He closed the door and rapped on the side once. The carriage meandered off down the narrow lane, and he pulled Gemma with him into the shadows of the alley.
He leaned in close, catching her sweet scent. “From here on in, no talking unless absolutely necessary.” She nodded her acknowledgment, and he felt a deep certainty in his chest. It had been quite some time since he’d had such complete trust in someone. Although she could be stubborn beyond anything he had ever experienced when she felt she was right, he knew with absolute faith that she would do what was necessary to keep them both safe—even if it meant following his orders.
Dalton’s house was four in from the start of the lane. He counted to the correct one and eyed the fence. It would be easy to make it over the flimsy barrier. He scanned their surroundings to see if it was safe to leave Gemma unguarded for the few moments it would take to scale it, and then gripped the wood and heaved himself up. Two more swift moves and he was dropping into the hushed gardens. He unlocked the gate, pushed it open, and tugged Gemma inside.
The house was dark and the night was cloudy, so not even the moon gave them away as they made their way to the door. The garden was overrun, providing plenty of coverage in case a neighbor happened to glance out a window. They ducked between rose bushes and lemon trees, pausing only when a clatter arose from the alley. He held up a hand until he heard the telltale screech of a cat. The fighting animals scattered after a few moments, and they continued onward.
They made it to the door without further incident. He tried the knob to test if it was open, but it did not budge. He withdrew his tools and ran a finger over the metal. He did not need light to pick the lock; he could do it with his eyes closed. He made quick work of it and slid the door open.
The smell hit him first, a fist to the stomach.
He knew the stench well. He reached into his pocket to retrieve a handkerchief for Gemma. Her eyes were wide, but she still had not made a sound. They locked grim gazes. There was no mistaking what they would find inside. He raised his eyebrows in a question, and she grimaced but nodded her head. She would come with him.
They made their way through the deserted kitchens into the hallway. He nudged open the door to the dining room and did a quick sweep. Empty. He repeated the moves on two parlors toward the front of the house. There was nothing out of order—no signs of distress anywhere.
The unnatural quiet of the house told a different tale, however.
They reached a closed door that Lucas presumed to be the study. He withdrew the small pistol he carried in his pocket. He did not think the villain remained at the scene, but the weight of it was reassuring in his hand, especially with Gemma coming in behind him.
It looked as if Dalton was waiting for them. He was propped up in his chair behind his desk, dressed for a night on the town, in slightly outdated but expensive clothes. A thick crystal glass halfway filled with Scotch sat in front of him.
Gemma clutched his handkerchief to her nose as they stepped closer. Lucas saw the pistol in Dalton’s hand, dangling down toward the floor. He slipped his own back into his pocket. There was no need for it here.
There was no sign of struggle. Dalton’s drawers were tucked in place, his papers untouched on his desk. He did not look like he’d been in a fight for his life, either, his body only slightly askew in the deep leather chair. Lucas gathered from the single glass that Dalton had not invited his murderer in for drinks before the crime, which might have indicated a familiarity with the man.
If not for the hole in Dalton’s head, it would be an ordinary scene.
Gemma waved a hand to get his attention and pointed to the letter directly in front of Dalton. Lucas leaned over to read it, careful not to touch or disturb anything. Gemma mimicked the move.
Forgive me my weakness, for I have sinned gravely. I cannot bear the guilt any longer. I am sorry to all whom I have hurt with my cruel actions. I hope my death will make it right. Inveniam viam aut faciam. D.
“I shall find a way, or make one,” Gemma whispered, meeting his eyes.
Lucas nodded once, and scanned the desk for any other clues. “We need to leave. We’ve lingered long enough.” He would not want to have to explain to a night watchman what they were doing breaking into a dead man’s house.
“I do not need to be told twice,” Gemma said, heading for the door without a backward glance.
Chapter Twelve
Lucas kneeled by the fireplace to coax the coals into flames, while Gemma poured them both a healthy serving of brandy from Roz’s decanter. They had ridden back to the house in silence, caught up in digesting the events of the evening. But they had much to discuss, so she’d invited him in. Because of the case, she told herself, not because she desperately longed for his company after an emotionally fraught night.
She held out his glass then slipped off her heavy-duty boots, removed the knife she had strapped to her ankle, and tucked herself into the corner of the couch. She took a sip of the amber liquid and relished the way it burned down her throat and warmed her belly. There was a chill there, and it would be a while before she could close her eyes without seeing Lord Dalton’s sightless gaze.
Lucas took his glass to the window and leaned a shoulder against the frame. He made such an imposing figure against the darkened glass that she smiled. He was a large man, sculpted like Michelangelo’s David. Not that she’d ever seen it, of course, outside of books. That was Lucas though—all sinewy muscle and strength. A lion amongst the peacocks of the town.
“A penny for your thoughts,” he said, and she struggled to contain a giggle. She could not imagine his reaction if she told him where her mind had wandered.
“I’m thinking brandy was a good decision,” she said, raising her glass to her lips.
“Tonight did take a shocking turn, did it not?” he agreed and took a long swallow of the drink. He rolled the glass in his hand, catching the flicker of the firelight in its bevels. “So now we have at least two murders.”
“You think it was a murder, and not that he killed himself.”
“I do. The killer was methodical, but it still looked staged. And the writing did not quite match the other papers on the desk.”
“What do you think happened to the servants?” Gemma asked the question that had been nagging her since they first encountered the scene. “You would think they would have reported the death. He had to have been there for at least two days now.”
“I am sure they took off the moment they found him,” Lucas said. “No servant in England would want to report his employer’s death, if the circumstances appeared suspicious. Investigators would immediately target one of them, perhaps paint the picture of one pinching the silver.”
“But the scene was not suspicious, at least how it was staged,” Gemma pondered, though she saw his point. The lower class was quite vulnerable when it came to giving surviving family members satisfactory answers. She would not have wanted to linger in Dalton’s home had she discovered him. In fact, they hadn’t.
“Perhaps one of them saw something,” he said, considering her point.
“I shall ask Mrs. Bird, as well. Housekeepers are a tight-knit group, and we do not live far from Dalton’s residence. Perhaps she knew some of the servants,” she said. “But do we alert the authorities?”
“I’ll send round to a friend—a Bow Street Runner. I’ll tell him I have tried to stop by Dalton’s house several times to no avail, and that I am worried about the man. He knows that I would not send him on a fool’s errand,” Lucas said. “That should take care of it.”
“They will rule it a suicide, won’t they?” It was not that they were always incompetent, but the investigators tended to take the easier routes when it came to crimes dealing with the upper class, Gemma knew. They had no sway over members of society and they often ended up with dead ends. If the scene appeared to be a suicide, they would not go chasing the idea of murder.
“Most likely. Dalton had no close relatives—the title will go to
a distant cousin. They will want that to go as quickly and smoothly as possible. No one will press for a thorough investigation,” Lucas said matter-of-factly. “I think the best chance for justice is that we find the blackmailer.”
Lucas pushed away from the window and began to pace the length of the room. “I do not like the feeling of being one step behind him.”
Gemma tracked his restless movements. “We are learning more each day, though, my lord. We are getting closer to him, and he knows it. He would not bother with warning me off otherwise. Or with chasing Mr. Harrington and Beatrice down.”
Lucas removed his coat and sank into the chair across from her. “You are right, my dear. He is getting nervous. Which means he may make a mistake. One that could prove to be his downfall.”
“He might have done so tonight,” Gemma said. “Why would he take the chance to contact me?”
“There’s a chance he’s observing you from afar and has become infatuated,” Lucas said slowly, considering. “However, the way the letter was written…”
“It seemed like he knew me,” Gemma finished for him.
“Yes,” he agreed. “It does not narrow the field down by much. You have many acquaintances in town. It would just take a small introduction for him to become attached to you.”
“Please, I am no siren,” Gemma said, unable to fathom that a man would become infatuated with her within moments of meeting.
Lucas shot her one of his feral grins. “You are, my dear, but that is not what I meant. There are madmen out there who latch on to the smallest thing about a person and become fixated. Perhaps your eyes are the same color as someone he was close to, or your hair, or the pattern of your speech. I simply mention this because it will not help us narrow down our field of suspects.”
“Always a ray of optimism, my lord,” she teased him.
He saluted her with his glass. “At your service, madam.”
“Well, if that does not help us, everything else we have learned will,” she said, refusing to be discouraged. “This man has likely killed two men now, and blackmailed who knows how many. He must be stopped.”
“He seems bent on a mission that we do not understand yet,” Lucas said, rolling up his shirtsleeves.
“We understand that he is probably out for revenge against the Kingsmen and their families,” she said and tried not to gaze at his tanned forearms, dusted with dark hair. “But why now? We were right, I think, that neither Dalton nor Rathburn would have waited so long to act. So why would whoever is doing this strike now? Two of the men he’s after died long before any of this started.”
“Perhaps he did not have the means before now to seek revenge,” Lucas pondered. “That would seem to align with Harrington and Beatrice’s observation from earlier. One can make a pretense of wealth if it was once there, but infiltrating society from the lower class would be near impossible.”
“So perhaps it is someone who just recently entered society, either this season or last. If he does not have much money, he would not be able to keep up appearances for very long. Even with an influx of funds from the blackmail payments, the cost of a season is astronomical. I can ask Roz if she knows anyone who stands out to her. She is tuned in to the comings and goings of everyone.”
“I shall think on it as well,” Lucas said, crossing a booted leg over his knee. He was settled in, and did not look like he would be vacating the spot any time soon. “I confess I do not pay much attention to society anymore. I am happier ensconced on my estate than in a crowded ballroom making chit-chat with marriage-minded mamas.”
“Ah, I serve another purpose then,” she said. “Keeping the beasts at bay.”
“I never realized how much freedom being affianced affords the man as well. I no longer have to take cover when I enter ballrooms,” he said.
“Yes, well, don’t get too used to it. I am sure they will come flocking once we announce the engagement is broken,” she said, reminding herself more than anything else. The easy smile slipped from his face, and he dropped his eyes to his glass. “So, what is our next course of action?” she asked to cover the sudden awkward silence.
She did not think he was going to let her switch topics, but after a few beats he answered. “Rathburn.”
“I hope he is all right,” Gemma said. She did not particularly want to relive their experience with Dalton.
“I believe he went to his club today, and then to the Merryweather ball this evening. I had put feelers out for both of them since we talked to Rose,” he said, acknowledging her raised eyebrow. “I had not heard back regarding Dalton—now we know why. But Rathburn has been carrying on normally for the past day, from what my sources can tell.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” she said. “Shall we call on him first thing in the morning?”
“That would be best, I believe. If at all possible, I do not want the killer to get wind of the fact that we found Dalton. If we can get a jump on Rathburn before the news breaks, we may be able to get in front of our killer for once in this investigation.”
“Do you think Rathburn will be able to tell us anything?” Gemma asked.
“If anyone can, it will most likely be him. He may be hesitant to admit to whatever wrongdoing is involved here, but if we can convince him he is in mortal danger, perhaps he will divulge it.”
Lucas reached up and casually flicked open a button on his shirt; she found she could not tear her eyes away from the small patch of chest the move exposed. “Once we inform him of Dalton’s demise, we may have our leverage.”
“He is the last of the Kingsmen now. And the remaining family members are being blackmailed,” she said. “If he knows what is good for him, he will tell us what we need to know. We already have a great deal more information than we started with, though.”
“True,” he nodded. “We know something happened about years ago that involved my father, Perry, Dalton, and Rathburn. We know they were in a secret club together, and that it disbanded after only one season. We believe the person affected by this event has now resurfaced to wreak havoc on the Kingsmen and their families. We believe he killed Dalton, and also your cousin for interrupting his blackmail plan.”
“And we believe I have encountered him sometime during my outings in society,” Gemma added. “Although some of these facts are actually leaps of logic, my lord.”
“They may be leaps, but I believe they are sound,” he said. He cleared his throat. “About your admirer…”
“I think you are right, my lord, best not to focus on that and get distracted,” she said in a rush, worried he was going to suggest she remove herself from the investigation.
As he studied her through narrowed eyes, she tried not to fidget. She had relaxed into an unladylike position, but if she moved now she would make it obvious that his scrutiny made her nervous. She slid her ankles farther under her skirts, but then told herself she could not be more immodest than he was, half undressed and lounging in the chair like a predatory animal.
“Perhaps you are right for now, my dear,” he finally said. “Did you enjoy Vauxhall before that incident?”
“It was more than I could have imagined,” she assured him. “I’m only disappointed that it was cut short.”
“What else would you have liked to have seen?” His voice was low and husky, and it stoked the small fire that had been burning in her all night long.
The situation was precarious. It was true that as far as the world was concerned they were engaged. But they weren’t. And even if they were, the situation was still not quite on the right side of proper.
It didn’t feel wrong, though. It felt safe.
Their embrace in the carriage flashed into her mind, and she longed to feel his lips against hers once more. If they were going to risk their reputations by flirting so recklessly with the boundaries of propriety, shouldn’t she at least get another kiss out of it?
One brow slid up, and she realized she was staring. Heat stung at her cheeks, but she didn’t look
away. She’d made her decision. “Have you heard of the dark walks?”
His eyes took on a seductive glint, but his lips tipped up in a smile. “I think the better question is, how have you heard of the dark walks, my dear?”
She cleared her throat. “I’ve done my research.”
She winced.
Research. Very alluring, Gemma. Might as well talk farming techniques next.
“Not first-hand, I trust.” He was teasing her, she knew, but there was a sudden air of alertness around him that was a sharp contrast to his lazy pose only moments earlier.
She peeped at him under her lashes like she’d seen other ladies do when they wanted to flirt with their partners, and hoped she didn’t look as foolish as she felt. “I was hoping tonight I would be able to augment my education with a trip along the walks.”
“What has your research told you about them?” The amusement had died from his voice, only to be replaced by something she couldn’t name. Something sensuous.
“Oh they sound magical.” Her own voice turned dreamy as she pictured strolling with Lucas under the stars, through a maze of lush green walls. The scent of flowers and the thrill of expectation would make the air thick around them. “Almost like another world, where you can lose yourself in the beauty of the night without thought to consequence.”
“There are always consequences,” he cut in, dousing her fantasy.
“But imagine for a moment, if you will, that you could pretend there were not.” This was not quite going as she had scripted it in her head. They would have already kissed by now if had been. And then she would have a sweet memory to tuck against her in the dark of the night when she tried not to think about death and warnings and blackmail.
“That’s a dangerous proposition, Gemma,” he said quietly. “That’s not real life.”
“That’s what the dark walks are for,” she countered.
“We’re not in Vauxhall, though, are we?”
She lost her patience with subtlety. She didn’t know why she tried it in the first place—it clearly wasn’t her strong suit. “But what if we were. Would you embrace the magic? Or would you continue to talk at me about consequences?”
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