Jade Lee - [Bridal Favors 03]

by What the Bride Wore

  Grant couldn’t think of a thing to say to that. Meanwhile, the strange man stopped suddenly at the door, his hand on the knob. “Where was I going?”

  “Er, I don’t know that you were going. Everyone I spoke with said you’d just arrived.” And now, Grant understood every person’s reaction to the name “Morrison.” This had to be the man, either that or an escaped bedlamite.

  Meanwhile, the man turned around, blinking. “Arriving. Quite right. Bugger, I’m disorganized today. Most days, actually, but today I’m rather very—most perceptive of you, by the way. I applaud your attempts to understand deeper thought.”

  “Uh, thank you? But I’m not actually sure that you were arriving. That’s just what I was told.”

  Mr. Morrison paused. “Oh, not about my comings and goings. Can’t expect anyone else to understand that. I refer to your attempt to inspect the crack. Most people don’t do it, you know, so I applaud your attempt.”

  “But you weren’t looking at the crack.”

  “True. I’d just cleared a man of murder. Stupidest thing. Don’t know why they didn’t see it right away. Poor bastard in goal is left-handed. Killer was right-handed. I realized it the moment I saw that Willy’s papers are on the wrong side.” He gestured to the desk right below the wall crack. “Must mean he’s in the suds again with his wife. Always rearranges his desk when she’s angry. Probably their son. Gambler, that boy, and not a good choice for a copper’s son. But then, we don’t pick our relations, do we?”

  Grant stared at him, doing his best to follow what was said. It took him a moment, especially as he had to remember that a “copper” was the common term for a runner because they were usually paid a copper for their efforts. But eventually, he worked it all out. “You were arriving and pulling off your coat just as you noticed the papers on the desk. That led you to thinking about left- and right-handedness, and that made you realize someone was falsely accused of murder. Have I got that right?”

  Mr. Morrison’s face bloomed into a handsome smile. “Very well done! Well done indeed! Most people just throw up their hands when they meet me. It’s a rare person who sorts me out. Especially on a disorganized day.”

  Grant smiled, deciding he liked this odd man. So he extended his hand and introduced himself. “I’m Grant Benton, Lord Crowle.”

  The man smiled and extended his hand. “I’m Samuel Morrison, and we met last night at the ball. Though I should like to point out that you’re not dressed as a lord. Curious, that.”

  Grant looked down. He was dressed as Mr. Grant today, out of habit, and because he wasn’t comfortable when dressed the other way. It wasn’t the tailoring. The attire fit like a dream. But it was more the things he thought and did that made him acutely uncomfortable.

  Because putting on a shirt makes you pick up the dice. Bugger the clothes. It’s your choices that make you an idiot.

  Grant winced, forcibly ejecting his madness from his mind. It rarely worked for long, but it would buy him some measure of peace as he talked with the strange Mr. Morrison.

  Meanwhile, the man in question shook his hand with a surprisingly strong grip. Then he tugged Grant back into the hallway. “Come on then. You can talk to me as we walk.”

  “Walk? I thought you were coming here and just forgot.”

  Mr. Morrison shot him an annoyed look. “Well, of course I was, but I can’t leave a man to rot in gaol, now can I? Do try to keep thinking. It will help enormously.” Then the man abruptly stopped walking and turned to Grant. “That was rude, wasn’t it? Penny says I’m often rude, and I really shouldn’t be. She’s trying to make me into a better person. Have told her that I’m a lost cause, but she won’t hear of it. And perhaps, I’m not, because here I am apologizing. I must be progressing.”

  Grant felt his lips quirk in a smile. “Actually, you didn’t really apologize.”

  The man blinked. “Oh. Just so. Well, I do. Apologize, that is.” Then he took a deep breath and gave Grant a genuine smile, even though his words were slow and stiff. “I am sorry for being rude.” Then he blinked and started taking the steps in his long stride. “Now keep with me. You want to speak about Miss Wendy Drew, yes? Can’t think of any other reason for you to be here.”

  Grant rushed to catch up on the steps. “Well, yes. How did you know?”

  “Got a good look at your clothing. Excellent cloth, sturdy, but with extra fibers on it.” He picked a piece of lint off Grant’s lapel. “Alpaca? Oh, you must be from that new factory up in Yorkshire. Ah yes, the one owned by Redhill and Crowle.” He frowned a moment. “So is that where you’ve been for the last five years? Running the mill as Mr. Grant?” The man released an approving grunt. “Must say you’ve done an excellent job. Even I’ve heard of your angora wool, and I’ve been out of the fashionable circle for a bit.” He tilted his head. “Can’t say I miss it. Real murders are much more exciting fare than who killed whose reputation over cards.”

  Grant had no words. Sadly, his madness did, and it released a slow whistle of appreciation.

  Bugger’s brilliant. Quick! Ask him about Irene’s attacker before he starts babbling about shoes or figures out you spent the night with Irene.

  “Er, you’re right, of course,” said Grant. “And I’m rather impressed by your deductions.”

  Mr. Morrison shot him a startled look, but didn’t speak. Apparently, people didn’t tend to appreciate his unique brand of intelligence. Meanwhile, Grant pushed on before they ended up in the general confusion of the magistrate’s main rooms, and the man got completely distracted.

  “I’d like to ask about Irene’s—er, Mrs. Knopp’s pursuers. I understand she was followed.”

  “Yes, yes. Bothers me still. Street boy paid to follow her, then when I gave chase, I got flattened by a big fellow so high.” He gestured to about five-foot-eleven. “Knocked me out, but it brought Penny to tears, so that was lovely.”

  “It was lovely that Penny cried?”

  “What? No, no. Hadn’t realized she fancied me at that point. Took getting knocked flat for me to guess that I had a chance with her. She had a rule against crazy nobs, you see.”

  He nodded, as if any of that made sense.

  Focus on Irene.

  “Um, why—”

  “Have no bloody idea. And that bothers me, I can tell you.”

  “Uh… what?”

  “You want to know why someone would follow Mrs. Knopp. Don’t know. Been trailing her on and off myself since the incident, when I can. Though murders and the like have been keeping me busy. You can’t imagine how many dead bodies there are in London on a given day. I’m the only one who really handles them, you know. The rest are more coppers and thief-takers. That’s what pays best, you know. I do it because I like it. Gratifying to see the guilty men hang and the innocent ones go free.” He frowned as they wended their way through the crowd. There were droves of people there, and they banged into one another at every turn. “It’s Miss Drew, most likely,” he said as he grabbed a boy and snagged something out of the child’s fist.

  “The seamstress,” Grant said, feeling his wits sharpen as he caught the rhythm of Mr. Morrison’s speech. “Because of her connection to Demon Damon.”

  Mr. Morrison stopped then and shot him a strangely intense look. His eyes were narrowed, his brow lowered, and Grant could almost feel the thoughts churning in his head. But a moment later, the man released a huff of disgust.

  “Can’t see the reason behind it yet,” he said in a kind of curse. Then his face split into a grin as he looked over Grant’s shoulder. “Constable. Knew you’d be here!”

  A tired man in brown with a salt-and-pepper scruff for a beard turned to greet them. His eyes were sharp, but his general demeanor was one of a man too overburdened to enjoy life. No surprise, as he was clearly shepherding prisoners before the magistrate. Still, he paused long enough to give Morrison a raised eyebrow and a hopeful smile.

  “Solved another one of my crimes, have you, Samuel? Let’s have it. Who do I arr
est?”

  “Not arrest. Set free. Mr. Hobbs is left-handed.”

  There was a pause as the man frowned. It took him long enough that Grant ventured into the conversation by way of an explanation.

  “I believe Mr. Morrison believes the killer was right-handed.”

  “Yes, yes,” the constable said irritably. “I’d gathered that. But a man can hit with both hands. And the victim could have been restrained by the dominant hand and hit with the non-dominant.”

  Morrison pursed his lips. “Possible, but rare.”

  “But possible.”

  Another long pause and then, almost at random, Mr. Morrison stepped out and grabbed a dirty little girl who had been wending her way through the crowd. The child was just skin and bones, but her eyes flashed fury as Mr. Morrison held her up. He needed both hands to keep the girl far enough away that she didn’t kick. “Constable, please. The pouch under her dress.”

  The constable rolled his eyes, but obediently managed to pull out the pouch beneath the child’s dress. He took a few heavy blows from her feet as he did it, but a moment later, he pulled out a sharp flick knife.

  “I believe it was meant for Mr. Wilks,” Mr. Morrison said, gesturing at a very large, very angry prisoner. “I believe he intended something nefarious. Likely after he was back in gaol.”

  The constable released a sigh then gestured at his men, who were suddenly looking alertly at the prisoner in question. Meanwhile, Mr. Morrison handed the girl to one of the constable’s men.

  “Hold her still. I’m sure you’ll want to question her in a moment.” Then he turned back to the constable. “I can help you with—”

  “No need. I know what’s what with Wilks. Tell me again how Mr. Hobbs ain’t the bastard I think ’e is.”

  “Oh, he’s a bastard, all right, but not the murderer in this case. And I don’t think he deserves to be hanged for cheating at cards.”

  “Bloody hell, then who—”

  “I should have that name for you in a day’s time. Have to check on a few things first. Meanwhile, I believe I need to help Lord Crowle, so I’ll bid you good day for now.”

  “Samuel!” the constable barked. “Don’t be harrying off on your own. I’ll be free tomorrow morning.”

  “Of course, of course,” Mr. Morrison returned with a wave of his hand. Then he tapped Grant on the shoulder, handed him his purse, which had apparently been lifted—and rescued—at some point in the conversation, before heading toward the door.

  Grant scrambled to keep up while—again—his madness released another low whistle of appreciation.

  Never play cards with that man. You’d be fleeced before the first hand is played out.

  “Come on, man,” Mr. Morrison called in good cheer. “Out with it. What’s the new clue?”

  Grant blinked. “Um, what?”

  “Come, come. You wouldn’t have searched me out unless something new had happened. Mrs. Knopp told me herself that she believes she must have imagined it. Therefore, if you’re here, then something new has come to light.”

  Grant looked up sharply. “Do you think it was her imagination?”

  “I wasn’t knocked cold by her imagination. She was followed. So what’s the new clue?”

  “We were attacked last night.”

  The man stopped right in the middle of the street, and once again, Grant was awed by the cold focus of the man’s intellect, like a blade cutting to the heart of things. There weren’t many men that impressed Grant, but here was one doing it in spades.

  “Tell me everything. In detail.”

  So Grant did. Everything he could remember. And as they walked toward the fashionable center of town, Mr. Morrison listened carefully, asked only a few questions, and—unfortunately—probably made conclusions about last night that had absolutely nothing to do with their attack. Fortunately, he never spoke on that part. Instead, the man slowed his step until they stood outside the Shoemaker shop.

  “Have you spoken with your brother?”

  Grant gaped, the question hitting him broadside. “What?”

  “Your brother. Your heir, right? The one engaged to the newly dowered Miss Josephine Powel?”

  “William. Yes, he’s my brother. But why would you ask about him?”

  “You should talk to him, I think. But in a public place. No reason to take unnecessary chances.”

  “What?”

  Mr. Morrison frowned, apparently choosing his words carefully, as if he were trying to be delicate. Apparently, this was not normal for him, and so he was awkward at it.

  “Seems to me a younger brother who manages to court and soon marry the lands that were once yours might want something else that is yours.”

  Grant stared at the man, his mind churning. “You think I was the focus of the attack?”

  “You said there was no demand for money, just a quick attack that you foiled.”

  “Yes, but I thought he was going for Irene.”

  “Or perhaps, that’s what you believed, because you’ve since learned of her mysterious follower. A good thought and still a possibility. However, I submit that you might have been the focus of the attack, and who has a better motive for murder than your brother?”

  “Will’s a prig, not a killer. And he’s not in London.”

  “Easy enough to hire someone,” the man answered with implacable logic. “When was the last time you really talked with your brother? Really knew him enough to say what he is or is not capable of? In my experience, every man is capable of murder in the right circumstances.”

  Grant rubbed a hand over his face, his mind frozen with doubts. Good God, could he really be considering this? Will a murderer? “It can’t be.”

  “It might not be. I simply offer it as a possibility. One that should be explored, if only to prove it is not possible.”

  Grant’s chest tightened, and he noted almost absently that his hands had tightened into fists.

  Whom do you mean to plug? Will or this bastard?

  He didn’t mean to plug—er, punch—anyone. Except perhaps himself, for considering that his brother could be coldly plotting his murder. And yet, he couldn’t not consider it. The idea had taken root in his brain.

  “In the meantime,” continued Mr. Morrison, as if he hadn’t just turned Grant completely inside out, “I shall try to be a little more vigilant in watching Mrs. Knopp. You will tell her to be careful though, won’t you? I can’t be everywhere, and if your brother is indeed innocent, then the lady could be in grave danger indeed.”

  “What if this was a common footpad?” Grant asked.

  Clutching at straws.

  “Is that what you think?” countered Mr. Morrison.

  “No.”

  “Then why waste time on the question?”

  “Because,” answered a female who left the shop doorway to stand beside Mr. Morrison. “It’s a damned hard thing for a man to think about murder. Makes it even harder when it’s in the family.”

  Mr. Morrison’s face lightened suddenly, going from coldly precise to something that some might call soft. Where once there was the impression of only hard angles and cutting intellect, suddenly, the man became almost vague as he stared down adoringly at the woman. Grant recognized her as Penny Shoemaker, fiancée to the odd runner.

  “I think of it all the time,” Samuel murmured vaguely.

  “Well, you’re a mad gent, and no mistake about that,” she returned with a grin. Then right there on the street, she stretched up to kiss him. Mr. Morrison’s hand tightened on her waist, and his head lowered. The kiss was scorching for all that it was public, and Grant felt acutely uncomfortable on any number of levels.

  Fortunately, it didn’t last long. It was the woman, he thought, who ended the kiss. Pushing Mr. Morrison away, though not hard.

  “Stop it, Samuel. It’s not proper.” Then she turned to give a considering look at Grant. “You’re Lord Crowle, aren’t you? We spoke last night.”

  Without thinking, Grant gave her a c
ourtly bow, kissing her rough hand as if she were a queen. “Pleasure to see you again, Miss Shoemaker.” He gestured to the shop behind them. “So this is your father’s place? Though I never had the pleasure of wearing a pair of his boots, I understand they were divine.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” She dimpled prettily even as she stepped backwards. “But it’s my shop now—for ladies—or will be within a few weeks, after I get the insides sorted out. And I make the shoes.”

  Grant’s eyebrows rose, impressed again. It was most unusual to hear of a woman making shoes, much less owning her own shop. Meanwhile, his madness wasn’t allowing him to escape into pleasantries.

  Forget his girl. Focus on yours!

  “Do you think Irene could be in danger?” he asked, his voice coming out a little too abrupt.

  “What?” asked Penny, obviously alarmed.

  Mr. Morrison patted her arm. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on her. Or pay Willy to—”

  “No!” exclaimed Grant, though God only knew why he was suddenly so passionate. “I’ll do it.”

  Mr. Morrison’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you were going to speak with your brother.”

  “I am,” Grant said, his tone growing colder by the second. “I’m going to do both. In fact, I believe I’m going to find Irene right now. And I’ll be damned if I let her sensibilities deter me!”

  There was a moment of dead silence from all three. Then suddenly, Mr. Morrison nodded sharply. “Good man,” he pronounced.

  That, apparently, was enough for Miss Shoemaker, who pointed off behind him. “I left her less than an hour ago at the dress shop. She’ll probably still be there.”

  Grant nodded, suddenly resolved to stand beside Irene night and day, until this particular mystery was solved. If nothing else, he would find the culprit long before he had to face his brother. Because if it were really Will trying to kill him, his brother wouldn’t need to use a knife or pistol. Just the knowledge alone would stop his heart dead.

  And on that grim thought, he bowed to the couple and headed off to find Irene.