Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage 01] (4 page)

L
illian’s palms were sweating inside her kid gloves as she climbed up the stairs of the town house at 15 Girard Square. She was about to encounter the flesh-and-blood man she had been fantasizing about for almost a year. She was terrified that he would take one look at her and just
know.

She pushed aside the irrational fear. She was here on a mission of the greatest importance and did not have time for girlish stupidity. Besides, the man might not even remember her.

Her footman, Gillman, opened the door, and the hinges cried out in protest. Swallowing, she entered the hallway at the top of the stairs and looked around. There were four sets of doors, and she had no idea which way to turn. There was little light, the hallway bore no sign, and it smelled uninvitingly of mold and inexpensive tallow candles. Now which way to go?

“Perhaps this one, my lady?” Gillman inquired, pointing to the first door.

She nodded, and he swung it open.

“No. This is simply a storage room of some kind.” It was filled with trunks and boxes.

A buxom woman of about thirty wearing a faded blue dress appeared at the threshold of the next door and fairly preened with excitement at seeing visitors. “Welcome, my lady. Will you be needin’ the services of the finest investigator in the King’s land?”

Gillman closed the storage room door.

“Mr. Redford’s enquiry agency?” Lillian stepped forward.

“Yes, my lady. Please come in.”

Lillian followed the woman into an airless office with a single secretary, a lone wooden stool and a threadbare armchair. Mr. Redford’s agency did not exactly match her fantastic dreams. Still, it was not a nightmare.

“I am Miss Mabel Brink, Mr. Redford’s assistant. I don’t do investigations, mind you, just help out around the office.” She had a kind face, with deep lines fanning russet eyes, as if from a good measure of smiling. Still, her smile appeared shaky, just the same.

She waved to the tattered armchair. “Please be seated.”

Lillian sat, setting her parasol across her lap. Her trusty footman positioned himself by the door.

“May I offer you some tea, my lady?”

“No, thank you. I am here on a matter of importance. Is Mr. Redford available?”

“He’ll be back shortly.” Her brow puckered, and
she bit her lip as if to contain her emotion. “He’s over at Andersen Hall.”

“Andersen Hall?”

“The foundling home, from where we hail.”

Lillian recalled reading something in the papers about Redford being an orphan. Suddenly the woman’s face became splotchy and her lower lip’s quiver heightened to a quake. Looking around to see if there was anyone else to tend to the woman, Lillian realized that except for her footman, they were alone.

“Here.” Lillian held out her handkerchief. “Are you unwell?”

“Thank you,” she muttered, taking it and pressing it to her moist eyes. “Excuse me, my lady. I am not usually such a puddle of woe, but it’s been a bit of a tough time.” The woman sniffed into the linen, obviously trying hard to keep her distress in check.

“I understand.”

“I’m just so very thankful that I have Nick.” Miss Brink held out the sodden cloth. “Sorry, I made a mess of your pretty hankie.”

“You keep it.” Lillian did not see a ring on her finger. Still, she wondered if it was more than just helping out around the office between Mr. Redford and his helper. The woman did have pretty russet eyes, and men often preferred buxom women. But it was none of her affair.

“Will, ah, Mr. Redford be away much longer?”

“He is over at the orphanage, dealing with only Lord knows what, with the headmaster’s death.” She let out a noisy sigh, seemingly collected once again.

Lillian tried to keep down her panic. “Is Mr. Redford handling another matter?”

“Don’t you fret, my lady. He is available for hire. In fact, the work’ll do him good. He’s beside himself with Dunn’s death, same as all of us, perhaps more.”

Her shoulders sagged with relief. “Dunn?” The name rang a bell. “Mr. Uriah Dunn, the head of the orphanage?”

“Yes, God rest his beloved soul. He was murdered.”

“Murdered!” Lillian straightened. Was it an epidemic now?

“Frightful day, isn’t it, my lady? When a man is killed for trying to help a poor sod.”

“What happened?”

Her fists curled. “Conrad Furks. The bloody thieving bugger.” Her cheeks reddened. “Ah, pardon my foul tongue, my lady. It’s just, well, our Dunn never could turn a soul away. Even if they was a bastard in the truest sense. And now he’s dead for his trouble.”

“They are sure it was this man who did it?”

“Conrad was caught bloody as a butcher, stealing Dunn’s watch.”

“How horrible.” Lillian shuddered. “At least they have the fiend in custody.”

“But what’s to become of the children? And Andersen Hall? Everyone there and even us still, we depended on Dunn like fish do water. And poor Nick….” She sighed forcefully. “Those two were closer than any father an’ son I ever saw. Caused a right bit o’ resentment from Dunn’s son Marcus—”

“That’s enough, Mabel,” a deep baritone rippled through Lillian’s middle.

She stood, her heart suddenly in her throat.

He loomed in the doorway, not the Apollo of
moonlight but a man of hard angles and dark strength. Even the eyes that had blazed with golden fire in her dreams were dimmed with brown frost. She could not believe the transformation in him. Perhaps the moonlight and memory had softened his face to haze, or perhaps it had all been a dream.

She felt his gaze burn across her, and her cheeks tingled in response. He might look different in the daylight, but his effect on her was still the same. She felt breathless, and suddenly overwarm.

“Lady Janus.” He nodded curtly.

Her vocabulary was suddenly bereft of words.

“This is Lady Janus?” Mabel shrieked, standing. “The very lady who set Society on its ear?”

“Enough, Mabel,” Redford chided. He motioned for her to precede him into the adjoining office. “If you would, please, my lady?”

Mutely, she obliged, feeling his wolfish presence behind her with every tingle that raced down her back.

The chamber was immaculate, with a large wooden desk and chair, and two brown leather sofas facing each other. Its very ordinariness gave her tattered confidence a lift.

Instead of sitting behind the desk, he motioned her to one sofa and dropped into the other. “Welcome to my humble agency.”

“Congratulations on opening your firm.” She began the speech she had practiced on the carriage ride over, “I am here to—”

“You look different in the daylight,” he mused aloud, that deep cadence rippling through her.

A traitorous blush warmed her cheeks. So he
did
remember their first encounter. “Ah, how so?”

“Your hair is not so much golden as strawberry.”

Uncomfortable with the intimate perusal of his gaze, she coughed into her hand. “I am sorry for your loss, Mr. Redford. Mr. Dunn was well regarded in all circles.”

He locked his hands, glancing down. “They did not come any better than he.”

The moment stretched between them. Suddenly he stood as if he could no longer endure her company. “I cannot help Lord Beaumont.”

“How?—”

“Word travels quickly when a peer of the realm is indicted.”

She tasted leather and realized that she was chewing her gloved thumb. Grasping her hands in her lap, she asked, “Why will you not help me?”

“I will not take a case where the person is clearly on the wrong side of the law.”

She rose. “But Dillon is innocent.”

“Because he told you so?” His brows lifted in disbelief.

“Because he is incapable of doing what they said he did.” She stepped forward. “I have known Dillon my entire life. He could not hurt a fly.”

His face darkened. “Rage makes animals of men.”

She felt for his loss but could not allow him to dismiss Dillon because of it. Especially when Dillon’s situation was her fault. “I know that Dillon did not murder Lady Langham as well as I know that the sun rises in the morning. I fear that it is because of me that he is in this mess.”

“You?”

“Lord Kane has been looking for a means to separate Dillon and myself—”

“Lady Langham was the target,” he interrupted.

“But Dillon is being blamed. Kane is behind it, I tell you.”

“This was a crime of passion. Not the work of a disapproving father.”

“Kane is more than a disapproving father. He is a man without conscience. He must have known Lady Langham well enough to have created this deception—”

“Although you may not wish to believe it, the police officers have compelling proof of Beaumont’s guilt.” He rubbed his hand over his eyes, as if tired. “You may wish to reconsider your loyalties.”

“I would sooner cut off my arm.”

“Laudable, but it will not help the defense.”

The clench on her parasol was so tight that it caused her hands to shake. She loosened them, trying for calm. She had not realized how much she had been counting on Redford’s help. The man emanated confidence like a fashionable impure exudes perfume. Knowing of his achievements, of the many felons he had seen swing for their crimes, of the ostensibly vanished valuables he had found, of the estate contests proven to be false claims, she knew that with his assistance, Dillon would have a real chance at freedom.

“What…what is so convincing about the evidence they claim to have?” she asked.

“You really wish to hear the unpleasant particulars?”

“Please.”

He hesitated, studying her, perhaps wondering just how forthright he should be. “The police officers have love letters between the pair. Beaumont’s handwriting has been identified.”

“Lies.” Not wishing to be the personification of
the affronted mistress, she leveled her tone. “What else?”

“A note on Lady Langham’s stationery threatening to tell her husband of the affair.”

“Is it addressed to Dillon?”

He tilted his head. “No, but with the other evidence…” At the dubious look on her face, he added, “Beaumont’s bloodied handkerchief was left near the body.”

“How do you know that it belongs to him?”

“It is stitched with his initials, and the merchant confirmed that it was Beaumont’s special design.”

That was damning indeed, but it still did not change the fact that Dillon was innocent. “That is hardly enough foundation upon which to hang a man.”

“Men have swung based upon less.”

“What do you know of the police officers involved, Misters Kim and Kelly?”

He tilted his head, seemingly impressed that she knew them by name. “They are good men who are thorough in their work.”

“They are being well rewarded to see Beaumont arrested. Do they receive a bonus if he hangs?”

Nick crossed his arms, knowing where the lady was headed and not wishing to go down that road. Her frustration shimmered off her in waves. Ivory-gloved hands fisted around her silly parasol as if it were a sword, and her peaches-and-cream cheeks were tinged with red spots of color. Her questions were good, he had to admit, giving her the aura of an avenging goddess, yet it was all based upon myth. Beaumont was guilty.

He waved to the door. “I am sorry, my lady. But I
cannot help you. I suggest that you contact my competitors, Sir Patrick or Mr. Martin.”

“And if he is innocent?”

“Then a trial will prove him so.” Nick wouldn’t bet a farthing on it.

“That is not always the case.”

“True, but in this instance we are not dealing with someone without the means to defend himself.”

“A barrister argues facts, Mr. Redford. But he must have them at his command in order to sway the judges. That’s what we need you for.”

“I cannot be swayed, my lady.”

Her lush lips pursed. “Is this because of Headmaster Dunn?”

It was like a black veil lowered over his eyes, and for a moment all he could see was blood. A chill rippled through him, as if a ghost had walked across his grave. He felt every ounce of sympathy he had had for her shriveled to dust. He was never one to suffer manipulation easily, and he was not about to let anyone use his grief over Dunn’s murder for their own ends. “My answer will not change. You can bat your pretty eyes and sashay your hips until dusk, but I will not take Beaumont’s case. Good day.”

“I have never—” She pressed her lips together, her gaze flashing azure fire. Those gloved hands clenched and unclenched on the meager parasol. “This is not about me,” she whispered. “This is about justice.”

“Ask Lady Langham’s family about justice,” he retorted. “I have seen too many injustices to worry overmuch about a murdering marquis.”

She turned away, facing the window. In the glass,
he saw the reflection of her glistening tears. He contained his grimace. That old trick never worked on him.

She certainly had the package to please, though. Petite, so that he could encircle that tiny waist with his hands. She had a derriere that begged to be clasped; its rounded curves enticed a man to imagine treating her as anything but a lady. He could lift her up, carry her downstairs and deposit her in her carriage to get rid of her. The very thought heated his blood to a slow simmer. But if he laid his hands on her, he doubted that he would want to stop with simply removing her person.

But she was a nobleman’s woman, kept content by gifts, gold and ornament, things he did not possess as of yet. She would never be satisfied with a man who earned his own way. Likewise, he could never be with a woman who had tossed away her virtue like yesterday’s wash.

“How can I prove to you that Beaumont is not guilty?” she asked, turning.

“A woman of the world such as you cannot be so naïve.” His tone was gruffer than he intended.

Her back stiffened. Lifting her chin, she stated coolly, “And if there is some proof of his innocence that no one knows about?”

He shrugged. “Between the police officers’ evidence and Solicitor General Dagwood’s involvement, I would be hard-pressed to trust any exculpatory proof. In fact, I would do my best to ensure that he swung.
Nothing
burns my blood more than watching a guilty man walk free.”