by Liz Carlyle
Delacourt swallowed hard.
Cecilia stood before him, staring straight down into his eyes. “You didn’t guess, did you?” she asked very quietly.
Delacourt looked down into his brandy. A long, heavy silence held sway, pressing the breath from his lungs. “Just tell me why,” she said very softly. “Why did you lie about cutting me at Ogden’s? I’m not... insulted. I simply wish to know.”
Delacourt began to stutter some pathetic response, but he was snatched from the jaws of fate by the heavy tread of Cecilia’s butler. Shaw paused in the open doorway. “A visitor, my lady,” he wheezed. “The chief inspector again.”
De Rohan! The very man he’d been searching for. A moment earlier, Delacourt had been desperate to escape, but now, he wouldn’t have quit Cecilia’s drawing room had the hounds of hell been nipping at his heels.
Cecilia shot him a look which plainly said she wasn’t done with him, but immediately, the inspector was shown in. “Thank you, Shaw,” she said coolly. “Now, take yourself to bed. That’s an order. It’s nearly midnight, and you aren’t well.”
Shaw left looking grateful. At once, Cecilia turned her attention to her guests, promptly introducing them. Mr. de Rohan’s black, hawkish brows went up at Delacourt’s name. “My lord,” he responded coolly, sketching a surprisingly elegant bow. “I trust my responses to your inquiries this afternoon were satisfactory?”
“There is nothing about this situation which is satisfactory,” responded Delacourt tightly, taking in de Rohan’s dark frockcoat, plain linen, and polished black boots. “But that’s hardly your fault.”
The policeman studied David for a moment, his expression mildly resentful. “You had also asked, my lord, that we keep a watchful eye on your acquaintance in Goodwin’s Court. I hope you will be satisfied to know that the appropriate people have been assigned.”
David inclined his head. “I thank you.”
Cecilia looked back and forth between them, her expression curious. “Please, won’t you both sit down? Mr. de Rohan, may I offer you a brandy? Or a hot rum?”
“Thank you, no,” de Rohan responded, sitting stiffly down upon the brocade settee which faced the hearth. “I can stay but a moment.”
Delacourt reseated himself and took up his cognac. “It is rather late, Mr. de Rohan,” he said, swirling the dregs absently about in the bottom of his glass. “I hope you do not make a habit of such onerous hours?”
De Rohan’s expression further darkened, as if he suspected he were being reproached for the lateness of his call. “Lady Walrafen asked that I report to her as soon as I had news of Margaret McNamara. One can rarely choose the timing of a tragedy.”
“Oh!” Cecilia gave a small, strangled cry, her hands tightening spasmodically on the chair arms. “Meg is... dead?”
De Rohan turned to face her. “Yes, ma’am. I’d hoped to bring you better news, but it was not to be. I am sorry.”
“What happened?” asked Cecilia quietly.
“I had been uneasy since the day she went missing,” de Rohan confessed. “And so I had put the word about that all the public offices should keep a sharp eye out. Tonight, a watchman came in to say a young woman had been dragged from the river.”
Delacourt could not bear the grief on Cecilia’s face. “Could there have been some mistake?” he asked, grasping for straws.
De Rohan’s mouth twisted bitterly. “I think not, my lord. I went to the morgue myself.”
Cecilia shut her eyes for a moment. “She drowned?”
De Rohan’s voice was grim. “No, my lady.”
“What, then?” asked Delacourt archly.
De Rohan cut a sidelong glance at Cecilia, as if measuring her fortitude. “Her throat was cut,” he answered bluntly, returning his gaze to Delacourt. “And then someone tied her body—quite deliberately—to the bollard atop Pelican Stairs, and left her floating there as if she were nothing more than a bloody rowboat.”
“My God,” whispered Delacourt. “Who found her?”
“A pot boy down at the Prospect of Whitby,” said de Rohan. “Poor lad had gone along the alley beside the pub to pitch a tub of kitchen scraps in the river. He saw the mooring.”
“Why would anyone do such a thing?” mused Delacourt. “Wouldn’t the murderer realize she would be discovered?”
“Oh, I daresay he was sure of it,” said de Rohan softly.
Delacourt felt a moment of revulsion. “You think someone was sending a message?”
“A message?” whispered Cecilia. “To whom?”
“You think it was meant for Kitty O’Gavin, don’t you?” interjected Delacourt, looking at de Rohan for confirmation.
De Rohan looked surprised. “Yes.” His voice was edged with a grudging respect. “Those women have been hiding something all along. Indeed, it may be the reason they sought shelter at the mission.”
“You mean... to hide from someone?” asked Cecilia. “Poor Kitty!”
De Rohan shrugged noncommittally. “She is very nervous, that one. And Miss McNamara was almost hostile. At first, I thought it was just an inherent disdain for the police. But soon, I suspected it was something more serious.”
“And apparently it was something serious enough to have her killed,” added Delacourt, who had risen from his chair and begun to pace the room. “What now, Inspector?”
De Rohan, too, stood. “For now, I mean to go home and get some sleep,” he said, running a hand wearily through his hair. “And in the morning, I’ll go back down to the Prospect, speak to the pot boy and the staff, and look for witnesses along the river.”
“I shall come with you,” interjected Delacourt, turning to retrace his steps back to the fireplace.
For a moment, de Rohan looked resentful, but almost immediately, he gave a resigned sigh. “It might be of help. The lower classes fear the wrath of the nobility far more than the power of the police. After all, we have so little of it.”
Delacourt nodded. Sadly, de Rohan was right. Perhaps Cecilia was right, too, in her complaints about the need for police reform. And perhaps he should take his seat in the House often enough to know why the devil nothing had been done. “I shall pick you up in Wapping at nine, if that suits,” he said swiftly. “But what will you do if we learn nothing?”
“I mean to return to Pennington Street,” answered de Rohan firmly, “and have the truth from Kitty O’Gavin.”
“I shall be there, too,” Delacourt added, his voice grave. “Perhaps it will help.”
“You cannot press her!” said Cecilia, jerking from her chair. “Kitty is too ill.”
Lightly, de Rohan lifted his brows. “With all due respect, my lady, if someone does not press her, she may end up worse than ill.”
“Yet Cecilia makes a valid point,” said Delacourt thoughtfully. “Kitty does need some time to rest. And as Sir James said, she needs cleaner air and better food. But she also needs safety. I’ll hire a couple of men to keep watch at the mission, and in a day or so, we will speak with her.”
Cecilia began to interject, and Delacourt raised a staying hand. “Cecilia, we have no choice. But as soon as Kitty is well enough to travel, I mean to send her to my seat in Derbyshire. Once her health has been recovered, I’m sure my housekeeper can take her on in some capacity.”
Cecilia stared at him as if he’d just turned purple. De Rohan, however, looked more pensive. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I think that will answer very well. And if you offer her sanctuary, she may be more inclined to talk.”
“Then I mean to go along when you speak to her,” interjected Cecilia with a firm shake of her flame-gold curls. “I tell you, I shan’t have the two of you berating her. Not when she is with child.”
Hands clasped behind his back, de Rohan nodded. “Perhaps a woman will soften things a bit.”
Delacourt felt a moment of panic. He did not like the idea of Cecilia becoming further involved in what was fast becoming a treacherous situation. It was inappropriate. Damned dangerous. But it appear
ed he would have little to say in the matter. Carefully, he cleared his throat. “Could you give us some idea of what we are to do when we see Kitty?”
At that, the chief inspector shook his head. “I wish I knew, my lord,” he admitted. “At the very least, we must find out who their regular customers were. And was their brothel just that? Or something more perfidious?”
“Could they have been involved with white slavery?” suggested Delacourt, remembering some of Kemble’s grimmer theories. “Or perhaps smuggling or receiving?”
For a moment, de Rohan studied him, as if he were beginning to wonder what to make of him. “No, I think not smugglers,” the inspector said quietly. “However, thieving and fencing had crossed my mind, though none of them looked the part. In truth, they looked to be what they claimed—poor prostitutes.”
“But murderers do not go about killing prostitutes for no reason,” insisted Delacourt in frustration. “Not unless they are madmen. And if they are mad, then they are very dangerous indeed.”
“Oh, they are very dangerous,” agreed de Rohan. “I believe we have established that. Now, we have only to establish who they are.” Neatly, he turned on one heel to bow to Cecilia. “Lady Walrafen, I regret having disturbed your evening. I must be off. I shall call on you in Pennington Street on Friday, if that suits?”
If Delacourt had harbored any hope that Cecilia would change her mind, it was dashed when she nodded with alacrity. The plan thus agreed upon, she escorted de Rohan from the room, leaving Delacourt to simmer in his disquiet.
In utter silence, Cecilia walked with Maximilian de Rohan down the hall. She collected his coat and hat and drew open the door. On the doorstep, Lucifer rose to his feet, and Cecilia bent down to say a few soft words of greeting. The gruff dog’s face seemed to break into a lopsided grin.
De Rohan smiled faintly, snapped the mastiff to attention, then stepped out. But on the second stair, he paused, looking heavenward. Above Regent’s Park, what had seemed like an impenetrable cloud cover had suddenly split open to reveal a brilliant sliver of moon which was almost magical in its intensity.
De Rohan stared up into the night sky. “La luna crescente,” he whispered as if in awe.
“I beg your pardon?”
De Rohan turned to look up at her, his expression one of mild embarrassment. “A crescent moon,” he translated with a shrug. “It puts me in mind of an old saying of my grandmother’s, that’s all.”
Cecilia smiled at him. She was beginning to like him very much. “You are Italian, Mr. de Rohan?”
De Rohan shrugged his broad shoulders again. “Among other things,” he answered. “But my grandmother, she is from Milan.” He regarded her in silence, as if awaiting some gesture of disdain.
But Cecilia had no intention of giving it. “And what is this saying of your grandmother’s?” she asked gently. “I’m inordinately fond of old adages.”
He looked over his shoulder, as if to see if she were making a joke of him. Clearly, she was not. “A crescent moon,” he answered, stepping briskly down onto the pavement. “If you see one on a cloudy winter’s night, it means your most secret wish is about to come true.” At the foot of the steps, he stopped and turned back, his face a mask of sudden grief. “But it was not so for Meg McNamara, was it?”
Cecilia shook her head.
De Rohan regarded her in silence for a long moment. “Then let us hope that tonight, bella signora, it will be so for you,” he answered softly, “and so I wish you buona notte.” Then, abruptly, he spun about and doffed his hat in a sweeping, elegant gesture. And both he and the moon vanished into the mist.
———
His embarrassment over the green dress all but forgotten, Delacourt lingered in the drawing room, pondering the harrowing specter de Rohan’s visit had raised. Delacourt was by no means a fearful or uncertain man—quite the opposite, in fact—and often to his own detriment. But when he considered the deaths of Mary and Meg, a chill of pure evil ran up his spine. He felt thwarted and responsible. Deeply responsible. With Cole away in the country, it fell to him to see the murderer brought to justice. There was no escaping that simple truth. But it also fell to him to keep Cecilia safe. Good God! Which of the two would be the harder?
De Rohan, drat him, seemed perfectly willing to drag Cecilia into the bloody mess. He, of all people, should comprehend the dangers associated with working in the East End, and particularly under these circumstances. What if the killer had infiltrated the mission itself? What if he—they—whoever—began to suspect Cecilia knew more than she did? What if, God forbid, she actually learned something from Kitty which was dangerous?
It was well enough for de Rohan; solving crime was his damned job. And well enough for him, too, for Delacourt knew how to protect himself. Moreover, in a few weeks, he’d be merrily on his way, headed back to his aimless life of gaming and clubbing and calling upon his tailor. But Cecilia wasn’t going anywhere. She would continue just as she always had, toiling three days a week in the docklands like some put-upon shopgirl.
He drained the rest of the cognac and set down the glass with a careless cracking sound. In the street outside, he could hear the watch calling midnight. Vaguely, he listened to Cecilia and de Rohan murmuring on the steps. But his mind was caught in a nightmarish vision of Cecilia being dragged from her carriage into some dark, narrow street.
To busy himself, he took up the scuttle and poker and began to rebuild the fire, to no avail. His imagination kept spinning, and by the time Cecilia returned to the drawing room, Delacourt had managed to lose his focus, his good intentions, and much of his carefully cultivated patience.
“Cecilia,” he began, addressing the fire rather than face her. “I really do not like this idea of your going with that police inspector to interview Kitty. In truth, I think we must reconsider the staffing arrangements at the mission.”
At once, the tension inside the room ratcheted upward. Cecilia crossed the rug toward the hearth, her silk skirts rustling impatiently. “Precisely what are you saying, Delacourt?” she asked, her voice tight.
“Simply this,” he answered, shoving away the scuttle and rising from the hearth. “The dockyards and their environs are dangerous, and we can no longer assume the mission is safe. Two of the women have been murdered, and there’s no reason to think they will stop.”
“And what has our staffing to do with that?”
Delacourt could hear the edge in her voice, but the danger was too grave to be ignored. “While I have the utmost admiration for your devotion,” he sternly explained, “your going there to work with those unfortunate women is no longer worth the risk to your safety.”
Her sharp intake of breath sounded through the room. Delacourt looked up to see that Cecilia’s eyes flashed with ice-blue anger. He realized at once that his words had been rather imperious.
“Worth the risk?” she echoed before he could temper his remarks. “Tell me, my lord, just how do you define a person’s worth? Do you believe that because I am wealthy and titled, my worth is somehow different from that of Mary or Kitty?”
“That’s not what I said, Cecilia,” he growled, turning to give the coals one last angry jab.
“No, it is not what you said,” she agreed, her voice tremulous with anger. “But I think it is precisely what you meant. Why do I suspect that you think me of some greater worth than those women?”
Because you are, you little fool! he wanted to shout. You are very important to me, damn you!
But Delacourt could not get the words out. The awful truth of what he felt for her kept rising up to choke him. Instead, he could only hesitate, as some agonizing emotion he dared not name twisted in his belly.
So he simply stood there, like the overbearing tyrant everyone thought him, staring down into the blazing fire with the poker clutched in his hand, nails digging into his palm. And all the time, Cecilia was pacing inexorably nearer.
“You cannot go to the mission any longer,” he said quietly. “I am the di
rector, and that is my decision.”
“Why?” she demanded again. “Or are you simply searching for a reason to be rid of me?”
Be rid of her? Good Lord. Delacourt was beginning to fear he’d never been rid of her. Not since the very first moment their lips had touched. He rested his empty hand on the mantel, and leaned into it.
“Answer me, Delacourt!”
An answer. She wanted an answer. By God, he would give her one. “You are the daughter and the widow of a nobleman,” he snapped, still addressing the fire. “You are gently bred, Cecilia. I am simply telling you how life is, and you are just too bloody stubborn to listen.”
“I am gently bred?” she echoed incredulously. He turned to see that Cecilia stood by his elbow now, her arms crossed over her chest.
“That is what I said.”
“Well, shall I tell you about those women in the mission, my lord?” Inside the elegant silk gown, she trembled with rage. “Shall I tell you of their breeding? Yes, some are of lower birth than others, but trust me—they all began life as innocents.”
Delacourt had no wish to hear it. “I am in no mood for your moralizing, Cecilia,” he said in a warning whisper.
But Cecilia would not be silenced. “I don’t give a damn about your mood,” she returned. “Many of those girls began as parlor maids, tweenies, shop-girls—and, yes, even the occasional governess—and most of them were ruined by some man, someone who no doubt professed himself a gentleman—”
Behind his eyes, a horrible vision flashed, like the explosion of gunpowder. “Be quiet, Cecilia!” he demanded, gripping the iron poker so hard his fingers went numb. “I won’t listen to this! I swear it!”
“Yes, a gentleman,” she repeated, her voice rising. “One who thought it his right to simply take what he wanted and damn the consequences. Does that scenario sound familiar, my lord? Does it?”