Letters to a Lover, page 23
She shook her head impatiently. “I left without going near the library again. The letter never entered my head. I went home alone and climbed the stairs to bed. When I finally closed my eyes, I felt the darkness pulling at me, and I went willingly, gratefully.”
She caught Dragan’s serious gaze. “Is that normal? Was I insane? Am I insane?”
“I don’t believe there is a normal for the mind,” Dragan said thoughtfully. “I think yours was protecting you until you were more able to deal with what had happened.”
“I’m able now.” She stared down at the letter, then folded it and put it not in the carpetbag but in the bodice of her gown. Somewhere, there was relief and triumph, but mostly she wanted to cry. Fiercely, she fought back the tears. “Let’s go home and have this monster arrested.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Griz pulled her up while Dragan closed the carpet back and led the way out.
“Thank you, Mrs. Day,” Azalea said, offering her hand to the housekeeper. “You have been a huge help to us, as well as to Lord Darchett.”
Mrs. Day took them back down via the servants’ stairs and walked with them to the front door.
“Ramshackle bunch of friends for you, Mrs. D.,” the porter commented as they returned to the waiting hackney.
Mrs. Day laughed.
“If only they knew,” Dragan murmured as the carriage set off, “that her ramshackle guests were a duke’s daughters.”
“Do you think she heard me?” Azalea asked anxiously. “I just couldn’t stop the flow of words.”
“They needed to be said, and no, I don’t think so. You spoke in little more than a whisper.”
Azalea nodded, gazing blindly out of the window as they were drawn through the fashionable streets and squares toward Mount Street. It would not take long.
“I felt so alone,” Azalea blurted.
“You’re not alone,” Griz said gruffly, finding her hand and squeezing it. “You never were, and you never will be.”
Azalea squeezed back. “I know.” She frowned. “I think Augusta feels alone sometimes. We should be kinder to her.”
This seemed to flabbergast Griz, who sat in silence for the rest of the short journey.
A large policeman in his tall hat was walking up and down the length of Trench House. He stopped at the area steps as Dragan handed the ladies down and paid the driver.
“My lady?” the policeman hazarded, low-voiced.
Azalea nodded.
“Everything’s quiet, my lady, and the inspector’s inside.” He glanced at Griz, apparently recognizing her, and smiled shyly. “Ma’am. Sir.”
“Good evening, constable,” Griz murmured while Dragan took Azalea’s latch key from her and opened the door. He put his finger to his lips when the porter saw him, then stood back to let the ladies enter.
As they’d previously discussed, they walked smartly across the hall without removing outerwear and ran lightly upstairs. On the landing, they parted, Dragan throwing Griz his hat and striding off toward the salons, while Azalea and Griz ran upstairs to her sitting room with the evidence of Jessop’s guilt.
*
Walking into the salon, Dragan immediately captured all Trench’s attention. The younger man wore evening dress but otherwise looked much as he always did, careless, darkly handsome, and curiously untamed. But not grim, not anxious. Was there a hint of triumph in that casual stride?
For his part, Dragan must have beheld a picture of very English upper-class dissipation.
The room smelled of alcohol and cigar smoke. Voices and laughter were too loud for sober men. The guests lounged mostly around two tables, some with coats off or ties askew, throwing cards and coins onto the tables with abandon, between mouthfuls of wine and spirits from the glasses at their elbows. A few others wandered through from the room beyond, happily munching and spraying crumbs on the floor. Two men were arguing in a friendly sort of way, but both talking at once so neither they nor anyone listening could have a clue what was being said.
“Tizsa,” Trench said when he had reached him.
“We’ve got it.”
And so, he could breathe. “Thank God. Are they back?”
“Upstairs,” Dragan replied as Inspector Harris joined them.
“Got what?” the policeman demanded. “What is it you think is evidence?”
“Two packets of banknotes amounting to over a thousand pounds,” Dragan replied calmly. He glanced at Trench. “And a letter written by Lady Trench and stolen from her. Plus, with the money, there is a note written by her, clearly to a blackmailer. Lord Darchett’s housekeeper witnessed where we found those things.”
“You never cease to surprise me, Mr. Tizsa,” Harris said, almost smiling.
“Dragan!” Lord Forsythe called from the more rollicking table of gamers. “Come and join us!”
Dragan lifted one hand in acknowledgment but made no move toward him. Trench’s gaze was locked with that of Lord Darchett, who rose and came toward them, a bit like a condemned man.
“Well?” he said warily.
“It’s as we thought,” Trench replied.
“Dear God.” Darchett closed his eyes. “I am so sorry.” His eyes opened again. “What now?”
“Better send for him,” Trench said with undisguised satisfaction. He strolled to the door of the salon, where he addressed the footman in the passage. “Henry, Lord Darchett wants his valet. Be so good as to bring him up here.”
“Once you have him safe in your custody,” Dragan told Harris, “my wife will bring you the evidence.”
“Must we do it in here?” Darchett said nervously. “I detest scandal and, more to the point, so does my future father-in-law.”
“Your future father-in-law,” Trench said dryly, “has enough scandal of his own to worry about. He will be doubly glad of a noble son-in-law, believe me. Besides, it is more enclosed here.” And he wouldn’t be surprised if Azalea didn’t watch from the passage—which was another worry.
All the same, he crooked a finger at Forsythe, who was heading toward the other salon but changed direction at once.
“Aha,” Forsythe said, grinning with anticipation. “Is something going to happen?”
“Yes, but discreetly,” Trench said. “I have a task for you, Forsythe. See what you can do to keep the others distracted or, preferably, in the supper salon.”
A moment later, he could see a group of the younger men heading purposefully toward supper, though Forsythe doubled back and began jabbering at those left at the gaming table.
Jessop walked so quietly into the room that it took Trench a moment to register it. A tall, thin, well-dressed manservant who, with a different posture, could easily pass as a gentleman, and Trench expected he had, at the theatre for one example. He bore a faint mark, still, just below his left eye, where Trench had thumped him in Grosvenor Square.
Apparently the perfect valet, he glided up to Darchett and bowed, murmuring, “My lord?” Perhaps he read something wrong in his master’s face, for his brow flickered, and he glanced hastily around the company, coming to rest on Trench.
“This is Jessop,” Darchett said quietly.
And Harris’s blunt, heavy hand came down on the valet’s shoulder. “Jessop, I am arresting you on suspicion of attempted murder and blackmail.”
Jessop’s face fell ludicrously in pure astonishment. And then, without loss of confidence, he laughed. “Don’t be silly. I am his lordship’s valet.”
“Nevertheless,” Harris said, clearly unimpressed, “you are under arrest.”
“Will you not speak up for me, my lord?” Jessop said warningly to Darchett. And unbelievably, the man’s eyes were still threatening. He still thought he pulled everyone’s strings.
“Not this time, Jessop,” Darchett managed.
“But they are lying. He—” He jerked his head at Trench before hastily correcting himself, “Someone is mistaken. There can be no proof against an innocent man.”
“But there is against a guilty one,” Harris said flatly. In one movement, he caught Jessop’s arm and all but threw him at the constable just entering the room. “Hold him while we fetch his carriage.”
As Harris strode from the room, presumably to send his other constable for a conveyance, some of the men with Forsythe were glancing toward the huddle near the door, but not with a great deal of interest. Dragan followed Harris out, perhaps to fetch the evidence or send for Grizelda.
“Your wife is a whore,” Jessop said quietly to Trench. “I got proof of that.”
Trench surged forward, fists raised to strike the vile creature who had already injured his wife in so many ways and who now dared…
At once, Jessop stumbled backward, even while the constable was cuffing him across the head.
“Here! Watch your mouth,” the policeman commanded. But he had shifted his grip, both to fend off Trench and smack his prisoner. And with a jolt like lightning, Trench realized this was exactly what Jessop had planned. To rile them, set everyone off-balance and force the policeman to change his grip.
Trench dropped his fist. But taking advantage of the constable’s loosened grasp, Jessop tore free and charged toward the door. The constable, Trench, and Forsythe sprang close on his heels.
Trench was damned if he’d lose the bastard at this stage, and he didn’t truly expect him to get far.
But in the passage, to Trench’s sudden horror, Azalea and Griz stopped dead as Jessop erupted from the salon. Azalea shouldn’t have been there at all, and Griz had been meant to wait for his summons.
At the other end of the passage, Harris stopped, instructing another constable, and started furiously toward his prisoner, Tizsa at his side.
Jessop didn’t hesitate. He bolted straight toward the women.
“Let him go!” Trench shouted in something very close to panic, and to his unspeakable relief, Azalea and Griz split apart, one against either wall as Jessop sprinted toward them. Griz held a carpetbag between her and the wall—presumably the evidence they had promised Harris.
If Jessop touched Azalea, touched either of them…
But the valet was intent only on escape. He didn’t even look at the women. He had already picked them as the weakest link in his siege, his easiest way out.
Which was his mistake because at the last minute, just as he passed, Azalea put out one elegantly shod foot, and Jessop tripped his length on the floor.
Trench, appalled to see him so close to Azalea, hurled himself on top of Jessop, knocking what was left of his wind out of him. By the time Trench had yanked his arms behind his back, both constables and Harris were there, too.
Panting for breath—from fear, not from exertion—Trench looked up over the policemen’s heads and met Azalea’s gaze.
She wasn’t frightened, his wonderful wife. Her beautiful eyes were glowing, and she was smiling with triumph.
Beneath him, Jessop began to scream.
“I wrote it to you, Eric,” she called joyfully over the din. “I wrote it to you!”
Until he heard the words, he hadn’t known how much the damned letter had troubled him. He loved her far too much to reject her over one love letter, or even, God help him, one affair. So long as she loved him still. But now, he couldn’t deny how much it would have hurt. The strength of the relief flooding him at that moment gave him the first clue.
He stumbled off Jessop, who was now being put in steel handcuffs and seized Azalea in his arms.
She was laughing and crying at once and clutching him as if she would never let go. He never wanted her to.
*
“He collected information,” Griz said. “About everyone, from everyone.” She sat very close to Dragan on a drawing room sofa, one way Azalea knew the evening’s events had upset her more than she would admit.
The guests had finally gone, led off to new and no doubt greater pastures of debauchery by the very useful Forsythe. Some of them, clearly, had seen the brief but spectacular scuffle in the passage before Jessop was marched off by the two large constables. No one mentioned that Harris, their fellow-guest, had gone, too. But most knew Jessop as Darchett’s valet. He was a familiar figure around the young peers, and there was bound to be gossip of some kind. Darchett himself had looked somewhat despondent before Forsythe had taken him in hand.
“I’ll give you one more piece of advice,” Eric had said quietly to Darchett as they parted. “When you are married, have nothing to do with your father-in-law’s schemes. Hire a reputable man of business if your family does not retain one.”
“And my lord?” Azalea had added as Darchett had bowed over her hand. “I know you and your bride will be much happier without Jessop. Mrs. Day thinks so, too.”
Darchett had perked up at the thought of his bride, and Forsythe, with a friendly arm around his shoulder, had dragged him off.
Now, in the blessed peace of the drawing room, Azalea was serving tea, and Eric was pouring hefty glasses of brandy for himself and Dragan. Eric set Dragan’s glass on the table between the two sofas and took his place by Azalea. He put his arm loosely around her.
She was surprised, for he was not normally demonstrative in public, but with gladness, she leaned into his warmth.
Griz sipped her tea. “I think Jessop saw Azalea writing in the Roystons’ library the night of the ball, and when he had escorted her to the stairs, he went back and took her letter.”
“It must have been a disappointment to him,” observed Eric, who had now read the letter in question. Azalea laid her head on his shoulder.
“Yes,” Griz agreed. “Words of love from a wife to a husband might have made for a little mockery in certain circles, but it was hardly the stuff of blackmail, so he did nothing with it at first.”
Dragan sipped his brandy thoughtfully. “Only then he must have overheard Gunning telling Darchett about his rejection by Azalea. I suspect he also picked up from other sources that Azalea had forgotten a good deal of that night, including meeting David Grant. Jessop hasn’t been paid for months. He must have wanted to leave but was trapped for lack of funds. He had no hope of getting the money he was owed, at least until Darchett married Miss Fenner. And so he took a chance to see if you would bite.”
“I bit,” Azalea said ruefully. “I did not even remember writing the letter, let alone who I had written it to. I played into his hands—just as you said—by not telling Eric about it at once.”
“Yes, but then it all went wrong for him,” Dragan said. “He got the thousand pounds in Grosvenor Square, but he also very nearly got caught by Trench. He knew he couldn’t exploit you anymore if your husband was already aware of such a letter. Worse, he must have realized that you were in possession of blackmailing letters in his handwriting, which he hadn’t even troubled to disguise.”
“He despised me that much,” Azalea observed. “But he didn’t despise Eric.”
Dragan shrugged. “I suspect he is one of those men who think very little of women’s worth or intelligence, except in terms of the men they are related to.”
“More fool him,” Eric said with contempt.
“But wasn’t he taking an even greater risk by killing me?” Azalea demanded. “He would have hanged for that.”
“He must have thought it a necessary risk,” Eric said, his arm tightening. “You saw him in the Roystons’ library. It was only a matter of time until you remembered that and, now that I knew everything, identified him to the law. I’m just surprised he didn’t destroy your letter and hide the money better.”
“I don’t think it’s in his nature to destroy information,” Dragan said. “And he saw no reason yet to hide anything. He must have thought Azalea was as good as dead, and that he would never be identified.”
“And I have to say, Zalea,” Griz said with glee, “that it was supremely poetic justice that you tripped him up—so elegantly, too—and were responsible for his final capture.”
“I have never been so frightened in my life,” Eric declared, dropping a kiss on top of her head.
Griz finished her tea and set down the cup. “We should go, Dragan.”
“I’ll send for the carriage,” Eric said.
“Don’t be silly,” Griz said. “It’s a lovely evening for a walk.”
“So it is,” Eric said, almost in surprise. “Even in London.”
“About Trenchard,” Dragan said. “I would be happier if you put off your journey for another few days until I can take the stitches out of Azalea’s arm.” He drained his glass and rose, drawing Griz to her feet. “But it is up to you. Presumably, you have a physician in the country who can see to the stitches.”
“We’ll leave it a few more days,” Eric said, “and see where we are.” He disentangled himself from Azalea and stood, as did she. He held out his hand to Dragan. “Thank you. For everything.”
“There is nothing to thank me for,” Dragan said, though he shook hands at once.
Eric then hugged Griz and kissed her cheek. “We’ll call tomorrow if you’re free.”
“You’d better call on Their Graces first,” Griz said. “Or you’ll have the entire family descending upon you.”
So they parted with smiles and affection, and when they had gone, Eric and Azalea wandered into the garden room and through the French windows into the small, walled garden at the back of the house.
Hand in hand, they gazed up at the stars, and Azalea imagined the weight of the world slipping from her shoulders and rising up into the sky to be dispersed like so many fading clouds.
“Will you be able to persuade Dragan to take payment for what they’ve done?” she asked.
“Some. I’ll pay him for the business information about Fenner. And the Roystons paid him for finding Ned. For the rest, I’ll find some way to pay.”
“They are a little precarious, are they not?”
He shrugged. “In terms of money, perhaps so. But I foresee a growing demand for Tizsa’s unique services. In more personal terms, they are extraordinarily well-suited.”
Azalea nodded agreement and gathered the silence about her. But she knew he would ask. She wanted him to.
