a relentless crusader for good over evil. That his grandfather was a rich, unreasonable despot surrounded by sycophants and a house full of pompous, parasitic dependents.