The Taste of Innocence

by Stephanie Laurens

  Charlie blinked, sat up, and laid aside the news sheet. “Show him in, Crisp.”

  Curiosity stirring, he wondered what Barnaby was doing in the neighborhood, and at such an hour. Something had to be afoot.

  One glance at Barnaby as he came through the door confirmed that. His expression was serious, his blond curls rumpled, his cravat rather limp; he was still the same well-dressed and handsome gentleman of the haut ton, but he appeared distinctly travel worn.

  Rising, Charlie met him, shaking his hand and clapping him on the shoulder before waving him to the armchairs before the blazing fire. “Sit and get warm.” Barnaby’s hands were chilled. “Have you dined?”

  Barnaby shook his head. “I drove directly from town.”

  Charlie raised his brows. “You’re staying, I take it?”

  Sinking into an armchair, Barnaby’s lips twitched. “If you have room.”

  With a grin—the Park was huge—Charlie turned to Crisp and gave orders for a substantial supper for Barnaby, and for a room to be prepared. Crisp departed. Charlie strolled to the tantalus. “Brandy?”

  “Please.” Barnaby leaned back in the chair. “It’s bitter out there.”

  Charlie glanced at Barnaby. More than the weather was affecting his friend. His face was uncharacteristically grim and set, as if it had been that way, unrelieved, for days.

  Strolling over to deliver a tumbler of French brandy, Charlie then crossed to the other armchair and sat. He sipped, taking in the strain in Barnaby’s face. It eased as he, too, sipped the fiery liquid. Charlie leaned back. “So—what’s up?”

  “Dark doings, of an especially exercising sort.”

  Charlie waited. Eventually Barnaby went on, “The pater and the other commissioners have asked for my help—official, but on the quiet—to investigate, and if at all possible bring to justice whoever’s behind a particularly nasty series of cases of land profiteering.”

  Barnaby’s father was one of the peers overseeing the recently instituted metropolitan police force. Charlie frowned. “Series of cases?”

  Barnaby sipped and nodded. “That’s part of the nastiness. That individual cases of minor profiteering might occur from time to time would surprise no one, and indeed it’s no crime, but these cases—and I’ll explain in a moment why they’re different—have been happening up and down the country for years. Literally for about a decade. Everyone’s horrified that the villains have been so active, and for so long, all apparently in perfect safety, but because the cases have been so geographically spread, no one realized.”

  He paused to sip again. “Until recently, there was no central authority to whom such crimes would be reported.” He humphed. “Mind you, the first week and more of my time has gone in hieing up and down the country, dragging full accounts of all the known cases from magistrates and sheriffs and lord lieutenants.”

  Barnaby sighed. Leaning back, he closed his eyes. “I stopped in Newmarket on my way back to town and stayed with Dillon and Pris. When he heard what I was about, Dillon called Demon in and we sat down and put together all I’ve learned. It’s clear the situation is both serious and very difficult to pursue. We tossed around various avenues, and in the end we agreed that the best bet was to come to you and Gabriel.”

  Charlie’s frown deepened. “I haven’t heard any tales of land profiteering hereabouts, or elsewhere, and I’m sure Gabriel hasn’t, either.”

  Wearily Barnaby waved his glass. “That’s one of the neat things about profiteering—no one ever learns about it until long after the deed is done. If then. Even with these particular cases, it was only because some of these new railway companies have senior investors in common, and said senior investors have been deuced unhappy, not to say apoplectic, over the extortionary prices their companies have been and are being forced to pay for certain parcels of land, that they approached the police with a list of properties their companies have paid huge sums for, wanting the matter looked into—and then the pater called me in.”

  “Ah.” Cynical understanding colored Charlie’s tone. “I see.” Many of those senior investors were peers and similarly wealthy individuals, the sort the authorities would wish to placate. “So the bit are biting back?”

  “So to speak.” Barnaby paused, then continued, “From Newmarket I went to London, and consulted with the pater and our old friend Inspector Stokes. The long and short of that was that they thought our best bet lay with you and Gabriel, too.”

  Charlie’s brows rose high. “I don’t see why, yet, but you have my complete attention.”

  Barnaby grinned fleetingly. “First, why these cases are different.” He broke off as Crisp returned with a loaded tray.

  Charlie sipped his brandy and waited while the tray was set up on a small table before Barnaby, and his ravenous friend started eating.

  Without prompting, the instant the door shut behind Crisp, Barnaby continued between mouthfuls of roast beef. “Every case in this series involves a particular, very specific parcel of land. In every case, that parcel of land has been critical for the completion of a canal link, or a new toll road, or in recent years, one of the new railways.”

  “Critical how?”

  Barnaby chewed, then swallowed, his gaze on his plate. “The cases with the railways are the easiest to explain. Steam locomotives can’t handle steep gradients. When the track needs to climb or fall steeply, then they must ascend or descend slowly through a series of curves to keep the gradients low. The land around those steeper points is critical for the construction of the track. Often there is no alternative path. There are other places that are critical, too—like a natural pass between high hills. Tunnels and bridges can sometimes be used, but are significantly more expensive. And in the cases I’m investigating, regardless of all options, there hasn’t been any alternative but to buy the land.”

  “So the land is being chosen—targeted if you will—by someone who knows a good deal about the construction of canals, toll roads, and railways.”

  Barnaby nodded. “More, whoever they are they’ve also had knowledge of the routes of future canals, toll roads, and railways long before they’ve been announced. These cases involve land bought literally years ahead of any announcement of proposed routes, even of any private proposal being canvassed.”

  Charlie raised his brows. “Guesswork?”

  “Damn good guessing if that were so, but I don’t think it can be. Every case I’ve uncovered has been…well, if I were a villain, I’d say it was a jewel, perfectly chosen for the purpose of profiteering. Every case—I can’t believe anyone could guess that well.”

  “How many cases?”

  “Twenty-three so far.”

  “You said these were a series of cases. I’m assuming they follow the customary pattern—locals unaware of potential increase in land value are presented with an offer for their acres that seems too good to refuse. They accept and ride happily to the bank, and then sometime later—years later in these cases—the new owner sells to the development company at a hugely inflated price, in these cases verging on the extortionary.” When Barnaby nodded, Charlie asked, “What’s your reason for imagining these twenty-three cases are the work of one villain?”

  “Or villains.” Barnaby’s grimness returned in full mea sure. “The persuasion.”

  Charlie blinked. “Persuasion? To sell?”

  Barnaby nodded. “It always starts innocently—an offer for the land made through a local solicitor. If the owners accept—and remember most would and then there’s no crime—then all passes off smoothly. The original owners don’t make the money they might have, and the development companies end up paying through the nose for land they might have had much cheaper, but, at least up to now, that’s been considered a risk of the business.

  “However, in sixteen of the twenty-three cases reported by our senior investors, the original owners refused that first offer, and a subsequent increased offer, too. That’s when the persuasion started. Initially, it was mild—like cows straying
if it’s a farm, or fences down. You know the sort of thing. Anonymous irritations, but they built. And then came another, slightly increased offer.”

  Barnaby reached for his glass. “The persuasions escalated. Step by step, steadily more aggressive, punctuated by increasing offers, but the two appear unconnected. Indeed, in some cases, renewed offers were made in the spirit of assisting in a time of trouble. Often, the owners gave in and sold. However, there are at least seven cases where the persuasion progressed to injury, and at least three where the injury proved insufficient to move the owners to sell, and so the persuasion escalated to the ultimate level.” Barnaby met Charlie’s eyes. “Death.”

  Charlie held his gaze for a long moment. A log cracked and hissed in the grate. “Who are these people?”

  Barnaby replied, “That’s what I, and Stokes and my father, want to—and are determined to—find out. Because the reason behind the offers for the land was never obvious until so much later, even to this date the accidental injuries and even the supposedly accidental deaths haven’t been connected to the subsequent buyers of the land. Each case has only turned up on my list because of the railway companies’ directors’ ire, and the crimes only became obvious as crimes once I looked into the sequence of events.

  “And this is not the usual investigation where I can follow someone’s trail. You’d think the new owners would be traceable, but I’ve tried, and very quickly got ensnared in a horrendous web of land companies and solicitors, and then more companies.” Barnaby set down his empty glass. “Only Gabriel might be able to see some way through the maze. However that may be, that’s not the principal reason I came to see you.”

  “How can we help?” Now every bit as grim as Barnaby, Charlie drained his glass.

  Barnaby studied his face. “Tell me if this makes sense. The only way we can catch these villains and charge them with any crime is if we catch them actively coercing someone to sell a parcel of land. Criminal coercion is the only legislated crime involved. But to catch them at it, for our particular villains we need to look—”

  “In an area where a development hasn’t yet occurred, but is likely to in the next decade.” Charlie’s gaze grew momentarily distant, then he refocused on Barnaby’s face. “I assume you mean the railway line that will, at some point, be laid between Bristol and Taunton, and from there most likely to Exeter and Plymouth?”

  Barnaby nodded. “I talked to some of the railway-company directors. Taunton may well end as something of a railhead, years from now.” Slumping back, he studied Charlie’s face. “This is your country—yours and Gabriel’s. What are the chances you’d hear if something untoward was afoot?”

  Charlie thought, then grimaced. “Not as good as you might think. People don’t generally talk of offers for their property, not until after they sell—or unless they believe there’s real coercion involved. And as you’ve found, often not even then. Our villain hasn’t targeted land held by major landowners, or if he has, he’s been careful not to overly persuade them, and ordinary farmers don’t air their affairs. It’s likely neither Gabriel nor I would hear until long after the fact, and then most likely via the local gossip mill.”

  Barnaby sighed. “I was afraid you might say that.”

  Charlie held up a hand. “There might, however, be another way, or ways, we can learn more about these villains. And you’re right about this area being among the most likely to be targeted at some point—there’s lots of hills to navigate around. If we can find out more about our villains’ modus operandi so we’ll be able to search for their activity more effectively, then searching in this area is indeed a good bet.”

  He looked at Barnaby. “We’ll need to speak with Gabriel…and the others.” He blinked. “I sent you a card—an invitation. Did you receive it?”

  Barnaby shook his head. “I stopped in briefly at the pater’s—I haven’t been back to my lodgings. Why? What’s the event?”

  Charlie grinned. “I’m getting married. In three days’ time. You’re invited. So are all the others.”

  Barnaby’s smile dawned, sincere yet faintly taunting. “Congratulations! That’s Gerrard, Dillon, and now you—I’ll have danced at all your weddings.”

  Charlie arched a brow. “No thoughts about joining us?”

  “None what ever. I have other interests to pursue. Namely villains.”

  “Indeed, but as it happens, attending my wedding will advance your cause. We’re expecting not just Gabriel, but Devil, Vane, and all the others, Demon and Dillon included. It’ll be the perfect opportunity to enlist our collective aid and pick our collective brains. Between us, we’ll find some way to trace your villains.”

  “Amen to that,” Barnaby replied. “One thing—keep all this firmly under your hat. At this point, we have no idea who our villains might be.”

  Sarah returned to Conningham Manor in the carriage with her mother, her sisters, and Twitters early on Monday afternoon.

  She’d found the long journey a trial, enlivened as it had been by Clary’s and Gloria’s innocent but unnecessary speculations on the morrow. The instant they were indoors and had greeted the various relatives and connections who’d arrived for the wedding, she seized on the orphanage as her excuse, and escaped.

  Galloping north on Blacktail’s back, she dragged in a huge breath—it felt like her first free breath in days. She rode quickly, conscious that her time was limited, that she would have not much more than an hour in which to accomplish all she normally did over a whole day.

  After tomorrow, she’d have farther to travel to reach the farm; she would have to allow more time for the ride up from the Park, two miles south of the manor. After tomorrow…she hoped that would be the extent of the change, that all else would remain more or less the same.

  Reaching the farm, she tied Blacktail up by the door, smiled and waved to the children playing in the front yard, then hurried inside. She went straight to the office to look over the books and arrange any payments or orders that were urgent. Katy found her there, and laconically brought her up to date on the doings of their small world.

  Sarah discovered that the staff had rallied around, and there were only the books to quickly check, and Skeggs’s and Mrs. Duncliffe’s decisions of the morning to approve.

  “Thank you!” She smiled gratefully at Katy as she shut the main ledger.

  “Aye, well—we all thought that you should start married life without anything dragging on your mind.” Katy grinned.

  Quince appeared at the doorway. She met Katy’s eyes, then looked at Sarah. “There’s something here you ought to see.”

  “Oh?” Rising, Sarah joined Katy and together with Quince they went out into the hall.

  “Congratulations, miss!” The assembled inmates of the orphanage, lined up neatly in the hall, chorused their message with the hugest of smiles.

  Ginny, the eldest girl, stepped forward, a package wrapped in brown paper in her hands. Beaming, she dipped a cursty and offered the package to Sarah. “For you, miss. We hope your wedding goes smashingly!”

  Sarah looked around at the platoon of bright faces; she’d been the recipient of many such wishes over the last days, but this was unquestionably the most touching. “Thank you.” She blinked rapidly, then smiling, took the parcel; it was surprisingly heavy and solid.

  The children’s expectations rose another notch; they jigged, waiting for her to open their gift. Sarah noted that Maggs was uncharacteristically sober, gnawing at his lower lip.

  Looking down, she pulled apart the wrappings—revealing a nearly foot-high gnome with a frog, attentive, at his feet. “It’s…lovely.” And it truly was; there was a certain wordly wisdom in the gnome’s expression as he considered the frog; the piece demonstrated remarkable attention to detail.

  Maggs edged closer, checking her face. What he saw there reassured. “I made it,” he confessed. “We had it fired at the potter’s over Stogumber way, and Ginny painted it mostly. We thought you could take it to your new home and put it i
n your garden so you’d think of us when you saw it.”

  Sarah glowed and briefly hugged him, then Ginny. “I will. It’s perfect.” She made a mental note to make inquiries among the local potters for a place for Maggs when it came time for him to leave. She looked at the other children. “I’ll always treasure…Mr. Quilley.”

  She held up the gnome and the older children cheered, delighted with the name; the younger ones stared round-eyed and jigged. It was time for tea; the staff herded the group into the dining room, where a special tea was laid out in honor of Miss Conningham’s marriage.

  Sarah spent the next half hour celebrating with the children and staff. Once the children reluctantly returned to their lessons, she thanked the staff warmly, accepting their personal congratulations, then tied Mr. Quilley securely to her saddle, mounted Blacktail and headed home.

  There was still such a lot to do, yet she deliberately put all thoughts of gowns, flowers, ribbons, and garters out of her head, and looked around her as she rode. Let the countryside soothe her as it always did. Let her thoughts settle, let her mind refocus on the important things.

  For the past three days, uncertainty had gnawed at her. Had she made the right decision? When she’d been with Charlie, she’d felt confident, convinced that marrying him was the right thing to do, that becoming his wife was her correct path forward. That when she married him love would be there, underneath all, the cornerstone of their union.

  Love had been her price, and he’d convinced her that love was theirs for the taking…or rather, she’d convinced herself, which was the root cause of her present unsettled state.

  What if she’d imagined it? What if she’d simply convinced herself that she’d seen what she’d wanted to see—the promise of love in his touch, in his caring? What if all she’d seen was in truth nothing more than a figment of her imagination?