Dark Angel: Gentlemen of the Order - Book 4

by Clee, Adele

  Shoot? Shoot! She’d made no mention of a pistol.

  Silence ensued—a stalemate.

  Dante had no option but to make himself known lest Babington knock the pistol from Miss Sands’ hand and bludgeon her to death.

  “Lower your walking stick, Babington.” Dante shoved open the door and blocked the exit. “Do not make a bad situation worse.”

  Babington took one look over his shoulder and cursed. “Dante D’Angelo. Should you not be catching villains instead of hounding innocent men? Are you so eager for work, you’ve taken to inventing crimes?”

  “Inventing crimes? We’ve been collecting evidence against you for months. This little meeting is the culmination of our efforts.”

  Babington glanced at the drawing room window as if contemplating his escape. “You have me at a loss, D’Angelo. I saw Mrs Monroe’s advertisement and wished to purchase her ring.”

  “But you’ve paid with a cheque drawn on Sir James Esdaile’s bank,” Miss Sands said, keeping her pocket pistol aimed at the devious gentleman. “We know you do not have an account there. Therefore, you used fraudulent means to steal from Mrs Monroe. It’s a crime punishable by death.”

  Looking somewhat like a snared rabbit, Babington’s beady eyes darted about in their sockets. There was only one way to save his neck, and so he charged at Dante, tried to knock him to the floor in a desperate attempt to flee.

  Being used to brawling with much stronger men, Dante stood firm, looked for an opening and threw a punch that connected hard with Babington’s jaw. Babington flew back, landing on Mrs Monroe’s pink Aubusson rug.

  Dante was at the writhing devil’s side in seconds. He snatched his mother’s brooch from his coat pocket, grabbed Babington by the throat and forced him to look at the decorative heirloom.

  “You pawned this at McCarthy’s in Holborn along with Mrs Emery’s ormolu clock. You’ll tell me how you came by it, or by God, I shall beat you to death.”

  Hatred surged in Dante’s veins. Hatred tainted his blood.

  Babington tried to prise Dante’s vice-like fingers from his throat. “I’ve never seen it before.”

  “I don’t care if you stole it, if you were given it in exchange for some other criminal deed. But you will tell me how you happened to pawn a brooch that was ripped from my mother’s dress moments before she was murdered!”

  Miss Sands’ shocked gasp mirrored the surprise in Babington’s eyes. He clutched Dante’s hand in an attempt to catch his breath. “I—I cannot remember where I got the brooch.”

  “Tell him!” Miss Sands cried, darting from the chair to the floor. She aimed her pistol an inch above Babington’s manhood. “Accidents happen during a scuffle. Tell him what he wants to know, else I shall pull the trigger. How will you service your mistresses then?”

  The determination in her voice left Babington in no doubt she would follow through with her threat.

  “Wait! Wait! I’ll tell you. I stole it from a house in Wilson Street off Finsbury Square.”

  “Who lives there?” Dante’s heart pounded so fast he could barely focus. Despite numerous trips to Italy to dig into his father’s background, months of trawling through documents and estate ledgers, he had never found a motive for murder.

  “A man I met at the Blue Jade. He hosts wild parties, keeps company with the scoundrels in the demi-monde.”

  “What’s his name?” Miss Sands snapped before Dante could ask.

  “Mr Coulter. Benjamin Coulter.”

  Dante committed the name to memory. “Tell me where you found it. Were there any other items of value? What made you steal this one? And why the hell has a man in your position taken to robbing trinkets?”

  Again, Babington tugged at Dante’s hand. “You’re choking me.” When Dante relaxed his grip, the rogue gasped a few deep breaths. “I found it in his desk, in a locked drawer. I stole the first things I found of any value, the brooch and a cheroot case.”

  Dante’s blood ran cold. “Describe the case.”

  “I cannot recall—”

  Miss Sands cocked the pistol.

  “Wait! Wait! Black case. Gold trim. Lacquered papier mâché. A scene of a man on horseback surrounded by a pack of hunting dogs.”

  The description brought a vision of domestic bliss flashing into Dante’s mind. He sat with his parents around the dining table, knowing his mother was about to present his father with a gift.

  “I had it made in your likeness, my love.” His mother’s sweet voice filled his head, sending a warm glow to every cold corner of his heart. “And I know how you cherish those dogs.”

  His father captured her hand and brought her delicate fingers to his lips. “Not as much as I cherish you, il mio amore.” He’d looked at Dante and smiled. “Cherish you and our beloved boy.”

  The heat in Dante’s chest turned to gut-wrenching nausea. A sensation soon replaced by rage’s red mist. “What the hell did you do with the case?”

  Panic flashed in Babington’s soulless eyes. “It was of little value. I sold it to the owner of a trinket shop in Bermondsey.”

  “Of little value?” Dante snarled. “Of little value!”

  Lashing out was the only way to temper the devil’s wrath burning in Dante’s chest. His fist connected with Babington’s nose, breaking the bone. Blood trickled from his nostril, the colour of claret, dark and dirty, not as clean and pure as Dante’s mother’s blood.

  While Babington writhed and groaned, Dante pulled back his fist to throw a second punch, but Miss Sands grabbed his arm, tugged on his coat sleeve.

  “No! Let Mr Daventry and the magistrate deal with the matter. Hitting him won’t help you find the cheroot case.”

  She did not wait for a reply, but shot to her feet and hurried to the hall. Daventry, Sir Malcolm Langley—Chief Magistrate at Bow Street—and two constables were waiting in a carriage parked across the street. All four men followed Miss Sands into the house where she explained Babington’s attempt to defraud Mrs Monroe.

  “Mr Babington used the alias Mr Greaves, though he doesn’t have an account at Sir James Esdaile’s bank. Not only that, he admitted he stole items from a Mr Coulter who lives near Finsbury Square.”

  Damnation! Dante wished to keep that matter secret, at least until he’d visited Coulter and discovered how he’d come by the brooch and cheroot case.

  “I shall have all the evidence we’ve gathered sent to Bow Street.” Daventry addressed Sir Malcolm while the constables dragged the surprisingly quiet Babington to his feet and hauled him from the room. “Miss Sands and Mr D’Angelo will write a report and deliver it to your office this afternoon.”

  Miss Sands listened intently while Dante expressed concerns over Mr Babington’s motive. The man had no gambling debts, no wife or mistress, could afford to host lavish parties yet seemed desperate for funds. It made no sense.

  “The question we should ask is why Babington risked his neck to steal items worth paltry amounts.” Blackmail was the only motive to spring to Dante’s mind. “Babington must have spent a thousand pounds on champagne last week. So why risk the noose for a hundred and sixty pounds?”

  Dante might have asked Miss Sands for her opinion were it not for the sudden shouts and screams in the street. His heart shot to his throat—every instinct warning they had underestimated Babington’s cunning.

  Dante raced to the window. “What the devil?” A crowd had gathered on Newman Street, a circle of people all staring at the same spot on the pavement. Men gawped. Women turned their heads, one gripping her companion’s arm and pressing her horrified face to the sleeve of his coat. “I fear there’s been an accident.”

  The thud of booted footsteps rang through the hall. A constable appeared, blood dripping from his nose, his lip split. “Come quickly, Sir Malcolm,” he panted, supporting his arm as if it were broken at the elbow. “It’s the felon, sir.”

  Sir Malcolm took one look at the state of his man and cried, “You let the bounder escape?”

  “No,
sir. Well, yes, sir, but he—”

  “Which is it, Perkins?”

  Dante caught a glimpse of a body, heard the cries of the crowd. “What your man is trying to say, Sir Malcolm, is that Babington is dead.”

  Chapter 6

  It wasn’t the sight of the wooden handle protruding from Mr Babington’s blood-soaked chest that caused dismay. It wasn’t the man’s wide, lifeless eyes staring blankly at the heavens. Or that for one brief moment, Beatrice imagined seeing her father lying dead on the pavement. No. The tension radiating from Mr D’Angelo gave her the greatest cause for concern.

  “I’ve seen it a hundred times before,” Alice had said the day Beatrice returned to the Bull in the Barn tavern and asked for the woman’s help. “The man’s got bitterness in his blood. A sickness of the soul.”

  “What do you expect? His parents were murdered in front of him when he was eight years old. Witness accounts say he refused to let them wash his mother’s blood from his face.” Beatrice didn’t know why she felt a need to defend Mr D’Angelo, not after he’d stormed out of the coffeehouse without explanation, left her sitting alone in a booth. “Miss Trimble thinks he’ll be dead before spring. His coachman believes he’ll be dead within a week of finding his parents’ murderer.”

  Beatrice’s heart ached at the thought. Sadness marred Dante D’Angelo’s soul, not a sickness. And despite all reservations, she could not shake the feeling that her life’s purpose was to drag him from the darkness.

  “I can help him.”

  Alice disagreed. “Men like that don’t change. They skulk about in the devil’s lair, waiting for someone new to burn. Stay away. Leave him be.”

  “I can’t.”

  She’d made an excuse, given her own need for vengeance as a reason to forge a friendship with the tortured agent. But during his brief bouts of weakness, she’d glimpsed the frightened boy locked in a mental prison.

  “Then you’d best find a way of protecting yourself from the flames.”

  The whirring and clacking of a rattle tore Beatrice from her reverie. Amid the chaotic scene of men shouting and charging about the street, she snuggled beneath her blue pelisse and tried to focus on the gruesome spectacle.

  “Gather witness statements!” Sir Malcolm cried to the numerous constables who had appeared upon hearing the high-pitched racket. “How does a man escape custody and end up dead within minutes? We need a description of the assailant. Fetch something to cover the body until the coroner arrives. And move these people along, Perkins.”

  Mr Daventry drew Beatrice and Mr D’Angelo aside. The man’s dangerous aura made him almost as intimidating as Mr D’Angelo, except her heart didn’t flutter every time she met his gaze.

  “Return to Hart Street. I want to know exactly what happened during your time alone with Babington.” He faced Mr D’Angelo. “No more games. I want to know why the hell you’re keeping secrets.”

  “Perhaps Miss Sands can tell you. After all, you hired her to spy on me.”

  Mr Daventry slid Beatrice a look of displeasure, but said, “Good. I’m glad she told you. It means she’s placed her faith and trust in the fact you will do what is right.” He pulled his watch from his pocket and inspected the time. “I shall see you both in Hart Street at two o’clock. And I want the truth, D’Angelo, else I’ve no choice but to reconsider your position with the Order.”

  Mr D’Angelo mumbled his annoyance as soon as Mr Daventry was out of earshot. For a few seconds, he stared at the blood-soaked body while the constables jostled with dawdling bystanders. “No doubt you will tell him about my mother’s brooch, about the mysterious Mr Coulter and the fact your father was an enquiry agent.”

  “Not if you don’t want me to.” She’d be a fool to cross Mr Daventry when he paid her wages and provided safe lodgings. But her loyalty lay with the man who’d spent a lifetime suffering. “My advice is we tell Mr Daventry everything, that we ask for his support in solving our parents’ case. But I will respect your decision, will omit certain parts of the tale if that is your wish.”

  A curious look passed over his troubled features. “And risk dismissal? Risk going back to scrubbing vomit from the dusty boards of a tavern?”

  Beatrice shrugged. “On the battlefield, one follows orders or men die. I just hope your deserting days are over. Hope you’ll not abandon me to face the consequences alone.”

  The glance at his Hessian boots said he felt some remorse for his conduct at the coffeehouse. “Fight or flight. It’s a common response to a threat, I’m told.”

  “I pose no threat. But I came to London to find my father’s killer, and to escape the clutches of a madman. In the stews, people cannot afford to dwell on the tragedies of the past. I intend to follow their example, find the culprit and punish him—with or without you, Mr D’Angelo. Then I shall lay the past to rest and grant my father peace.”

  “I admire your spirit. The conscious mind strikes with steely determination. It is at night, when the devil resumes control, that one’s resolve falters.”

  “The devil is in control when one tells lies and keeps secrets. Any pious man will tell you so. I’m sure Mr Daventry would let us use my father’s notes to conduct an official investigation.”

  He made no reply but captured her elbow when the constables ushered them away from the scene. “Come. Let me escort you to the carriage. I shall meet you in Hart Street at two.”

  Panic tightened her throat. “You’re not coming with me?”

  Had the morbid events left him needing to drown his sorrows in a bottle of brandy? Worse still, did he seek satisfaction at the White Boar tavern? Did he intend to call on Mr Coulter without her?

  “In the absence of the usual distractions, I find walking beneficial.”

  “But it’s less than two miles to Hart Street, and we’re not due for a couple of hours.”

  “I shall walk until our meeting with Daventry.”

  Her legs turned to lead weights at the thought of leaving him. Was it because she kept inventing sad stories, casting him in the lead role?

  “May I accompany you?” She sounded like a desperate debutante keen to snare a husband. “You wished to strip me bare if I recall. I can walk with you while you delve into the dark recesses of my mind.”

  His rakish grin proved a welcome sight. “Intimate questions require an intimate setting, Miss Sands. A crowded, stench-filled street in London is hardly the place to expose your vulnerabilities.”

  “We can walk in silence if you prefer.”

  He hesitated.

  If you want to help him, give him a reason to care.

  Alice’s words echoed in Beatrice’s mind.

  “Please, Mr D’Angelo. I cannot shake the image of Mr Babington’s deathly stare, cannot help but draw comparisons with my father’s last moments.” It wasn’t a lie. No doubt she would struggle to sleep tonight. “Let us talk about horses or hats or something other than what has occurred today.”

  “It’s bitterly cold. Too cold to walk for hours. And you’ve no bonnet.”

  She thought to suggest stopping for a cup of chocolate, but refused to force herself on the man when he wished to be alone.

  “I understand. There’s no need to escort me to the carriage. I shall meet you at the office in Hart Street at two. Good day, Mr D’Angelo.”

  Without another word she turned and walked towards Little Castle Street where Mr Sharp and Mr Bower were waiting with the conveyance. She had the vehicle in sight before she heard footsteps pounding the pavement, heard the gentleman call her name.

  “Miss Sands!”

  She didn’t stop.

  “Miss Sands, wait!”

  She pasted a smile and swung around, though the sight of his masculine form racing towards her stole her breath.

  “Have you decided it’s too cold to walk, sir?”

  “Not at all,” he said, practically skidding to a halt. “But it was selfish of me to dismiss your plea for help. If it’s a distraction you seek, then I invit
e you to walk with me.”

  Beatrice suppressed the urge to clap her hands and celebrate her triumph. “Perhaps we could walk the length of Oxford Street and play a little game.”

  “I prefer playing games in private, Miss Sands.”

  “It’s not that sort of game.” Heavens, the man was an incorrigible flirt. “We examine the items in shop windows. You pick something to match my character, and I pick something to match yours. It’s a much better way of getting to know a person than asking the usual dull questions.”

  His warm smile chased away the biting chill in the air. “It sounds like an interesting way to pass the time. No doubt it will help us both forget our troubles.”

  He instructed Mr Sharp to return to Fitzroy Square, said he would take a hackney from Hart Street later. “We’ve decided to walk, Bower,” he informed Mr Daventry’s man. “You may follow us if that is your instruction. Though it seems ridiculous that Miss Sands cannot walk with me when I was the one who stopped Babington bludgeoning her to death.”

  It was a slight exaggeration, but Beatrice held her tongue.

  Mr Bower thought for a moment before climbing down from the box. “I’ll inform Mr Daventry you’re walking to Hart Street and meet you there.”

  The men exchanged glances, though nothing further was said.

  When invited to do so, Beatrice slipped her hand in the crook of Mr D’Angelo’s arm. The alluring smell of his cologne made her head spin, the scent evocative of pine forests in exotic locations, unreachable places halfway across the world. Or perhaps the heat of his body made her dizzy and caused the swirling in her stomach whenever they touched.

  “Are you sure you want to walk?” He must have noticed her unsteady gait.

  “I’m used to striding ahead, not promenading with a gentleman.”

  “We’re in no rush,” he said. “It will take but half an hour to cover the length of Oxford Street to the Tyburn Turnpike.”

  “In your ignorance, you have underestimated the lure of the game. It will take at least an hour to reach the turnpike.”