Sin and the Soldier, page 10
Am I then to have everything? she asked herself with awe. This wonderful man, love, marriage, respectability? It had never seemed possible, yet he swung along beside her now in companionable silence, his arm, his hip occasionally brushing against her. This, she thought, was pure happiness.
*
It went against the grain to leave Natalie to sleep alone. The sense of peace she gave him, as well as the sheer rightness of lying by her side all night, called to him, tempted him. He could be considerate enough to let her body rest. He just wanted to hold her, lie in her embrace.
But his instincts were tingling in an ominous kind of way. So much so that, when he had walked back to the cottage, he sent Daniels to keep watch at the hotel and warned everyone to be extra vigilant. And then he went to bed, with a dagger under the pillow and his sword stick lying beside him.
By now, through his various contacts who obviously included some in polite society, Monck would guess that his fake marriage lines had not repelled Richard. He could well be desperate enough to abduct Natalie by force, even involving decent acquaintances like Calton, who was generally ripe for any mischief, and the other fellow who had been with him at Dominic and Viola’s house. And Richard wanted to be ready for him. He could not wait to catch the rat red-handed and have him transported for housebreaking and assault and any other crime they could throw at him. None of it would make up for what he had put Natalie through, for the fear and isolation she had endured because of him.
But Richard would make it as right as he could. On that, he was more determined than anything in all his rather determined life.
Natalie. He wondered if she had been his love at first sight or at first sound. The thought made him smile as he slipped into slumber.
He woke disoriented in darkness, thinking he was in some camp or barracks back in Spain. He wasn’t, but why should he imagine… Because fresh air ruffled his hair. Because there was another presence in the room, other breath, other movement.
Every nerve prickled in alarm. He snatched at the sword stick beside him and threw himself upright and away from that breath, just as an arm stabbed viciously downward. Richard swung the stick in the direction of the blacker figure on the other side of the bed and connected with bone and flesh, hard enough to make his assailant grunt.
Like a shadow, the man leapt back from the bed, and Richard threw himself off the other side, shaking the cover from his sword stick. He staggered slightly on his weak leg and was only just in time to parry the lightning-quick lunge of his attacker.
“Smithy!” he yelled to his old sergeant as sparks flew from the two blades clashing in the darkness.
Richard’s attacker swore and suddenly changed tack, trying to disengage and bolt from whatever reinforcements he imagined were about to charge to Richard’s rescue. Richard lunged toward the open bedchamber door to stop him, but a sudden light blinded him and for his own safety, he had to leap back again.
So, he saw, peering through his narrowed eyes, did his assailant, who had flung up one arm over his eyes while holding his knife before him in protection.
A pistol mechanism clicked, and everyone froze. By the light of the lantern held in Fellows’s hand, Smith held the pistol to the intruder’s temple.
“Not a twitch,” he said severely. “Or I’ll be forced to scatter your brains all over a lady’s boudoir.”
“Lady?” the intruder exclaimed. He dropped his arm from his eyes and stared at Richard. “If that’s a lady, I’m the Queen of Sheba.”
“That is Captain Gorse,” Smith said with dignity.
“And you,” Richard added, retrieving the scabbard for his swordstick, “have a good deal of explaining to do.”
“Is that pistol loaded?” the man asked nervously.
“No point holding a weapon that isn’t,” Richard said. “Ask any old soldier. Let us repair to the sitting room.”
The intruder seemed game enough to do so, especially when Smith moved the pistol back from his head. However, encountering Havers in the sitting room with another pistol, his shoulders slumped.
Richard set about lighting lamps and candles so that they could see their enemy. Naturally, it was not Monck himself, but an unexpectedly small, wiry man with cold, hard eyes and a furtive expression.
Smith pushed him onto the wooden chair. “Hands on your head where I can see them.”
The would-be assassin sighed and obeyed.
Richard blew out the spill and dropped it in the grate. “You were expecting a man.”
“Beg pardon, cap’n?”
“You were surprised to hear the bedchamber belonged to a lady,” Richard reminded him.
“Well, no sign of a lady in there,” the man said reasonably.
“Allow me to clarify. You were sent to attack a man.”
“Don’t hold with attacking females.”
“What’s your name?” Richard asked.
“Smith.”
Sergeant Smith poked him with the butt of his pistol. “That’s my name. Try again.”
“Jones.”
“It will do for now,” Richard said peaceably when Smith seemed inclined to backhand their captive for cheek. “And the man who sent you?”
“Who says anyone sent me?”
“I do,” Richard replied. “There are bigger houses to burgle just over the hill and a large, expensive hotel within walking distance. No one comes of their own accord to murder a stranger in a small cottage with nothing worth stealing.”
“Nice sword-stick,” Jones said. “And I’ll bet you’ve some rolls of soft lying around, a decent tie pin, sleeve buttons.”
“You’re prepared to hang for sleeve buttons and a plain tie pin? And an easily identifiable sword stick?”
Jones’s gaze flickered to the front door, where Havers lounged, his pistol resting across one arm. “What do you want, cap’n?”
“The name of the man who sent you.”
“And then what would I get?”
“You might not get killed breaking into a lady’s cottage and trying to murder an officer and a gentleman,” Smith retorted.
“To say nothing of him being a marquess’s son,” Fellows added. “Quite the nob is our captain. An actual lord.”
Jones swore beneath his breath. “Seems to me we’ve both been set up. Was a nob that sent me. At least he sounded like one, though he knows too much thieves’ cant if you ask me.”
“Did he give you his name?”
“I insisted. Especially as he only paid me half up front. I’m to get the rest once he knows you’re dead.”
Richard’s lips quirked. “Sadly, you will be sacrificing that.”
“Very glad to,” Jones assured him, not entirely convincingly. “Nob was called Monck.”
“And you would testify to that?”
“Testify?” Jones said uneasily. “No one’ll believe a word I say. And no telling but the magistrate will know me anyway and then I’ll swing.”
“You are rather caught between the devil and the deep, blue sea,” Richard mused. “You don’t appear to have any good options left.”
“No.” Jones looked genuinely lugubrious.
“I will make you this offer,” Richard said, easing onto the other chair. “I will take you not to a magistrate but to a lawyer, who will write down your testimony and you will sign or make your mark, which will be duly witnessed. This will involve using your real name, and it had better be provable. If it is, and everything goes well, it might be possible to lose you between the lawyer’s office and Bow Street. But if we do this, you had better find an alternative career, my friend, because if I ever come across you furthering that of an assassin, I will kill you myself.”
For once, Jones seemed to have nothing to say. He gazed at Richard, who let all his lethal rage into his eyes, then smiled with all the ice that had formed around his heart before Natalie.
Jones swallowed. “Understood, cap’n. I’ll do it your way. I’ll even spread the word you and your men here ain’t to be touched.” He brightened. “Unless you’d like me to kill Monck for you?”
Tempting. Damned tempting. But… “That won’t be necessary. If he dies this year, it will be by the rope or by my hand. Just do as I’ve asked.”
“Deal.” Jones stretched out one hand from his head until Smith leveled his pistol, when he quickly stuck it back on his head again.
Chapter Ten
The following morning, Natalie found Daniels waiting for her outside the hotel.
“Morning, miss,” he said cheerfully. “Back to the cottage?”
“Indeed.”
“Catain left this for you.” He produced a slightly battered note, folded twice, from inside his coat and passed it to her.
Her heart sank. He had gone off somewhere again without her, and she was hungry just for a sight of him. Though she wanted to stuff the note in her reticule and read it in privacy, it seemed she could not wait. Moving out of the way of an arriving carriage, she unfolded the note and read it quickly.
We had a bit of excitement here last night, which I believe has helped our cause. I’ve taken Smith with me into town, so I may not be back in time for your concert this afternoon. However, I hope to bring you good news later today. Please keep your escort at all times. Yours, R.
Hardly the letter of a devoted lover, she thought anxiously. Only then she realized that was exactly what it was. He was looking after her, protecting her, helping her, and she could never want for more. Besides which, he was being discreet, using no names and declaring no improper affection. At least he had called himself hers.
She stuffed the note into her reticule and, keeping to their custom, walked ahead of Daniels, taking the shortcut through the pleasure gardens and out through the top gate to the track. Only then, seeing no one around, did she turn to Daniels.
“What happened last night?”
“Someone broke into the cottage. The captain and the others caught him, put the fear of God into him, and took him into town.”
“To Bow Street?”
“Presume so, but I don’t know. Only had a quick word with Havers when he brought me that.”
“And he… No one is hurt?”
“’Course not,” Daniels scoffed.
“Did Monck send this man?” she asked bluntly.
Daniels shrugged. “I suppose so, but you’ll have to ask the captain. Hopefully, he won’t be too long. What do you plan to do this morning?”
“Music,” she said with a distracted smile. In the absence of Richard, she would devote herself to the new piece that was all about him and her feelings for him. She had come to realize that yesterday as they were making love and the music had followed her, soaring into climax.
At the cottage, she wormed some more details about last night’s disturbance from the men, including the heart-stopping fact that if the captain hadn’t moved quickly, he’d have been dead in her bed. And the guilty assurance that the housebreaker had managed to break in through the front door during the only five minutes there had been no one guarding that side of the house. By the time the captain had yelled Smith’s name, the sergeant had already discovered the open front door and summoned the others.
After such hair-raising confidences, Natalie found it necessary to lose herself in music. So she did, leaving the men to catch up on sleep as best they could in the little camps they had set up in and around the cottage grounds.
Working, she lost track of time and had to rush to change for the midday concert. Just as she reached for her shawl, a loud, peremptory knock at the door made her jump. Dropping the shawl around her shoulders, she went to the door and opened it.
Two strange men stood there, both in red waistcoats, though why such a detail should strike her she had no idea. They didn’t remove their hats.
“Miss Natalie Derwent?” one said.
“Yes.” She glanced beyond them and was relieved to see Richard’s men scowling on either side of her visitors, only feet away from them.
“We’re from the magistrate’s office at Bow Street and—”
“Oh, good!” she exclaimed. “What news do you have for me?”
The strangers looked slightly baffled at this. “Bad news,” one said dryly. “We’re arresting you on suspicion of murder. You have to come with us.”
Her mouth fell open. “Murder?”
“Murder of who?” Daniels asked scathingly. “The lady won’t even stand on a spider.”
Blood was singing in her ears. These men were Bow Street Runners.
“That’s what you think,” one runner said pityingly to Daniels. “This one killed her own mother.”
*
After the initial difficulty of establishing Jones’s real name, which turned out to be Obadiah Hindmarsh, the business of recording his testimony against Monck went well enough. And his statement was duly witnessed by Smith and by Dunne’s clerk.
“You should still have him charged with attempted murder and house-breaking,” Dunne said austerely as Smith escorted the would-be assassin from the premises.
Richard sighed. “I know, but if Smith loses him between here and Bow Street, there’s not much I can do.”
“You could go with them.”
“I could. But then I wouldn’t hear about the rest of this evidence you’ve been collecting. Come on, Dunne, let’s have it.”
Dunne tapped his fingers on the supposed marriage lines that he had been looking at. “Miss Derwent is quite correct. The governess, Miss Dart, had left Italy by the time she is meant to have witnessed this marriage. I know this because I spoke to her yesterday afternoon.”
Richard’s eyebrows flew up. “She is in London? Miss Derwent will want to know that.”
“I understand Miss Dart has also been anxious about Miss Derwent, and she was very sorry to hear about the mother’s death. Her testimony would be useful in showing Monck’s manipulation of the Derwent ladies—she was on to him long before they were. Miss Derwent was by no means his only female interest. In fact, he used Miss Derwent’s money, earned from her concerts, to buy presents for his—ah—inamoratas. Miss Dart knew he was stealing and confronted him. He then told Mrs. Derwent that the governess was pursuing him romantically, and the old lady sent her packing. Though she suspects Monck himself forged the written dismissal denying her most of the salary she was due.”
Richard swore beneath his breath.
“Then there is the physician,” Dunne said.
“Physician?”
“The Scottish physician who treated Mrs. Derwent in her last illness. His name is Dr. Swinton. He is living in Hampstead now, and he has some interesting information. He suspected Mrs. Derwent was poisoned.”
“Poisoned? Dear God…”
“As you say. He passed his suspicions on to the authorities when the lady died, but justice apparently moves slowly. By the time anything was done about it, Miss Derwent and Monck had moved on.”
“And he was in sole charge of her,” Richard said grimly. “Or thought he was.”
“Worried for her, the doctor did track her to Rome, where he heard she was playing at the kind of halls to which a gentleman does not take his wife or his sister. But he could not find her. They had probably moved on again, or she had already left him.”
“The more I hear of this snake,” Richard said with quiet savagery, “the more I wish I’d finished him when he gave me that piece of rubbish.”
“And then I would be defending you at your murder trial instead of pursuing Monck. And I suspect you have rather more to live for.”
Richard couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips. “I do.”
Dunne opened his mouth to reply, but a sudden commotion from the outer office made him frown instead.
“I’m sorry, you will have to wait!” came the sound of the clerk’s raised voice, swiftly followed by thuds very like marching feet and, “You cannot go in there!”
The door burst open to reveal Daniels, Havers, Fellows, and Smith, whom they must have picked up in the street after he had “lost” Jones, born Obadiah Hindmarsh.
“Sir, I am sorry,” the clerk began furiously from behind them.
“I think you must let them in,” Richard said, a sense of foreboding twisting his gut. “What has happened?”
“Bow Street Runners came for Miss Natalie,” Daniels blurted.
“What?” Richard surged to his feet without the aid of either his stick or Dunne’s desk.
“They’re charging her with murder. Of her mother, for God’s sake.”
“Tell me you didn’t let them take her,” Richard uttered, though he already knew from the way they had burst in that they had. “Idiots! They weren’t runners, they didn’t take her anywhere near Bow Street. They’ve handed her straight to—”
“They did,” Daniels interrupted.
“Richard blinked. “What?”
“They did take her to the Bow Street magistrate’s house. We followed her. They really were runners.”
“That is insane.” Richard dragged his hand through his hair, then reached blindly for his walking stick. “I have to go there.”
“No,” Dunne said, busily writing. “If we can, we need to nip this in the bud, or she could await trial in prison. Which is as likely to kill her as not. I will go to Bow Street and see what can be done. You, my lord, and your men have other equally important tasks.”
*
As though trapped in a nightmare, Natalie suffered the journey to town with the two Bow Street runners, who regarded her with utter contempt.
“My mother died more than two years ago,” she said to them. “How am I charged with this now? And in England! My mother died in Italy.”
“Which is where you’ll be going to stand trial I expect,” one of the runners said loftily. “If they have trials there.”
“That makes no sense,” she said confused. “Who has charged me with such a horrible crime?”
“Horrible is right. Some big wig foreign gent—a count or a marquess or something—has come for you. You’ll be handed over to him all legal-like.”
She stared at him wildly. “None of this makes any sense,” she repeated.
“Neither does doing in your old mum,” the quieter runner said austerely.
*
It went against the grain to leave Natalie to sleep alone. The sense of peace she gave him, as well as the sheer rightness of lying by her side all night, called to him, tempted him. He could be considerate enough to let her body rest. He just wanted to hold her, lie in her embrace.
But his instincts were tingling in an ominous kind of way. So much so that, when he had walked back to the cottage, he sent Daniels to keep watch at the hotel and warned everyone to be extra vigilant. And then he went to bed, with a dagger under the pillow and his sword stick lying beside him.
By now, through his various contacts who obviously included some in polite society, Monck would guess that his fake marriage lines had not repelled Richard. He could well be desperate enough to abduct Natalie by force, even involving decent acquaintances like Calton, who was generally ripe for any mischief, and the other fellow who had been with him at Dominic and Viola’s house. And Richard wanted to be ready for him. He could not wait to catch the rat red-handed and have him transported for housebreaking and assault and any other crime they could throw at him. None of it would make up for what he had put Natalie through, for the fear and isolation she had endured because of him.
But Richard would make it as right as he could. On that, he was more determined than anything in all his rather determined life.
Natalie. He wondered if she had been his love at first sight or at first sound. The thought made him smile as he slipped into slumber.
He woke disoriented in darkness, thinking he was in some camp or barracks back in Spain. He wasn’t, but why should he imagine… Because fresh air ruffled his hair. Because there was another presence in the room, other breath, other movement.
Every nerve prickled in alarm. He snatched at the sword stick beside him and threw himself upright and away from that breath, just as an arm stabbed viciously downward. Richard swung the stick in the direction of the blacker figure on the other side of the bed and connected with bone and flesh, hard enough to make his assailant grunt.
Like a shadow, the man leapt back from the bed, and Richard threw himself off the other side, shaking the cover from his sword stick. He staggered slightly on his weak leg and was only just in time to parry the lightning-quick lunge of his attacker.
“Smithy!” he yelled to his old sergeant as sparks flew from the two blades clashing in the darkness.
Richard’s attacker swore and suddenly changed tack, trying to disengage and bolt from whatever reinforcements he imagined were about to charge to Richard’s rescue. Richard lunged toward the open bedchamber door to stop him, but a sudden light blinded him and for his own safety, he had to leap back again.
So, he saw, peering through his narrowed eyes, did his assailant, who had flung up one arm over his eyes while holding his knife before him in protection.
A pistol mechanism clicked, and everyone froze. By the light of the lantern held in Fellows’s hand, Smith held the pistol to the intruder’s temple.
“Not a twitch,” he said severely. “Or I’ll be forced to scatter your brains all over a lady’s boudoir.”
“Lady?” the intruder exclaimed. He dropped his arm from his eyes and stared at Richard. “If that’s a lady, I’m the Queen of Sheba.”
“That is Captain Gorse,” Smith said with dignity.
“And you,” Richard added, retrieving the scabbard for his swordstick, “have a good deal of explaining to do.”
“Is that pistol loaded?” the man asked nervously.
“No point holding a weapon that isn’t,” Richard said. “Ask any old soldier. Let us repair to the sitting room.”
The intruder seemed game enough to do so, especially when Smith moved the pistol back from his head. However, encountering Havers in the sitting room with another pistol, his shoulders slumped.
Richard set about lighting lamps and candles so that they could see their enemy. Naturally, it was not Monck himself, but an unexpectedly small, wiry man with cold, hard eyes and a furtive expression.
Smith pushed him onto the wooden chair. “Hands on your head where I can see them.”
The would-be assassin sighed and obeyed.
Richard blew out the spill and dropped it in the grate. “You were expecting a man.”
“Beg pardon, cap’n?”
“You were surprised to hear the bedchamber belonged to a lady,” Richard reminded him.
“Well, no sign of a lady in there,” the man said reasonably.
“Allow me to clarify. You were sent to attack a man.”
“Don’t hold with attacking females.”
“What’s your name?” Richard asked.
“Smith.”
Sergeant Smith poked him with the butt of his pistol. “That’s my name. Try again.”
“Jones.”
“It will do for now,” Richard said peaceably when Smith seemed inclined to backhand their captive for cheek. “And the man who sent you?”
“Who says anyone sent me?”
“I do,” Richard replied. “There are bigger houses to burgle just over the hill and a large, expensive hotel within walking distance. No one comes of their own accord to murder a stranger in a small cottage with nothing worth stealing.”
“Nice sword-stick,” Jones said. “And I’ll bet you’ve some rolls of soft lying around, a decent tie pin, sleeve buttons.”
“You’re prepared to hang for sleeve buttons and a plain tie pin? And an easily identifiable sword stick?”
Jones’s gaze flickered to the front door, where Havers lounged, his pistol resting across one arm. “What do you want, cap’n?”
“The name of the man who sent you.”
“And then what would I get?”
“You might not get killed breaking into a lady’s cottage and trying to murder an officer and a gentleman,” Smith retorted.
“To say nothing of him being a marquess’s son,” Fellows added. “Quite the nob is our captain. An actual lord.”
Jones swore beneath his breath. “Seems to me we’ve both been set up. Was a nob that sent me. At least he sounded like one, though he knows too much thieves’ cant if you ask me.”
“Did he give you his name?”
“I insisted. Especially as he only paid me half up front. I’m to get the rest once he knows you’re dead.”
Richard’s lips quirked. “Sadly, you will be sacrificing that.”
“Very glad to,” Jones assured him, not entirely convincingly. “Nob was called Monck.”
“And you would testify to that?”
“Testify?” Jones said uneasily. “No one’ll believe a word I say. And no telling but the magistrate will know me anyway and then I’ll swing.”
“You are rather caught between the devil and the deep, blue sea,” Richard mused. “You don’t appear to have any good options left.”
“No.” Jones looked genuinely lugubrious.
“I will make you this offer,” Richard said, easing onto the other chair. “I will take you not to a magistrate but to a lawyer, who will write down your testimony and you will sign or make your mark, which will be duly witnessed. This will involve using your real name, and it had better be provable. If it is, and everything goes well, it might be possible to lose you between the lawyer’s office and Bow Street. But if we do this, you had better find an alternative career, my friend, because if I ever come across you furthering that of an assassin, I will kill you myself.”
For once, Jones seemed to have nothing to say. He gazed at Richard, who let all his lethal rage into his eyes, then smiled with all the ice that had formed around his heart before Natalie.
Jones swallowed. “Understood, cap’n. I’ll do it your way. I’ll even spread the word you and your men here ain’t to be touched.” He brightened. “Unless you’d like me to kill Monck for you?”
Tempting. Damned tempting. But… “That won’t be necessary. If he dies this year, it will be by the rope or by my hand. Just do as I’ve asked.”
“Deal.” Jones stretched out one hand from his head until Smith leveled his pistol, when he quickly stuck it back on his head again.
Chapter Ten
The following morning, Natalie found Daniels waiting for her outside the hotel.
“Morning, miss,” he said cheerfully. “Back to the cottage?”
“Indeed.”
“Catain left this for you.” He produced a slightly battered note, folded twice, from inside his coat and passed it to her.
Her heart sank. He had gone off somewhere again without her, and she was hungry just for a sight of him. Though she wanted to stuff the note in her reticule and read it in privacy, it seemed she could not wait. Moving out of the way of an arriving carriage, she unfolded the note and read it quickly.
We had a bit of excitement here last night, which I believe has helped our cause. I’ve taken Smith with me into town, so I may not be back in time for your concert this afternoon. However, I hope to bring you good news later today. Please keep your escort at all times. Yours, R.
Hardly the letter of a devoted lover, she thought anxiously. Only then she realized that was exactly what it was. He was looking after her, protecting her, helping her, and she could never want for more. Besides which, he was being discreet, using no names and declaring no improper affection. At least he had called himself hers.
She stuffed the note into her reticule and, keeping to their custom, walked ahead of Daniels, taking the shortcut through the pleasure gardens and out through the top gate to the track. Only then, seeing no one around, did she turn to Daniels.
“What happened last night?”
“Someone broke into the cottage. The captain and the others caught him, put the fear of God into him, and took him into town.”
“To Bow Street?”
“Presume so, but I don’t know. Only had a quick word with Havers when he brought me that.”
“And he… No one is hurt?”
“’Course not,” Daniels scoffed.
“Did Monck send this man?” she asked bluntly.
Daniels shrugged. “I suppose so, but you’ll have to ask the captain. Hopefully, he won’t be too long. What do you plan to do this morning?”
“Music,” she said with a distracted smile. In the absence of Richard, she would devote herself to the new piece that was all about him and her feelings for him. She had come to realize that yesterday as they were making love and the music had followed her, soaring into climax.
At the cottage, she wormed some more details about last night’s disturbance from the men, including the heart-stopping fact that if the captain hadn’t moved quickly, he’d have been dead in her bed. And the guilty assurance that the housebreaker had managed to break in through the front door during the only five minutes there had been no one guarding that side of the house. By the time the captain had yelled Smith’s name, the sergeant had already discovered the open front door and summoned the others.
After such hair-raising confidences, Natalie found it necessary to lose herself in music. So she did, leaving the men to catch up on sleep as best they could in the little camps they had set up in and around the cottage grounds.
Working, she lost track of time and had to rush to change for the midday concert. Just as she reached for her shawl, a loud, peremptory knock at the door made her jump. Dropping the shawl around her shoulders, she went to the door and opened it.
Two strange men stood there, both in red waistcoats, though why such a detail should strike her she had no idea. They didn’t remove their hats.
“Miss Natalie Derwent?” one said.
“Yes.” She glanced beyond them and was relieved to see Richard’s men scowling on either side of her visitors, only feet away from them.
“We’re from the magistrate’s office at Bow Street and—”
“Oh, good!” she exclaimed. “What news do you have for me?”
The strangers looked slightly baffled at this. “Bad news,” one said dryly. “We’re arresting you on suspicion of murder. You have to come with us.”
Her mouth fell open. “Murder?”
“Murder of who?” Daniels asked scathingly. “The lady won’t even stand on a spider.”
Blood was singing in her ears. These men were Bow Street Runners.
“That’s what you think,” one runner said pityingly to Daniels. “This one killed her own mother.”
*
After the initial difficulty of establishing Jones’s real name, which turned out to be Obadiah Hindmarsh, the business of recording his testimony against Monck went well enough. And his statement was duly witnessed by Smith and by Dunne’s clerk.
“You should still have him charged with attempted murder and house-breaking,” Dunne said austerely as Smith escorted the would-be assassin from the premises.
Richard sighed. “I know, but if Smith loses him between here and Bow Street, there’s not much I can do.”
“You could go with them.”
“I could. But then I wouldn’t hear about the rest of this evidence you’ve been collecting. Come on, Dunne, let’s have it.”
Dunne tapped his fingers on the supposed marriage lines that he had been looking at. “Miss Derwent is quite correct. The governess, Miss Dart, had left Italy by the time she is meant to have witnessed this marriage. I know this because I spoke to her yesterday afternoon.”
Richard’s eyebrows flew up. “She is in London? Miss Derwent will want to know that.”
“I understand Miss Dart has also been anxious about Miss Derwent, and she was very sorry to hear about the mother’s death. Her testimony would be useful in showing Monck’s manipulation of the Derwent ladies—she was on to him long before they were. Miss Derwent was by no means his only female interest. In fact, he used Miss Derwent’s money, earned from her concerts, to buy presents for his—ah—inamoratas. Miss Dart knew he was stealing and confronted him. He then told Mrs. Derwent that the governess was pursuing him romantically, and the old lady sent her packing. Though she suspects Monck himself forged the written dismissal denying her most of the salary she was due.”
Richard swore beneath his breath.
“Then there is the physician,” Dunne said.
“Physician?”
“The Scottish physician who treated Mrs. Derwent in her last illness. His name is Dr. Swinton. He is living in Hampstead now, and he has some interesting information. He suspected Mrs. Derwent was poisoned.”
“Poisoned? Dear God…”
“As you say. He passed his suspicions on to the authorities when the lady died, but justice apparently moves slowly. By the time anything was done about it, Miss Derwent and Monck had moved on.”
“And he was in sole charge of her,” Richard said grimly. “Or thought he was.”
“Worried for her, the doctor did track her to Rome, where he heard she was playing at the kind of halls to which a gentleman does not take his wife or his sister. But he could not find her. They had probably moved on again, or she had already left him.”
“The more I hear of this snake,” Richard said with quiet savagery, “the more I wish I’d finished him when he gave me that piece of rubbish.”
“And then I would be defending you at your murder trial instead of pursuing Monck. And I suspect you have rather more to live for.”
Richard couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips. “I do.”
Dunne opened his mouth to reply, but a sudden commotion from the outer office made him frown instead.
“I’m sorry, you will have to wait!” came the sound of the clerk’s raised voice, swiftly followed by thuds very like marching feet and, “You cannot go in there!”
The door burst open to reveal Daniels, Havers, Fellows, and Smith, whom they must have picked up in the street after he had “lost” Jones, born Obadiah Hindmarsh.
“Sir, I am sorry,” the clerk began furiously from behind them.
“I think you must let them in,” Richard said, a sense of foreboding twisting his gut. “What has happened?”
“Bow Street Runners came for Miss Natalie,” Daniels blurted.
“What?” Richard surged to his feet without the aid of either his stick or Dunne’s desk.
“They’re charging her with murder. Of her mother, for God’s sake.”
“Tell me you didn’t let them take her,” Richard uttered, though he already knew from the way they had burst in that they had. “Idiots! They weren’t runners, they didn’t take her anywhere near Bow Street. They’ve handed her straight to—”
“They did,” Daniels interrupted.
“Richard blinked. “What?”
“They did take her to the Bow Street magistrate’s house. We followed her. They really were runners.”
“That is insane.” Richard dragged his hand through his hair, then reached blindly for his walking stick. “I have to go there.”
“No,” Dunne said, busily writing. “If we can, we need to nip this in the bud, or she could await trial in prison. Which is as likely to kill her as not. I will go to Bow Street and see what can be done. You, my lord, and your men have other equally important tasks.”
*
As though trapped in a nightmare, Natalie suffered the journey to town with the two Bow Street runners, who regarded her with utter contempt.
“My mother died more than two years ago,” she said to them. “How am I charged with this now? And in England! My mother died in Italy.”
“Which is where you’ll be going to stand trial I expect,” one of the runners said loftily. “If they have trials there.”
“That makes no sense,” she said confused. “Who has charged me with such a horrible crime?”
“Horrible is right. Some big wig foreign gent—a count or a marquess or something—has come for you. You’ll be handed over to him all legal-like.”
She stared at him wildly. “None of this makes any sense,” she repeated.
“Neither does doing in your old mum,” the quieter runner said austerely.
