Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) (26 page)

“Hmm.” The sound came from Alathea, but all three matrons frowned in thought.

Honoria spoke first. “I have met him socially, but only briefly. In age, he falls between us and you—midthirties . . .” Honoria focused on Penelope. “Actually, he must be around the same age as Barnaby. I take it Barnaby doesn’t know him?”

Penelope made a mental note to specifically ask, but . . . “I don’t think they move in the same circles.”

Patience humphed. “That rings true. Richard Percival is the sort all sensible mamas warn their daughters not to look at—in case they lose their hearts.”

“Indeed.” Alathea shifted on the chaise to face Penelope. “I vaguely remember Robert Percival—he was older than we are, but, as I recall, he was a handsome man. His younger brother, however, is a
dangerously
handsome man.”

Penelope straightened. “Dangerous in what way?”

Honoria waved. “Black hair, dark blue eyes—a touch darker than even Richard’s or Alasdair’s—a face like a fallen angel, all long, lean planes and squared chin, with a long, lean, rider’s body to match.” Honoria caught Penelope’s eyes. “He dances like a dream, has manners polished to the extreme, is always elegantly, but faintly negligently, dressed, and can charm the birds from the trees.
That
sort of dangerous.”

“And,” Patience pointed out, “when it comes to ‘that sort of dangerous,’ we are the reigning experts.”

All four laughed, but, after taking another sip of her tea, Penelope returned to the meat of her inquiry. “I need to know . . . for want of a better way to phrase it . . . if he has a darker side.”

Alathea narrowed her eyes. “Whether he could be a villain?”

Penelope nodded. “I don’t want to tell you why we think he might be, because I want your untainted views.”

All three matrons fell silent, clearly consulting their various memories of Richard Percival. Penelope nibbled at a sweet cake and patiently waited.

Eventually, Honoria drew in a breath, exchanged a glance with Patience, then Alathea, then said, “I haven’t any idea why you think he might be involved in something . . . dishonorable, but, for my money, no. He isn’t that sort.” Honoria met Penelope’s eyes. “Yes, he’s dangerous, but in the same way that Devil was—or any of the others.”

Alathea was nodding. “In the same way Chillingworth was, and, if it comes to it, Luc, and even Martin.”

“I agree.” Patience sat forward. “And I just remembered a pertinent point. One summer several years ago, before the death of Robert Percival, Vane and I visited with the Dearnes—Christian and Letitia Allardyce—at their house in Lincolnshire. Robert Percival and his wife . . .” Patience narrowed her eyes. “Corinne, I think her name was, were guests, too. It was a weeklong house party, and after a few days, Richard Percival arrived—he had a message from London for Robert. After Richard delivered the message, Letitia prevailed upon him to stay for a few days. Of course, he spent most of that time with the gentlemen, but—and this is my point—I had plenty of opportunity to observe Richard with our men. And you know what they’re like—they aren’t much good at concealing their feelings toward other men, at least not from us.”

Penelope was riveted. “So how did the other men treat Richard?”

“As one of them.” Patience held her gaze. “In age, Robert and Richard were something like ten years apart, but they were clearly close, truly close. And as for the others—Christian, Vane, and all the other men there—they welcomed and included Richard without reservation.” Patience paused, then added, “Now that you’ve posed the question of whether Richard Percival could be a villain, looking back, I would cite all that I saw, all that I witnessed of him then, as speaking most emphatically against such a notion.”

Honoria regarded Patience for a moment, then caught Penelope’s eye. “Our men might not be terribly intuitive, but I really cannot see them welcoming any man who has what you term a ‘darker side’ into their circles.”

“Not even the propensity for a ‘darker side,’ ” Alathea confirmed.

Penelope frowned. Slowly, she set down her empty cup, then she pulled a face. “Well, that does rather put a wrinkle in my thesis.”

The others laughed.

“Now that we’ve helped you with your problem as far as we’re able, don’t you have anything else to report? No pending scandals?” Patience’s wave included the others. “We’re in dire need of divertissement here.”

Penelope raised her brows. “Well, I can report that I have met the elusive Mr. Thomas Glendower.”

“The secretive philanthropist?” Alathea asked. When Penelope nodded, Alathea said, “Great heavens! Roscoe, and Gabriel, and Gerrard, and any number of others will be lining up for an introduction. Where did you meet him? Is he in town?”

Penelope considered before admitting, “Yes, he is in London at present.”
Just around the corner, as it happens.
“But he’s not going about socially.” She tipped her head. “I’ll make a point of telling you if that changes, but somehow I doubt it will—the social arena holds no lure for him. He truly is a recluse.”

Rising, she picked up her gloves and reticule. “Thank you for your insights.” She faintly frowned. “I’m not sure if they will prove useful, but knowledge is always valuable.”

The others didn’t rise but farewelled her from where they sat.

As, with a last wave, Penelope headed for the door, Honoria called, “And don’t forget—if Mr. Glendower changes his mind and consents to indulge us with his presence, I’ll host a dinner for him here, and it can be as private as he wishes.”

From the doorway, Penelope called back, “I’ll tell him.”

Then she escaped.

Chapter

12

T
wo mornings later, Montague sat at his desk and surveyed the accumulated results of their investigations into Richard Percival’s finances.

From her chair on the opposite side of the desk, Violet studied his expression, drank in the solid focus that was so quintessentially him. When he remained silent, a frown growing in his eyes if not on his face, she glanced at the documents spread over the desk. “Well? What have we found?”

“Nothing,” Montague all but growled. “Everything we’ve thus far uncovered looks to be aboveboard.” Sitting back, he waved at the various papers. “Drayton—Glendower’s agent—has sent all the information he’s collected to date, and Marwell, Glendower’s solicitor, has sent word, too—in his case clarifying and expanding on the details Foley gave Stokes and Adair, which is undeniably helpful. In cases like this, the legal aspects can be the trickiest. However”—Montague drew breath and went on—“to summarize, what we’ve so far uncovered paints Richard Percival as a gentleman who is, at least currently, living much more quietly than anyone would expect a man of his social ilk to do.” Montague flicked a glance at Violet. “And that fits with what the men Stokes has watching Percival have reported. He doesn’t go out much at all, and his household is small, and he lives quietly.”

Violet nodded. Leaning forward, she scanned the papers. “But is there nothing in all this that’s at all unusual?”

Frowning, Montague reached for the pair of pince-nez hanging on a ribbon around his neck. “There’s one oddity, but what it might mean I don’t know.” Perching the pince-nez on his nose, he selected a set of papers; fanning them out, he scanned, then pointed. “Here. And here. And here again. Not huge sums, but out they go, to whom we don’t know. We’ve checked, and the bank has confirmed that the payments are made via money orders submitted every month. They’re too regular not to be going to the same supplier, but, again, the bank can’t say, as the orders are for cash, and the varying sums suggest the payments aren’t to do with any debt per se, but . . . they continue throughout the period we’ve looked at, going back at least four years.” Sitting back again, he said, “Taken all together, they amount to a small fortune, and have been a steady drain on Percival’s wealth over the last four years at least.”

Setting those sheets aside, Montague picked up another set. “Against that, however, Percival has a sound investment portfolio, rather conservative, if anything, but it provides him with a solid income, and as far as Gibbons, Foster, and I have been able to see, he is living within his means. He’s definitely not outrunning the constable.”

“But where is all that money—the small fortune—going?”

Lips tight, Montague nodded. “That, indeed, is the question.”

After frowning at the documents herself, Violet wondered aloud, “Could it be gambling?”

Montague opened his mouth to refute the suggestion, but then hesitated. After a moment of juggling possibilities, he replied in much the same wondering tone, “I’d discounted that because of him not going out much, but . . . once a week or so might account for what we’re seeing.” He blinked and looked at the evidence they’d assembled. “And that might explain the widely varying size of the payments—if he gambles on credit extended from the house, and then repays the next day or under some such arrangement . . .”

He looked up and met Violet’s eyes. “It’s a possibility, and one we can easily follow up.”

He started clearing his desk. Violet rose and helped him stack the papers neatly to one side.

Leaving her to complete the task, Montague drew out a fresh sheet of paper, set it on his blotter, and reached for his pen. “And I know just who to ask for that sort of information.”

T
homas walked into Montague’s office late that afternoon.

The previous day he’d accompanied Rose, Penelope, and the children, along with Penelope’s guards, on a daylong excursion that had taken in the sights of Fleet Street, St. Paul’s Cathedral, and the Tower, then the carriage had rattled across the bridge and followed the river to Greenwich. They’d spent the afternoon in the park there; there had been plenty to keep Homer and Pippin amused. At one point, Thomas had found himself observing the unexpected sight of Conner and James teaching Homer and Pippin various ways to escape the clutches of any villain who sought to seize them.

Once she’d mastered the knack, Pippin had insisted on demonstrating to Thomas. Again and again. She’d demanded that he hold her trapped against him, his arm locked across her thin shoulders, then she would go boneless and fall, sliding out of his hold. Her last and, as ever, successful attempt had forced Thomas off-balance and he’d landed on the grass in an ungainly heap—causing Rose to rush over, concern flaring in her eyes and suffusing her face.

He’d been startled, but he’d drunk in the sight—worth any embarrassment—then he’d soothed and reassured, and done his best to calm everyone and assure them that he was perfectly all right.

Today, when, after luncheon, Penelope had called to take the others to Kensington Gardens, and then shopping along Regent Street before heading on to the British Museum, where, apparently, she was well known and had the entree into areas not generally open to the public, Thomas had decided that he didn’t need to go. He’d held firm in the face of Penelope’s persuasion; through her connections at the museum, she’d learned that he was one of that institution’s largest sponsors and had wanted to introduce him to the directors . . . he’d hidden his instinctive shudder and politely, but firmly, declined.

When she’d humphed and all but glared at him, he’d invented a visit to Montague’s office on the pretext of collating financial information to account for his time.

Penelope had had to accept that and, however reluctantly, leave him in peace.

So when he walked through the door to Montague’s office, he had no specific investigative direction in mind. He was, however, curious, in a purely professional sense.

Handing the clerk, a sober and experienced individual, his card, he asked to speak with Montague. The clerk, who had already taken in his injuries, merely glanced at the card for confirmation, then, with a bow and a “One moment, Mr. Glendower,” hurried as fast as dignity would allow to the door Thomas assumed led to Montague’s private office.

The clerk returned almost immediately, with Montague on his heels.

“Glendower.” Montague advanced across the office. “It’s a pleasure to see you, sir.”

It was Thomas’s place to extend his hand, which he smoothly did.

Montague gripped and shook, then, releasing him, turned to wave expansively. “But come into my office and we can confer in comfort.”

“Thank you.” Thomas didn’t hurry as he crossed the outer office—there were times when his infirmity proved a boon; he used the moments to glance about and observe, to drink in the quiet, steady thrum of financial industry.

It was a milieu he found soothing, an ambiance more in keeping with his true talents and skills.

They reached the inner office, and Montague waved Thomas to an armchair before the desk. Thomas limped to it; sinking into the comfort, he caught Montague’s eye and smiled. “Your office”—he tipped his head to the activity beyond the door Montague had left open—“appears as prosperous as I’d imagined.”

Montague smiled, clearly taking the comment for the compliment Thomas had intended. “Indeed. We’re at full stretch, but we all like to be kept busy.”

“It’s good of you to find time for this investigation, then.”

Montague waved that aside. “No, no—I find that these challenges keep one on one’s toes, and, even more, keep one abreast of how matters might go wrong.” He met Thomas’s gaze. “I would far rather learn about how people get themselves into financial difficulties without it being one of my clients involved.”

Thomas chuckled. “I see your point.” He glanced at the stack of papers Montague was lifting from one side of his large desk. “Is that our accumulated wisdom to date?”

“On Richard Percival? It is, indeed.” Setting the pile on his blotter, Montague started separating sheets. “And I’m glad you called, because I would greatly value your assessment of what we have. Because, in my view, it amounts to precious little, and that’s even combining what we’ve found with what Drayton and Marwell have contributed.”

After handing over a sheaf of what, accepting it, Thomas saw were summaries, Montague clasped his hands. “There’s only one set of expenses that’s even mildly unusual, but perhaps if you look over those, you might see something that has thus far escaped us.”

Thomas doubted it, but he looked. He swiftly identified the expenses Montague had referred to; after confirming that that was the case, he continued scanning what amounted to a consolidated report on the movement of funds into and out of Richard Percival’s accounts.

After checking through the summaries twice, Thomas sighed, tossed the pages onto Montague’s desk, then sat back and met Montague’s gaze. “Other than those expenses, there’s nothing there. But those odd payments add up to a tidy sum, yet the variation in them makes no sense to me. When we first pick them up four or so years ago, they’re high, and stay high for several months, but then they dwindle, almost to nothing at one point, then increase again, then decrease again.”

Reaching for the summaries, Montague nodded. “And so on, increasing and decreasing, then increasing again, up to last month’s payment, which was on the higher side.” He grimaced. “I twisted the figures every which way—I looked to see if there’s any unit cost buried in them, and checked with others to see if the pattern rings any bells, even unexpected ones, but no. Those payments match no pattern that I or my colleagues have ever seen.”

“Nor I,” Thomas murmured.

“
Except
”—Montague placed the summaries back on the stack—“as Violet reminded me this morning, if Percival is gambling on tick regularly, and has some arrangement with some club, den, or hell to pay off his slate on a monthly basis . . . that might account for the odd pattern of amounts.”

Thomas raised his brows. “I have to admit that’s one vice that never called to me—losing money was never my style.”

Montague snorted. “Nor mine. However, I do have contacts in that arena, and—” The sound of the door to the outer office opening had him pausing, then leaning forward to look out of his open office door. His expression lightening, he continued, “As I was saying, I sent word to my principal contact this morning, and, unless I miss my guess, the answer has just arrived.”

Pushing back from the desk, Montague stood.

Hearing a pleasant male voice greeting the clerk, then footsteps approaching, Thomas gripped his cane and the desk and got to his feet.

A man whom Thomas judged to be his late thirties strolled through the door. He was tall, dark-haired, well turned out, and neatly, if a trifle soberly, dressed. Not a gentleman, Thomas’s instincts informed him, but the man’s easy confidence, open expression, and twinkling smile suggested he was well accustomed to dealing with the breed, and entirely at ease among his social betters.

“Montague.” The man held out his hand.

Montague grasped it with every evidence of friendship. “Jordan. Thank you for coming.” Montague gestured to Thomas. “Allow me to introduce Mr. Thomas Glendower. He’s involved in this latest investigation.”

Having noted Thomas’s injuries with a single general glance, the man nodded easily and extended his hand. “Jordan Draper, Mr. Glendower.” As he shook Thomas’s hand, Jordan glanced at Montague. “Any friend of Montague’s, and we’re pleased to help.”

As they all sat, Jordan taking the empty chair on the same side of the desk as the armchair Thomas occupied, Montague continued, “Jordan is employed by Neville Roscoe.”

Thomas blinked, then inclined his head. “I know the name.”

“Just to confirm,” Jordan said, “as we are all sitting here together, I take it that I can speak freely before Mr. Glendower?”

Montague nodded. “Indeed. It was Mr. Glendower who brought this investigation to us.”

“Oh.”

When nothing more came, Thomas glanced at Jordan to find the younger man’s gaze on him, his eyes rounding.

Jordan waved. “Sorry—I just registered the name. You’re
that
Mr. Glendower, the one the boss has always wanted to meet.” Jordan focused on Thomas. “I say, as you are in town, you will meet him, won’t you? He—and Miranda, too, she’s his wife—will never let me live it down if I don’t manage to twist your arm.”

Confused, Thomas looked at Montague.

Who was trying unsuccessfully to hide a grin. “Your . . . ah, generosity precedes you.”

“Oh, of course,” Jordan rattled on. “You wouldn’t know, but aside from being London’s gambling king—and he definitely is that, as I’m the one who manages his books—Roscoe is also one of the founding members of the Philanthropy Guild. He and like-minded others have been supporting various charity projects up and down the country for the last . . . well, fifteen years.” Meeting Thomas’s eyes, Jordan added, “He—and the rest of the guild, too—would be thrilled to meet you.”

Thomas hesitated, then said, “Perhaps, after this present matter is concluded, if I’m still in town, we might arrange a meeting.” He wasn’t at all sure Thomas Glendower would still be around afterward, but that seemed a safe enough commitment, and the notion of a gambling-czar-cum-philanthropist was intriguing.