Lady Rogue

by Theresa Romain

  In the end, a bit of both had led Callum to the Northumberland estate of Sir Frederic Chapple. A baronet new to the title, Sir Frederic possessed far more wealth than one might expect from his barrister’s background.

  With the unwanted but not entirely useless help of Lord Hugo Starling, son of the Duke of Willingham, and the resourceful Miss Georgette Frost, Callum had sorted out clues enough to determine that the four thieves, who called themselves the John Smiths, had betrayed each other. After taking the gold to Derbyshire, three of the thieves had split from the fourth, each removing a trunk. The fourth had been captured in Derbyshire. One of the remaining three had been killed by his accomplices, who took the gold north. There it had been found on Sir Frederic’s land—some melted down in a blacksmith’s shop, much of the rest hidden in a great barrel of Madeira.

  A farmworker of Sir Frederic’s was unmistakably guilty. He was arrested, tried, and sent to Australia. Callum, of all people, had argued for him to be transported rather than executed. Too many people had already died for the gold.

  It was clear that Sir Frederic had been involved in the robbery—either as one of the four thieves, or as a mastermind. When confronted, Sir Frederic had nearly blown out his own brains. But he’d been convinced to calm himself, to take up the mantle of responsibility. To atone by seeing justice done.

  The past eleven months—spent in a Northumberland jail, then in Newgate—seemed to have changed his mind.

  The Old Bailey was notoriously slow at hearing cases, and the high profile of all matters related to the royal-reward-turned-national-treasure-hunt had slowed the wheels of justice yet further. Testimony was rehearsed and picked apart and rehearsed again. Witnesses were summoned, questioned, protected. No one could afford a mistake.

  But Sir Frederic could afford anything. Even a body to take the blame from his own shoulders.

  The bones of Harry Jenks rolled over in their grave, cold and despairing.

  “Why now?” Callum asked. “Why not months ago, Sir Frederic?”

  Translation: I know you’re lying, and you know I know. But why didn’t you lie like this last June and save yourself time in prison?

  “I felt . . . morally culpable,” said the baronet, and for the first time Callum caught a flash of genuine feeling in Sir Frederic’s eyes. But then he tipped back his glass, draining the spirits, and the moment was gone. With a clack of glass on stone, he set down the empty vessel. “Yet the John Smiths knew no one was supposed to be hurt. Certainly not to die. And really, who’s to say I meant the John Smiths to carry out any crime at all? Perhaps it was only an experiment in thought.”

  “You’re to say you meant them to carry out a crime. You said yourself you had organized it.”

  “What proof have you?” The baronet looked genuinely puzzled.

  “The ears of others who were there. Including the son of a duke.”

  “Lord Hugo Starling, you mean?” Again, Sir Frederic tutted. Callum had the urge to shake the bars of the cell until they rattled, then do the same to the baronet’s teeth. “He’s not available at present. Up in the north of England somewhere—or is it Scotland? Somewhere like that. He has a cottage. Quite a pleasant home, I’m told, and—”

  “I. Do. Not. Care. About his cottage,” Callum ground out.

  He was certain Sir Frederic had been one of the four thieves. But Sir Frederic had never admitted as much, and it couldn’t be proven. The stolen gold had been returned to the Royal Mint. Lord Hugo had claimed the reward for the gold found up north, building himself a fine reputation as a tonnish physician.

  And Callum had pressed the Bow Street magistrate for further investigation. He didn’t want notoriety or fame; he wanted justice for his brother. The brother ten years his senior, who had taught him how to play cards and hold his liquor and how to read willingness on a woman’s face. Callum’s whole youth had been bound up in adulation of Harry.

  “He was engaged to be married,” Callum told Sir Frederic. “My brother Harry, who was shot to death at the Mint. I don’t suppose you knew that about him. They all had lives, those four guards. All of them, people who loved them and relied on them.”

  “A terrible tragedy. I’ve told you time and again, I never intended for anyone to be hurt. Of course, I bear the blame for encouraging those young ruffians in their scheme. I just told you as much.”

  He spoke fondly of the thieves, as if he weren’t one of them. As if they were all impulsive children rather than men in their thirties and beyond. Sir Frederic had run a ragged school for homeless boys in London once, and just as Callum never forgot a face, the genial Freddie never forgot if one of his pupils had a gift for a certain petty crime. As a barrister, he was above suspicion himself. As a baronet, more so. Even with the evidence of gold coins found in his own wine cellar; even when the poor could be executed for taking but a few pounds’ worth of goods.

  “You’re a damned liar.” Callum’s voice was blank. Utterly calm. He was stating naught but fact.

  “Come now, Officer.” Sir Frederic took a step toward him, his silk slippers blood red against the carpet on his cell’s floor. “You can’t expect an innocent man to go through the ordeal of a trial when the whole matter’s easily squared away.”

  “An innocent man? By your own admission, you’re far from innocent.”

  “You look dreadful.” Another step, closer to the bars. “You really should have a drink, Officer. If you can find anyone to host you.”

  Harry would have. Harry had. On his brother’s final birthday, Callum had taken him to pub after pub, until the usually quiet Harry was laughing, leading a drinking song from atop a table.

  Callum ripped the hat from his head and crushed the brim in his hands, just to hold himself steady. “You’re not going to slip away from your trial. I’ll see you stand in court yet, to account for the harm you’ve done.”

  “No. You won’t.” Sir Frederic smiled, all geniality. “I’ll be off to Northumberland. And you’ll be off to whatever you do. Annoying the good people of London.”

  “Capturing the bad ones,” Callum muttered.

  There was so much more to say, but there were no words for it right now.

  With narrowed eyes, he took a step back, then another. Watching Sir Frederic as he reversed his steps, as if keeping the baronet in sight meant that the man couldn’t be freed from his cell.

  As soon as the cell had folded flat into the row of others and Callum could no longer see any bit of it, he turned on his heel and ran. Flat-out ran, pounding past cell after cell, ignoring the din and the hoots of surprised prisoners and even the halloo of the guard who had let him pass in.

  He whipped by them all, tore through the entrance to the prison, sprinted through the streets. South, then he caught the corner of busy Fleet Street and followed it until it became the Strand. Darting through traffic all the while, winding through carriages and pedestrians. Leaping from pavement to street and back, wherever he saw an opening. Running, running, until his lungs burned and reminded him he lived and drew breath; until his boots were heavy on his feet and reminded him that he moved atop the earth one step at a time.

  For Harry, he ran, cutting right onto Drury Lane and heaving through the last bit of the familiar path to the magistrate’s court on Bow Street. This was the brain and conscience of Covent Garden and beyond, as the officers based here solved cases and apprehended criminals wherever their warrants took them.

  Callum flung open the door of the stone building, scanning the familiar lines of the high-ceilinged courtroom: railing, desks, seats. His fellow officers, lounging or questioning witnesses. Petty criminals, yowling their protests. And at the top of the room, the magistrate’s bench. The cramped office lurked behind it, its door open. Callum blundered past everyone else on watery, tired legs.

  “Fox!” he called. “Fox,” he said again, then bent double to catch his breath.

  By the time he straightened, the chief magistrate had come from behind the desk to face him. This was Aug
ustus Fox, stout and deliberate, with graying hair and mournful black brows and the sort of voice that brooked no disagreement. He was a little taller than Callum, but just now his head was bowed.

  “Jenks.” His sonorous voice was muted. “You’ve heard then, haven’t you?”

  “I just . . . came from Newgate.” There was not quite enough air in the room. “Sir Frederic’s trial . . . he told me . . .”

  “It’s off, and for good. I’m sorry.” The magistrate put a heavy hand on Callum’s shoulder. “He has powerful friends, and we haven’t enough evidence. We can’t hold him any longer.”

  “But this dead man he claims was part of the robbery from the Royal Mint . . .”

  “An excuse that allows everyone to save face. He walks away innocent; we have someone on whom to pin the guilt.”

  Callum shook off the magistrate’s hand. “You know it’s all a lie.”

  “I can’t know anything without evidence. And neither can you.” Fox straightened, catching Callum’s eye with one of bright blue. “Jenks. I’m sorry. We’ve got to let this one go.”

  And how was he to do that? Was he simply to stop caring that his brother had been killed? That someone culpable was going free?

  “Move on to a new case,” Fox was saying. “See justice done where you can.” The magistrate regarded him closely, then tried out a smile. “Our friend Janey’s been accused again of thieving. Maybe you could have a talk with her. Sit down for a few minutes, catch your breath.”

  “Right,” said Callum. “Right. Of course.”

  He waited until Fox had turned away again before striding from the court. No, he wouldn’t talk to Janey, a cutpurse and informer who was brought in at least once a week. No, he wouldn’t sit while Sir Frederic went free. No, he could not stand it.

  Yet he was weary in body and spirit. He stopped to lean against the familiar rough stone of the building, shutting his eyes. He was weary of the wealthy, who paid to hide the truth. Weary of being forced to drop cases with unanswered questions, unresolved deaths. He was weary of seeing the hand of justice stayed, of seeing the poor punished and the rich walk free.

  Furious, he kicked at the stone wall, adding a scuff to the toe of his already-battered boot.

  Damn, damn. Damn them all. And damn him too, for having his hands shackled as if he were a criminal. For being unable to help. To do what was right, and make it stick.

  The sky was drifting to a darker blue, but sunset was hours away. The days of early summer seemed endless sometimes.

  But . . . since there were a few hours of daylight left, the fashionable inhabitants of London would still be home. They were more likely to return home from their revelries after sunrise than to leave before sunset.

  Which meant that he had time to return to Lombard Street, if his tired feet had a few more miles in them. Sir Frederic wasn’t the only one who’d bent the law away from justice. Lady Isabel Morrow’s relatives—and her late husband—had bought so-called justice too.

  Now Lady Isabel wanted to correct a trespass against the truth. To step outside the law not for gain, but because of integrity. After seeing Sir Frederic, that weighed more with Callum than it had earlier in the day.

  Along with everything else he’d just cursed, he would curse the law too. Only once, for the chance to see a wrong righted. No matter how small.

  In Harry Jenks’s grave, the bones settled into a troubled sleep.

  Chapter Three

  Isabel had not expected Callum Jenks ever to return to her drawing room. Yet here he was that same day, as afternoon began to fade to evening.

  “I’ll help you, Lady Isabel.” Far more rumpled than he’d been earlier, and with grim lines bracketing his mouth, he was practically growling. “But we’ll do this my way.”

  “What changed your mind?” The question slipped out—but at the dark look on his face, Isabel held up a hand. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. You’ve said you’d help me, and I intend to hold you to that.”

  “And you’ll do as I say?”

  His tone was harsh. “Someone has made you angry,” she commented.

  “Yes,” he said. “It wasn’t you, though.”

  “I’m glad for it. And I agree that I’ll do as you say if it seems right to me. If it doesn’t, I’ll tell you.”

  His eyes narrowed. She narrowed hers back.

  Then he sighed, tension bleeding from face and shoulders at once. “Of course, my lady. That is reasonable.”

  Years of training kept Isabel’s posture straight, but within, she too relaxed. If she’d spoken so frankly to Andrew . . . well, they wouldn’t have been speaking of help in the first place. Help was something about which one had a choice. Duty, its compulsory cousin, was far more familiar to Isabel.

  “Thank you,” she replied. “For returning, and for helping. Though you told me to act as an investigator, I was not certain of what to do next.”

  “And now?”

  “Now, I will show you the painting that has caused so much trouble.”

  “Lead on then, my lady.”

  If only it were that simple. “I will take you to see it, but it’s not as though it’s simply hung on a wall somewhere.”

  “That would be unwise,” Jenks granted. “Considering it’s meant to belong to the Duke of Ardmore.”

  “For a short time longer.”

  Ugh. She hated visiting the paintings. It’s for Lucy, she told herself. It’s for Lucy. To help Lucy.

  Dear Lucy, who had spent the day painting here and drawing there, reading in between. As much as Andrew Morrow had loved trading in art, Lucy enjoyed creating it. In doing so, she was often solitary, passing days on end with no company save for Isabel and the servants and Brinley.

  Lucy swore she did not mind the quiet days, but Isabel knew they were her own fault. She was the younger woman’s chaperone, her entrée into society. Upon Isabel rested the responsibility for Lucy’s success this Season. If she wasn’t getting invitations to the most tonnish affairs, because she’d been away from the center of society for too long . . .

  Never mind. Never mind that now. She rang for Selby.

  When the butler entered the drawing room, he was followed by Brinley. Selby pretended not to notice as the beagle tracked a winding path around the carpet, tail wagging wildly. Snuff snuff snuff went the little black nose, leading Brinley to the leather boots of Officer Jenks. The dog tipped back his head with a yip and a yowl, then returned to his determined sniffing around the visitor’s boots.

  Jenks folded his hands behind his back, ramrod-dignified as a soldier, but his expression as he regarded the dog was . . . sweet? Yes, it was rather sweet, with a crimp at the corner of his mouth and the tension about his eyes all melted away.

  Isabel pretended not to notice. She was as good at that as her butler. “Selby,” she said, “I require a lantern.”

  “Very good, my lady.” There was no surprise in his expression. Not that a good butler would ever betray an emotion, but Isabel suspected he knew the reason for her request. Since Andrew’s death, the hidden room had become the worst-kept secret in the house, apart from the affair between the upper housemaid and Douglas, the footman.

  “I should like a flint and tinder, too,” she added. “And a set of tapers, and several spills.”

  “Yes, my lady.” The butler bowed and exited. Almost imperceptibly, he snapped his fingers. Brinley’s head jerked up—and yes, he howled again. At least he obeyed the butler, heeling and following him from the drawing room.

  Jenks resettled his feet. “I’ve been walking all over the city today. Seems your dog enjoys the scents of London.”

  “He has taken a liking to you, Officer Jenks.”

  “Lucky me.” The officer’s dark eyes met Isabel’s. The directness of his gaze awoke a flutter in her belly. Silly of her. But she’d become unaccustomed to being looked at by men.

  Jenks turned toward the window. “It’s not as dark as all that yet. Why the lanterns and candles? Are we going ex
ploring to find this painting of yours?”

  “Exploring is too pleasant a way of putting it. And please, do not call this painting mine. It never was or should have been.”

  He acknowledged this with a nod as Selby returned to the drawing room, dog-less and with requested items in hand. Rather than bringing one lantern, he carried two.

  “Your ladyship is not alone this time,” he said. “I presumed to bring an extra.”

  “Thank you, Selby.” Both lanterns were lit already, and Isabel took their handles. Jenks accepted the tinderbox, spills, and tapers, tucking them into various of his pockets.

  As the butler left, Jenks said, “Whatever you have in mind, you’ve planned for it with plenty of supplies.”

  Isabel clenched her fingers around the flat metal of the lantern handles. “One has to get shut up in the dark only once before one never wants it to happen again.”

  “An anecdote you’d like to relate?”

  “There’s little more to it than that.” The punched-tin lanterns threw light in dots and squares, dimly visible on the still-sunlit carpet. Isabel handed one to Jenks. “If you’ll follow me, Officer?”

  They proceeded to a bedchamber that both of them had entered before, though neither for quite some time. When Officer Jenks had previously been in Andrew’s bedchamber, there had been a corpse on the floor. Quite a bit of blood, too. For Isabel, it had been a day so strange and startling as to seem unreal, and the passage of time had hardly changed that impression. Only the new Axminster carpet—a replacement for the one soiled by the contents of her husband’s head—made the room look different from the way it had looked during the late Mr. Morrow’s life.

  “I recognize this room,” Jenks said as Isabel crossed to the far wall and set down the lantern at her feet. “You’ve stopped using it as your bedchamber?”

  Isabel’s hand halted, an inch from the wall. “I beg your pardon?” She turned her head, peering at him over her shoulder.

  “The space isn’t being used anymore.” With a flick of his hand, he indicated the cold hearth. The bare-topped desk with writing implements tidied away. The air of mustiness that not even the most conscientious maid could banish. “I understand why, Lady Isabel.”