by Clee, Adele
“Earlier this evening, I gave your master documents relating to the death of his parents. When he left me, he had the look of a man who might murder someone, if not himself. When a man dies alone at home, surely you know the butler is considered the most likely suspect.”
The man rolled his eyes and was not the least bit intimidated.
“I shall tell the magistrate you refused me entrance, which is why I had no option but to brandish my pocket pistol.” Beatrice aimed the weapon, and the poor devil jumped in fright. “If Mr D’Angelo wants me to leave, I will do so. You have my word. Now take me to him.”
Fear and confusion marred the man’s wrinkled features. Perhaps he thought her a spurned lover come to put a lead ball in Mr D’Angelo’s chest.
Beatrice sighed. She lowered her weapon. “Take the pistol. Keep it until I’m ready to leave. I come with the intention of helping Mr D’Angelo through his torment, not harming him. All I ask is that you give him the choice.”
He took the pistol from her outstretched hand but did not welcome her inside.
“If he does himself an injury, I shall hold you responsible.”
With a huff of resignation, he said, “Follow me, miss.”
She ambled behind, waited while he knocked on the drawing room door. Upon receiving no reply, she said, “Open it. I need to know all is well. Blame me if he’s annoyed.”
The butler inclined his head and pushed open the door.
Mr D’Angelo was sitting on the floor before a roaring fire, legs stretched out in front of him, his head tilted back against the sofa, his arms splayed wide. He wore nothing but a white open-necked shirt and tan breeches. Paper littered the floor, her father’s notes strewn about the rug. The leather case lay but a few feet from the door, as if he’d hurled it across the room in a vicious temper.
The butler cleared his throat. “There is someone here to see you, sir. I informed the lady you were averse to visitors, but she drew a pocket pistol and demanded an audience.”
Mr D’Angelo did not move or open his eyes.
Panic seized her throat. She pushed past the butler and raced into the room. “Dante? Dante!”
“Miss Sands is here, sir.”
Slowly, Dante opened his eyes and lowered his head. Thank the Lord! But her relief faded when he considered her through the eyes of a man who’d received a hundred lashes. Pain—raw and brutal—swam in irises as dark as death’s door.
Beatrice placed the bottle on the floor, shrugged out of her cloak and thrust the garment at the butler. The servant glanced at her trousers and fine lawn shirt but kept an impassive expression.
“Leave us,” she said, “and close the door.”
“Sir?” The poor fellow was clearly conflicted.
“Do as the lady says, Bateson. Miss Sands may stay.”
“Of course, sir.”
The butler left, though Mr D’Angelo did not move or say a word.
Pull him out of the darkness.
“I brought liquor as I thought you’d need it.” She snatched the bottle off the floor and wiped away the dust with her shirt sleeve. “Well, at least I hope it’s liquor. I found it in the pantry.” She pulled the stopper and sniffed. “It smells like brandy and cherries.” She swigged from the bottle and almost choked when the fiery liquid scorched her throat. “Heavens. It tastes like brandy but not at all like cherries.”
By some miracle, he managed a smile. “Let me try.” He took the bottle, swallowed a mouthful and winced. “Two sips of this concoction and you’ll lose sight of your inhibitions. Indeed, I’m surprised you trust yourself to get drunk with me.”
She didn’t trust herself at all in his company. “I thought liquor would be a tempting diversion. I feared you may have lost your mind and so sought a means to help you resist lustful temptations.”
His laugh carried a hint of warning. “When I’m of sound mind I have to curb lustful fantasies of you, Miss Sands. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll take your brandy and hurry home.”
He did an excellent job of masking his pain when in company, but she would not leave him alone with his nightmares.
“That’s why I’ve worn trousers. I thought fiddling with a man’s buttons might dampen your ardour.” She couldn’t help but look at the buttons on his breeches, at the muscular thighs fighting against the material.
“Madam, they’re so loose on the hips I’d have them down with one tug. And I think you’ve forgotten the fact I find them as alluring on a woman as bare legs.”
She sat on the floor amid the scattered paper. “Be that as it may, I came to offer my assistance. I thought you should have company when examining the notes. If you prefer, we can drink while you tell me of your wild escapades, and I shall tell you about my experiences in the rookeries.”
Those black eyes softened. “I see. As a gentleman, you know I would never take advantage of a lady in her cups.”
“Precisely.” She grabbed the bottle from his hand and took a sip. “Though you may have to see me safely home. Mr Daventry will be most displeased if I’m arrested for disorderly conduct.”
He watched her for a moment. “Were you always like this? Have you always looked to the injured and tried to heal them? Or has the time spent in the rookeries changed you in some inexplicable way?”
Life in the rookeries had strengthened her resolve. She had seen real struggles, good people forced to commit crimes. But like a ripple effect, one kind deed touched many, though it was often those with nothing who were most benevolent.
“In helping others, we help ourselves. Catching the murderer is important to both of us, and the darkness isn’t so terrifying when you’re holding someone’s hand.” She glanced at the discarded documents. “So, as the lead agent in our case, I—”
“You were the lead agent in Mrs Emery’s case, not this one.”
“Then if you wish to take charge of our new case, I suggest you give me instruction else I’m liable to ride roughshod over you, make you appear totally incompetent.”
Any amusement in his eyes died. “Though loath to admit it, you were right. I can no longer deal with this alone. How can you read it and remain focused, objective?”
She had cried herself to sleep for weeks upon learning how her father died. Reading of Daphne D’Angelo’s problems had touched her deeply, too. It didn’t help that her aunt had kept it from her all these years, that she had no one but her depraved uncle to answer her questions.
“It gets easier. Like you, I dealt with it alone. But the need to unearth the truth and continue the work my father started is the only way to bring peace.”
He fell silent for a time.
“So, as lead agent on the case, what do you propose we do, Miss Sands?”
“Lead agent?” Beatrice frowned. “But Mr Daventry said—”
“It will be our secret for the time being.” He reached for the brandy and sipped from the bottle. “You can approach the facts objectively, whereas I often struggle to raise a rational thought. You’ve committed every word written in these documents to memory. You’re logical while I’m irrational.” He lowered his gaze and sighed. “Sometimes, a man needs someone to take his hand and lead him through the darkness.”
Chapter 9
As a man who lived life as if it were worthless, Dante never asked for help. As a man free from the shackles of familial obligation, he did not rely on anyone for support. Distrust thumped in the hole left by his withered heart. Hatred lived there, too, hatred for the fiend who’d stolen more than a pretty brooch, hatred for the grandparents who’d mistreated a grieving boy.
The boy is of inferior stock. What use is he to me?
And yet Dante had chosen to place his faith in a woman who wore ill-fitting trousers and drank brandy that tasted like vinegar.
The reasons why were too complex to fathom, but she’d arrived at his darkest hour, her bright smile and witty banter like a ray of hope—a beacon of light.
“Then as the lead agent I wish to app
roach the matter using the fulcrum technique,” she said, sitting beside him on the floor as if his pain were hers. “But Mr Daventry is right. There must be absolute honesty between us.”
“The fulcrum technique?” Had she invented the term merely to raise a smile to his lips? “As in using a prop?”
“No. It’s a matter of balance. We discuss something that may cause distress, memories you’ve buried and wish to avoid, followed by something unrelated. A topic of your choosing.”
Ah, she referred to her earlier suggestion of bartering for information. “And you will answer honestly when it’s my turn to ask questions?”
“What was it you said? Intimate questions require an intimate setting?” She gazed around the candlelit room. “I have nothing to hide from you, Dante. Ask me anything if it will help you recall what happened the day our lives took a tragic turn.”
She didn’t wait for an answer but stood, set about gathering the strewn paper, recovering the leather case from where he’d flung it across the room in a fit of anger.
He watched every movement, studying her figure, examining the evidence. She’d dressed in a hurry, wore nothing beneath the unshapely white shirt she’d tucked into her trousers. Now and then, he caught the outline of her nipples, a sight that made his mouth water more than rum-soaked marzipan ever could.
“Are we to do it on the floor or shall we move to the sofa?” she asked.
The devil in his ear whispered, Oh, I’d do you anywhere, love.
“I’ve been here so long, I’m not sure I have the will to stand. And you should be careful with your phrasing when speaking to a scoundrel. A man might get the wrong impression.”
Miss Sands glanced heavenward and tutted. “The floor it is, then.” She sat down, clutching the leather case to her chest and ruining the view. “Now, I’m going to start at the beginning and repeat the events that occurred before the fatal shooting.”
Nausea roiled in his stomach, but he nodded.
“Your mother met Alessandro D’Angelo at the opera. They were in adjacent boxes, and it’s said they never took their eyes off each other all night.”
Dante swallowed hard. “I do not recall reading that in the notes.”
“No. While living with Alice, I made enquiries into their background.” Her smile held a hint of pity. “They fell in love, madly in love. Lord Deighton intended his daughter to marry Lord Mooney’s eldest son, but she eloped with her Italian lover, and her father never spoke to her again.”
The evil bastard had disowned her, forbade her from using her title when she married a commoner. Above all, the earl liked donning a periwig, playing judge and delivering damning sentences.
“My grandfather took me in when my parents died and made me pay dearly for her error. You’ll not have heard that while making your enquiries, Miss Sands, but I carry the scars, nonetheless.”
She reached for his hand and gripped it tightly. “Trust me. It is better to expel the devil than bear the weight of his wickedness.”
“Who told you that, the vicar?”
“No, Alice Crouch. When running a tavern in Whitechapel, one prays for salvation.”
Dante laughed. Miss Sands had a way of calming his inner beast. He brought her hand to his lips and brushed his mouth across her knuckles. It was the only way he knew to say thank you.
“Your parents spent a few months in Italy but returned to live in Tidworth, Wiltshire,” she continued but did not pull her hand from his grasp. “When you came of age, you sold the estate and purchased this property.”
“Who wants to live in a house full of ghosts?” The horrific scenes of that fateful night haunted him whenever he ventured along that dark, lonely road.
“I believe the problems started a year before the fatal shooting. The housekeeper remembers a man calling at the house when your father was in Italy on business. Mrs Pickering said she heard your mother shouting and then crying and Daphne threw the fellow out.”
Dante firmed his jaw and released her hand. “If you’re implying my mother was involved in a clandestine affair, I suggest you think again.”
Miss Sands took the fat-bottomed bottle, swigged the foul spirit and panted to cool the burn. “I’m not implying anything, but we must keep our minds open to all possibilities. Even so, I wrote to Mrs Pickering. She had nothing but praise for the couple, said they were totally devoted.”
“They were.”
“Then, we must presume this gentleman knew something damning. Something about your father’s business dealings.”
Dante found it hard to believe either of his parents had committed an offence that might have led to their murder.
“My uncle Lorenzo took control of my father’s estates and business ventures until I came of age.” He had wanted to take Dante to live with him in Italy, but the earl had used the full weight of his power to fight the decision. “Lorenzo examined every letter, every ledger. I’ve since sifted through the documents and found nothing incriminating. He interviewed stewards and housekeepers, concluded my father was a good and honest man whose life was snatched from him all too soon.”
Dante’s pulse raced as he battled with the memories, the injustice. The demons were stirring, getting ready to incite war. He needed to calm them if he hoped to make progress tonight.
“Then we must focus on your mother. In my father’s notes—”
“Enough! Enough, Miss Sands. Please.” He dragged his hand through his hair, softened his tone. “The balance seems heavily weighted on one side. It’s my turn to probe your mind.”
“Ask me anything, Mr D’Angelo.” She sounded confident, but her long lashes fluttered wildly. He almost heard the portcullis come crashing down as she mentally withdrew to a place of safety. And one couldn’t help but notice they both used formal address when battling emotions.
He might have asked if she’d had a good life until her aunt’s death, if she remembered her father fondly, but it would bring them back to the case and he needed a moment to catch his breath.
“Tell me about life at the Bull in the Barn.”
“There’s not much to tell.”
He suspected the opposite was true. “Did you feel safe there?”
The muscles in her cheeks twitched and distress lines formed on her brow. In those few silent seconds, he imagined a smoke-filled tavern where grubby men tugged at her skirts and made lewd suggestions.
“Safer than I felt huddled around a brazier in a dank alley. But it’s loud and rowdy. One’s nerves are constantly on edge.” She looked to the bottle on the floor between them. “Drink makes some men merry, some men monsters. But no one crosses Alice Crouch, and she took care of me.”
For some reason, he felt immense gratitude to the madam of the tavern. “Did you not think to seek me out? Did you not think to approach me, explain our connection?” Would he have listened? Would he have treated her differently had she not been in Daventry’s employ?
“I thought about it. I came to the Order’s office and saw you standing in the street, laughing with Mr Sloane. But my uncle said people blamed my father for what happened, that I was the daughter of a traitor, and so I focused my efforts on reading the notes, trying to think of a way to prove his innocence.” Her shoulders slumped. “Mr Daventry is right. My father is a suspect. I must assume he had a motive for not firing at the fiends, for not protecting your family, at least until I prove otherwise.”
Damn!
Without realising it, he was back in the carriage, snippets of that dreadful night darting about in his mind.
“Your father is innocent, that much I do know.”
She jerked to attention. “Innocent? Why? How do you know?”
Dante swallowed past the large lump in his throat. “Mr Watson gave my father his pistol and told him to wait in the carriage.”
I’ll distract them. Take the boy, Daphne. Take the boy and run.
“Watson climbed down and tried to reason with them, but they shot him.” The bang, the sinister laughs,
the screams, all filled his head. “So you see, your father died trying to protect my family. Despite the gossip, I believe he was an honest man, too.”
Tears sprang to her eyes, yet she couldn’t help but smile.
“Please don’t cry,” he pleaded … begged.
Don’t cry, Mama.
Bloody hell!
“Let’s return to the topic of life in the tavern.” He took a swig of the rotten brandy, for it was too much effort to stand and pour a decent drink.
She dried her eyes, seemed to understand what he needed, seemed to understand him like no other woman could. The realisation left him wanting her more than he cared to admit. More than he’d wanted anyone.
“Are there any other rogues I need to beat for disrespecting you?” The stirring in his loins said he’d have to throttle himself if he didn’t rein in his desire.
She managed a weak laugh. “You’d have to fight fifty men. In the rookeries, women make money any way they can. You cannot blame the men for making the usual assumptions.”
When a man was at war with the world, he blamed everyone.
“You’re three-and-twenty. Have you ever kissed a man?”
Her eyes widened, and he knew she had never kissed anyone freely, only the thieving reprobate who’d stolen a taste of her lips.
“Is it not time for me to ask you a question?” Her light tone belied the tension radiating from every muscle in her body.
“You may ask me a question when you’ve answered mine.”
The resistance to confess was evident in her taut features. After exhaling deeply, she said, “I have felt but one man’s lips on mine, but I would call it an assault, an assault on my person and my morals.”
Oh, when he ventured to Rochester, Dante would knock her uncle’s teeth down his throat and watch while the devil gnawed his own intestines.
“Have you ever met a man you wanted to kiss?”
She glanced at the open neck of his shirt. “Is this your idea of stripping me bare? Exposing my secrets? Revealing my scars?”
“Not all scars are visible.” Dante wasn’t sure why he stood, why he dragged his shirt over his head to reveal his bruised torso, but if this was to be a discussion about monsters, an exorcism of sorts, then it was only fitting he mentioned the deceased Earl of Deighton.