Before going to Fenwick House, she would attend a luncheon at Lord and Lady Devonlea’s home in Queen Square. George Fitzclarence would be there as well, and after last night Laurel felt certain that with careful persuasion she could obtain more information about his activities. Victoria had been correct; the man responded with singular zest to flattery. With any luck, Laurel might even guide him into revealing what he had done with the missing documents.
She hoped they would be joined today by the sort of individuals to whom the earl had alluded last night. Collaborators of the New Age, she herself had dubbed them. As then, a swarm of butterflies crowded her stomach at the thought that she might be plunging in over her head.
The morning sunlight stung her eyes. She had tossed much of the night, plagued by fitful nightmares that had begun with her happy and secure in Aidan’s arms, but soon gave way to the cold fear of fleeing down an endless, inky black corridor.
Again and again, cloaked figures had jumped out to terrorize her and shout incomprehensive threats. Awakening in a cold sweat, her fists balled around the crumpled bedclothes, she had wondered if such dreams were dredged from events in her past, or if they signified present-day fears . . . such as her unreasonable attraction to a man she had been warned not to trust.
Upon reaching Milsom Street, she exited the cab. The sun lit up the painted storefronts and flashed its cheerful reflection in the windows. Continuing on foot, she read the colorful signs as she went and stopped to admire a silk bonnet here, a lovely cashmere shawl there, only to find her enjoyment of the day diminished by lingering anxiety, like an ill-intentioned presence hovering at her shoulder.
Having located the confectioner’s shop, she purchased a package of marchpane and another of almond puffs for Lady Devonlea and tucked them into the straw basket she carried. With more than an hour yet before luncheon, she strolled southward on Milsom, continuing to peek into the shop windows in an attempt to dispel her worries.
Near the corner of Quiet Street, she peered into the tidy confines of an office space and gasped. Pulling back, she considered hurrying away, then shaded her eyes with her hand and looked inside again.
Seated in an armchair before a sturdy mahogany desk, Aidan leaned comfortably back, one leg crossed over the other, what looked to be an open ledger book balanced on his knee. He seemed to be studying whatever lay written on the pages, while across the desk, a young man in spectacles and a severe black suit coat spoke rapidly. Occasionally he reached across the desk to point out some detail in the ledger.
Laurel now noticed the stack of ledgers occupying the desktop between the two men. Across the room from them, a wooden counter topped in marble stretched along the wall. A group of patrons consisting of several smartly dressed gentlemen and a woman in mourning crepe waited in the open area at the center of the room.
Laurel stepped back. The sign above the window read BARCLAYS BANK.
Minutes passed while Aidan flipped through the first ledger, then chose another. He scribbled notes on a writing tablet and occasionally spoke to the clerk without glancing up. As he leaned over the book, Laurel’s gaze was drawn to the strong angle of his neck and the set of his shoulders, to the determined lines of his chiseled profile. . . .
The sun growing warm on her back, she pondered what could snare the fascination of this known gambler, drinker, and womanizer. An investment? The Summit Pavilion, perhaps?
He snapped the book closed and stood. The clerk stood as well, nodding a brisk bow. They exchanged a few words, and Aidan turned to the door.
Backing away from the window, Laurel stepped into the path of a pedestrian. Waving at the curt advice to look where she was going, she whirled and scurried across the street, nearly colliding with a wagon pulled by a lumbering draft horse.
“Are ye blind or just daft?”
Waving off the driver’s shouted expletives, she stepped into the recessed doorway of a milliner’s shop, taking no notice of the bonnets displayed in the window.
As she watched, Aidan exited the bank, glanced up and down the street, and walked the short distance to the corner. A moment later, a handsome cabriolet pulled up and blocked her view of him. When the vehicle pulled away, he was gone.
Laurel took no time to analyze the impulse that had sent her hurrying to the corner. Seeing no sign of Aidan walking on Quiet Street, she deduced that the cabriolet must be his and he had climbed inside. A little way down the street, the carriage came to a stop where an overturned cart had spilled its burden of empty milk pails across the road.
At that moment a hansom rumbled down Milsom Street, stopping to drop off a pair of ladies at the same milliner’s shop where Laurel had sought refuge. She flagged the driver as he maneuvered back into traffic.
“Follow that cabriolet,” she said, pointing. She rummaged in her purse for a sovereign. Wondering if she was offering too much, she held it up for the driver to see. “Mind you, keep well behind. Don’t let on you’re following them.”
The man didn’t ask questions. When Aidan’s cabriolet turned south, the hansom did also. For the first several minutes Laurel felt exhilarated, like an adventurer, a true spy on a secret mission. Gradually, however, doubt took hold. What could she hope to accomplish by following a man on his daily errands? Why had she run for cover as he had left the bank? Why had she not simply bidden him good morning and continued on her way?
Because time and again she glimpsed qualities in this man that contradicted both Victoria’s and society’s views of him. In the brief course of their acquaintance, she had observed courage and audacity, flirtation and sincerity, and, at times, undeniable kindness in him. Today, the manner in which he had pored over those ledgers at the bank suggested that there was a good deal more to Aidan Phillips than the world suspected.
And she burned to know it all.
Chapter 13
“Apparently Babcock and the Marquess of Harcourt wrangled over the purchase of a Broad Quay warehouse here in Bath,” Aidan told Phineas Micklebee when he arrived at the man’s Avon Street flat.
He didn’t typically meet with his Home Office contact during daylight hours, but he had information to convey that couldn’t wait. To make himself less conspicuous in Bath’s poorest neighborhood, during the carriage ride he had removed his cravat and changed into a coat, waistcoat, and boots purchased secondhand in London especially for occasions like these. His driver had let him off some distance away so the expensive cabriolet would not attract attention, and would collect him later at a prearranged location.
“I’m heading down to the wharf as soon I leave here to see if I can determine which warehouse it is,” he added. “I’m told it’s in quite a state of disrepair.”
Due to the earliness of the hour, the agent poured him a cup of coffee rather than whiskey. “Why would two men fight over a decrepit warehouse?”
“Three men. Someone else bought the place out from under them both.”
Micklebee gave a thoughtful harrumph. “I’ll see if our people can find out who.”
“That’s not all our MP was up to.” Aidan blew into his coffee and took a sip that burned on the way down his gullet. “I just came from the bank where an account has been set up for the Summit Pavilion investors. It appears Babcock was a member of the board of directors of Bryce-Rawlings Unlimited.”
“Do you think he might have been double-dealing?”
Aidan shrugged. “It’s hard to say. But I’ve a gut feeling based on the records I studied this morning and my past experiences with this sort of thing.” Hunching forward over the table, he leaned on his elbows, the coffee cup warm between his hands. “An unnamed individual formed Bryce-Rawlings and purchased the land for the Summit Pavilion under the company name. I’m guessing that in order to make the company appear legitimate, some London stockbroker’s clerk was paid a generous fee to sign the appropriate deeds and checks.”
“Or was bribed, more like. Finding him won’t be of much help though, will it?”
“No,�
�� Aidan agreed. “I don’t expect such a clerk would have been told anything useful.”
Micklebee stared out the grimy window at the equally filthy brick wall beyond it. “You think there’s a slew of bogus shareholders as well?”
“I’d stake my life on it. The best way for a charlatan to encourage legitimate investors is to present a well-padded but phony stockholders’ list.”
“Another way is to set up an impressive board of directors. One that includes an MP or two.”
“Precisely. Babcock might have been duped into buying enough shares to put him on the board. And if so, if I’m right about everything else, his widow may find herself in disastrous financial arrears when the Summit Pavilion project comes tumbling down.”
“Maybe Babcock was murdered because he discovered the truth.” When Aidan nodded his concurrence, Micklebee shook his head. “You pieced all this together just from staring at numbers this morning?”
Aidan grinned. “I did. You have everything we’ve discussed committed to memory?”
“I do, mate.” The man tapped a forefinger to his temple. Then he sobered. “What about Fitzclarence? What’s his role?”
The name put a sour taste in Aidan’s mouth. He hadn’t liked seeing Fitz and Laurel sitting so close together at the theater last night. She had claimed they were merely friendly acquaintances, and certainly the sweet pressure of her lips against his own had supported that assertion. Even so, he could discern no good reason for this supposed friendship, not unless she had some ulterior motive.
“So far I’ve found nothing with which to incriminate Fitz.”
Micklebee studied him for a moment. A grin dawning, he extended his hand, curling and uncurling his fingers to prompt Aidan to proffer further information. “Except . . .”
“Yes, all right. Except that I’ve a nagging sense Fitz is rather too enthusiastic about the Summit Pavilion and this elixir Claude Rousseau has cooked up.” Indeed, thinking back, he realized Fitz had been the one to encourage Laurel to sample the elixir at the Pump Room. Only Melinda’s fainting spell had prevented her from doing so. “He’s also been more reserved around me lately, and that worries me as well.”
“You think he’s hiding something.”
Without answering, Aidan pushed back his chair and stood. “I’m headed down to the wharf now. I’ve a strong intuition that if I can discover who bought the warehouse, we’ll have the name of Bryce- Rawlings’s founder. And perhaps the culprit who murdered Babcock, if indeed he was murdered.”
“Long shots, these hunches of yours.”
“I thrive when challenged.” At the door, he hesitated. “Speaking of challenges, I don’t suppose you’ve uncovered anything about Laurel Sanderson?”
“Since last night? No.”
“Just thought I’d ask.” He let himself out. Downstairs, he pushed through the street door and stepped into a situation that raised his alarm.
Most people might have overlooked the subtle details that alerted him. The two ruffians crouched in a doorway halfway up the street might have been passing the hours in dicing or some other idle pursuit. One of them might have been waving off a fly, rather than signaling the stooped beggar approaching from the south corner. And the scruffy, towheaded youth who crossed the street whistling might have been only . . . whistling . . . and not calling the others to attention.
Aidan shot a glance toward the north corner and immediately identified their likely mark: a hansom clearly not from this part of town. The relative cleanliness of the vehicle spoke of the posher side of Bath, and the nervous fidgeting of the driver suggested he didn’t often drive his rig down Avon Street.
Now that Aidan thought of it, he realized the hansom had pulled up as he had arrived at Micklebee’s tenement. What were the odds of two affluent visitors—himself and the occupant of the cab—arriving in the same derelict vicinity at the same time on the same day?
Had someone followed him?
A movement inside the vehicle caught his eye just as the shabby youth’s whistle turned shrill. Recognition thrust his heart into his rib cage. He dashed diagonally across the street as the two men crouched in the doorway jumped out and the stooped vagrant straightened and pulled out a knife.
The hansom driver hovered in his box like a plum ripe for the plucking, too flustered to understand what was about to happen. Aidan let go a shout for no other reason than to disconcert the attackers and perhaps buy a second or two in which to escape them. Reaching the hansom an instant before the pair from the doorway would have, he vaulted up onto the seat beside the driver, seized the reins, and snapped them above the horse’s back.
The vehicle bolted forward. Inside, a feminine voice, one Aidan recognized, let out a cry. Snapping out of his stupor, the driver reached behind the seat and drew out an iron bar but appeared undecided as to whom to strike, Aidan or the men pursuing his rig.
The vagabond ran alongside the hansom. Slashing out with his knife, he grazed the horse’s flank. In his red-rimmed eyes, pitted skin, and rotting teeth, Aidan caught a vivid glimpse of frothing bloodlust. The bounder heaved closer, a claw of a hand snatching at the reins. The driver swung his iron and missed. Aidan shoved a bootheel into the bastard’s shoulder. The attacker stumbled, and at the driver’s shrieked command, the nag picked up its pace nearly to a gallop.
The other assailants fell behind the speeding vehicle, but Aidan didn’t slow down until they reached the river. Audible oomfs and whimpers issued from inside the carriage. Aidan set his teeth and ignored them. His plans for the remainder of the morning had been brought to a crashing standstill. Not only must he delay his plans for investigating the riverside warehouses, but Micklebee’s location had been compromised.
Damn, damn. How could he have been so careless?
Veering east, he maneuvered the vehicle through the bustling Broad Quay district. The odor of river muck hung heavy in the air, mingling with the smells of the coal and lumber being transported along the Avon.
Finally, he brought the rig to a halt and tossed the reins back to the driver. Still panting from the excitement, the man turned to him and gaped. “God’s teeth, where the devil did you come from?”
Aidan peeled his lips back in his best approximation of a cutthroat’s sneer. “Never mind. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll bloody well forget you ever saw me. And from now on, stay the blazing hell away from Avon Street.”
Jumping down, he swung open the door, reached in, and pulled out Laurel Sanderson.
“Good heavens,” Laurel cried as the hansom door opened. Glittering sunlight hit her full in the face, blinding her. Blinking, she felt herself being hauled across the seat until her booted feet made contact with a packed dirt road. Her involuntary gasp filled her lungs with the pungent scents of the river. “What on earth happened back there?”
“What happened?” Aidan shouted her words back at her. He thrust his face close, and the blackness of his anger frightened her—truly, truly frightened her in a way she would never have believed possible, not with this man.
Yet back on Avon Street, she had begun to suspect him of all manner of illicit activities. After having seen him emerge from his cabriolet transformed as if . . . as if he was in disguise, she had naturally imagined the worst when he had entered that hideous building.
Though she loathed the possibility, she had wondered if he might be attending a secret meeting of the Radical Reformers, for wouldn’t such militants choose just such a location? She had kept a sharp eye out for Lord Munster’s arrival as well. She never saw him, but that might have been because he had already arrived and was awaiting his friend inside with others of their ilk.
Then, without warning, the hansom had burst into motion. Fear had sliced through her, only to dissipate at the sound of Aidan’s voice coming from the driver’s box. She had recognized its rich timbre immediately, and while his urgent shouts had indicated some sort of crisis, she had been certain he would rescue her from harm.
He always did.<
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Now, however, she shrank in the face of his seething rage. “You needn’t take that tone,” she said. “I am not a child.” But oh, she suddenly felt like one, a child caught at some inexcusable naughtiness.
“What you are, madam, is a snoop. And a damned shameless one at that.”
That wasn’t completely true. She was rather ashamed at the impulse that had prompted her to follow him. However . . . she glanced down at his attire, steeled herself, and met his gaze. “One might venture to question why you, sir, are wearing those ridiculous clothes and skulking about such a disreputable neighborhood.” Awaiting his answer, she raised a self-righteous eyebrow.
His reply came in the form of a tug on her arm—albeit a gentle one—in the direction of the very cabriolet in which he had first set out from Milsom Street. His steel grip persisted until they were both seated inside the luxurious leather interior. Though little separated them from the driver, the man faced forward and paid no attention to the goings-on behind him. He apparently already had his instructions, for the carriage pulled assertively forward to find its place with the northbound flow of traffic.
With no small measure of longing, Laurel peeked out at the passing sidewalks. She felt trapped, crowded by Aidan’s long, muscular limbs and broad shoulders.
Her stomach sank at the sound of his rumbling exhalation and grinding teeth. He was furious.
As if only then becoming aware of his grip on her arm, he abruptly released her, then turned toward her and grasped her shoulders between his hands. His chest heaved. “Why were you following me? What were you hoping to discover?”
“Discover? I . . . ?” A notion filled her with dismay. “My confections! I left them on the seat of the hansom.”
“Your what?” He removed his hands from her, but his presence continued to overwhelm her until she felt hot and breathless.
“My m-marchpane and almond puffs,” she stammered in confusion. “For Melinda and Lady Devonlea. I forgot all about them and now I’ll never get them back.”
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