Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) (23 page)

Just before their lips met, she breathed, “All that’s left is for me to thank you—appropriately—for your sacrifice.”

She kissed him, then issued an invitation impossible to mistake—one Thomas immediately accepted, only to discover just how much he hungered, how much he desired.

The day’s portents had affected him, too. His rational mind might have seen his sacrifice, delayed though he’d made it, as an inevitability, impossible to escape, but some much more deeply buried part of him—that part she so effortlessly drew forth—railed against the decision and all it would mean . . .

She twined around him; sliding from his arms, she disrobed—herself, and him—and he let her.

She drew him to the bed and he went, as hungry as she, as needy for the warmth and comfort and the inexpressible closeness . . .

That closeness—that true intimacy—rocked him, racked him; it anchored him, all his wits and every one of his senses, ruthlessly in the here and now, and made him an unresisting, willing captive to the delicious give and take, to the moments of scintillating, breath-stealing wonder.

To the unalloyed joy.

Caresses rained; lips supped, sipped; tongues rasped while hands gripped and fingers shaped.

As they loved.

She came over him, rose up, and took him in. Sheathed him in her slick heat, and then rode him.

He gripped her hips and held her as they raced through the landscape they now knew so well, to the peak that beckoned, the pinnacle that waited.

Their hearts thundered as one; skins slick with desire, their flesh burning with a flame they both embraced, they drank in the glory and raced on.

Up and over the peak, leaping from the pinnacle as nerves fractured and senses fragmented, and then there was nothing beyond the blinding glory.

Ecstasy shone, a never-dying truth, between them.

That sun in all its splendor slowly faded, leaving them not bereft but comforted.

She collapsed onto his chest and he closed his arms around her.

The spark that fueled their glory didn’t leave them but sank back, into their flesh, retreating more deeply to take refuge in their hearts.

Neither needed to say the word—it was there, hovering, in them, about them.

Forever a part of them, something neither could deny.

Eventually they parted and lay side by side, arms loosely draped around each other.

He pulled the covers over them; laying his head back on the pillows, he closed his eyes and waited for slumber to claim him.

Settled against him, through the dimness, Rose watched his face, watched the lines Fate had carved upon it ease and soften as sleep neared.

She waited, then, pressing nearer, fitting her body to his, she relaxed into his arms. Pillowing her check on his chest, she gently kissed his cooling skin. “Come what may, Thomas Glendower, I will love you forever, until the day I die.”

She’d whispered the words, but from the momentary stillness that came over him, she knew he’d heard.

Closing her eyes, she surrendered, to the latent pleasure in their embrace.

To whatever came. To whatever Fate thought to make of their lives.

I
t was nearly midnight when Richard Percival let himself into his house in Hertford Street and found Curtis sitting on a chair in his front hall, waiting for him.

Shutting the door, Percival immediately asked, “You have news?”

Slowly, Curtis got to his feet. He was nearly as tall as Percival, and half again as wide. “Of a sort.”

Percival’s expression said he didn’t like that answer, but, tossing his hat, gloves, and cane on the hall table, he waved down the corridor. “In the library.”

Curtis followed; he’d entered the house as he usually did, via the back alley and the kitchen door. He probably didn’t need to take such precautions with Percival’s job, but old habits died hard.

A bare minute later, they were seated on opposite sides of Percival’s desk, the lamp that Percival had lit and turned low casting a soft glow that reached not much further than the pair of them.

Percival tried to read Curtis’s utterly impassive countenance, gave up, and somewhat brusquely asked, “What have you learned?”

“I believe”—Curtis met Percival’s dark blue gaze—“and I stress it’s no more than that—that I know who the young lady has been masquerading as, and where she’s been hiding the children.”

Percival had learned to trust Curtis’s “beliefs.” “Where?”

“I believe she’s been calling herself Mrs. Sheridan, and she was the housekeeper at an isolated manor house near Breage, on the Cornish coast.”

“Who owns the house?”

“A Mr. Thomas Glendower, but, until recently, he wasn’t in residence. He’s been an absentee landlord for many years, but he reappeared a few months back and has remained at the manor since then.”

Percival frowned. “If you know where she and the children are—”

“No—I know where they were. Where I believe they were. The housekeeper and her children fit your bill to a T, but when two of my men questioned Mr. Glendower, he claimed they were from a local family, with their roots firmly in Cornish soil.”

Percival’s frown deepened. “So why do you imagine they are who we seek?”

“Because when my men stopped there with your brother’s valet to confirm they weren’t, they found the house closed up and no one at home.”

“No one? But . . . if she’s taken the children and run, what about Glendower?”

“That’s why I’m here. He wasn’t there, either. My men took a day to check, to ask around, but no one had seen him since the day before—in Helston, when my men were standing in the main street, organizing their sweep of the Lizard Peninsula. He saw them, that much I do know.”

Percival’s eyes narrowed on Curtis’s face. “You think he went back to the manor and then . . . fled with her and the children?”

Curtis nodded. “It took a few days, but eventually we found his horse and the manor’s pony in the stable of the best inn in Falmouth. He’d arrived there in the small hours of the morning on the day my men reached the manor. From there, we learned he’d booked passage on a ship to Southampton, and he was on it, with his wife and two children, when it sailed that afternoon.” Frowning blackly, Curtis growled, “My men spent weeks setting everything up, and yet he slipped through our net, neat as you please.”

Percival eyed Curtis. “Possibly not your average customer, then.”

“No. A very cool head, and a quick thinker.” Curtis met Percival’s gaze. “Which is why I’m here—to warn you.”

Percival had been sitting with his chin sunk in his cravat; now he raised his head and looked directly at Curtis. “About what?” Then he frowned. “What I don’t understand is why this Glendower, if it is indeed he, is helping her. Assuming it is, indeed, her and the children.”

Curtis snorted. “That’s about the only certainty in all this. The descriptions of the young lady and the boy, as well as what one can infer for the little girl—those descriptions fit. As for Glendower, he’s been in some accident and so is scarred and walks with a cane, so he, too, is easily identified. And all the descriptions match this party—the one Glendower brought to Southampton. And, yes, I’ve sent men down to see whether they can pick up any trail from there, but given the days that have elapsed, I’d say it’s fairly certain that Glendower brought ‘his wife and children’ to London—and you know how hard it will be to find them here.”

Frowning, Percival nodded. “Yes, that seems likely, but I still can’t understand
why
he’s helping her.”

Curtis quietly sighed. “That’s what I came to warn you about. The question you should be asking yourself is not why he’s helping them but
whether
he’s helping them.”

Percival stilled; his expression leached to impassivity. His voice was cool as he asked, “What do you mean?”

Curtis ran a hand over his close-cropped skull. “I mean that it’s possible he—this Glendower—has discovered their secret and thinks to use it and them to his advantage.” Curtis met Percival’s gaze. “The lady and the children might, or might not, be his willing companions.” Curtis paused, then said, “I think it’s possible that he’ll contact you himself.”

A long moment passed, then Percival said, “To get me to ransom them?”

Curtis held his gaze. “To sell them to you.”

Chapter

11

M
ontague could barely wait to get down to his office the next morning. As soon as he did, he summoned his staff to his inner sanctum.

Settling behind his desk, he smiled at them all. “We have a new investigation to pursue.”

They had collaborated with Adair and Stokes on several such investigations in recent months, the first of which had brought Violet into Montague’s life. Indeed, into the lives of all his staff; glancing across his desk, he found her eyes, too, on him, waiting to hear how he would handle the necessary explanations. Violet spent three days a week acting as his personal secretary and the rest of her week assisting Penelope.

Now Violet nodded at him to start. Clearing his throat, he glanced around at the eager faces, and did.

All had been with him long enough or were—as was Pringle, the most recent addition— experienced enough to quickly grasp the implications.

“So.” Frederick Gibbons, Montague’s senior assistant, straightened away from the bookcases against which he’d been leaning. “We’re looking for some debt sufficient to make Percival desperate enough to act—and that four years ago.”

Foster, Montague’s junior assistant, snorted. “If he was moved to murder four years ago because of this debt, it must be gargantuan by now.”

“Hmm.” Eyes narrowing, Montague tapped a finger on his blotter. “I’m not sure we can make such a leap.” He glanced at Foster and Gibbons. “Percival’s affairs may simply constantly be underwater—enough to be a goad, an ever-present anxiety, but not enough for anyone else to see it as a massive debt.”

Gibbons nodded. “Chronic debt, rather than acute.” He met Foster’s eyes. “Could be just as pressing—indeed, even more of a motive than a single major debt.”

“Exactly.” Montague glanced around at the others—Slocum, his longtime head clerk, Pringle, also an experienced clerk who had joined the firm some months earlier when Montague and the others had investigated Pringle’s previous employer’s murder, Slater, Montague’s junior clerk, and lastly Reginald Roberts, the office-boy-cum-runner. “Does anyone else have any observations?”

Somewhat to Montague’s surprise, it was Violet who said, “Actually, yes—there’s a point I find confusing.” She met Montague’s eyes, and when he nodded encouragingly, she went on, “This Richard Percival is known to be hiring professional searchers—inquiry agents, as you, Stokes, and Adair called them. If I’m remembering aright, the suspicion is that he’s been using them for some time, and recently Mr. Glendower saw two agents on one occasion, and on another occasion, at least a dozen.” Violet paused, then, head tipping, said, “Does that not argue that Percival has considerable financial resources? Don’t such professionals cost money?”

Montague’s eyes widened, then, slowly sitting back, he nodded. “An excellent point, but I believe I can guess the answer.” He glanced at Gibbons and saw the same suspicion in his eyes. Looking at Violet, Montague explained, “As many such things are in the less-than-legal world, I suspect the fee for the search will be contingent on its success.”

Violet frowned. “So none of those men will get paid unless they find the boy?”

Increasingly sober as he thought through the ramifications, Montague nodded.

Foster grimaced. “No wonder, then, that they’re hot to find him.” He turned to the door. “I’ll get on to the banks and see what I can learn.”

Gibbons, too, nodded somewhat grimly. “If they’ve been strung along for years on the promise of what will come once they find and hand over the boy . . .” He shook his head and started for the outer office. “After I finish with my day’s meetings, I’ll go out and see what I can learn from among the fraternity.” He glanced back at Montague. “Any idea who his man-of-business is?”

Montague shook his head and looked at Slocum.

Who inclined his head. “I will endeavor to find out while Mr. Gibbons is in his meetings.”

Montague nodded, then spoke with Pringle, Slater, and Reginald to ensure that the day-to-day business of the office continued to run smoothly. When they left to return to their desks, he turned to Violet, to discover her still frowning, albeit in a distant way. “What is it?”

They had recently learned that she was expecting their first child, and any frown or grimace made his lungs constrict.

Her gaze lifted to his face and she focused . . . and her frown dissolved into a sweet and gentle smile. “Nothing about that—I’m perfectly well and would tell you if I wasn’t.” Her frown returned. “I was thinking about this new investigation. Who are these professional searchers? Is there any way we might”—she waved vaguely—“subvert them to our cause? Might we persuade them to bear witness against Percival, at least as far as his orders to them go?”

Reassured of her health and that of his child—his
child,
a word he’d never thought to have the chance to associate with himself—Montague considered, then grimaced. “No, I can’t see it. And us approaching them might backfire—they are more likely to notify Percival that someone’s asking about his case than be of any help to us.” He met Violet’s gaze. “Professional searchers, be they inquiry agents, debt collectors, or simply so-called hounds—people who find others for a finder’s fee—are only as successful as their reputation for absolute discretion allows them to be. One slip on that front, and no one would ever hire them again—and, sadly, most of the outfits depend on jobs from the less-than-legal side to stay in business.”

Violet pulled a face. “Well, it was worth a thought. Now!” She opened a ledger she’d held in her lap. “You have at least two meetings you cannot wriggle out of today.”

Montague smiled, listened, and allowed her to order his day.

A
n hour later, Stokes slouched into Hertford Street and ambled to the eastern end, where the street ended in a small court.

Almost at the end of the street on the southern side, two men, beggars if one judged by their outer clothing, were sitting on the pavement, their disreputable backs propped against the front railings of one of the town houses.

They were quietly chatting. The only thing notable about them was that they hadn’t yet been moved on by the local constabulary.

Not exactly surprising, given they were the local constabulary.

Stokes halted by the men’s feet. He looked down at their regulation boots and nodded at them. “I’d get those out of sight if I were you.”

Both men colored and drew in their legs, hiding their boots under the skirts of their rough frieze coats.

Briefly, Stokes glanced around the street. He didn’t stare at any one house in particular but confirmed that there was nothing remarkable about Richard Percival’s house—it was a terrace town house, typical of the area. He looked down at his men. “Where’s Philpott?”

“Off on a break,” Sergeant O’Donnell replied. “He’ll be back shortly, then I’ll move to the corner and take up my street-sweeping duties again.”

Stokes nodded. “So what have you learned?”

“He came in last night, just before midnight. Went into one of the downstairs rooms for a while, then he went upstairs to the front room to the left above the door, then it was lights out. This morning, the curtains were opened at about ten o’clock. We’ve seen neither hide nor hair of him since.”

Stokes looked at the younger constable. “What’s the household like?”

Baby-faced, and with a certain easy charm, Morgan had proved adept at getting kitchen maids and even cooks to talk. In this instance, he pulled a noncommittal face. “I thought as how there’d be sure to be stories, but no—seems his staff is small and keeps to themselves. Quiet household—I got that from the scullery maid next door.”

Stokes frowned. “No hints of any wild parties, orgies, that kind of thing?”

Unblushing, Morgan, who was older than his looks painted him, shook his head. “Not a peep. Could be a country vicar for all I heard.”

Inwardly frowning more definitely, Stokes said, “Keep up the watch. You know what to do if he moves?”

“Aye.” O’Donnell lumbered to his feet. “Two to follow, and the other to alert the station and then you.”

Stokes hesitated, then said, “If he doesn’t move other than this evening, and that only socially, I’ll come by tomorrow sometime, and we’ll reassess.”

He saw both men fight the urge to snap off a salute.

“Aye, sir,” they chorused.

Without any further sign, Stokes strolled on around the court, then back up the other side of the street.

As he walked, he pondered the picture of Richard Percival his men had painted.

Not at all the portrait Stokes had expected.

“Then again, being strapped for cash, perhaps he’s simply living as he must, and as for today, he’s on edge and waiting for news.” That was a reasonable, perfectly plausible explanation. Stokes raised his head, lengthened his stride, and headed back to his office.

L
ater that morning, Thomas climbed the stairs to Drayton’s office, which was located on the first floor of a narrow building off Threadneedle Street.

Drayton’s office overlooked the street. Reaching the door at the end of the corridor, Thomas opened it and went in.

He’d sent word he was coming; the clerk, seated behind his desk, looked up, then, a smile blooming, leapt to his feet, rattled off a welcome, and rushed off to fetch Drayton.

Although they corresponded regularly, Thomas hadn’t set eyes on Drayton for more than ten years, yet the man who followed the clerk from Drayton’s inner sanctum was instantly recognizable, at least to Thomas. Physically, Drayton was average in every conceivable way, the sort of man who could disappear among five others and not be remembered. But it wasn’t for his physical attributes that Thomas had hired him; Drayton’s mind and attitudes meshed well with his own. Mild manners and an easy temperament, combined with an astute wit and an almost obsessive thoroughness, along with inviolable discretion and a willingness to trust in his client and act on orders without requiring explanations, had long made Drayton the perfect man-of-business for Mr. Thomas Glendower.

To his credit, Drayton, who was aware that Thomas had been in a serious accident from which he had spent literally years recuperating, took in Thomas’s state in one swift but comprehensive glance, then, a smile wreathing his face, held out his hand. “Sir! It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Smiling easily, Thomas grasped the proffered hand. “Indeed. I’m pleased to have this opportunity to catch up with you.” He was somewhat surprised to realize that the words were true. Drayton had been one of the few constants in his life, an association that had survived untainted by the actions of his other persona.

“But come in, come in.” Drayton waved Thomas to his inner office. “I take it you wish to confer regarding this matter you’ve asked me to look into?”

“Yes.” Thomas waited until he was settled in the chair before Drayton’s desk and Drayton had shut the door and resumed his seat before continuing, “I believe we are currently up to date and as one regarding my own affairs. Unless you have anything urgent to lay before me, I suggest we leave those to one side.”

Drayton nodded. “I’m aware of nothing that requires our attention at this point. All the funds are performing as expected, and we’ve executed your last orders. As usual, they proved prescient and well timed. Your affairs are in a very sound state.”

Thomas shared Drayton’s smile. “Indeed. So, to the other matter. There have been developments.” Smile fading, he went on, “The reason I requested you to look into Richard Percival’s affairs is because somewhere in those affairs lies a motive for murder, or so I and others believe. Our understanding is that Richard Percival has some compelling financial need such that he must inherit his late brother’s estate in order to meet it. Indeed, there are sound reasons to believe that Percival arranged the murders of his late brother and his brother’s wife in order to achieve that end. At present, only Percival’s young nephew stands in his way.” Thomas met Drayton’s increasingly wide eyes. “The boy—Viscount Seddington—is currently under my protection. In light of the seriousness of the situation, I have enlisted the aid of Mr. Barnaby Adair and, through him, Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard.”

Drayton straightened, surprise giving way to interest.

Thomas paused to assemble his words, then went on, “We are now all investigating in our various ways. Adair and Stokes count Montague, of Montague and Sons, who I am sure you know of, as one of their colleagues, and he, too, is now actively involved. What Montague and his people, and I, and through me, you and your staff, need to define is Percival’s motive. Why is he so desperate to inherit the estate?” Thomas paused, then allowed, “There could be reasons other than money, and others are investigating that possibility, but such reasons appear much less likely than a need for funds. So.” Glancing up, he met Drayton’s eyes. “You’ve already canvassed Percival’s standing in the general sense, and I’ve passed that information on to Montague. He, I believe, will use his contacts to investigate what one might term the establishment side of things—the banks, Percival’s man-of-business, the Exchange. We can, I think, reply on Montague to cover those angles and uncover whatever is there to be found.”

“But there might not be anything.” Drayton, growing progressively more intrigued, was now leaning forward, forearms on his desk. “Percival’s need might stem from a different arena.”