Never Resist Temptation (23 page)

“I
'm surprised to see you again so soon, Storrington. Delighted, of course. And sorry to have kept you waiting. I collect your business is of some urgency.” Lord Hugo Hartley displayed his usual grace, but Anthony thought he looked drawn and pale, lending credence to his servant's earlier excuse that His Lordship was engaged with his physician.

Anthony could have retorted that it wasn't nearly soon enough. He'd been frantic with anxiety at having to wait until late afternoon to be received by the old gentleman. But he couldn't treat the elderly doyen of the
ton
with discourtesy and expect cooperation.

“No matter, sir,” he replied politely. “I used the time to attend to another matter.”

“How can I be of service this time? More reminiscences of Versailles? I enjoyed our conversation.”

“Not this time. I'm anxious to find out about some recent activities of Chauncey Bellamy.”

“Bellamy again?” Anthony didn't detect anything in Hartley's face beyond polite curiosity and he was look
ing hard. “Why don't you ask him. He's almost your next-door neighbor.”

Anthony tried not to gnash his teeth. “Unfortunately I discovered this morning that the family left London two days ago to spend Christmas in Northumberland.”

“Ah, yes. At Lady Caroline's family estate, no doubt. I don't know why you think I would be able to give you any information.”

He had to move carefully with Lord Hugo, though he'd been quite prepared to beat the truth out of Bellamy. “I wish to know about a recent altercation between Bellamy and Candover.”

“Candover? I recall you asked about him before. May I be crude enough to ask what affair it is of yours?”

“I believe Bellamy may be implicated in the attempted poisoning of Lord Candover.”

Lord Hugo raised his eyebrows. “And you wish to find out if this is true out of a purely altruistic interest in justice?”

“A…dependent of mine is under suspicion of the crime. Naturally I wish to see that justice is done. And as I said, I have reason to believe Candover and Bellamy quarreled badly.”

“I still don't know why you've come to me.”

“My surmise is that Candover extorted a large sum of money out of Bellamy by threatening to expose a secret about him. I hoped, knowledgeable as you are about so many members of the
ton
, that you might be able to cast some light on the matter. If you cannot, I shall communicate my findings to the investigating
officer, who will, I imagine, pursue the matter. But things could not then be kept from becoming public, and I should be loath to cause a scandal if it wasn't…merited.”

“The gloves are off, I see,” Lord Hugo said with a cool smile. “I suppose you wouldn't let the matter rest if I were to assure you that Chauncey had nothing to do with the unfortunate event in Brighton.”

“No,” Anthony replied baldy. “I would not.”

“I was somehow afraid of that. Would you be so good as to pour me a glass of sherry? And one for yourself, if you wish. My doctor won't be pleased, but the telling of such a tale requires a douceur.”

As he handed the old man a glass, Anthony felt a stirring of guilt. Lord Hugo looked tired and distressed. It didn't sit well with him to bludgeon the truth out of the venerable dandy, but it had to be done, and without delay. Once news of his card game became generally known, Anthony was going to find his influence in London greatly diminished. Lord Hugo mustn't know that his threats of creating a scandal were probably hollow.

“So, Storrington. I'm going to tell you an old, old story.”

Anthony sat down and prayed desperately that what he discovered would be enough to clear Jacobin.

“A long time ago in Paris, a young man stopped in the city on his way home from touring the German states. Very dull, the German states, very staid. Just like the young man and, indeed, like his father who had ar
ranged the tour. But Paris has a way of shaking the sobriety out of a man, especially a young one. This youth had all his short life fought against certain…desires…which were, let us say, socially unacceptable. But in the heated atmosphere of the queen of all cities he lost his head and committed an indiscretion. He wasn't the first to find himself in this situation, and likely no lasting damage would have been done. But unfortunately for our protagonist a certain peer, spending an evening touring the city's more notorious locations, discovered what happened. I'm sure I have no need to go into details with a man of the world such as yourself.”

Anthony nodded and sipped his wine quietly, suppressing a rising optimism.

“No great harm was done. The young man returned to London and in a few years made an advantageous marriage. From time to time over the years he found it necessary to give some slight financial aid to the peer who knew his secret, never enough to seriously trouble a man of fortune such as himself, but annoying, nonetheless. One does so dislike to be obligated.”

Anthony could scarcely remain seated. He was ready to bolt for Bow Street without a second's delay. But Lord Hugo's story wasn't over.

“Then a few months ago his tormenter made a new and very large demand, far greater than could be met out of normal expenses. A sum that would arouse suspicion in any inspection of his accounts. He came to me for advice. Men with his tastes have a way of doing that. They see me as something of a father figure, I be
lieve, though a far more sympathetic father than most of them were born with.”

“You advised Bellamy to kill Candover?” Anthony blurted out, smashing the anonymous charade of the narrative and getting straight to the point.

Lord Hugo closed his eyes and shook his head distastefully. “Please, Storrington, don't accuse me of such methods. Candover got his money, but in return he signed a letter confessing to some little peccadilloes that I knew he'd committed over the years. In chess parlance we created a stalemate: Candover would not be able to trouble my friend again without in turn being faced with disgrace. Quite a poetic solution, don't you agree?”

“But the poisoning…” Anthony began.

“Clearly poor Chauncey had no need to murder Candover. And I can assure you he never made any such attempt. I see by your face that you are disappointed. But much as I'd like to help Mademoiselle de Chastelux, I can't do it by sacrificing an innocent man.”

Anthony could only gape at him. “How did you…?”

Lord Hugo's face lit up with a genuine smile. “I don't go out much these days, but I am lucky enough to have many faithful friends who keep me amused by telling me what's going on in society. Then I have many idle hours to ponder what I've heard. I know a young cook went missing from the Pavilion, a young man who looked very like my old friend Auguste de Chastelux. And I know you recently employed a female pastry cook of surpassing skill. It wasn't very difficult to reach the
conclusion that the two cooks were, in fact, one. I'd like to help Auguste's daughter. I asked Candover about her once and received a very chilly answer. Someone should have done something about the poor girl.”

“There, I agree,” Anthony growled.

“It appears you have the matter in hand. Do let me know if there's anything I can do to help, but you seem a man of considerable resource. And bring Mademoiselle de Chastelux to see me. I'll see what I can do to smooth over any social difficulties that arise from her late employment.”

 

Anthony spent the night at an inn, though without taking much advantage of the excellent bed. He passed most of the nocturnal hours pacing in frustration at the weather. What in London had been a sooty sleet turned to a businesslike snow once away from the human-generated warmth of the metropolis. He wasn't going to be any use to Jacobin or anyone else lying in a ditch.

Added to his bitter disappointment at the loss of Bellamy as a suspect was a nagging concern about that damn Bow Street runner. His secretary had sustained an interrogation by Thomas Hawkins. Discreet as he was, he'd let out the fact that Jane Castle's Scottish origins were news to him. Anthony castigated himself for not writing to warn him.

He prayed the snow had also delayed Hawkins.

 

Jacobin's heart sank when the key turned in the lock of her jail and the door opened to reveal the runner. He
tied her hands behind her back with a piece of twine and conducted her roughly into the magistrate's office.

Her eyes were scratchy with tears and sleep, her gown was creased and her hair loose and tangled. She'd never felt less confident. Raising a degree of pride, she lifted her chin into the air and imagined herself Marie Antoinette, facing the tribunal.

To her dismay Withercombe was alone. No sign of Anthony, who seemed truly to have abandoned her. Disdaining to show fear, she stared down her nose at the magistrate.

“Well, Miss Chastelux,” he said. “I trust you spent the night comfortably.

The runner muttered impatiently.

“The accommodations were quite comfortable, thank you,” Jacobin said, pretending she was the Queen of France. “And the dinner palatable. I commend you on the excellence of your jail.”

Withercombe seemed nervous. “Well, yes. I'm glad you found it acceptable. Be sure to mention it to Lord Storrington.”

She couldn't help an inward smile. The man sounded for all the world like an innkeeper. “I shall make a point of it.”
If I ever see him again
, she added silently.

“Thank you,” he said, clearly gratified. Then responded to a cough from the runner. He picked up a silver-handled gun from the desk in front of him.

“Have you ever seen this weapon before?”

“No,” she said.

“Are you certain? It belonged to your uncle, Lord
Candover. His coronet and the letter C are engraved on the stock.”

“I suppose he brought it with him to Storrington. There are so many dangerous criminals on the roads these days. The authorities do nothing to stop them.” She gave Hawkins a nasty look. “They prefer to waste time persecuting the innocent.”

Withercombe looked stern. “This is one of a pair of guns reported stolen from Hurst Park around the time of your departure from that house. It was discovered in the shrubbery near Lord Candover's body.”

Jacobin kept tight control over her facial muscles, but internally she quailed. This was bad. Very bad.

“I've never seen it before. I never set foot in my uncle's gun room and I don't know how to shoot a pistol.”

“She's hardly going to admit it,” Hawkins interjected. Even Withercombe had to see the justice of that comment.

“What were you doing in the gardens at that hour?” asked the magistrate.

“I was going for a walk,” Jacobin replied.

“Not busy with your duties?”

“I had prepared many dishes for dinner the night before. I wasn't required that morning.”

“Unusual weather for a walk,” said Hawkins. “It was coming on to snow quite hard.”

“Hm,” said Withercombe. “Mr. Hawkins makes a good point. Taking a walk for pleasure in such cold seems odd.”

Jacobin shrugged. “I like snow. It's pretty.”

Withercombe didn't seem to know what to say to that, but Hawkins was made of sterner stuff. “The servants say your bed wasn't slept in. Where did you spend the night?”

She was saved from having to answer this awkward question by a commotion outside the door, which swung open to reveal Storrington looking ten feet tall in a multicaped driving coat and a tall beaver hat.

“Withercombe,” he roared. “What the devil do you mean by arresting my fiancée?”

“I had no idea you were betrothed to the young—er—lady,” Withercombe said. “I thought she was your cook.”

It was lucky Withercombe was easily intimidated, Anthony thought. Not a bad old boy, but hardly a pillar of strength when it came to law enforcement. Jacobin appeared stunned. He threw her a meaningful look, silently begging her not to give the game away.

“Our betrothal is new,” he said. “No doubt Miss de Chastelux didn't wish to say anything before our families were informed and the news made public.”

She caught on quickly. “Anthony. How happy I am to see you. These gentlemen believe I had something to do with the death of my uncle. Absurd, isn't it?” Sadness suffused her countenance. “It is tragic that he has been killed, is it not? Who could have done such a dreadful thing? They made me spend the night in
jail
and have tied me up.”

He went to her and embraced her. “How terrible for you.” The indignation in his voice didn't have to be
feigned. “Withercombe, untie her at once. I must take her home.”

“Wait a minute,” said Hawkins. “I have evidence of her participation in Lord Candover's attempted murder by poison, not to mention that I caught her red-handed, leaning over his dead body.”

Anthony had heard what had happened when he reached home, and he'd had time to plan his tactics. He eyed Hawkins with disdain.

“You'd think a cunning murderer would have the sense to run away, not waste time examining the body after the deed was done. Instead you leaped to the dubious conclusion that a young woman of good birth,
my
betrothed wife, had killed her own uncle instead of the glaringly obvious solution that she was trying to help him.”

Withercombe coughed. “You did say she was calling for help when you found her, Hawkins.”

“She heard me coming and did that to conceal the truth.” A hint of uncertainty had entered the runner's voice.

“Withercombe.” Anthony addressed the perplexed magistrate. “How long have you known me?”

“Well over thirty years, my lord. And your father before you for almost as many. I had the honor of attending your christening.”

“And have you ever known me to be slipshod in my responsibilities?”

“Oh no, my lord.”