Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) (28 page)

With a grim twist of his lips, Stokes nodded. “The way this is shaping . . . yes, that’s it.”

“Hmm.” It was Penelope’s turn to grimace. Somewhat glumly, she looked around the circle of faces. “As I mentioned, after our outing a few days ago, I called on several ladies older than I am who would know more about Richard Percival. Sadly, the grandes dames I normally rely on for social insights are presently in the country, but the three matrons I consulted, although not directly acquainted with Percival, did know something of him.” She drew breath and went on, “And I have to report that, in their view, Percival is . . . well, not a villain. That he doesn’t possess a ‘darker side.’ I would be the first to admit that that’s a very subjective judgment. On the other hand, such judgments from such ladies are rarely wildly wrong.”

Barnaby turned to regard her. “You’re saying that they don’t believe he’s evil. That he doesn’t have the necessary propensity.”

“Yes, exactly.” Penelope sighed. “I went to them expecting to hear that Richard Percival was a shady character, one they wouldn’t personally trust. Instead, while they labeled him ‘dangerous’ in the social sense, they see him as similar to their husbands, and their husbands’ friends. Even more telling, they are quite certain, and had firsthand evidence to support the view, that their husbands saw him in that light—as one of them.”

Barnaby’s lips twisted. “I couldn’t unearth much via the clubs—Percival hasn’t been spending much time in them, not since his brother’s death—but what I heard largely supports that. The view that he’s an honorable gentleman is widespread.”

Griselda, Stokes’s wife, who until that point had remained silent, listening and observing, but not commenting, said, “So social opinion contradicts our view that Percival is the villain.”

Stokes grunted. “Maybe so, but how much reliance can we place on social opinion? The annals of crime are riddled with instances of a pretty face and fine manners very effectively cloaking the black soul beneath.”

Barnaby nodded. “That’s all too true. While in general such observations might be sound, there will always be exceptions.” He met Penelope’s rather disgruntled expression and faintly smiled. “Without such instances, there would be very much less drama within the ton.”

“And with that,” Thomas dryly stated, “I would most certainly agree.”

No one missed the reference to his past, but it was, indeed, proof that society didn’t always see people clearly.

Penelope humphed but appeared to accept that, in this case, her information wasn’t definitive.

Griselda stirred, drawing the others’ attention. “One possibility we don’t seem to have addressed.” She looked at Montague, then at Thomas. “Could those varying monthly payments Percival has been making be Curtis’s fees?” She glanced from one to the other. “You said they commenced soon after the murders—meaning, I take it, soon after Rose fled with the children. If Percival immediately hired Curtis, presumably his fees would have started falling due from that point on.”

“And,” Stokes said, clearly struck by the idea, “the monthly amounts would vary according to how many men Curtis sent out, and into which region, and many other factors.”

Rose, along with all the others, stared at Griselda.

Unperturbed by the scrutiny, she mildly arched a brow. “Well?”

Thomas gave a short laugh. “You’re right.” Meeting Griselda’s gaze, he inclined his head to her. “You are our detached observer—the only one not immersed in the active investigation—and so you’ve seen more clearly than the rest of us. You are, indeed, correct—that is a possibility. But, if so”—he looked at Montague, then Stokes—“that leaves us with no initial motive at all.”

Silence fell while they all digested that, then Barnaby shifted. “I don’t know about you, but I’m growing increasingly uneasy over our lack of real progress. As to Griselda’s suggestion, we’re getting ahead of ourselves there, too—we have no reason to suspect that Percival hired Curtis until recently, shortly before the inquiry agents appeared in Cornwall. That’s the first evidence we have of someone like Curtis being involved. Prior to that”—he shrugged—“who knows?”

“Who, indeed?” Violet glanced around the circle, finally meeting Montague’s eyes. “There’s another possibility we haven’t canvassed, and given the social evidence, which suggests that, if Richard Percival is our villain, then he’s an accomplished chameleon and so we shouldn’t pay attention to appearances, what if he is, indeed, desperately in debt, but that debt is held under another name?”

His expression unchanging, Montague held Violet’s gaze for several seconds, then he sighed and, rather bleakly, looked at Stokes. “If that’s the case—and I agree it might well be—then our chances of identifying that debt, which might have been incurred more than a decade ago, are . . .”

“Not nil, but as near as makes no difference?” Stokes supplied.

Lips setting, Montague nodded. “Much as it hurts to admit it, yes.”

Rose glanced at Thomas, but his expression was as bleak as Montague’s, and he said nothing.

Glancing around, Rose cleared her throat. “I acknowledge that we’ve had no suggestion of any attack against William since we arrived in London, but I have to admit . . .” She drew breath and felt Thomas shift; his hand closed over one of hers, and she lifted her head and continued, “To an increasing nervousness over how much longer our luck will hold.”

Rather than dismissing her concerns, Barnaby gravely inclined his head. “I feel the same—the sense of a clock ticking, of time running out.”

Stokes nodded curtly; Griselda looked sympathetic.

Sitting back, Violet stated, “I can only imagine the anxiety you must feel, waiting for the moment when something
does
happen.”

“Exactly,” Rose said.

Somewhat to her surprise, sitting beside her, Penelope, who had been frowning at the carpet, sighed heavily. Raising her head, she looked at the others, then grimaced. “As to something happening, I’m not sure that something hasn’t.”

“What?” Stokes asked, instantly alert.

Penelope held up a staying hand. “This happened this afternoon, and I have no idea how meaningful it might be. It was when we were coming out of the lacemaker’s shop in Conduit Street.” Penelope glanced at Rose. “Our last stop, and the carriage was there, by the curb, waiting.” Penelope looked at Stokes. “Some man, a gentleman’s gentleman by his attire, came walking around the corner from Savile Row. He saw us—and stopped and stared. He looked at Rose, then at Homer and Pippin. We were all there, gathering to get into the carriage. Then he saw Conner and James, and he turned around and walked quickly away.” Penelope glanced at Rose. “I would lay odds he recognized Rose and Homer.” Penelope looked back at Stokes. “But it all happened so quickly, I can’t be certain I would recognize the man if I saw him again.”

Silence held for several moments, then Stokes blew out a breath and sat back. “Well, I’d say that’s torn it, but it was bound to happen sometime, and at least there was no immediate danger.”

“I suspect,” Barnaby said, his tone much harder, “that from this point on, we should assume that Percival knows that Rose and the children are in town.”

“At least he won’t know where they are,” Griselda said.

Under cover of the wider discussion, Rose turned to Penelope. “You didn’t say anything this afternoon.”

Penelope met her gaze. “I didn’t want you to react in front of the children, and later . . . well, there was no point. The damage, whatever it might prove to be, was already done, I knew you would be bringing the children here tonight, and so you and they are still safe and guarded, and telling you then . . .” Penelope looked into her eyes. “You would only have worried for longer.”

Rose couldn’t deny that; with a wry grimace, she accepted the explanation, felt Penelope squeeze her fingers and squeezed briefly back, then they both returned their attention to the discussion that had raged, but which, it seemed, had already reached consensus.

“So we’re in agreement,” Barnaby stated. “We’ve become distracted by our investigation and have forgotten the simple fact that Rose
heard
Richard Percival declare himself a murderer and state that his next target was William. It was that unequivocal statement, directly from him, that started this entire sequence of events. As identifying his motive for the initial murders is taking too long, and, indeed, may never be achieved, we have nothing to lose, and everything to gain, by pursuing the alternative strategy of proving Percival’s guilt via his intent toward William.” Barnaby glanced around the circle. “In short, we need to set a trap and lure him into incriminating himself.”

Stokes didn’t disagree, but he wasn’t happy. “Trapping him, meaning catching him in some revealing act and thus unequivocally demonstrating his intent, might sound easy, but it has to be very craftily done so that there’s no chance he can explain his actions in any acceptable way.”

All eight of them fell silent, thinking of what scenarios might serve.

It was Stokes who, eyes narrow, eventually suggested, “If we can set things up so that Percival turns up at a certain spot in the clear expectation of illicitly seizing the boy . . . put together with what Rose heard him say, that ought to do it.”

“Indeed.” Thomas’s voice was harder, colder, and more utterly implacable than Rose had ever heard it. As she glanced at him, he continued, his expression matching his tone, “But we cannot risk Homer—William—even for that. Even to secure his ultimate safety.” No one argued; along with Rose, the others all waited.

Thomas seemed to look inward, then, lips cynically twisting, he refocused and glanced around. “Courtesy of my past, I’m really very good at devising schemes. So . . . what about this?”

The plan he outlined was straightforward and clear, and not at all difficult to execute. More, even Rose could see how it would play into Richard’s desires, how it would, indeed, lure rather than overtly force.

Stokes, Barnaby, and Montague all grew increasingly eager; Violet and Penelope both grew animated, adding various touches of verisimilitude to the evolving plot.

Even Griselda ultimately gave a nod of matriarchal approval.

Finally, Thomas turned to Rose; on the sofa between them, he gently grasped her hand. “We can plot and plan and hold ready to act, but it’s you who must decide.” He searched her eyes, then arched a brow. “Will you trust us to pull this off?”

Drawing in a breath, she looked around at the faces, all eager, but waiting on her word, then she looked back at Thomas, met his eyes, and faintly smiled. “Yes. Of course.”

T
hat decision hadn’t been difficult; Rose trusted Thomas—with herself, with the children, on every level and in every way.

When, with their plan fully detailed and everything arranged, they’d finally left Albemarle Street, Pippin had been too deeply asleep to rouse, so Thomas had carried her. Rose hadn’t been certain he could manage it, but he’d settled Pippin in the crook of one arm, held her safely against his chest as he’d negotiated the three steps down to the pavement, then, used to the awkwardness, it seemed, he had pulled himself up and had ducked into Penelope’s waiting carriage without even jiggling Pippin.

When they’d reached the hotel, he’d continued carrying the sleeping child upstairs to their suite and on into the children’s bedroom, with Rose steering a sleepy Homer in their wake.

She and Thomas had switched charges and, between them, got the children into their beds; both were asleep before, following Thomas from the room, Rose drew the door shut behind her.

She followed Thomas into their bedroom. As the distraction of having things to do—children to manage, other people to speak with—faded, her mind calmed and her rising anxiety shone through.

Not for William; he wouldn’t be anywhere near danger and would be kept safely guarded throughout. Thomas’s plan had ensured that.

It was Thomas who was the focus of her concern, his safety the question that now dominated her mind.

That, and the prospect of losing him.

When he turned and glanced at her, she smiled and went forward. To him, into his arms.

He was a little surprised, clearly wondering at her tack; they usually undressed separately. But he closed his arms around her and looked down into her face.

Studied it, then his gaze steadied on hers and he raised his brows.

She looked into his eyes, into the crystalline-sharp medley of greens and golds, and saw him, the real him, the gentle, loving, caring man he now was, looking back at her, and she simply said, “I don’t want to talk.”

Freeing her arms, she reached up and framed his face, setting her palms to his lean cheeks, one perfect and cool, the other knotted with scars; the feel of both was now dear to her—a distinguishing feature that meant him. “Not about anything.”

Stretching up, she set her lips to his and kissed him—supped from his lips, and in return allowed all the pent-up yearning inside her, all the feelings that were welling and burgeoning, to flow through the caress into him.

She might have loved him before, but now she knew the depth of her longing, the breadth and strength and power—the reality of what he now meant to her.

He was safety and security; he was passion and wonder.

He was joy.

The kiss deepened, and she encouraged, evoked, and set the magic free so that it could sweep them both away.