by Regina Darcy
SEVEN
Twilight came, and still neither her father nor Mr George had returned to the office. Elizabeth worked steadily all afternoon, fuelled by cups of cold tea and a growing sense of alarm at the figures in the ledger. Something was not right with the Sheridan account. She would need to see more of the funding records before she could be sure, but she was now perfectly clear in her own mind about what had happened. She needed to tell her father what she suspected. The effect would be devastating, but far better to be aware of it now, when other funding could quickly be obtained, than to learn of it once the docks opened and then become insolvent because of an investor’s dishonesty.
Hastily putting on her bonnet and shawl, Elizabeth locked the door to the office and began to walk down the docks. The docks were quieter now, the hurly-burly of the day concluded until morning brought a return to the work that was involved in preparing for the opening. She walked hurriedly; she was not, despite her father’s cautionary words, afraid to be alone, but she needed to speak with him. When she showed him the figures, he would realise that something was wrong. He had the authority to act upon the information.
The shadows of the falling night concealed the rigging, barrels, and stacked wood on the docks. What was open and visible during the day now seemed shadowy and furtive. Everything she passed appeared capable of concealing a threat. She tried to laugh at herself. It was the Fiona effect, she decided. If Fiona were with her, no doubt she would suspect that an assassin crouched behind every structure. Fiona was a delightful girl and it was obvious that she and her uncle were a close family. Elizabeth wondered how a man of only four-and-thirty had come to be the guardian of a seventeen-year old niece. There was much she didn’t know about him or his family. Their conversation had touched on so many things, but the details of family life had not been one of the topics.
She heard hurrying footsteps behind her. Quickly, before she could be seen, she stepped back behind a cordon of barrels blocking access to one of the dock buildings.
“Woodstock! I want a word with you!” called a voice further away.
It was the Earl of Strathmore! Elizabeth silently pressed herself against the barrels, crouching down so that she was entirely hidden.
“What the devil is going on? Did you not hear my instructions?”
“I waited last night in your gardens during the party; you did not come to me,” this was from Nathaniel, his voice truculent. “How was I to know whether or not you had changed your mind?”
“The instructions have not changed,” the Earl replied impatiently. “I believe I was very clear on that point when last we met. I have told you what we must do. You know what will happen if these docks open.”
“So you have said.”
“So it is,” the Earl said, his voice rigid. “So it must be. Sheridan is the key.”
Elizabeth pressed her hand against her mouth so that her gasp would not be heard. The Earl knew! Whatever was wrong with the financial accounts, the Earl was involved. She had fallen in love with a man who was, without qualm or conscience, engaged in something nefarious, and he had suborned Nathaniel in his plot. Was that why the Earl had invited her and her father to his home? So that they would be lulled into trusting him and thereby ignore any evidence implicating him in a conspiracy against the backers of the West India docks?
“Go now,” the Earl said. “Don’t fail me.”
“Yes, Your Lordship.”
She saw Nathaniel hurry away; the Earl followed slowly, as if there were no reason for speed. Elizabeth’s knees ached from her position but she didn’t dare reveal herself until he was out of sight. If the Earl’s behaviour the night before was to make her fall in love with him and be his puppet, enabling him to exploit the West India docks for his own illicit ends, she had been a fool to fall under his spell. But she would not remain a fool. She would tell her father what she had seen in the ledger, and what she had overheard.
“Fire! Fire!”
More voices took up the cry. She heard hooves pounding the ground, and then the horses of the Fire Brigade racing to the scene, accompanied by ordinary people taking up buckets to help put out the blaze. When she could do so, she emerged from her hiding place to mingle with those who had gathered.
“What’s going on?” she asked Joseph Bellings, a retired ship’s captain and a regular visitor to the docks. He was a friend of her father’s and knew Elizabeth well.
“A fire,” he said. “In Sheridan’s warehouse.”
“Sheridan’s warehouse?” she repeated with a sinking heart. Had the Earl ordered Nathaniel to set a fire in the warehouse so that the proof of Sheridan’s perfidy would be destroyed?
“Aye, the warehouse. Doesn’t look like they were able to save much. All that cargo, ready to be shipped, now destroyed. There, there, Miss Elizabeth,” Captain Bellings said kindly as a sob caught in her throat. “No one was in the warehouse. The loss is a costly one, but better cargo than a man’s life. And what are you doing out on the docks alone? Where is your father? I’ll walk you back to the office. You mind you stay there and keep the door locked until your father returns.”
She made no objection, nor did she endeavour to correct his assumption that her tears stemmed from feminine dismay at the danger that had been so close. She was not given to the vapours; her tears came from something much more personal.
She obeyed his injunction to stay inside, and she locked the door, only opening it when her father and Mr George returned, their clothes smudged with soot, their faces blackened and streaked with sweat. They had not been able to save the warehouse; the building was rubble. Her father wanted to go home.
“Elizabeth, my dear,” her father began gently when they had returned to their home. It was very late and Elizabeth was exhausted, her mind weary from the racing thoughts that had captured her mind while she awaited her father’s return.
“I’m going to go to bed, Papa. Let us talk in the morning,” she said.
“Yes, of course my dear, but you must prepare yourself for a shock. I’m sorry to tell you that Nathaniel died in the fire.”
“Nathaniel? No! No, Papa, he could not have died! Captain Bellings said only cargo had been destroyed!”
‘Dearest, the good captain was mistaken. I’m afraid so. I am truly sorry. Nathaniel spoke to me today and asked me for your hand in marriage. I gave my consent. I told him that in my opinion, the two of you were well suited. He said that he had spoken to you, and you knew his mind.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said faintly. “He spoke to me this afternoon.” She had not accepted his offer. But neither had she refused it, and he had gone to her father believing that she wished to accept his proposal once her father had given his consent.
“Go to bed, my dear. At least he died happy, knowing that you loved him.”
“But he still died, Papa!” she cried out. “He is dead!”
Her father tried to soothe her, believing that her grief was that of a woman who had lost her beloved. Elizabeth sobbed in his arms, her despair genuine. Nathaniel, she knew now, had been the pawn of a man who had served his own ends: clearly the Earl of Strathmore employed people to forward his vile plans and Nathaniel had died in his service. She would tell no one the truth about Nathaniel, but when morning came, she would show her father the figures from the ledger that exposed the corrupt bookkeeping in the Sheridan account.
Tonight, privately, she would mourn the youth who had been so much a part of her life, and whose love for her, she knew, was sincere. No one would ever know that his love had not been returned. Nor would anyone know that, for a brief, reckless time, she had allowed herself to be in love with the Earl of Strathmore, an urbane, sophisticated aristocrat who had duped her into believing him a man of honour. The heart that Nathaniel believed had been pledged to him would never be given to any man, she vowed against her tear-stained pillows. Her father could keep the money he intended to put aside for her dowry. She would never marry, she realised that now. She was not meant to be a w
ife, and would never be a mother. The Earl was not merely out of reach because of his station, so far above hers that there could be no common meeting ground. The Earl was beyond her reach because he was not the man she had thought he was. Her childhood friend, the man who had really loved her, had lost his life and it was plainly through the machinations of the Earl. She was not good enough to marry a member of the nobility, but she was far too good to let herself long for love from a man whose moral creed did not match her own, or that of her father. That was what came of believing foolish dreams.
EIGHT
Her father urged her to stay home and rest, but Elizabeth was resolute. There was work to do. They rode silently in the hackney cab. Elizabeth was too numb to talk or even to think, and her father did not intrude on thoughts which could spur her to more tears. He loved his daughter and did not want to see her in pain, but was uncomfortable with emotional scenes and preferred to avoid them whenever possible. Woodstock had been a good lad. He would have made a good husband. While Henry Hargrave silently aimed higher for his daughter’s future—not so high as an Earl; he knew better, although he had nurtured private hopes for a member of the lesser gentry and would have been perfectly content with a country squire or a perhaps a baronet—he recognised that a good man who was willing to work hard made a better husband than a title.
Mr George was already in the office, brewing the morning tea. Silently, without a word, he placed a cup in front of Elizabeth. It was his way of relaying a sympathy he could not voice.
“They’re saying it wasn’t the fire that killed young Woodstock,” he said, not clarifying who ‘they’ were. Mr George had his sources.
Both Elizabeth and her father stared at him, too stunned by his words to notice that the door had opened behind them and someone had entered the office. “What do you mean? He was found in the warehouse,” Hargrave said. “Of course the fire killed him.”
“He was killed in the warehouse, that’s true, his body had been placed in the basement,” said the Earl of Strathmore, speaking behind them. “But it was not the fire that took his life.”
Elizabeth whirled around. “You!” she accused. “How dare you?” There was no thought this morning of attracting the Earl’s attention. Her green eyes indicted him with her contempt and her face showed that she had already judged and sentenced him for his deeds.
Strathmore tilted his head, politely examining her expression without revealing any emotion of his own. “How dare I what, Miss Hargrave?” he inquired as if he were merely curious.
“I overheard you last night! I was there, on the docks when you told Nathaniel to follow the instructions you had previously given him. It was late, my father and Mr George had not yet returned, and I had discovered something in the accounts that required my father’s attention. I heard Nathaniel running and then you calling after him. You said that he knew what would happen if the docks are opened. You said--”
“Miss Hargrave,” he said patiently. “You did hear what I said and you are, I have no doubt, a most reliable witness to what you heard. But you cannot know to what I was referring, although Woodstock did. He worked for me and had been in my employ for more than a year. During that time, he performed his duties with courage and integrity. There has been a plot to jeopardise the opening of the West India docks since the plans were first announced. The difficulty was to discern not who would profit from the success of the West India docks, but who was intent on their failure. Who, in fact, required them to fail or else face utter ruin. When I realised what was afoot, I enlisted Woodstock’s aid. He knows everyone on the docks. He was able to work his way into the confidence of the thugs and miscreants who were behind the petty crimes which slowed down the construction. Although they are a rough group, given to fisticuffs to make their point, Woodstock understood the gravity of his task. You may have noticed his bruises; I assure you that he inflicted an equal share on anyone who assaulted him. He knew the enemy and what they were capable of in their efforts to sabotage the project. He was invaluable to me, because he would not attract undue notice if he asked questions, or was seen about the buildings and warehouses. He and I would meet at night, in the gardens of my estate, where he would tell me what he had learned and I would tell him what needed to be done next. My niece observed his presence earlier in the spring when he signalled me and she saw the light coming from the garden. You saw him the night that you and your father,” he bowed in Henry Hargrave’s direction, “honoured me with your presence in my home. Woodstock had instructions which did not change. However, that night, he was distracted from his duty. I spoke to him the following day to remind him that he had agreed to assist me in finding out who was the culprit behind the plot.”
“You were trying to find the culprit?” her father asked. “That was why you were interrogating me the other day?’
Strathmore bowed. “I apologise for my behaviour. But no one knows the docks as fully as you know them. You know all the men who are involved; you know the details of their investments and the extent of their commitment. I needed to find out who these men were, but I could not appear in their midst without occasioning notice. You were very circumspect, but you confirmed that I needed to find the records. Woodstock was charged by me to steal those records from the warehouse belonging to—“
“The warehouse belonging to Doyle Sheridan!” Elizabeth exclaimed.
“Elizabeth! You have interrupted the Earl. Please pardon my daughter, Your Lordship, she has suffered a great loss. Nathaniel Woodstock was----“
“Nathaniel was a dear friend,” Elizabeth finished, her eyes locking with the Earl’s steadfast gaze. “We mourn his loss, especially if he died trying to uncover the truth.”
“He did,” the Earl said soberly. “Unfortunately, he was not alone at the warehouse last night. Someone came upon him when he was trying to locate the hiding place of the accounts. This morning, as we investigated the tragedy, one of my men noticed the wound at the back of Nathaniel’s skull. We believe that he was already dead when he was placed in the basement before the fire was set. The record book was in his hands, but all that’s left is the binding. So there’s no evidence to prove that my suspicions were correct.”
“What do you suspect?”
“I believe that Doyle Sheridan, far from being one of the most substantial supporters of the West India docks, was providing false information. The docks would never have opened because the creditors would have demanded payment from funds that never actually existed. It would have been a devastating scandal instead of a triumph. Our goal was to find the evidence before the docks opened so that we could find other backers and finish the docks in time for the opening.”
“Who is ‘we’?” Elizabeth asked.
The Earl looked abashed. “I have come to you under somewhat duplicitous circumstances, Miss Hargrave. I am in the employ of Number 4, Whitehall Place, just off the courtyard of Great Scotland Yard. We are, or soon shall be, a law enforcement unit that will be much more professional and, I hope, effective in defeating crime.”
“That’s very ambitious,” said Henry Hargrave. “I’m just a humble businessman and I tell you the truth, Your Lordship, I thought ill of you.”
“It’s the nature of my profession, I fear. But this failure will be a costly one.”
“You haven’t failed,” Elizabeth said. “I have my father’s records, and I noticed in the Sheridan account that the numbers simply wouldn’t tally properly, no matter how many times I added them.”
“You have records?”
“Of course,” her father said. “I have records of all the men who have backed this venture. My Elizabeth, she’s as much of a sleuth with numbers as you are with criminals.”
“It doesn’t do to underestimate Miss Hargrave, I see,” the Earl said. “I will be very interested in viewing those records. But for now, I wonder, Mr Hargrave, if I might have a word with you?”
“Yes, of course, but whatever for?”
“Miss Hargrave, you concur?”
the Earl asked her, his smile a private one that spoke only to her.
“I do.” Her heart bet faster as she said those words. Could she be sure?
“May I?” he approached her and leaned closer.
“You may,” she told him, her voice barely audible.
“What the—”
Henry Hargrave watched in wonderment as the Earl took Elizabeth in his arms and kissed her as if they were the only two people in the room.
“Mr Hargrave,” the Earl said when he released Elizabeth, whose shining eyes and brilliant smile left no doubt of how she felt about the Earl’s bold advances. “Would you permit me to pay court to your esteemed daughter? I find that today, I have discovered both the solution to the West India docks crime, and a fiancée.”
“A fiancée?” sputtered her father. “My dear sir, now, let’s not rush into anything!”
But Elizabeth was in the Earl’s arms again, enfolded in his embrace, their lips joined in a kiss of rather more passion than convention allowed.
“I suppose I should be grateful that my daughter has provided the means by which her dowry is saved,” Hargrave muttered.
They did not hear him. Mr George watched and if one looked closely, one could see the very faintest trace of an approving smile on his impassive features.
The End
BONUS CHAPTER 1:
WINNING THE VISCOUNT’S HEART
ONE
As make-believe as fairy tales are, they give pretty young women a sense of vanity while in good fortune, and hope while suffering. Raised on the dreams of poetry and make-believe, Emmeline Knight had received a fair share of both. Despite being a gentleman’s daughter, she held herself loftily above the flirtations of those who shared her rank—and of those flirtations there were many. She instead dreamt of a prince charming, or at least a wealthy peer, who would sweep her off her feet into a world of more lavish living.