Dark Angel: Gentlemen of the Order - Book 4

by Clee, Adele

  The reverend waited until the villain was out of earshot before hurrying forward. “You gave him too much information. Did I not caution you about mentioning names and places? I shall have to report it to the Keeper.”

  “It’s of no consequence now.” She would just have to pray Mr Manning dangled from the scaffold sometime soon. “But do what you must.”

  The reverend continued muttering his concern while escorting them to the entrance, but all Beatrice could think about was being free of the stinking place, taking Miss Trimble home, making her tea and offering to listen to her harrowing tale.

  “Sir Malcolm requested a rough transcript of the meeting,” the reverend revealed. “And I shall ensure you’re kept abreast of proceedings here.”

  He meant he would clang the death knell if Mr Manning were released.

  Beatrice thanked him, let him bless her soul and recite a passage about courage from the scriptures. No doubt she would be in his prayers tonight.

  Miss Trimble glanced up and down Old Bailey Street. “Where is Mr Bower with the carriage?”

  The reverend followed her gaze. “A constable will have moved him along, Miss Trimble. I suspect he’s parked on Newgate Street.”

  They bid the reverend good day. Beatrice snuggled into her pelisse and walked with Miss Trimble towards Newgate Street. Neither spoke. Her horrific experiences clearly occupied the poor woman’s mind, whereas Beatrice desperately tried to overcome her disappointment at not securing a name.

  “You didn’t need to answer his questions,” she said.

  Miss Trimble sighed. “No. But it felt liberating to say it aloud. Though I do not wish to discuss it further and must insist we tell Mr Daventry I invented the tale.”

  Beatrice did not wish to pry. “Of course.”

  “Mr Manning toyed with us. He had no intention of revealing the name of your father’s client.”

  A whipster? A fox hiding in the warren?

  “From the clues, we know the client is a devious fellow, cunning, though that applies to half of the men in London.”

  It was then that their carriage pulled up alongside them. Well, Beatrice had presumed it was Mr Bower until she looked atop the box and saw the jarvey. The shifty fellow sat hunched beneath the depths of a blue greatcoat, his wide-brimmed hat pulled low so she could see nothing but a bush of ginger side-whiskers.

  The carriage door flew open, taking them by surprise. It was not as surprising as seeing the shiny muzzle of a pistol aimed in their direction, not as surprising as the occupant’s identity.

  “Get in!” He glared at Beatrice and cocked his weapon. “Climb inside, else I shall shoot your companion. Shoot her dead.”

  * * *

  Dante withdrew his pocket watch and noted the time. He thought the mantel clock might be fast, for Beatrice was never late, and Bower knew Daventry hated tardiness.

  Daventry caught Dante’s eye, then dropped his gaze to the fresh cut on Dante’s knuckle. “Does Miss Sands know we were to meet in Hart Street at three o’clock?”

  “She had an errand to run, which must be the reason she’s delayed.”

  So why did the knots in his stomach clench so tightly he could barely breathe? Why did he feel the need to murder someone? Was it merely that his blood still pumped wildly after putting Benjamin Coulter on his arse?

  “Then we may as well begin.” Daventry stood near the fireplace, surveying the agents seated on the plush sofas. “I questioned Babington’s servants. They all despised him, though none of them recall hearing anything the night a man ransacked his property. However, I heard a whisper that the footman is the brother of Lady Deighton’s chambermaid. I’ll mention it to Sir Malcolm, unless you have any objection, D’Angelo.”

  “No. No objection.”

  His grandmother had made her bed, and she could damn well lie in it.

  Cole placed his empty coffee cup on the low table in front of him and motioned to the leather case. “I’ve studied Henry Watson’s notes. We’re wrong to assume the caller visited Farthingdale before D’Angelo’s father hired the enquiry agent. Mrs Pickering’s statement isn’t dated.”

  Dante sat forward. “Let me explain what I’ve discovered since leaving you yesterday. It will answer many of our questions, and then Sloane can give us Mrs Pickering’s account.”

  They all nodded and gave Dante their full attention.

  Where to begin?

  So much had happened. They’d uncovered so many secrets and lies, and yet the most significant development was that Dante believed himself in love with Beatrice Sands. Love! He almost scoffed aloud. Yet he could not deny what was blatantly obvious.

  “Coulter visited Farthingdale. He believes he is Lady Deighton’s illegitimate son. As well as stealing the brooch, Babington took incriminating letters from Coulter’s drawer, though he didn’t know Babington was the thief until Miss Sands told him.”

  Dante told his colleagues about Coulter being the man who saved his life due to his timely arrival at the murder scene, about finding the letters at Crockett’s Emporium, about the meeting with his grandmother.

  They listened intently.

  “After speaking to my grandmother, it occurred to me that I failed to ask Coulter about the attack on my mother.”

  “It happened two hundred yards from Coulter’s front door,” Ashwood stated.

  “Yes, and now I know why.” Dante flexed his fingers, clenched his aching fist. “Coulter is partly to blame. He was bedding Mrs Killen, his friend’s wife. The woman confessed to her husband during a violent row. Enraged, Mr Killen stormed over to Wilson Street, saw my mother leaving and presumed she was another one of Coulter’s strumpets.”

  “So he followed her,” Daventry said, “did to her what he wanted to do to his wife.” He paused. “Did Coulter not give chase?”

  “Coulter didn’t know Mr Killen was outside his house. He heard the commotion in the street but never gave it a thought. Mrs Killen told him what happened. The woman said she was finally free of her husband. That he’d come home, packed a valise, took all the valuables he could carry and booked passage to France.”

  “And so you hit Coulter,” Daventry said.

  “I hit him because he failed to mention it when I questioned him yesterday.” And because someone had to pay for hurting Daphne D’Angelo. “And because he kept his mouth shut, even though he knew the identity of the perpetrator. He let my mother believe the countess was responsible.”

  They all fell silent while their logical minds assembled the pieces of the puzzle.

  Ashwood reached for the pile of papers on the table. “Before Sloane speaks, there is something I need to tell you. Something I’d prefer to say before Miss Sands arrives.”

  Dante’s heart sank.

  He prayed Ashwood didn’t have evidence against Henry Watson.

  Ashwood flicked through the pages. “This is a list of names taken from a book found beneath the boards in Manning’s house in Gower Street. For obvious reasons, Sir Malcolm has the original.” He glanced at Dante. “Henry Watson’s name is listed, so is his address in Winchfield. The village is located two miles from the murder scene.”

  Hellfire!

  “So, Watson owed Manning money.” If only the Lord would strike Dante down, so he never had to tell Beatrice the news she’d been dreading.

  “They found account ledgers, but they only date back twelve years,” Ashwood said. “We’ve no way of knowing if Watson struggled to pay his debt, or if there was a debt at all. The names were simply listed alphabetically in a book.”

  Dante looked at Sloane. He wanted to ask about Farthingdale. Had the new owners kept his parents’ belongings? Might they let him visit, tour the house and grounds? He could manage that with Beatrice by his side.

  “What did Mrs Pickering say?”

  Sloane consulted his notes. “As Cole quite rightly pointed out, we were wrong about the incident at Farthingdale. I’ve sketched a timeline, but the crux of it is that Coulter came to see Daphn
e D’Angelo in December 1804. The gentleman gave his name and spent two hours there. Daphne escorted him to his carriage, and they agreed to speak again when Alessandro returned from Italy.”

  Dante was confused. “But in Mrs Pickering’s first statement, she spoke of an argument, said my mother threw the gentleman out.”

  “That’s a separate incident that occurred in the following September, three months before they died. Alessandro was in Italy. Mrs Pickering said he visited his homeland once a year, but had to make the extra journey because of a business matter. He’d already delayed the trip because your mother was struggling after losing their unborn child. They didn’t expect to be blessed with another, and she took it quite hard.”

  Dante coughed. The choking feeling came upon him, as if he were being throttled from within. He glanced at the decanters on the drinks table. The amber liquid glistened against the crystal, but Dante closed his eyes to the temptation and let the pain wash through him.

  The men were not ignorant of Dante’s plight. They sat silently, waiting for him to gather his wits and catch his breath.

  He met Sloane’s gaze and nodded for him to continue.

  “As I said, your mother received another caller while Alessandro was away. The gentleman refused to give his name. After an argument, Daphne threw him out. She told the housekeeper the man was a devil and a crook, and that she would write to inform Mr Watson. She said if he should call again, Mrs Pickering was to get the gamekeeper to fire a lead ball at the man’s arse.”

  Dante managed a smile. Just like Beatrice, Daphne D’Angelo would have fired the shot herself had she a weapon. He glanced at the empty seat beside him. If he lost Beatrice, the void would be as huge as the one left by his parents—perhaps infinitely bigger.

  “Was Mrs Pickering able to describe the caller?” Someone else must have learnt about Coulter’s claim. What other motive could there be for blackmail?

  “He was tall, a man of good breeding, though he arrived on horseback, not by carriage. Mrs Pickering took it upon herself to have a groom saddle a horse and follow the fellow.”

  “Was he local to the area?” Cole asked.

  “The groom followed him to a coaching inn five miles away, learnt the man hailed from Hampshire but nothing more.”

  “Hampshire.” Dante sat back, his mind assembling all the likely possibilities and coming up with only one. “Ashwood, see if Manning has John Sands listed in his notebook.”

  Ashwood scanned the pages before stopping abruptly. “Yes, John Sands of Winchfield. Forgive me, D’Angelo. I received this list an hour ago, and the sergeant at Bow Street only mentioned Henry Watson’s name.”

  Had John Sands read his brother-in-law’s notebooks, blackmailed Dante’s mother to gain funds to pay his debt to Manning? It made sense. But how did the crook come to know Manning in the first place?

  He might have voiced his opinion were it not for the fact someone had taken to hammering the front door knocker repeatedly.

  Mrs Gunning shouted for the person to wait as she marched through the hall, ranting beneath her breath. Then a muffled conversation ensued, but the female voice sounded panicked.

  Miss Trimble burst into the room, and they all stood.

  “Miss Trimble?” Daventry stepped forward and took hold of the woman’s trembling hands. “What is it? Have you come from Howland Street?”

  Her cheeks were red from the cold, and she fought to catch her breath.

  “It’s Miss Sands,” she gasped.

  Dante’s heart missed a beat.

  “We were outside Newgate, and—”

  “Newgate!” Dante cried. “Newgate?”

  “Wait, D’Angelo,” came Daventry’s instruction. “Let her speak.”

  Miss Trimble gave a quick recap of events leading up to the moment a man waved a pistol at Miss Sands and forced her into a hackney coach, then she described the attacker—described John Sands.

  Dante’s blood ran cold.

  “I ran to Mr Bower who was parked on Newgate Street, gave him a description of the jarvey, and he gave chase. He told me to come to Hart Street, and he would send word as soon as he finds them.”

  Daventry gestured to the drinks tray. “Cole, pour Miss Trimble a sherry.” He drew the woman to a chair and made her sit. “What time was this?”

  “We met with Mr Manning at two o’clock.”

  Nausea rolled through Dante, making him dizzy, making him want to retch. John Sands must have lost his mind. Yet, he didn’t think the man would kill his niece. No. Once he discovered the nets were closing in on him, he’d be more inclined to flee.

  “What the hell do we do now?”

  Daventry raised a hand. “We wait. We wait for Bower’s note, then we act accordingly. Bower knows what to do in these—”

  “Wait? I’ll not sit here while Beatrice is in trouble.”

  “D’Angelo. I lost an agent, a dear friend, because I arrived too late. I arrived late because I acted too quickly, made mistakes. Trust me. With patience, we will prevail.”

  Every muscle in Dante’s body was primed to fight, to hurt the bastard who sought to ruin his life a second time, sought to hurt the only person he loved. For there was no mistaking the facts now. John Sands had robbed his parents’ coach. John Sands had shot three people dead for no reason other than to repay his debt to the man known as Mortuary Manning.

  Chapter 19

  The hackney coach reeked of sweat, straw, leather and gentlemen’s cologne. Not the strong sensual smell of Dante’s fragrance, but cheap and woody. A hint of perfume tickled Beatrice’s nostrils, too. Every fare left its imprint. Would the next passenger catch a whiff of fear?

  Beatrice watched her uncle intently as the vehicle rattled through the streets. Her heartbeat thumped in her ears. Try as she might, she couldn’t help but gasp each breath. She might have gripped the seat, but everything felt tainted, dirty.

  John Sands had kept the pistol trained on her for the last twenty minutes, had almost dropped it when the carriage bumped through a rut in the road. His shaky hands and unkempt hair, tired eyes and creased clothes said he was anxious, distressed. A distressed man might fire by mistake, his finger pressing the trigger when agitated or in a temper.

  She had not spoken, not raged at him or begged for answers.

  The answers were obvious.

  John Sands was involved in her father’s murder. It wasn’t a coincidence the attack happened near the common. It was planned that way. Had her father climbed out first because he knew his brother-in-law was a deceiving devil—or was Henry Watson involved, too?

  And though it was time to play the game, use her skills as an agent to extract the truth, her fear of being alone with him left her trembling to her toes.

  “Are we returning to Rochester?” Her voice rattled with nerves.

  They were heading south on the Kent Road, that much she knew.

  Her uncle met her gaze. Despite wielding a weapon, there wasn’t a trace of his usual arrogance. “It doesn’t matter where we go. After your meddling, Manning will hunt us down.”

  He should be more worried about Dante D’Angelo.

  “You moved before. You can do so again.” She’d hoped the comment would settle him, but he squirmed in the seat, couldn’t sit still. “That is why we moved to Rochester? To escape Mr Manning?”

  Panicked, he glanced out of the window as if longing to see the milestone for Dover. “You’re not working as a governess. I’ve been watching the boy’s house, waiting to see what he’ll do.”

  The boy? He meant Dante.

  “You know where he lives?”

  “I made enquiries years ago. Margaret had nightmares about the child and wondered what happened to him.” He cursed. “You’re his whore. He’s put you up in that house in Howland Street, got you to do his dirty work and visit Manning.”

  “I am not Mr D’Angelo’s whore. I’m his friend. And he doesn’t own the house in Howland Street. Besides, after your mistake at the Falstaff inn, yo
u—”

  “Mistake?”

  “In a fit of temper, you mentioned Mr Manning. You presumed it meant nothing to me. That I was a governess seeking the truth, assumed I lacked the wherewithal to find answers.”

  And she would have struggled had it not been for a twist of fate.

  “You hoped Mr D’Angelo would blame his grandmother for the death of his parents,” she continued. “You hoped to bide time until Mr Manning’s trial and execution. Then he could not name you as the man who owed him money eighteen years ago.”

  It was a logical guess. Cases were often won on conjecture.

  His ugly sneer made him look almost like himself. “I know what the boy does in Hart Street. You hired an enquiry agent. That’s how you met.”

  “Mr D’Angelo is by no means a boy.” No, he was every inch a man. She’d give anything to feel his strong arms surrounding her, holding her tight. “But yes, I hired him to find the villains who murdered our parents.”

  “Did Margaret give you the money? Did she plan this before she died?”

  Beatrice thought carefully before speaking. “Aunt Margaret wished to see justice done. She urged me to find answers, gave me the means to seek the truth.”

  Her aunt had rescued the random notes, but it was enough to lead Beatrice to Dante D’Angelo. Surely it was her aunt who’d kept the newspaper cuttings describing the crime, who hid them in a book, a book she’d purposely left askew on the bookshelf in the parlour.

  Her uncle muttered to himself, called his wife a liar, a deceiver.

  “You were my father’s client,” she said, piecing together the clues. “He went to Mr Manning and pleaded for clemency because you couldn’t settle your debt.” She threw a lie into the pot. “My father begged for your life. Manning told me so.”

  John Sands lurched forward, wagging his weapon like a finger. “Do you know what Manning does to people who cannot pay? He tortures them to within an inch of their lives, thinks nothing of stealing wives and daughters and shipping them to brothels abroad. He slits the throats of the lucky ones.”