Читать книгу Forbidden - Nicola Cornick, Nicola Cornick - Страница 8

The Wheel of Fortune: Fate turns its wheel London, April 1817

THE MAN SITTING BEFORE HIM had a certain reputation.

Ruthless. Intelligent. Controlled. Dangerous.

Mr. Churchward knew a little of his history. Baron Henry Wardeaux had been a soldier. The way he spoke still bore the trace of command, clipped and direct. He had fought with Wellesley in the Peninsular War where he had been known as The Engineer for his skill in military fortifications. He had done other work, too, spoken of in whispers, secret work behind enemy lines. Mr. Churchward was a lawyer, a man given to dealing in facts and figures, but he believed the stories told of Henry Wardeaux.

“So, Mr. Churchward,” Wardeaux said, sitting back in the high-backed armchair and crossing one elegantly booted leg over the other. “Have you discovered proof that Miss Mallon is Lord Templemore’s granddaughter?”

No pleasantries about the weather, which had been mild and wet of late. No enquiries into Mr. Churchward’s health, which was good but for a few twinges of gout. Lord Wardeaux never wasted words.

Mr. Churchward shuffled his papers a little nervously. He cleared his throat. “We have found no definite proof, as yet, my lord,” he admitted. “It has only been two days,” he said, trying not to sound defensive.

Two days since a man had come to Mr. Churchward with information that the Earl of Templemore’s granddaughter, who had been missing for twenty years, was alive and well, and working as a lady’s maid in London. Two days of frantic activity to try to discover if the information could possibly be correct.

It had been astonishing news, news that had revived the health and hopes of the old earl. He had sent his godson and heir, Henry Wardeaux, to London immediately. If the report was true, Henry Wardeaux would no longer be the heir. Templemore was one of only a handful of titles in the country that could descend through the female line.

Churchward wondered how Lord Wardeaux would feel about losing the huge Templemore inheritance. He would never know. Henry Wardeaux would never reveal his emotions on that or any other subject.

“If you have not yet found proof, what have you found?” Wardeaux asked.

Mr. Churchward gave a sharp sigh. “We have discovered a great deal about Miss Mallon’s adoptive family, my lord. None of it is good.”

Wardeaux’s firm lips almost twitched into a smile. “Indeed?”

“Her elder brother owns a business buying and selling secondhand items. It is a cover for the sale of stolen goods,” Churchward said. “Her middle brother works in a tavern and her youngest brother…” The lawyer shook his head sadly. “There is no criminal activity he has not dabbled in. Highway robbery, fraud, larceny…”

“Why is he not locked up?”

“Because he is good at getting away with it,” Mr. Churchward said.

This time, Henry Wardeaux did laugh. “And from this den of thieves comes Lord Templemore’s granddaughter and heiress,” he said.

“Perhaps,” Mr. Churchward admitted. The circumstantial evidence that Margery Mallon was really Lady Marguerite Saint-Pierre was very strong, but he disliked circumstantial evidence. It was irregular, lacking firm verification. He wanted facts, witnesses, written testimony, not the faded miniature portrait and the garnet brooch that his informant had provided.

He fidgeted with the quill pen that lay on his desk. Never, in his long and distinguished career serving the nobility, had he been involved in such a case as this. When the earl’s daughter had been murdered twenty years before and her four-year-old child stolen, no one had ever expected to see little Marguerite again. No one, neither Bow Street nor the private investigators the earl had hired, had been able to trace her. The earl had mourned for years.

Wardeaux shifted slightly in his chair. “If you cannot prove one way or the other whether Miss Mallon is Lord Templemore’s granddaughter, Mr. Churchward, I shall have to do so myself.”

“If you gave me more time, my lord—” Churchward began, but Wardeaux lifted one hand in so authoritative a gesture that he fell silent.

“We don’t have time,” Wardeaux said. There was an edge of steel beneath the quiet words. “The earl is anxious to be reunited with his granddaughter.”

Mr. Churchward understood the urgency. The earl was dying. Even so, he hesitated. He knew Margery Mallon, and in turning over the case to Henry Wardeaux he felt as though he was throwing her to the wolves.

“My lord…” he said.

Wardeaux waited. Churchward sensed his impatience. He was a hard man, a cold man whose life had driven all gentleness out of him.

“The girl has no notion of her parentage,” he warned. “According to my enquiries she is quite…” He groped to find the appropriate word. “Innocent.”

Wardeaux looked at him. Mr. Churchward found it disconcerting. The darkness in his eyes suggested he had long ago forgotten what true innocence was.

“I see,” Wardeaux said slowly. He stood up. “Where do I find her?”