Murder in Bloomsbury

by D. M. Quincy

  “The very same.”

  Both men were quiet while the barkeeper came over to refill their ale.

  “What about him?” Buller asked once the man was gone.

  “Did Davis tell you the boy played deep?”

  Buller grinned. “He said Trevor Archer had more money than brains.” He paused as if trying to recall something. “Gordon took him to Mrs. Leach’s gaming hell on Bennett Street.”

  “Mrs. Leach’s?” Atlas wanted to make certain he had the correct name.

  Buller nodded. “It seemed to me that Davis got paid to take pigeons there. Can I have more beefsteak?”

  Clearly, a visit to Mrs. Leach’s gaming hell on Bennett Street was in order. Atlas rose and dropped several coins on the table. “By all means.”

  Hopeful that the deluge outside had eased at least a little, he said his farewells, grabbed his dripping umbrella, and headed for the exit.

  * * *

  Later, at home in his sitting room, warm, dry, and wrapped in his well-worn dressing gown with a fire blazing in the hearth, Atlas sat at his game table working on a puzzle.

  It was his most challenging one to date. Most puzzles were too rudimentary for his tastes, so he had them made to order. He might have gone too far with this latest one, though—Hogarth’s depiction of the Jacobite rebellion, featuring a crowd of people and dozens of small faces—which was proving to be quite a challenge. He’d already assembled the frame on all four sides and turned his focus to the sky. As he pushed two pieces of gray-white cloud together, his mind sorted through the facts of the investigation.

  At the moment, the most likely suspects included Merton, Roxbury, and the still mysterious Lady L. The dead man had been a threat to all three of their reputations, something the ton tended to take most seriously. Few things were worse than losing face in society. Atlas intended to speak with both the viscount and the marquess soon, but the identity of Lady L remained a mystery.

  He also needed to learn whether Trevor Archer had become indebted to Davis again. What if the younger Archer had been too afraid to admit as much to his father? As the owner’s son, Trevor likely would have had access to the arsenic at the factory. Atlas needed to speak with the young man before he could fully form an impression of how involved he might be.

  Tomorrow evening, he’d stop in at Mrs. Leach’s on the off chance Trevor Archer might also decide to visit his favorite hell. Having settled that particular matter, he turned his full attention to the puzzle before him, letting his mind take him off to a particularly relaxing state of blankness, a time when he tended to do his best thinking.

  And this case certainly required plenty of that.

  * * *

  “Tell me again why we’re visiting this establishment.” Wrinkling his nose, Charlton surveyed the smoky interior of Mrs. Leach’s gaming hell. “We must be the only people above the age of thirty here.”

  “Then we are very likely in the right place,” Atlas said.

  The earl had followed him down narrow stairs to reach the unobtrusive off-street entrance. Inside, decorated in red velvets and dark woods, the hell was surprisingly sumptuous despite the low ceilings and belowstairs location.

  “We’ve come because a little bird told me I’d find Trevor Archer here this evening.” Atlas scanned the crowded floor, where much of the attention was centered around the primary hazard table. The patrons, mostly young wealthy men about town, were focused on the action at the table. A loud cheer went up, followed by excited murmurs.

  “Ah, the factory owner’s wayward son,” Charlton said. “This certainly looks like a place where a lamb could be fleeced.”

  It was Atlas’s second visit to the hell. The first time, two nights before, he’d come away empty-handed, but he had managed to enlist one of the girls who worked the floor to send word if she spotted the young man. He surveyed the room searching for her, but Nellie surprised him when she suddenly appeared and sidled up next to him.

  “Guv, I see you got my note.” She wore the same cheap gown as when they’d first met, with front lacing very loosely done up, providing a generous view of her ample assets.

  “A small bird, hmm?” On Atlas’s other side, Charlton murmured in his ear. “More like a ladybird.”

  “Which one is he?” Atlas asked her.

  Nellie pointed toward the hazard table. “The cove in the brown jacket.” The husky form she pointed out as Trevor Archer sat with his back to them. “He’s a pigeon.”

  “Whose pigeon?” Atlas expected Nellie to confirm what Buller had told him.

  “Some cove named Davis brought ’im a few weeks back. Mrs. Leach pays well for those who brings in fresh ’uns.”

  Charlton watched the action at the table with interest. “I suppose the fresh ones you speak of possess plenty of blunt but a limited supply of sense and experience at the gaming tables.”

  She winked at the earl. “Exactly as you say, my lord.” She shot a look over at Archer. “That ’un over there weren’t happy when he learned Davis got paid for bringing ’im here.”

  Atlas gave her his full attention. “How do you know Archer was angry with Davis?”

  “It was hard to miss. Archer challenged ’im on it right here. They shoved each other until Mrs. Leach’s men put a stop to it.” She shook her head. “Not too smart, that Archer. He owed a small fortune to both the gaming house and Davis.”

  “How much did he owe the house?”

  “Can’t say, guv. But I do know he managed to pay his debts. That’s the only way Mrs. Leach would let him back in to play.”

  Atlas dropped a couple of coins into her open palm. “Thank you, Nellie, you’ve been most helpful.”

  She slipped the payment somewhere into the folds of her skirt. “That’s right generous of you.” She nudged up against him so that he could feel the insistent press of her breast against his arm. “How about a quick tumble? A big ’un like you would be a lot of man.”

  He caught her straying hand as it slid down his belly. “That’s most generous, Nellie, but unfortunately, I must see to matters pertaining to Mr. Archer.”

  Undeterred, she shrugged and ambled over to Charlton. “What about you, milord?”

  “As tempting as your offer is”—Charlton drew back—“I must unfortunately stay and assist my friend here.” As he spoke, the earl dropped another few coins into Nellie’s hand to send her away. With a jaunty smile, she went off in search of new game.

  Atlas took in the exchange with amusement. “Most men pay for women to come to them, not to go away.”

  “She seems like a lovely woman. But when I think of how many others have already had the pleasure . . .” He shuddered as if a cockroach had run up his spine. “I’d be sure to catch the pox.”

  Atlas moved closer to the action to get a better look at Archer, who held the dice in his hands.

  “What’s the main, Archer?” someone called out.

  “Five!” Trevor Archer grinned. He shared his sisters’ pale complexion and rosy cheeks. Trevor blew on the dice and tossed them across the table, coming up with eleven.

  “Archer throws out!” The setter, a gaming hell worker, leaned forward to scoop up the money on the table. The boy barely seemed to notice and quickly placed another bet. Atlas and Charlton watched Archer lose several rolls in a row.

  “He doesn’t know when to stop.” The words were murmured by a young man who’d come up next to Atlas. His expensive tailored clothing and cut-glass tones spoke of wealth and breeding. Distaste rippled through Atlas. This lordling was likely the scion of some indolent peer with an inflated sense of self-worth, someone like Vessey, the man responsible for his sister Phoebe’s death.

  “Do you know him?” Atlas asked the lordling, seeing if he might garner any useful information about Archer.

  “Not terribly well. His name is Trevor Archer,” the young man replied. “A fortnight ago, I intervened and sent him on his way before he could get in any deeper.”

  “You intervened on Arch
er’s behalf?” Atlas regarded the lordling with surprise. “Why?”

  The young man shrugged. “Mrs. Leach has bled him dry. Archer’s desperation that evening was especially painful to watch. And it is wrong to prey upon men’s weaknesses. Especially those of young men.”

  Atlas gave the lordling a second look. If the young man was to be believed, he’d done a good turn for someone he barely knew simply because it was the right thing to do. And Atlas had to admit the lordling’s manner was amiable enough. In addition, there was something very familiar about him, even though Atlas was certain they’d never met. The lordling’s hair was a golden brown, his eyes a warm hazel. Atlas attempted to place the boy, trying to puzzle out why he didn’t feel like a stranger. “It was good of you to stand up for him,” Atlas said to him.

  “Someone had to.” The lordling smiled wryly. “There are times when rank has its privileges. One might as well make some use of it.”

  Atlas nodded approvingly. “Indeed.”

  “Lennox. There you are.” A friend of the young man’s appeared. He too wore fine attire and exuded the ennui common to so many members of the nobility. “Let’s go. There’s a rout in Kensington that’s supposed to be all the crack.”

  The lordling shook his head. “I’m afraid I cannot. I’m meeting my father for a late supper.”

  The friend let out an exaggerated groan. “Surely Vessey won’t mind.”

  “I think he might. Another time, Miles.” He turned to Atlas. “Good evening then.” With a friendly smile, he disappeared in the crowd.

  Atlas felt as though the breath had been knocked out of him. It couldn’t be. Pain twisted in his chest, and he pressed a hand over his heart. His ears buzzed; the noise in the gaming hell seeming to recede.

  “Atlas? Are you well?” Charlton’s concerned voice seemed to come from a great distance. “You’ve gone gray.”

  Atlas gasped, struggling to suck air into his depleted lungs.

  “Atlas? What is it?” Charlton put a hand on his arm. “Come and sit down.”

  Atlas allowed the earl to lead him to a seat and push him down into it.

  “You stay here.” Charlton ordered. “I’ll get you a drink.” He turned to go. “Make way. Make way,” he commanded imperiously, vanishing into the throng of gaming hell denizens. Closing his eyes, Atlas tilted his head back and tried to calm his racing heart.

  Nicholas Lennox. The memories rushed back, flooding his senses and resurrecting emotions he’d buried for more than twenty years. In his mind, he still pictured Nicholas as a young child, not the well-spoken young gentleman he’d encountered that evening.

  “Here.” Charlton was back, pushing a cool libation into his hand. “Drink.”

  Atlas obeyed his friend’s command. Taking the glass, he upended all of its contents into his mouth. He swallowed in a few large gulps and waited for the fiery heat to scald his chest, hoping it would numb a fraction of the pain wedged there.

  “What the devil is it?” Concern shadowing his gaze, Charlton took the seat across from him. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Atlas finally managed to draw a lungful of air. Relief coursed through him as he exhaled long and loud, relishing the sensation of being able to breathe again. “In a way, I have. Seen a ghost, I mean.”

  Charlton’s amber brows furrowed. “Care to explain?”

  “That boy”—he could hardly say the words out loud—“is Nicholas Lennox.”

  “So? Who the bloody hell is Nicholas Lennox?”

  Atlas almost spat the name of the man he hated more than anyone on earth. “Vessey’s son.”

  “What has that got to do with you?”

  “My late sister, Phoebe, was his mother.”

  The confusion on the earl’s face gave way to pure shock. “That boy is your nephew?”

  Atlas nodded. He tapped the bottom of his empty glass on the tabletop. “More,” he croaked.

  Charlton turned and gestured for someone to refill Atlas’s drink before facing his friend again. “You never told me your sister had a child.”

  He swallowed hard against the knot of fury and sorrow barreling up his chest and into his throat. All these years, it had been easier to forget the boy, to pretend Nicholas didn’t exist, to act as if a part of his sister did not still roam the earth. “He was an infant when Phoebe died. Barely three months old.”

  “He didn’t know you just now,” Charlton said, half to himself. “Why doesn’t he know who you are?”

  Someone appeared and refilled Atlas’s glass. As soon as he was done, Atlas took a large gulp. “Vessey wouldn’t allow us to see him. The bastard said he didn’t want us tainting the boy with lies.”

  “Or with the truth, rather, of how his mother died.”

  “Exactly.”

  “How ghastly.” Charlton made a tsking sound. “How old is the boy now?”

  “One-and-twenty.” The same number of years Nicholas’s mother had been dead. He looked blindly at the table next to them where he caught sight of Nellie perched on a rowdy young buck’s lap as he drank with a group of boisterous friends.

  Charlton searched Atlas’s face. “Young Lennox is old enough to do as he pleases. He could seek you out.”

  Atlas dragged his gaze back to the earl. “Yes, but he hasn’t, has he? That says it all, don’t you think?”

  “To the contrary. I believe it tells us nothing at all. Who knows what manner of lies Vessey has fed the boy about your family.”

  At the next table, Nellie pulled away from her young buck and came over. “Guv, your chicken is about to leave.”

  Atlas blinked, momentarily confused by her words, before comprehending her meaning. Trevor Archer—the reason he’d come this evening—was departing before Atlas had had a chance to talk to him. Scanning the establishment for his quarry, he came to his feet.

  “Perhaps this is best left to another time,” Charlton said.

  “Nonsense.” Atlas spotted Archer near the entrance, preparing to make his exit. He started in that direction, grateful to have something besides Phoebe’s son to focus on.

  Archer was reaching for his greatcoat when Atlas caught up with him. “Trevor Archer?”

  “Yes?” Trevor met his approach with polite disinterest. “And you are?”

  “Atlas Catesby. I’m looking into the death of Gordon Davis.”

  “What is there to investigate?” Trevor drew his coat on. “I heard he did himself in.”

  “His sister believes otherwise.”

  “I’m not sure how I can be of any help.”

  “As I understand it, you two were friendly at one point.”

  Trevor accepted his beaver hat from an attendant. “He was more of an acquaintance.”

  “Why did you argue with Davis here on the gaming floor?”

  Trevor flushed. “Who told you that?”

  “It’s not exactly a secret. The confrontation occurred in full view of the entire hell.”

  “I learned he’d brought me here for the distinct purpose of being fleeced by the house.” He huffed his indignation. “As if I’m some green boy waiting to be taken advantage of.”

  Atlas suspected that that was exactly what Trevor Archer was but decided it was prudent to keep that particular opinion to himself. “Did you owe Davis money at the time of his death?”

  “Most assuredly not.”

  Yet someone had paid off Archer’s gaming house debt. If not Davis, then who? Trevor’s father perhaps? “How did you meet your obligations?”

  Archer appeared affronted. “You overstep, sir. That is certainly none of your concern.”

  Atlas’s patience with this insolent child was close to running out. “Perhaps I should ask your father.”

  Archer paled. “You wouldn’t.”

  “I most certainly would. I intend to get to the bottom of this matter—one way or the other.”

  Archer fairly simmered with resentment at being trapped into answering Atlas’s question. “A generous friend intervened
and paid off all the debts I owed the gaming hell.”

  “Why would someone do that?”

  “Perhaps he is a Good Samaritan.”

  “What is this friend’s name?”

  Archer paused, his reluctance obvious, before answering, “Nicholas Lennox. If you don’t believe me, you can ask him yourself.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “I thought you said this was a garden party,” Atlas said to Lilliana.

  “And so it is.” They entered the Marquess of Roxbury’s rather immense garden, where strains of a lively tune floated over to greet them. “Although this affair is slightly more lavish than the garden parties I used to attend in Slough,” she said, referring to the cozy village she’d called home during her ill-fated marriage.

  He shot her a dubious look. “Slightly more lavish?” The Marquess of Roxbury’s garden party was almost as excessive as the Duke of Somerville’s ball. Despite being held outdoors, almost every indoor comfort was provided for the guests. Colorful carpets were laid out on the damp grass, protecting slippers, boots, and hems from the muddy mess beneath the floor covering. Stuffed sofas and chairs were arranged on the rugs, creating sitting areas for guests to lounge in.

  Beyond the seated guests, couples danced on a wooden platform, and a quartet of musicians nearby proved to be the source of the merry music filling the air. The entire tableau, with the ladies in their white-and-pastel gowns and the men smartly attired in light-colored suits, was rather idyllic.

  “I didn’t realize there were gardens this enormous in the city,” Atlas said.

  “These grounds are likely the largest in Town, next to Somerville’s, of course.” Lilliana gave a regal nod to an older couple that paused to greet her. Curious gazes followed Lilliana and Atlas as they strolled on. “The Roxbury marquisate is one of England’s oldest and most prosperous.”

  And the current marquess was courting Lilliana, no doubt hoping to make her his marchioness. Atlas could easily envision Lilliana—with her natural elegance and impeccable breeding—as mistress here. She would, no doubt, assume the role with ease and grace.

  “My dear Roslyn.” Roxbury approached with a welcoming smile. “As always, you are a vision for the eyes.”