He pounded the knocker, pleased he was able to use the thing sensibly and not rap it so hard it cracked the wood. Seconds later, the door opened, and a man stood regarding him skeptically.
“I am here to see his lordship,” James said in his most officious tone. “I am Mr. James Gordon, magistrate.”
“Ah, yes. Come in, if you please.” The man stepped aside and bade him entrance into a large vestibule that connected to an overly large hallway.
“Wait here,” the servant directed before walking farther down the hall and disappearing through a large mahogany door.
The hall was grand, covered in marble, and complete with columns and elaborately framed masterpieces. At least, they looked like masterpieces to James. He had only ever seen paintings this fine in museums.
Footsteps sounded in the hall as the servant returned. He took James’s hat and coat, and gestured on toward the door he had disappeared through moments before. “His lordship will see you in the front parlor.”
James nodded his thanks, then moved toward what he assumed was the front parlor. He was not given to worshipping any man, but his heartbeat kicked up its pace all the same. It was his personal hero he was meeting, after all. The Home Secretary.
He straightened his cuffs and cravat before pushing the door open and stepping inside.
James immediately realized his lordship had other visitors. Lady Umberton and Lady Saint Brides, his lordship’s mother, sat on one settee—both ladies he had met often in Yorkshire on account of their being active in charities and the lives of their tenants, himself being one of them. The other lady was none other than the woman whose safety had brought him here—Mrs. Tindall.
He bowed to them each, swallowing back the shame in seeing shock and anger in Mrs. Tindall’s eyes.
James’s second realization was that his lordship wasn’t present. Mr. Ramsey sat beside Mrs. Tindall, regarding James steadily.
“Mr. Gordon,” Mr. Ramsey said with the slightest of smiles. “Do have a seat.”
James bowed. “Forgive me for intruding. I am here to see his lordship, the Home Secretary.”
“Yes, I suppose we have business to discuss,” Mr. Ramsey said. “Do sit.”
James almost declined a second time, but something in the man’s gaze made him rethink his decision. He hesitantly moved to an overstuffed chair angled between the two settees.
James was an excellent judge of character. The skill had propelled him from a life as a poor, thieving orphan into his current position of respected magistrate, which was how he discerned the hardness in Mr. Ramsey’s visage was different from the sort he normally saw—the cynical, disenchanted coolness found in many of his colleagues. The man was logical, constantly analyzing, and he demanded respect of some sort, but he wasn’t as cold as he seemed. And so, James sat, because he immediately liked Mr. Ramsey, as he had already decided last they met in Yorkshire.
Drake was being smug, and he knew it, but how could he be otherwise when things were going so well? The two villains were under constant watch; the man behind those two would soon be coming when he realized his men hadn’t handled things, and his patsy was getting away; and his men had found Gordon and sent him here.
He was one step closer to finding the blackguard behind it all.
“Mother,” Drake said, “Lady Umberton, may I present our guest, Mr. Gordon?”
“Oh, we have already met, my dear,” his mother assured him.
“Indeed, we have,” Lady Umberton echoed.
Mr. Gordon’s face froze as understanding dawned. Then his wide eyes met Drake’s. “My lord?”
Drake smiled.
Mr. Gordon’s attention went to Sarah. “You had Mrs. Tindall this whole time?”
“Indeed, I did,” Drake answered. “And had you been more straightforward with me, you would have known that much sooner.”
He felt Sarah stiffen beside him.
“Easy, there, my darling,” Drake said, easily falling into the role of devoted fiancé—too easily, in his opinion—but it was something he must appear to be if he was to convince the world not to shred her reputation to infinitesimal bits.
This sort of damage control was very new to him. He had handled scandals involving murder more times than he could count, but those usually involved the reputations of men. His men, who found far too much satisfaction in creating incidents. This was altogether different. This involved the reputation of a woman, which was much trickier in society.
Even so, he was certain he could manage it until the end of the investigation. In this city, a marriage in scandal could be forgiven if society was convinced the couple madly in love, no matter how absurd the circumstance. At least that was the way for men in Parliament.
It was widely known a man who was in love with his wife did not cooperate with men, politically or otherwise, who insulted her. Considering Drake’s assistance was necessary for anything of value to be passed in the House of Lords, if it was known he was in love, Sarah should be relatively safe.
And so, this was what he must convey—a man madly in love. At least until he found the murderers, which brought his attention back to the gentleman sitting in the plush chair before him.
“You understand my intentions were never to hurt Mrs. Tindall,” Mr. Gordon said.
“Of course,” Drake responded.
“Not hurt me?” Sarah burst out. “You tied me to a tree! You threatened to kill me!”
“Only because they might have been watching,” Mr. Gordon insisted.
Lady Umberton was fanning herself with her lace handkerchief, shaking her head. “Do you understand any of this, Elisabeth?”
“Hush, Francine,” his mother hissed back.
“Allow me to explain,” Drake said. He turned to Mr. Gordon with raised brows. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Gordon. It is your story, after all.”
“Go right ahead, my lord.”
Drake nodded. “Correct me if I am wrong, but I believe you knew from the beginning Mrs. Tindall did not kill her husband.”
“That’s right, my lord.”
“You noticed the same thing I did when I heard her recounting of events. That Mr. Tindall was already unconscious or dead when the fire started.”
“How did you know?” Lady Umberton asked.
“He did not cry out, either from the pain or to call for help,” Drake explained. “And he did not attempt to jump out the window, which would have resulted in a broken leg, but would not have been fatal.”
“Exactly right,” Mr. Gordon agreed, nodding.
“I must confess, I do require some clarification on your connection to Mr. Tindall,” Drake said. “From what I understand, he owed you money.”
“Yes, well. That’s true, but it wasn’t all at once. Some other gentlemen used his notes as currency in order to continue in the game. I won several held for Mr. Tindall.”
“Do you know who else held his notes?”
“No,” Gordon replied. “It was obvious he held far more than allowed, and he couldn’t pay any of them. I suppose he figured I would cut my losses and be quiet about it.”
Drake blinked, waiting for further explanation. Once it was clear Gordon was not offering anything more, he prodded, “Why is that?”
Gordon cleared his throat, fidgeting uncomfortably in his seat. “I have certain preferences. Not strictly legal.” He swallowed, and Drake silently prodded him on. Finally, he muttered, “It’s a private matter between gentlemen.”
Silence followed as the weight of his admission settled on the room. The air was thick with the knowledge that this magistrate was involved in activities punishable by death, and he just admitted them to the Home Secretary.
Drake almost scoffed. As if he would arrest any man for such a crime. His time and resources were better spent finding the truly dangerous criminals.
“And Tindall threatened to expose you if you did not forgive the debt, is that it?” Drake asked.
Gordon nodded, his face heated to a blotchy red.
“That gives you a motive.” Drake frowned. “Did you kill Frank Tindall?”
Sarah’s slender fingers clutched her skirts. Without taking his eyes off Gordon, he reached out for her hand and squeezed.
“No!” Gordon insisted.
“Can you provide proof of that?”
“I was with a friend,” he insisted. “Had only just left when I noticed the fire.”
Drake lifted a brow. “Would this friend vouch for you?”
Gordon grimaced, then reluctantly nodded. “If it meant my life, he would.”
“You may relax. Should we require his testimony, it would not be put in the books. I have no intention of sending a man to the gallows for having relations with another consenting adult,” he said, analyzing the new information and mentally filing it away. “Tell me what happened after you saw the fire.”
“I saw Mrs. Tindall, still alive and well, which is uncommon in these situations, unless she did the killing. But…” He shook his head soberly. “She didn’t do the killing. I saw her face when she started running back toward the fire. That wasn’t the face of someone who did it. That was shock, fear, horror. So, I asked myself why would they leave her alive? It was possible they meant to scare her for some reason, to get information out of her or something similar. But it was more likely they wanted her to take the blame for her husband’s death. Being a foreigner who had only been in the country less than two months, she was sure to be found guilty, especially since they weren’t friendly to each other,” Mr. Gordon supplied. “If you don’t mind my saying, ma’am, half the town knew of the fights.”
“This explains why you chose to print the handbills,” Drake went on. “Mrs. Tindall would be considered caught and headed to the gallows. Meanwhile, the murderers would feel no need to be careful, making them easier to find.”
“So I had hoped, my lord.”
“You mean, this whole time you were trying to protect me?” Sarah asked, her fingers curling into a little fist under his hand.
The woman was going to hit a magistrate. What was worse, Drake would let her. Because, damn him, she was marvelous when she was angry. The most beautiful vision he had ever seen.
Good God, he needed to find their villainous blackguard before she turned his brain to sap.
Mr. Gordon nodded, apparently oblivious to the looming violence and Drake’s ever growing sense of urgency.
“And you didn’t think to tell me?” Sarah added incredulously.
Mr. Gordon blinked.
“Apparently not,” Drake mused. “To be fair, my darling, he only had a few precious seconds with you before you ran off. However, Mr. Gordon, had you mentioned this at the cabin or at the inn, this ordeal might have gone a bit smoother.”
“Pardon me, my lord. I didn’t recognize you.” Mr. Gordon smiled awkwardly. “Last I had seen you was some time ago, before you went off to Cambridge. You were seventeen years old, I believe.”
“The fault is as much mine, as yours,” Drake admitted. “I didn’t trust you, though I didn’t realize at the time why. Had I known it was because you were lying in favor of Mrs. Tindall, I might have acted differently.”
“Dear me, what a pickle those dratted handbills have put us in,” Lady Umberton huffed.
“Yes, but had they not been printed, I would never have known to insist you tell Drake what really happened,” his mother argued.
“And I would be in Newgate,” Sarah added.
“Yes,” Drake muttered, but he wasn’t at all sure that would have been the case. Regardless of the dictates of law and justice, he had to acknowledge the possibility he might have allowed her to escape.
Perhaps there was some truth to what Lady Atley had spewed at him in Hyde Park.
Drake gave himself a mental shake. Contemplating what-ifs was pointless. He needed to look toward the future, especially that of their villains.
“You are here alone, which means you either have lost our murderers,” Drake deduced, “or need help bringing them in.”
Mr. Gordon swallowed. “I lost them.”
“Do you know their identities?”
“The two who committed the deplorable act are George Holly and William Burns. But the one we need to watch out for is the man who hired them. Sam Winters.”
Drake turned to Sarah. She was tense, her face drawn and pale. “Do you recognize any of those names?” he asked.
“No,” she said with a clenched jaw.
Drake squeezed her hand, then turned back to Mr. Gordon. “The two henchmen were careless enough to pose as servants and pester Lady Umberton right under my nose. Now they are being followed, but the leader has yet to show himself.”
“You have Holly and Burns?” Mr. Gordon’s eyes lit up.
“Do not get too excited. Our villainous leader has yet to make contact, and since his men must have realized by now they are being followed, he will be very clever going about it. Or as clever as he can be, I am sure.”
Mr. Gordon frowned. “You had them followed in such an open fashion?”
“Not I, exactly.” Drake raised a brow at Lady Umberton, whose lace cuffs suddenly required her complete attention.
“Even so,” Gordon said, “we have the upper hand.”
“Indeed, we do,” Drake agreed. “We have both things the man wants.”
“Both?” Mr. Gordon echoed blankly.
“Mrs. Tindall and the money,” Drake explained. He could see the wheels turning in Mr. Gordon’s head. “They stole a ring from Tindall that night, and it is worth a fortune only to Lady Umberton,” he added. “No one else will pay more than a few guineas for it.”
“Then he will want to get to Lady Umberton,” Mr. Gordon said.
“Not he. The two henchmen. That is why I have my men posing as coachmen and footmen, and posting guard all around the house day and night. The instant I am sure they have contacted Winters, I will have them apprehended,” Drake said. “Winters will be more interested in Mrs. Tindall. If he kills her, he can then threaten Lady Umberton into paying twice what he would have gotten before with confidence that she won’t breathe a word about it for fear of the same.”
“If that’s the case, he will be coming to London personally,” Mr. Gordon said.
Drake nodded. “At least three runners will escort Mrs. Tindall, my mother, and Lady Umberton everywhere they go.”
“But, my lord,” Mr. Gordon protested, “Winters will notice three runners.”
Drake smiled. “I am counting on it.”
Chapter 15
Gordon had left an hour ago, eager to meet with the men Saint Brides had tasked to following Holly and Burns, and Saint Brides had followed him out. Lady Saint Brides and Lady Umberton had retired to their beds half an hour later. Now Sarah sat staring dazedly into a dying fire, holding a cup of cold tea.
She still felt Saint Brides’ warm touch on her hand. It had given her strength to face Gordon and all the revelations he had brought, just as surely as it had sent warmth coursing through her, prickling her skin with reminders of how his hand had felt on her skin. How his mouth had felt…
She shook the thought from her head. She needed to focus on what was to come, not how her soon-to-be husband had set her body on fire.
It is almost over. The words repeated over and over in her mind, as though her conscience was trying to convince her of the fact. It didn’t feel as though it were almost over. It felt as though this whole ordeal was a dream, and she would eventually awaken, safely settled in her bed in Ohio. She would find Frank had never truly existed, that she had conjured up the entire thing. The product of an over-active imagination, her father would say, and far too many novels.
She would find Saint Brides had never existed, either. The handsome Lord of Everything playing the part of the hero would be nothing more than another piece of the dream.
How else could she explain his effect on her? How else could she explain the heat, the coiling in her gut, the way she melted under his touch?
&nbs
p; Father had said passion was as rare as anything, and she would be lucky to find love. She never expected to find either, but simply being in the same room with Saint Brides had her insides hot and twisting.
Even now, she felt heat prickle the back of her neck, as though he were still in the room. As though he were watching her. She brought the teacup to her lips, wondering at the sensation, and what it could mean.
“How is that cold tea treating you?”
Sarah jumped at the low, familiar voice, spilling tea on her skirts.
“Oh, damn,” she muttered, dabbing at the wet stain with the napkin she had unfortunately draped over the chair’s arm instead of her lap.
The muffled sound of booted feet striding over the large area rug echoed in her brain. Then he was crouched in front of her, proffering a practical yet quite expensive-looking, monogramed handkerchief.
“Terribly sorry,” Saint Brides said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Sarah accepted the handkerchief, retiring her soaked napkin back to the chair’s arm. “I didn’t think you had,” she muttered, transferring the last of the tea from her skirts to the handkerchief. “It wasn’t as though you shouted boo.”
“Boo,” he echoed thoughtfully. “I shall have to remember that.”
She raised a brow, looking at him for the first time since he had re-entered the room. He looked tired, but his green eyes shone with humor, nonetheless, and his sensual mouth curled into a roguish half smile. When they had first met, she would never have dreamt he could wear such a smile, and look so devastatingly handsome doing so.
She truly ought to stop thinking of him as being handsome.
“What would you possibly need to remember that for?”
His brows rose in mock innocence. “Nothing, my dear. Absolutely nothing.” Then he grinned, and her heart melted.
My dear. It should be expected for a man to use endearments with his fiancée, but when he said it so easily, so smoothly, she had difficulty thinking it part of their ruse and nothing more.
Changing the Earl's Mind (The Lords of Whitehall Book 3) Page 19