Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) (22 page)

His instincts pricking, Thomas frowned, but then Stokes asked Rose, “Given your relative lack of knowledge of him, can you be certain it was Richard Percival you heard? You didn’t see him, and you yourself said the chimney distorted his voice.”

To her credit, Rose paused to question herself, then she replied, “True, but the distortion isn’t sufficient to truly disguise a voice—for instance, I wouldn’t have mistaken Marmaduke for Richard, and, as I said, the only members of the family who had elected to remain overnight at the house were Richard and Marmaduke. And, of course, as Robert’s brother, it’s Richard who will inherit after William. Given the words I heard—that all he had to do was eliminate William and he would have the estate . . .” She arched her brows at Stokes. “No one but Richard could have said that.”

Stokes’s expression cleared and he smiled in almost feral satisfaction. “And that is exactly the right answer. It
could
have been no one but Richard Percival who spoke those words.” He nodded. “So, and you can be less detailed from now on—I’ll ask if I need more information—tell me what you did next.”

Rose obliged; Thomas listened as she described her flight from Seddington Grange and her subsequent journey through the countryside with the children, much as she’d described it to him.

At the end of her recitation, Stokes closed his notebook. “Right. That’s a good start, and”—he glanced at the others—“I can confirm that Richard Percival lives in a town house in Hertford Street, the eastern end. I have three men watching the house—they have orders to keep him under surveillance and follow him if he goes out.”

Rose was visibly relieved.

Then it was Montague’s turn to ask questions, first verifying the members of the Percival family—Richard, Marmaduke, and his son Roger—all of whom lived in London. Montague looked at Thomas. “I’ve already put my people onto digging into Richard Percival’s finances, but I understand you have done some work in that area, too?”

Thomas nodded.

Stokes and Adair had their heads together working out the details of how to approach the Percival family solicitor, Foley; hearing Montague’s question, Adair glanced up. “We might be able to add something to that after we speak with Foley. We’ll try to extract as much as we can regarding who is holding firm to the reins of the estate—” He broke off to explain to Montague, “Glendower’s man has already confirmed that the estate appears to still be intact, so assuming Richard Percival is after money, that he hasn’t been able to raid the estate’s coffers suggests that someone—presumably Marmaduke Percival, possibly aided by Foley himself—is resisting all such efforts.” Adair glanced at Thomas. “If we can confirm that, we’ll be well on the way to shoring up our motive.”

Stokes grunted. “That will also explain why Percival is so hot to hunt down his missing nephew. If he can’t persuade the other executors to release the funds, then he needs William dead and his body found.”

“Exactly,” Adair said.

Thomas caught Montague’s eye. “I’ll instruct my agent, Drayton in Threadneedle Street, to direct all his reports to you. Better we pool our efforts, rather than work parallel and perhaps waste precious time.”

“Indeed.” Montague inclined his head. “It will be an honor to work with Mr. Drayton.” He glanced at the others. “As it is, thoroughly investigating the finances of a gentleman like Percival will take several days at least.”

Rose, Thomas noticed, had been talking with Penelope. From the direction of the ladies’ frequent glances, the children and their well-being was the topic under discussion. Sure enough, as the men fell silent, Penelope swiveled back to face them. “Rose and I have been discussing the difficulty of keeping the children constantly cooped up in these rooms. While, obviously, we can’t risk simply taking them for a stroll, I was wondering if we might use my carriage.”

She looked pointedly at Adair.

Who arched his brows back. “The carriage—along with the guards—is yours to command.”

Penelope beamed. “Wonderful.” She glanced at Rose. “It’ll be perfectly safe—I’ll bring all three guards. Perhaps if I call tomorrow morning”—she glanced over her shoulder at the children—“by which time those two will be climbing the walls, we could take them out for a drive around the town, stopping wherever we please, whenever the fancy takes us, whenever something catches their eye, and then quickly move on.” Penelope shifted her gaze to Thomas and added, “Constantly guarded the whole time.”

Thomas wasn’t at all sure of the wisdom of such an excursion, but a swift glance showed that Stokes, Adair, and Montague, too, accepted Penelope’s assurance at face value.

He’d also caught enough snippets of their conversation to realize that Rose was relaxing in Penelope’s exuberant presence, and he could only be grateful for Adair’s wife’s freely tendered friendship and support . . . so he kept his tongue between his teeth and ignored the protectiveness that had closed, viselike, about his chest.

Not a sensation he’d had any experience of prior to the last weeks.

With everyone satisfied, all immediate questions answered and their next steps defined, the others rose and prepared to depart.

Stokes left first, then Montague. While Rose was farewelling Penelope, Adair turned to Thomas and smiled. “They really are guards. Coachman, groom, and footman. I vetted them myself.”

Thomas read the message in the blue eyes holding his and extrapolated. “Your wife often goes into danger?”

“Too often for my liking.” Adair glanced at the lady in question. “But she wouldn’t be Penelope if she didn’t, so . . .” He shrugged, then met Thomas’s eyes and saluted. “We’ll let you know what we learn.”

Thomas inclined his head and watched Adair bid Rose a smiling farewell, then clasp his wife’s elbow and steer her to the door.

Rose, still smiling, opened it, then closed it behind them. Turning, she met Thomas’s eyes, then sighed, relieved; her smile turned grateful. “That went better than I’d hoped.”

He hesitated, then nodded at the door. “You like her.”

Not a question, at least not the one it sounded like.

Understanding that, Rose nodded. “She’s a viscount’s daughter, but she involves herself in investigations and does all sorts of things—she’s a translator of ancient languages, and she and Adair have a son, just a baby, too.” Rose paused, then, attention drifting to the children, she mused, “I rather think spending more time in her company will do me, and the children, nothing but good.”

Chapter

10

T
homas Glendower is nothing short of a legend,” Montague informed the others seated about the dining table in Albemarle Street that evening. “He manages countless funds, all of which benefit various charities, but quite aside from such a gargantuan philanthropic endeavor, it’s his ability to source and grow funds that is second to none. He literally grows money.”

“How does he do it?” Violet, Montague’s wife, asked. “I assume we’re referring to legitimate dealings?”

“Indeed—entirely legal and all aboveboard. His actions are open to easy scrutiny and many, many men-of-business and all keen investors certainly do scrutinize his deals, but that’s not where his genius lies. He has a nose for it—when to buy into a company, and when to sell. He doesn’t hold investments for the long term—or only rarely, and then with reason. He is utterly brilliant, and I will confess that—as I’m sure many of my peers do—I run a fund within the office that operates by mimicking his financial moves. It’s the most successful fund I’ve ever run, but because we’re always moving after he’s already moved, we’re never making as much as he is.”

Barnaby exchanged a glance with Stokes, then looked at Montague. “Do you remember, years ago, me asking you for information on a Malcolm Sinclair? It was in relation to investments in railroads.”

Montague frowned, patently thinking back, then his eyes widened. “Ah, yes. A very astute investor, but as I recall, he had a shady side. No moral compass, and he’d been associated with several questionable deals.”

“Indeed.” Barnaby paused, then said, “Thomas Glendower is Malcolm Sinclair.”

Montague stared. “No . . .” His expression blanked. A moment ticked past, then, in a distant voice, he murmured, “Of
course
.” He blinked, then, features firming, he shook his head. “I should have seen it—not
quite
the same hand, and in a different class of asset, but the same . . .
innate
sensitivity,
the same brilliantly incisive mind.” Montague looked at Barnaby, then at Stokes. “I’m not sure I understand.” He frowned. “How will this play out—us helping him?”

Stokes pulled a face. “It’s not at all straightforward, but . . .” He glanced at Barnaby. “We”—he shifted his gaze to Penelope and Griselda, including them in the decision—“have come to the conclusion that there’s nothing to be gained by resurrecting Malcolm Sinclair and his past misdemeanors, when all that will do is cause untold ructions and uncertainty, and possibly great financial loss, for all those who benefited courtesy of his will—all the restitution he made when he died.”

“Died?” Montague blinked. “He died?”

“I’m not at all sure I’m following.” Setting down her napkin, frowning, Violet looked from one face to the other. “What misdemeanors did Malcolm Sinclair commit, and why was he thought to have died?”

Barnaby explained, with Stokes and Penelope adding comments to his somewhat bald dissertation. Penelope interrupted to stress the connection that had formed between Sinclair and Barnaby and Penelope’s friends, Charles and Sarah Morwellan, now Earl and Countess of Meredith, and how, through that association, Sinclair had realized the error of his ways and had then sought to make restitution, before arranging his own death. Barnaby reclaimed the stage to describe the bridge over the falls at Will’s Neck in Somerset, the site Sinclair had chosen for his demise, before concluding with, “So, you see, it truly is a miracle that he lived at all, much less recovered sufficiently to be walking, talking, and able to help anyone.”

After a moment, Stokes shifted, leaning forward and drawing all attention back to him. He looked around the table and succinctly stated, “Malcolm Sinclair is officially dead, and the man we now have before us is Thomas Glendower. It’s he we need to judge.”

“And you saw his injuries.” Barnaby met Montague’s eyes. “He’s paid a heavy toll in pain, and I would hazard a guess that he continues to pay a price just for living each day.”

“It really is a wonder that he has.” Penelope looked at the others. “Continued living, I mean.”

Stokes nodded heavily. “It seems almost sacrilegious to say it, but, this time, he appears to be on the side of the angels, and who are we to work against that?”

“And,” Penelope said, “it’s abundantly clear he’s not doing any of this for his own benefit but purely to aid Rose and the children. His aim in this is entirely altruistic—he, personally, has nothing to gain . . .” She paused, then, features brightening, added, “At least, not financially.”

Barnaby threw her a cynical look, then tapped the hilt of his knife on the table. When the others all turned their attention his way, he said, “We should discuss the case, and whether there’s anything more we should do beyond what we’ve already planned.”

Assessments were duly offered and discussed, but, in the end, the consensus was that they would have to await the results from their first foray of investigative actions the next day.

Penelope was the only one to make any addition to their program. “The grandes dames—at least, all those I generally consult—have retired to Somersham for a mid-Season rest, but I’ll see who else I can find and ask what they can tell me about Richard Percival.” She pulled a face. “I was never much interested in his sort, so I don’t know anything about him myself.”

Stokes nodded. “Yes, ask—one never does know, and you’ve uncovered useful information from such sources before.”

They all rose and repaired to the drawing room. Once they were settled comfortably and sipping tea, Stokes, who had been faintly frowning, volunteered, “I can’t help but think that, despite this case seeming so very straightforward, we’ll still need to exercise some degree of ingenuity to catch Richard Percival in such a way that he gets no further chance to pose any real threat to the boy.”

Barnaby grimaced but didn’t disagree. The others, likewise absorbed in thinking over the case, murmured agreement.

Eventually, after good-byes had been said and they had seen the others off home, Barnaby twined his fingers with Penelope’s, and, side by side, they headed up the stairs.

As they always did, they went straight to the nursery. Leaning against the door frame, Barnaby watched Penelope look down on their sleeping son. She delicately adjusted his blanket, then stooped and brushed a kiss to his fair head, then, straightening, she turned down the night-lamp to just a glow and returned to Barnaby.

Stepping back into the corridor, he drew the door closed behind her, then he paused and looked down at her until, feeling his gaze, she looked up.

Briefly, she searched his eyes, then arched a brow.

He held her gaze and softly said, “Tomorrow, when you go out with Rose and the children, you will take all due care, won’t you?”

Of yourself, because you are the most important being in the world to me and to our son.

Penelope heard the words Barnaby didn’t say; she smiled, raised a hand to his cheek, stretched up on her toes, and lightly kissed him. Then, taking his hand, she tugged him back to the stairs, toward their room. “Yes, of course.” As he fell in beside her, she slanted him a glance, then grinned, confidence personified. “Quite aside from my rather obvious guards, all three of them, I’ll have my lovely little derringer with me.”

Barnaby smiled, inwardly shook his head, and allowed her to tow him to their bed.

L
ater that evening, safely ensconced in the comfortable luxury of the Pevensey Hotel, Rose checked on the children one last time, then, assured they were sleeping peacefully, she crossed the sitting room, paused to turn down the last lamp, then continued to the large bedroom she shared with Thomas.

He’d left the door ajar; going through it, she closed it behind her. He was already undressing, laying coat, then waistcoat, over the stand on his side of the bed.

Hands going to her hair, Rose pulled pins as she walked to the dressing table; setting the pins down, she shook out her hair, letting it tumble, free, down her back. She hesitated, then, rather than lift her brush and stroke it through the shining mass, as she usually did, she turned and, determined, crossed the room to Thomas.

Engaged in undoing the buttons at his cuffs, he saw her coming and paused. Hands lowering, he straightened.

She didn’t halt until she was all but chest to chest, her bodice brushing the fine fabric of his loosened shirt. Looking into his face, she locked her eyes on his. “How did you do it? What did you do to gain the support of Adair, and Stokes, and all their helpers?”

They hadn’t had a chance to discuss it before, but she knew him, and she had enough insight into how things worked to doubt the likelihood of him simply asking and being granted that sort of assistance.

Thomas looked into her eyes, the brown more stormy than soft. He hesitated, uncertain and, as usual, questioning what he should do, which way he should jump—how much truth he should tell—but . . .

He’d always been honest with her, had vowed on his private altar never to lie to or mislead her. “I . . . offered to surrender myself as the man I used to be, to stand trial for the crimes I committed in the past, in return for their assistance in helping to protect William and safely reinstate him to his rightful position.”

She held his gaze as she digested his words. “You knew Stokes . . . from before?”

He shook his head. “I knew Adair—he wasn’t married then. He was in Somerset—Charlie Morwellan summoned him to look into the odd happenings I had been behind. That I had caused to happen. Adair was, even then, known as something of an investigator. Subsequently, I learned that, in recent years, Adair and Stokes had formed an ongoing connection. From what I’ve gathered, Adair had, at the end, summoned Stokes into Somerset, so Stokes does indeed know all about the doings of . . . the man I used to be.” His gaze locked with hers, he paused, then added, “Stokes understood what I was offering. He, and Adair, accepted.”

Rose didn’t know what to do—how to react. She felt as if her heart had stopped. Yes, it still beat, but . . . she had to be sure. “So . . . once Richard is exposed and his threat to William is no more, you—Thomas Glendower—will . . . what? Simply cease to be?”

He looked into her eyes, and nodded. “In a nutshell, yes. That’s how it will be.”

She stared at him. She wanted to rail at him, to ask how he could have done such a thing—to have so calmly set the clock ticking on the existence of the man she had come to love, the man who had woken her heart and touched her, and to whom she’d given herself heart and soul . . . but she knew the answer.

He didn’t try to cut short the moment, to turn away from her scrutiny.

Finally, seeing the truth in his crystal-clear eyes, she dragged in a tight breath and said, “You’re going to tell me that I have to accept this”—
your sacrifice
—“graciously, aren’t you?”

His expression had remained impassive throughout, serious but unyielding, but her comment broke through; his lips quirked. He glanced aside, but then again met her eyes. Fractionally inclined his head. “The argument had occurred to me.”

She could imagine. She managed not to glare at him. After another long moment lost in his eyes, she heaved a huge sigh. “Very well. But understand this.” Her voice strengthened; refocusing, she recaptured his gaze. “I will not give you, or what has come to be between us, up without a fight.”

He started to frown, but she held up a hand. “No. That is not something you have any right to argue against or attempt to influence. Just as I must accept your stance, knowing as I do that you see saving William as some sort of final penance, and so your surrender to the authorities to achieve that seems all of a piece, so you must accept that my stance is my own to make.”

She held his gaze. “There is nothing you can say that will make me stop praying that whatever happens, you will be spared. Nothing you can do to prevent me living each day as it comes—and loving you through every hour. Nothing you can say will stop me from waiting for you, from being yours, even if I have to wait until eternity to be with you again.”

Without hesitation, Thomas spoke from his heart. “I wish there was.” Between them, his hands found hers and gently squeezed. “For your sake, I wish that.”

She searched his eyes, then inclined her head. “That, I can accept. But it changes nothing.”

He studied her eyes, her face, then drew a slightly shaky breath. “We’re a pair, it seems.”

And doomed
.

Rose heard the unspoken words, but she hadn’t battled through all the difficulties of her life to be cast in the role of a heroine in a tragedy. “We are, and until the last roll of the dice, until the dice settle, we won’t know what they say—won’t know what the final outcome might be.”

His brows rose fractionally, but he made no response.

She didn’t wait for him to agree. “So.” Sliding her fingers from his grasp, placing her palms against his linen-draped chest, she slid them slowly upward, feeling the heavy muscles firm beneath her touch, the scars at his right shoulder pinch and tighten. Then she stepped forward, into his arms, breast to chest, and reached up to cup his nape.

His arms closed around her and he allowed her to draw his head down.