by Clee, Adele
“Mr D’Angelo, might I borrow you a moment?”
He closed a ledger and placed it back in the drawer. “We haven’t time to examine every book on the shelf.”
“I merely need you to take the candlestick and read a few titles.” Her intuition had served her well so far and would not fail her tonight. “You did say I might lead our investigation.”
“Miss Sands, we—”
“There are four shelves, sir. There isn’t a speck of dust on the highest shelf, look.” Beatrice ran her gloved fingers over the walnut wood. She did the same on the third shelf, leaving one white finger covered in grey fluff. “Please, it will take a minute, no more.”
He sighed as he captured the candlestick and rounded the desk. Muttering something incoherent, he stood on the footstool and held the candlestick aloft. “What am I looking for?”
“The least appealing title. The one you wouldn’t touch even if you were bored beyond belief.”
“The stool isn’t made to take my weight. I’m liable to snap the legs.” He wobbled on the stool for effect. “You’ll need to hold me steady lest I drop the candle and set the room ablaze.”
“When we’re done here, you may go in search of a lady to caress your muscular thighs, sir. Now read the titles.”
He chuckled to himself and then began his study of the leather spines. “Fashionable Infidelity. Most people would want to read that. The Nunnery for Coquettes. Hell, I might take that one with me. Agricultural History. Rural Economy of Lancashire. The—”
“Stop! Remove the last title.”
Mr D’Angelo did as instructed. Paper fell out and fluttered to the floor. Beatrice scooped up various receipts and a dog-eared trade card. One receipt was for a ring pawned at Crockett’s Emporium in Shoreditch.
“Perhaps the proprietor has no scruples when buying merchandise,” she said, handing the chit to Mr D’Angelo. “Though one wonders why Mr Babington kept it when it’s dated four months ago.”
Mr D’Angelo scanned the receipt before slipping it into his pocket. “Is that a calling card?”
“No, a trade card for a goldsmith in Cornhill. There’s a name scrawled on the back—Craddock, I think.”
“Mrs Emery visited a goldsmith in Cornhill for an appraisal on her clock, though Mr Craddock informed her it was of inferior quality, hence the reason she sold it privately.”
“Mr Walters did a similar thing.”
“Walters?” Mr D’Angelo placed the book back on the shelf and stepped down from the footstool.
“Yes. It occurred to me that Mr Babington might have conned others out of their heirlooms. I visited modistes, gathered old copies of the periodical, searched for a similar advertisement to that of Mrs Emery’s.” It had taken two days to find what she needed, another two days to gain Mr Walters’ direction from the publisher. “Mr Walters accepted the forged cheque but was too embarrassed to visit a police office.”
Dark, sensual eyes held her pinned. “Miss Sands, your deductive skills leave me somewhat breathless.”
“Why, thank you, sir.” She offered a serene smile, but her heart hopped about like a March hare. “Now we have proof of a connection, a visit to the goldsmith is necessary.”
“Agreed. I shall call at Howland Street at noon tomorrow. Be ready.”
Beatrice couldn’t help but give a relieved sigh. “You wish me to accompany you to Cornhill?”
“Daventry was right. Your insight is a help, not a hindrance. Nothing matters more than catching Babington, so it appears you’re stuck with me until we’ve solved this case.”
She hoped to be stuck with him a little longer than that.
“Then I shall make myself so indispensable you might ask me to assist you again.” Namely, in finding the murdering blackguard who’d shot his parents.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let us tackle problems as they arise.” He held the candle aloft and gave her figure his full consideration. “The first being how you might slip outside without me gawping at your charming trousers.”
Chapter 3
Dante stood amid the shadows opposite Babington’s house in Great Russell Street and watched Miss Sands climb into the carriage. It had taken sheer strength of will not to race across the narrow thoroughfare and punch the fellow trying to coax her back to the ballroom. Breaking the rake’s clammy hands would draw undue attention. Still, Dante had been about to intervene when Daventry’s man—a beast of a fellow named Bower—climbed down from atop his box and escorted the lady to safety.
With Bower acting as coachman, Daventry would receive a full account of Miss Sands’ whereabouts. Hence the reason Dante insisted on using his conveyance to ferry her to Cornhill tomorrow.
Strange he felt a tug in his chest as the carriage rattled away.
Strange he felt an odd connection to an innocent.
But they had both lost their mothers long ago. Both suffered at the hands of a conniving devil, suffered lasting effects from their traumas. Both had secrets.
Dante strode to his carriage, parked on nearby Caroline Street. Sharp shook himself awake, surprised his master had left the soiree before midnight, but presumed Dante had a rendezvous elsewhere.
“To Mrs Stanworth’s ball or Madame Babette’s, sir?”
“Neither. Take me home, Sharp.”
“Home?” The coachman’s chin dropped. “Home, sir?”
Dante didn’t venture home until his eyelids were heavy, his bones weak and weary, and he could barely stand.
He hesitated. The need to question Daventry about Miss Sands’ background was like an itch he couldn’t scratch. Gut instinct said Miss Sands had a hidden agenda, a compelling reason for stalking after him in the dark, and he’d not rest until he’d uncovered her secret.
“Take me to Little Chelsea. I wish to call upon Sloane.”
Sloane lived in a palatial pleasure dome, a place where Dante might easily silence his demons. They often drank until dawn, laughed so hard the euphoria lasted until midday. But Sloane had recently married, and a scene of devoted domesticity would likely make Dante retch. The same was true of Ashwood and Cole—married men with no interest in drinking and gambling and tupping lightskirts.
And so—like the moment Miss Sands sobbed in his arms and every fibre of his being fought against the intrusion—Dante had nowhere to go, nowhere to seek solace.
Well, there was a place where a man might forget his troubles.
“On second thoughts, take me to the White Boar.”
Sharp shifted nervously in the seat. “But you were there three nights ago, sir. Muscles take time to heal, to repair.”
Dante snorted. “After winning twice, do you think I’m due a beating?”
The White Boar was a noisy backstreet tavern near Leicester Square, its dank cellar a fighting house lit by medieval-style sconces and supervised by toothless men with thick necks. The den remained open throughout the night and was frequented by drunken bucks out to settle stupid wagers and prize-fighters looking for any face to pummel.
“Sir, your hands are still bruised, and it pays to rest between bouts.”
“I’ll rest when I’m dead.” He wouldn’t have long to wait, not when he was one step closer to finding the bastard who’d shot a helpless woman in front of her eight-year-old son. “I’m confident that won’t be tonight.”
Sharp’s sigh rang with concern. He gripped the reins and straightened in his seat. “One day soon I’ll be ferrying your coffin to the cemetery, to an unconsecrated burial ground for doomed souls.”
“The resurrectionists are always on the lookout for prime male specimens. I shall save you the trouble, have them collect my body before it’s thrown into a pit.”
“Happen you shouldn’t tempt fate. One day you might find a reason to live, and then you’ll be sorry.”
“Hardly.” Dante yanked open the carriage door. “I live for one thing and one thing only, Sharp, and it’s not for the day you stop complaining.”
No. Dante refused
to die before finding the murdering bastard who killed his parents. And when he did, by God, he would make him pay.
* * *
The house on Howland Street shared common characteristics with Miss Trimble—the thirty-year-old manager of the sanctuary for waifs and strays. Both presented a rather plain frontage, the red brick building being as dull as the woman’s brown dress and auburn hair. The black iron railings looked as rigid as the set of Miss Trimble’s chin. And yet amid the austere facade stood an extravagant first-floor balcony, a glimmer of sophistication to match Miss Trimble’s cultured air.
“Mr Bower must accompany Miss Sands during her investigations,” said the woman with unforgiving eyes.
Dante inclined his head respectfully. “Miss Sands is to accompany me to Cornhill. You may inform Lucius Daventry that she will remain under my protection for the entire day.”
Miss Trimble surveyed the cut of his coat as if he were an urchin begging for scraps. “Forgive me, Mr D’Angelo, but I cannot let Miss Sands leave without Mr Bower acting as chaperone.”
Chaperone? Miss Sands had survived in the slums for six months. She stalked after rakes in the dark, had seduced him with teasing glimpses of her tight trousers. Daventry was taking his responsibilities a little seriously.
Dante straightened his shoulders. “Miss Trimble, I can kill a man with a single blow. Miss Sands will be perfectly safe in my care.”
The woman glanced disapprovingly at the fresh gash above Dante’s brow bone. “You’re known for your recklessness, sir. You might not care if you live or die, but I have a duty to protect the ladies who reside here. Miss Sands will leave with Mr Bower or she will not leave at all.”
Miss Trimble stared down her pert nose. Hell, Newgate’s hulking guards were less intimidating. This refined spinster spoke as if Miss Sands were a timid wallflower, not a lady who caught villains for a living or embraced rogues in secluded corners of the garden.
“In light of the fact it will take hours to receive Daventry’s permission, I have no choice but to agree to your demands, madam. Bower will accompany us to Cornhill so he might play nursemaid.”
Miss Trimble’s smile was as cold and crisp as a winter’s morn. “Then I shall inform Miss Sands you’re here.”
Dante waited in the drawing room like an eager suitor—except he’d not come with a pretty posy, had sinful and downright wicked thoughts, not honourable notions of courting and marriage.
When Miss Sands entered the room, humming a country ballad and with a light skip in her step, her springtime smile proved infectious. Dante rarely found something to be joyous about at midday, yet he felt an alarming flicker of enthusiasm.
“Mr D’Angelo. I’m pleased to find you’re a man of your word.” Her smile faded the instant she noticed the slight cut above his brow. She rushed forward. “Good heavens! What happened to your eye?” Disregarding propriety, the lady grabbed his hands and examined his knuckles. “Sir, these are fresh bruises. Tell me you didn’t confront Mr Babington with your suspicions.”
Dante stared at her hands, so pale and delicate, while his were an autumn palette of purple and green. The obvious difference held his attention, as did the tenderness of her touch. Still, it brought to mind the memory of his mother’s dainty fingers gripping his tightly while begging for their lives.
“No, Miss Sands. I worked through my frustrations at a fighting den in the cellar of the White Boar.” Perhaps he would revisit the tavern tonight.
“A fighting den?” Cornflower blue eyes scanned his face. “Do you go there often?”
The hint of concern in her voice roused his ire. He did not want her worrying about his welfare. “Does it matter?”
She arched a coy brow. “If you do, and this is the extent of your injuries, perhaps it’s worth me making a wager.”
A laugh burst from his lips. It was the last thing he expected her to say. “A man looks for ways to cope with his demons. I would rather rise to a challenge than lounge about in a laudanum-induced stupor.”
“Better to feel something real,” she agreed, releasing his hands.
“Indeed.”
Pain was real. Pain stoked the flames of vengeance.
“Let me know when you plan to return to the White Boar and I shall accompany you, assuming they allow women to watch men brawl. I cannot work as an agent forever. Gambling on you, sir, might help me secure a nice little nest-egg.”
“You’ve never seen me fight, yet you sound sure I’ll win.”
“As you have no intention of dying just yet, logic says you won’t take unnecessary risks. Therefore, you only fight if you know you can win.”
“Exactly so, Miss Sands.”
He wasn’t an imbecile.
Just a man trying to contain the devil’s wrath.
“We agreed to barter secrets, madam,” he said, steering the subject away from the reasons he eased his distress in the boxing ring. “Now you know one of mine, it’s only fitting you reveal one of yours.”
She straightened the collar of her red wool redingote. “There is something I must tell you, but let us wait until we’re seated in the carriage and you have no choice but to curb your temper.”
Every muscle in his body tensed. “Then we should make haste, Miss Sands. A secret is one thing. A secret involving me is something highly disturbing.”
Miss Sands sensed the shift in his mood, the black mist of resentment swirling in his chest. Most women would swoon beneath the weight of his stare, yet she reached out and touched his upper arm.
“Your eyes are as black as Satan’s heart. Presuming the worst, experiencing negative emotions before I have made my revelation, is considered unhealthy.”
“Unhealthy?” A smile formed before he could prevent it.
“Indeed. We should hurry to the carriage before blood rushes to your head and you take a turn.” She led him into the hall, where she teamed her red coat with a black bonnet and gloves—a combination as striking as the woman herself. “No doubt you’re keen for me to ease your misery.”
He thought to tease her, suggest ways she could soothe his woes, but said nothing as he retrieved his hat from the butler, whose fists were meatier than any he’d encountered in the ring.
After a brief conversation with Bower, who explained he had to abide by Lucius Daventry’s instructions, the man climbed atop the box to sit with Sharp while Dante assisted Miss Sands into the carriage.
The need to press her for information danced like the devil inside, but he waited patiently until they’d discussed the sudden drop in temperature and Miss Trimble’s overcautious nature.
“Is this a form of torture, Miss Sands? Am I to wait until we arrive at Cornhill before you reveal your secret?”
Her watery smile faded. “I must be honest with you, Mr D’Angelo. After everything I’ve been through, I cannot abide deceit. If we’re to work together, it’s important you know the truth.”
“Which is?”
She inhaled to bolster her courage. “I’ve been assigned two cases.”
“Two?”
“I’m to find the villain who defrauded Mrs Emery, and I’m to discover why certain elements of the case are important to you. Mr Daventry is concerned and believes you’re keeping something from him.”
Dante couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m your second case?”
“You are, though I shall have nothing to report now I’ve made my confession. Mr Daventry will think me useless.” She glanced out of the window as if the bleak weather reflected her future. “Perhaps I should wager on your next bout, for I doubt I shall make a good enquiry agent.”
Something strange happened to him when in Miss Sands’ company. She said things to dispel his anger. Did things to calm his inner inferno.
“Don’t be annoyed with Mr Daventry,” she continued when he failed to respond. “He feels a great responsibility to those who risk their lives in the name of justice. But he also thinks of you as his friend.”
Dante would have let bitterness
fester for hours until he reached the same conclusion. Miss Sands had saved him the trouble.
“As my friend, he should have come to me directly.”
“Would you have told him the truth?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “No. Because instinct says you’ve discovered something about your parents’ murder and nothing is more important to you than that.”
Dante sat back in the seat and observed this mystifying woman. It was as if she lived in his head and could hear every unspoken word. Like a silent thief, she’d entered his psyche and stolen his guarded secrets.
“Based on your insightful remark, you must have studied me for some time, Miss Sands.” She must have watched him from a distance, followed him about town. Yet that did not explain how she knew of his recent discovery.
“I know what it’s like to live with unanswered questions. Questions that burrow away like weevils until you’re nothing but a host for them to feed on.”
Any man listening to her weird ramblings might have her committed to an asylum. But Dante was no ordinary man. Everything she said made perfect sense.
“My father was murdered, too, Mr D’Angelo.” She took a moment to compose herself, to purse her lips and fight back tears. “My family kept it hidden for many years. I shall tell you more about it on the journey back to Howland Street. The details may be of some interest.”
Why would he be interested in another man’s death when he had enough misery of his own? But he knew from the tone of her voice this was a means for her to barter.
“The details? In exchange for what, Miss Sands?”
“For you telling me what you did not tell Mr Daventry.”
Dante made no reply. All this talk of death roused unwelcome images, images usually suppressed by a bottle of brandy, a fistfight, or a good f—
“As your partner in this case, it is only prudent we—”
“Morbid talk leaves me restless, Miss Sands. Restlessness leaves me seeking stimulation. I agree to this bargain, agree to reveal yet another secret. But in return, I want something from you.”