by Amanda Quick
“As far as I was able to determine, there are no particular qualifications required in this career,” Lavinia said. “Merely a willingness to ask a great many questions.”
Tobias narrowed his eyes. “You tried to induce Joan Dove to employ you to find the diary, didn’t you?”
“I suggested that she might want to consider giving me a commission to make inquiries into the matter, yes.”
“You’re quite mad, aren’t you?”
“How odd that you should question my sanity, Mr. March. Three months ago in Rome, I had serious doubts about yours.”
He sent the small card sailing back across the desk with a flick of his hand. It fluttered in the air and landed directly in front of her.
“If you are not mad,” he said without inflection, “you must be a featherbrained idiot. You have no notion of the damage you may have done, do you? You have no concept of the danger involved in this affair.”
“Of course I know there is some danger involved. I saw Mr. Felix’s skull last night.”
He circled the edge of the desk with surprising speed, given his limp. He reached down, grasped her arms, and hauled her out of the chair. He lifted her right off her feet.
Emeline leaped out of her own chair. “Mr. March, what are you doing to my aunt? Please put her down.”
He ignored her. His entire attention was focused on Lavinia. “You are a meddling little fool, Mrs. Lake. Do you even begin to comprehend what you have put in jeopardy? I have spent weeks crafting my plans and now you come along and throw everything into a muddle in a single afternoon.”
The undisguised fury in his eyes made Lavinia’s mouth go dry. The knowledge that he had the power to unnerve her so ignited her temper.
“Unhand me, sir.”
“Not until you agree to a partnership.”
“Why would you want to work with me when you have such a low opinion of me?”
“We are going to work together, Mrs. Lake, because today’s events prove that I cannot take the risk of allowing you to continue on your own. You require close supervision.”
She did not like the sound of that. “Really, Mr. March, you cannot hold me here in midair indefinitely.”
“Do not depend upon that, madam.”
“You are no gentleman, sir.”
“You have already mentioned that fact on a prior occasion. Do we have an agreement to work together on this affair of the diary?”
“I have very little interest in forming any connection whatsoever with you. Nevertheless, as I cannot seem to turn around without tripping over you, I am willing to pool our resources and exchange information.”
“A wise decision, Mrs. Lake.”
“However, I must insist that you refrain from this sort of rude behavior.” He was not hurting her, but she was intensely aware of the strength in his hands. “Now set me down, sir.”
Without a word, Tobias lowered her until her feet touched the floor, then released her.
She shook out her skirts and put a hand to her hair. She felt flustered and angry and oddly breathless. “This is an outrage. I expect an apology, Mr. March.”
“I beg your pardon, madam. There appears to be something about you that brings out the worst in me.”
“Oh dear,” Emeline murmured. “This partnership is not starting off well, is it?”
Lavinia and Tobias both turned to look at her. Before anyone could speak, the door opened. Mrs. Chilton barged into the study with the tea tray.
“I’ll pour,” Emeline said quickly. She rushed forward to seize the tray.
By the time three cups had been filled, Lavinia had her temper back under control. Tobias stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back, and looked out into the tiny garden. The remnants of his rather dangerous and unpredictable mood were still evident in the set of his shoulders. She told herself that the fact that he had made no more remarks about featherbrained idiots was a good sign.
When the door closed behind Mrs. Chilton, Lavinia took a fortifying sip of tea and set down her cup with great precision.
The tall clock ticked heavily in the thick silence.
“Let us start again at the beginning,” Tobias said flatly. “What, exactly, did you say to Mrs. Dove?”
“I was very forthright with her.”
“Bloody hell.”
Lavinia cleared her throat. “I merely said I had been a victim of blackmail and had tracked the extortionist to his lair, only to discover that someone else had got there first. I explained that the diary Holton Felix had mentioned in his blackmail notes was gone and that I had found her address tucked into a disgusting novel in the bedchamber.”
Tobias turned swiftly to face her. “So that was what you discovered in that room. I knew you had found something. Damnation, why did you not tell me?”
“Mr. March, if you are going to berate me at every step of the way, we shall not make much progress.”
His jaw tightened, but he did not argue. “Continue.”
“Unfortunately, that’s about all there is to tell. She admitted no knowledge of the blackmail affair, but I’m convinced she was one of Felix’s victims. I offered to take her on as a client. She refused.” Lavinia spread her hands. “I left the house.”
There was no need to mention that she had been ordered to leave under threat of being physically tossed out the front door, she thought.
“Did you tell her that I was with you last night?” Tobias asked.
“No. I told her nothing about your involvement in the business.”
Tobias contemplated the information in silence for a moment. Then he went to the small table near the big chair and picked up his cup and saucer. “She is a widow, you say?”
“Yes. One of the nannies in the park told me that her husband died nearly a year ago, shortly after the daughter’s engagement was announced at a grand ball.”
Tobias paused, the cup halfway back to the saucer. Acute interest gleamed in his eyes. “Did the nanny say how he died?”
“Some sort of sudden illness while he was visiting one of his estates, I believe. I did not inquire into the details.”
“I see.” Tobias set the cup very carefully into the saucer. “You say she did not admit to being blackmailed?”
“No.” Lavinia hesitated. “She did not actually say she had received extortion threats. But her manner convinced me that she knew very well what I was talking about. I believe she is quite desperate and I would not be surprised to hear from her soon.”
six
It was still early when Tobias walked into the club later that day. The hushed atmosphere was disturbed only by the faint rustle of newspaper pages being turned, cups clattering in saucers, and the occasional clink of a bottle of port against a glass. Most of the heads visible above the backs of the large, cushioned reading chairs were fringed with gray.
At this hour most of those present tended to be of an age when a man took more interest in whist and the funds than in mistresses and fashion. The younger club members were either shooting pistols at the targets set up at Manton’s or paying calls on their tailors.
Their wives and mistresses were no doubt occupied with shopping, Tobias reflected. The two categories of females frequently patronized the same modistes and milliners. It was not unheard of for a gentleman’s lady to come face-to-face with his ladybird over a bolt of fabric. In such cases the wife, of course, was expected to ignore the demirep.
But if the wife in question happened to be of Lavinia’s reckless, fiery temperament, he thought, the bit-o’-muslin would likely be well and truly shredded before the end of the encounter. For some reason the image amused him in spite of his dark mood. Then it occurred to him that when she had finished with the mistress, Lavinia would no doubt corner her husband, who would likely get the worst of it. He stopped smiling.
“Ah, there you are, March.” Lord Crackenburne lowered his newspaper and peered at Tobias over the rims of his spectacles. “Thought I’d see you here today.”
&n
bsp; “Good day to you, sir.” Tobias took the chair on the other side of the hearth. Absently he started to rub his right leg. “You are very wise to have taken up residence here by the fire. This is no afternoon to be running all over town. The rain has turned the streets to mud.”
“I have not engaged in anything so strenuous as running all over town for over thirty years.” Crackenburne’s gray brows rose and fell above his spectacles. “I prefer to let the world come to me.”
“Yes, I know.”
Crackenburne had more or less lived here at his club since the death of his beloved wife a decade earlier. Tobias made it a point to visit with him often.
Their friendship went back nearly twenty years, to the day when Tobias, fresh from Oxford and quite penniless, had applied to become Crackenburne’s man of business. To this day he did not know why the earl, a man of impeccable lineage, extensive resources, and personal connections to some of the highest-ranking members of Society, had agreed to employ an inexperienced young man with no references and no family. But Tobias knew he would be eternally grateful for Crackenburne’s trust.
He had ceased to handle Crackenburne’s financial and business affairs five years ago when he had gone into the private inquiry line, but he continued to value the older man’s advice and wisdom. In addition, Crackenburne’s penchant for spending most of his time here in his club made him a useful source of rumors and gossip. He always seemed to know the latest on dit .
Crackenburne rattled his paper and turned a page. “Now then, what is this I hear about the murder of a certain gambler last night?”
“I’m impressed.” Tobias smiled wryly. “How did you come to learn that piece of news? Is it in the papers?”
“No. I eavesdropped on a conversation that was conducted over a game of cards this morning. I recognized Holton Felix’s name, naturally, since you had asked me about the man just two days ago. He’s dead, then?”
“Most assuredly. Someone crushed his skull with a very heavy object.”
“Humph.” Crackenburne went back to his paper. “What of the diary Neville employed you to find?”
Tobias stretched out his legs toward the fire. “Gone by the time I arrived on the scene.”
“I see. Unfortunate. Don’t suppose Neville was pleased to hear that.”
“No.”
“Any notion of where to start looking for it next?”
“Not yet, but I have let my informants know I am still in the market for any and all information that might lead me to the damned thing.” Tobias hesitated. “There has been a new development.”
“What is that?”
“I have been obliged to form a partnership for the duration of this venture. My new associate has already come across a clue that may prove useful.”
Crackenburne looked up swiftly, faded eyes glinting with astonishment. “A partner? Do you mean Anthony?”
“No. Anthony is my occasional assistant and I intend that he remain in that role. I’ve explained that I do not want him to become too involved in my business.”
Crackenburne was dryly amused. “Even though he enjoys the work?”
“That is beside the point.” Tobias steepled his fingers and studied the fire. “This is no field for a gentleman. It is only one step up from being a spy, and the income is, to say the least, unpredictable. I promised Ann that I would see to it that her brother pursued a respectable, stable career. Her greatest fear was that he would end up in the hells, as their father did.”
“Has young Anthony demonstrated any interest in a respectable, stable career?” Crackenburne asked dryly.
“Not yet,” Tobias admitted. “But he is only one-and-twenty. At the moment his attentions swing wildly among a number of subjects, including science, antiquities, art, and Byron’s poetry.”
“If all else fails, you can always suggest he try his hand at fortune hunting.”
“I fear that Anthony’s chances of meeting, let alone marrying, a wealthy wife are extremely small,” Tobias said. “Even if he were to stumble across one by accident, his low opinion of young ladies whose conversation centers on gowns and gossip would no doubt sink the endeavor before it set sail.”
“Ah well, I would not worry about his future too much, if I were you,” Crackenburne said. “It has been my experience that young men tend to make their own decisions. In the end, there is very little one can do but wish them well. Now, tell me about this new business associate you mentioned.”
“Her name is Mrs. Lake. You may recall my mentioning her name to you.”
Crackenburne’s mouth opened and closed and then opened again. “Good God, man. Never say it is the same Mrs. Lake you encountered in Italy?”
“One and the same. It seems that she was on Felix’s list of blackmail victims.” Tobias regarded the fire over his steepled fingers. “Blames me for it.”
“You don’t say.” Crackenburne adjusted his spectacles and blinked a number of times. “Well, well, well. What an interesting turn of events.”
“It’s a damnable complication, so far as I’m concerned. She has set herself up in the business of accepting commissions for private inquiries.” Tobias tapped the tips of his fingers together. “I believe I was her inspiration.”
“Astonishing. Absolutely astonishing.” Crackenburne shook his head. He appeared torn between amusement and amazement. “A lady pursuing a career in the same odd profession you have created for yourself. I vow, it leaves a man quite stunned.”
“I assure you that being left stunned is only one of a number of unpleasant effects the news had on me. However, since she intends to pursue the diary on her own, I have little choice but to engage myself as her partner.”
“Yes, of course.” Crackenburne nodded wisely. “It is the only way to keep an eye on her and control her actions.”
“I’m not at all certain that anyone can control Mrs. Lake.” Tobias paused. “But as it happens, I did not come here to talk about my problems with my new partner. I sought you out today to ask you a question.”
“What would that be?”
“You have connections in Society and you keep track of rumors. What can you tell me about a woman named Joan Dove who lives in Hazelton Square?”
Crackenburne considered the question for a moment. Then he folded his newspaper and set it aside.
“Not a great deal, as it happens. Mr. and Mrs. Dove did not go about much in Society. There is very little gossip to relate. Nearly a year ago, I believe, the daughter got engaged to Colchester’s heir. Fielding Dove died shortly afterward.”
“Is that all you know of the woman?”
Crackenburne studied the leaping flames. “She was married to Dove for some twenty years. There was a considerable difference in age. He must have been at least twenty-five years older than she, perhaps thirty. I don’t know where she came from, nor do I know anything about her family. But I can tell you one thing with great certainty.”
Tobias cocked a brow in silent inquiry.
“When Fielding Dove died,” Crackenburne said very deliberately, “Joan Dove inherited his extensive business interests. She is now an exceedingly wealthy woman.”
“With wealth comes power.”
“Yes,” Crackenburne said. “And the more wealthy and powerful one is, the more one is tempted to do whatever it takes to keep one’s secrets buried.”
It was still raining heavily when the elegant carriage came to a halt in front of Number Seven, Claremont Lane. Lavinia peeked through the curtains and saw a muscular footman in handsome green livery spring down to open the door and raise an umbrella.
A heavy veil concealed the features of the woman who was handed down from the vehicle, but Lavinia knew there was only one lady of her acquaintance who could afford such an expensive equipage and who would have reason to come out in such dreadful weather.
Joan Dove carried a package wrapped in cloth. She went quickly up the steps.
In spite of the attentive footman and his umbrella, Joan’s kid ha
lf boots and the skirts of her elegant dark gray cloak were damp by the time she was shown into the cozy parlor a few minutes later.
Lavinia hastily gave her a chair near the hearth and took the one across from her guest.
“Tea, if you please, Mrs. Chilton.” She gave the order briskly, trying to sound as though receiving such a distinguished visitor was an everyday occurrence here in Claremont Lane. “The new, fresh oolong.”
“Yes, ma’am, right away, ma’am.” Mrs. Chilton, clearly awed, nearly fell over her own feet when she tried to curtsy her way out of the room.
Lavinia turned back to Joan and sought an appropriate comment. “The rain appears to be here to stay for a while.” She blushed instantly at the inanity. Not precisely the way to impress a potential client, she thought.
“Indeed.” Joan reached up with one black-gloved hand and raised her veil.
Any remaining remarks concerning the nasty weather died in Lavinia’s throat when she saw Joan’s pale face and stark eyes. Alarm swept through her. She rose quickly and seized the small bell on the mantel.
“Are you all right, madam? Shall I send for a vinaigrette?”
“A vinaigrette will not help me.” Joan’s voice was amazingly even, given the dread in her eyes. “I am hoping you can, Mrs. Lake.”
“What is it?” Lavinia sank slowly back into her chair. “What has happened since we last spoke?”
“This arrived on my doorstep an hour ago.” Very deliberately, Joan unwrapped the square package she had brought with her.
The cloth fell away to reveal a small waxwork scene framed in a wooden box that was approximately a foot square. Without a word, Lavinia stood again and took the picture from Joan’s hands.
She carried the little waxwork to the window, where the light was better, and studied the artfully wrought, finely detailed scene.
The focal point of the picture was a small but precisely executed wax sculpture of a woman in a finely detailed green gown. She lay crumpled on the floor of a room, her face turned away from the viewer. The high-waisted bodice of the dress was cut very deeply in the back. The hem was trimmed with three rows of small flounces accented with small roses.