Читать книгу Regency Pleasures and Sins Part 1 - Louise Allen, Christine Merrill - Страница 77

A few days later Beau sat at the desk in his study, reviewing the nearly completed dossier on Lord Wolverton. Over the past three weeks the investigation had picked up speed, all the meticulous details painstakingly gathered by his operatives finally coming together to create a clear picture of the embezzler’s web. Once Beau received the last overseas reports for which he still waited, he’d have sufficient evidence to present the dossier to Lord Riverton.

Normally by this point he’d be experiencing the deep satisfaction of another puzzle solved, tempered by the sadness of confirming once again human nature’s frailty. But he’d had to exert all his self-control to keep his mind focused on business. For his private investigation of Laura Martin had not proceeded nearly as well.

Initially he’d expected to uncover her identity so he might return to Merriville before Ellie transported the recovering Kit from Everett Hall. But once his lungs cleared, Kit had improved more quickly than anticipated, a fact of which Beau could only be glad, and Ellie decided to move her brother the shorter distance to her country estate rather than trespass upon Squire Everett’s hospitality until Kit was fit enough for the longer journey to London.

Beau could not now cloak a visit to Mrs. Martin under the guise of checking on his brother. To journey to Merriville and call on her without such a socially acceptable excuse would be so glaringly remarkable as to immediately give rise to precisely the sort of speculation and possible censure the vicar had warned about. Beau dared not approach her now until he had all the facts necessary to persuade her immediate removal. And those facts had not yet fallen into place.

Was she still safe? She’d been so ten days ago, for the message Ellie had written him when she’d arrived home at Wentworth Hall pointedly mentioned they’d left Mrs. Martin with their warmest thanks and a promise to meet again soon—his sister had underlined the word.

With more fervency than his manipulating sister could have dreamed, Beau wished to meet Laura Martin again soon. The month since he’d last seen her seemed an eternity. He would never have imagined that in the brief few weeks they’d spent together she would have so infiltrated his heart and mind that being away from her would create this raw sense of loss.

He missed the subtle loveliness of her presence, even garbed in hideous brown gowns, her low-pitched voice expressing some pithy comment or shimmering with humor as she joked with Kit. He missed the soft rose scent of her perfume, the polished mahogany sheen of the curls that escaped those ridiculous dowager caps. He craved the sight of her inquisitive eyes and angled chin as she gazed up at him with that endearing sparrow look.

Knowing he’d otherwise go mad with frustration and fury, he cut himself off from remembering any detail of their last night together, when she’d given herself to him with such innocent eagerness, proving to his amazement that a woman who’d borne a child could still be so heartbreakingly ignorant in the ways of pleasure. And yet he’d been fiercely glad that he was undoubtedly the first to unlock its secrets for her, exulting to know that special bond was theirs, theirs alone.

Though he might by supreme act of will block out the memories, he could not filter from his blood the sharp edge of need she’d created in him. In a curious way, the sense of her with him, in him was nearly as acute now, when hundreds of miles separated them, as it had been across the narrow space of her bed.

Each day that passed without bringing him the information he needed to claim her intensified both his impatience and his urgency, destroying his sleep, shortening his temper such that increasingly he found himself biting back the first, acid comment that came to his lips.

In fact, he realized with mild chagrin, given the lowered voices and apprehensive looks his household staff had treated him to for the past week, he must have been less successful in stifling such comments than he’d thought. A knock at the study door interrupted his resolve to do better.

His secretary entered, a sheaf of papers in his outstretched hands. “The reports from the West Indies and Bombay for which you’d been waiting, my lord.”

“Thank you, James, and be seated, if you please.” Indicating the armchair in front of his desk, Beau quickly perused the documents.

“We have in our possession the ledgers listing bills of lading as they were filed upon the ships’ landing in London?” Beau asked after a moment.

“Yes, my lord, and as you expected, the cargo amounts on the bills of lading from the ships’ port of origin are less than those in the landing ledger by several hundred pounds per commodity. They do match exactly the amounts in the ledgers actually forwarded to the customs office. But do we have any positive proof Lord Wolverton was involved?”

“Nothing that would stand in a court of law. Fortunately we don’t need to prove a case, and in any event, the government prefers not to have such messy affairs dragged into the public forum.”

“But if the payoffs were made in cash, such that his involvement cannot be proven, how can you force his resignation?”

“By applying the weight of some telling, if circumstantial, evidence. We know he’s been sustaining heavy gambling losses for years, got himself entangled with the cent-per-centers. Suddenly he paid off the loans, even though we’ve ascertained that his estates generated no more income. Threatened with transportation or the noose, I don’t doubt the couriers who carried him the purloined funds will be only too happy to confirm whatever details we wish. Once Lord Riverton acquaints Wolverton with the evidence, I expect he will see the wisdom of resigning quietly.”

James frowned. “It seems somehow unfair that the others will go to the dock while Lord Wolverton escapes prosecution.”

Beau shrugged. “The ton knows how these things work. To be stripped of his office and his income will ruin him as effectively as imprisonment. And the corruption will stop, which is perhaps the most important point.”

“When will you present the information to Lord Riverton?”

“He’s out of London at present. When he returns.” “Will you continue to observe Lord Wolverton?” Beau smiled grimly. “I’ve half a mind to invite him to the Puzzlebreaker’s Club, then propose to the membership that we unravel an embezzlement scheme such as he’s been running, just for the pleasure of watching him squirm. But Lord Riverton prefers I keep my involvement in these investigations covert.” He sighed. “Usually the personal satisfaction of decoding the mystery is more than enough compensation. Now, have you any more information on the … other matter?”

Without doubt James knew full well why the solution of this present case had engendered in Beau so little enthusiasm. With commendable tact, he’d refrained from commenting on the shadowed eyes and grim weariness his employer had worn this past week like a cloak.

“As you requested, I’ve gone back and rechecked the records of all the nobility and gentry.” His secretary gave him a wry smile. “Who could have guessed there would be so many dead or absent wives among them the past two years? I’m still awaiting confirmation that Lady Worth did indeed depart with her father on a trip to collect data on indigenous peoples of the East Indies, and that Mrs. Dominick is truly visiting her cousin in Italy, but those two are the last. The other missing wives have turned up and the deaths of all the dearly departed have been confirmed by family members not directly related to the husband.” He eyes Beau with concern.

“I’m sorry, my lord. Shall I begin to check among the wealthy merchant class?”

It couldn’t be. He must have missed some clue, somewhere. Beau clenched his hands, tightened his jaw to prevent the raging frustration from escaping in some violent profanity. James was doing everything he could; Beau would not vent his anger on his hapless secretary.

“Oh, I did collect one memento,” James said into the tense silence. “That epidemic of influenza two winters ago claimed the lives of several wives on my list. Thought I’d get out and do a bit of sleuthing on my own—”

“I’ve been that difficult to work with?” Beau interrupted with an attempt at a smile.

After raising a suggestive eyebrow, James continued, “Since several of the families are in London for the Season, I decided to call on them.” He held up a hand to forestall Beau’s protest. “In quite an unexceptional manner. Told them the government was collecting information on the influenza outbreak for a report.”

“A sort of updated Doomsday Book?”

James grinned. “Something like.”

Beau sighed, amused despite himself. “James, I begin to worry about you.”

“At any rate, the deaths were confirmed unconditionally. Including that of the lady whose husband was previously my prime suspect—a thoroughly nasty individual whom reports suggest may have been capable of violence. However, in the interests of furthering research, the lady’s father, a rather scholarly gentleman, lent me a miniature of his daughter. I thought perhaps you’d like to see it.”

You ‘re quite a scholar. No, but my father was. As the words echoed out of memory, Beau’s heart skipped a beat and his mouth went dry. With a hand that suddenly trembled he reached for the small oval portrait his secretary was extracting from his waistcoat pocket.

“Apparently Lady Charle ton contracted the influenza before she’d fully recovered from losing a babe in childbirth …”

The rest of his secretary’s sentence faded out as Beau brought the figured gold case close enough to distinguish the features of the shyly smiling lady portrayed within. A young lady with Laura Martin’s glossy auburn locks, Laura Martin’s piercingly blue eyes.

For an instant he couldn’t draw breath. He shut his eyes tightly, clutching the portrait in his fist, nearly dizzy as relief, euphoria and aching need rocked him in successive waves.

He opened his eyes to find James staring at him. “That … is the lady?”

“Yes. Find me everything you turn up on Lady Charleton’s death, everything you can uncover about her husband. Send operatives to both families, if they’re now in London—use as many men as you need. And report back to me at three o’clock with whatever you’ve found.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And, James—”

His secretary, already at the door, halted to look back at him. “My lord?”

“Thank you.”

Later that afternoon Beau returned to his study. In the intervening hours he’d conducted some research of his own. He knew little of Lord Charleton personally, the viscount being more than a decade his senior, but casual inquiries at his club elicited several intriguing tidbits.

Lord Charleton was regarded with respect but not warmth by his contemporaries. Accounted a good shot, a fair sportsman, a punctilious landlord ruthlessly precise in his duties, he drove a hard bargain in any transaction. A cold, proud man obsessed with his lineage, after being twice widowed he still had no heir, his first wife having produced only daughters and his second, the youngest child of Lord Arthur Farrington, having died two years ago of influenza after complications from a stillbirth.

In three days’ time Charleton was to marry again, a Miss Cynthia Powell, daughter of ancient Devon gentry.

Soon I’ll be safe, Laura had told him. And so, in a certain sense, her husband’s remarriage would make her.

That his Laura Martin was the supposedly dead Lady Charleton he had no doubt—the evidence of the miniature was too compelling. And the few details he’d yet gleaned of Lady Charleton fit what he knew of Laura Martin’s arrival in Merriville.

She had been gravely ill. She’d lost a babe. Whether Charleton had invented the notion of her death to derail speculation about her disappearance or whether Laura herself had somehow engineered it, Beau would soon uncover. Now that he had her name, the rest would be easy.

A thoroughly nasty individual, James had described Laura’s husband. Did Charleton in fact believe her dead? Or was he still watching, waiting, as Laura believed?

Regardless of what further information would reveal, one indisputable fact had seized Beau the moment he learned her husband was about to remarry. If Charleton did not discover Laura’s whereabouts until after his remarriage, he could then neither claim her nor reveal her true identity, lest he leave himself open to charges of bigamy. Though to Beau’s thinking, Laura would still not be absolutely safe—Charleton would be secure from scandal only if his inconvenient former wife were truly dead.

But more than her lack of security bothered him. If Charleton’s remarriage prevented the viscount from revealing the past, it also prevented Laura’s escaping it. She might come to Beau as they both desired, but she’d have to remain in the shadows, unable to use her real name or assume her rightful place in society. Have to remain permanently hidden, too, from the still-grieving family that believed her dead. And most important from Beau’s point of view, she’d never be able to become what he most wanted her to be—his lawful wife.

One way or another, he had to stop Lord Charleton’s remarriage. One way or another, he had to convince the man to seek a divorce before remarrying.

And he had three days in which to do it.

A burning desire consumed him to order his horse this moment, to ride to Merriville with all speed. Beyond the ever-present compulsion to be with Laura again, it would be wisest to have benefit of all she knew of this tangled affair before Beau confronted her husband. But given the distance, it was impossible for him to ride there and back in only three days.

He paced the room, too restless to sit, impatient to hear whatever news James had garnered. And then, information complete or not, within the next day he must proceed. Without whatever assistance Laura Martin might have been able to offer.

Beau thought again of Laura’s slight form cowering before him, her eyes distended with fear, her fisted arms raised, and the smoldering rage within fired hotter. He already knew enough of Charleton to know the man must be legally and permanently removed from Laura’s life. His fists itched to deal out to the viscount a liberal measure of the sort of domestic bliss he’d offered Laura.

While he stood at the window, envisioning with grim pleasure that satisfying prospect, a knock sounded, followed by the immediate entry of James Maxwell.

The mantel clock chimed three. “Bless you, James,” Beau offering a wry smile as he moved to the sideboard. “Let me pour some wine, then tell me the whole.”

At just before three the following afternoon, Beau stood in the parlor of Viscount Charleton’s imposing Georgian town house. As he paced the gray marble floor, awaiting his host, he surveyed the tasteful arrangement of green brocade Hepplewhite chairs and sofas, the immaculate white plaster detailing of the ceilings and overmantel that proclaimed the room the workmanship of the Adams brothers, and tried to imagine Laura here, greeting her guests in this cold, impersonal mausoleum of a room.

A few moments later Lord Charleton entered. Every nerve stiffening in automatic dislike, Beau made him the bow decorum demanded.

Charleton, a portly gentleman of middle age, barely inclined his head. Without any of the usual civilities, he demanded, “You insisted on seeing me, Lord Beaulieu? I trust the matter is of sufficient gravity. I am expected momentarily to drive my betrothed to tea.”

Already simmering from the deliberate insult of not being offered so much as a chair, Beau remained silent, allowing himself a long moment to inspect the viscount, from his silvered hair to his immaculately polished top-boots. The man’s face was a pasty hue that contrasted unpleasantly with the dark shadows beneath his glaring eyes. One vein pulsed at his temple, and he tapped his fingers against the smooth seam of his breeches.

As Beau allowed the silence to continue, a flush of irritation reddened the unhealthy pallor of the viscount’s cheeks. So you are easily angered, Beau thought. Good. Anger often makes men careless.

“You mock me, sirrah? I shall have my servant throw you out.” He turned as if to go to the bellpull.

“Not quite yet,” Beau interposed, holding out a hand to block the viscount’s path. Charleton stared down at it, his red color deepening.

Slowly, Beau pulled back his hand. “I understand I should congratulate you on your imminent nuptials. A happy event which will soon blot out the tragedy of your late wife’s premature demise.”

“You delayed my departure to tell me that? I thank you for your good wishes, but you might just as easily have sent a note. And now I bid you good day.”

“I was also somewhat curious, I admit, about the circumstances of your late wife’s death. Influenza following hard upon childbed, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Tragic. She was a dear young thing, my poor Emily. Now, if you will excuse me—”

“Emily Marie Laura Trent, she was, yes? Curious though, that although the child’s birth took place at your country estate at Charleton’s Grove, your wife was buried nearly a hundred miles away, in Mernton Manner.”

The viscount waved an impatient hand. “Still distraught over the child’s death, she begged to visit her old governess and I hadn’t the heart to deny her. She took sick there, and by the time I arrived—” he uttered a deep sigh “—it was too late. My poor dear Emily was already two weeks buried.”

The speech sounded so carefully practiced, Beau had trouble hanging on to his own temper. “Two weeks to journey a mere hundred miles to the side of your beloved and desperately ill wife? That seems a trifle … tardy.”

The viscount gave him a frosty glance. “As it was—”

“As it was, you weren’t in Charleton’s Grove when your wife left your house—but in London. And once your staff notified you of her disappearance, it took you another ten days to track your ‘poor dear Emily’ to Mernton Manner, which is why you arrived after her tragic demise.”

The vein at Charleton’s temple pulsed faster. “I hardly see how my personal affairs are any concern of yours, Lord Beaulieu. So if you would leave my house—”

“Just one more thing, my lord, and I’ll go.” Beau braced himself to pose the crucial query. “Lord Charleton, are you sure the woman buried at Mernton Manner is in fact your wife Emily?”

Surprise that could not be feigned swept over the viscount’s features. “What are you suggesting?”

Beau held up the miniature James had obtained. “Is this a portrait of your late wife?”

Charleton glanced at it quickly. “And if it is?”

“Then I must inform you, Lord Charleton, that your wife is very much alive.”