Chapter 17

 

 

 

Eleanora cracked open her eyes. Daylight washed the room in warm illumination. Sitting next to her was Sybil and Althea, smiling encouragingly.

“What day is it?” Eleanora croaked.

Sybil immediately reached for the glass of water as Althea assisted her in sitting upright, far enough to take a drink.

“Friday, the eighth, three in the afternoon. You’ve slept around the clock,” Sybil replied, holding out the glass.

Eleanora leaned forward and drank generously. Finished, she laid against the pillows. “When did you arrive?”

“About an hour ago. The trains actually ran on time for once.”

“Uncle James?”

“Much better,” Sybil replied. “Father improves by the day. And now I arrive to find you an invalid.”

“I’m getting out of this bed tonight.” Eleanora looked about. “Christian?”

“I insisted that he go home,” Althea stated. “The man was exhausted. He stayed up all night with you.”

“Oh,” Eleanora replied in a small voice. “He did?”

Again, it was hard to know if he had been there wiping her brow, speaking in low, comforting tones, or if it all had been a dream.

Sybil placed the near-empty glass on the table. “Spill, Eleanora. What is going on that you have a duke seeing to your every need? What has developed since I left? Althea filled me in on the case. But bringing Allenby in on the particulars? Making him your assistant? Making scones together? Since when do you allow anyone in your kitchen when you’re baking, let alone join an investigation?”

“Don’t admonish me,” Eleanora pouted. “I’m attracted to him. What is the harm?”

Sybil and Althea exchanged looks of astonishment.

“Do you not remember what happened the last time?” Sybil asked, her voice soft.

“With whom?”

“The second dalliance. With Sir Roger Fletcher?”

Eleanora was not ashamed of her involvement with men. She readily shared the details with Althea and Sybil.

She folded her arms defiantly. “I don’t know what you mean.”

But she had an idea. Roger Fletcher, a knight of the realm, was someone she’d met while making inquiries on another client. He had flattered her, praised her confidence, took her to dinner and his bed. Then he rejected her for the very reasons he had complimented her.

“My heart did not break; it never came into play with Fletcher,” Eleanora spoke the truth. She had been relieved when he summarily rejected her.

No, what stung was he’d looked down upon her profession. Stating if there were to be anything between them, she would have to forgo her independence and take her “proper place in society.”

And what was that exactly?

Whatever a man dictated it to be. Under his thumb.

If a knight acted this way, what would a duke do? A duke would be even more insistent a woman “fall in line” despite his declaration that he would never do that. Was Christian like Roger? All compliments and admiration until he got what he wanted? Blast it; her head started aching once again.

“You were hurt for different reasons, not to do with your heart,” Althea interjected. “You were frustrated more than anything.”

Frustrated was correct: that men would always treat women as second-class citizens. Hell, women didn’t even have the right to vote, though there were many brave ladies in suffrage societies fighting for that very thing.

“We do not wish for you to go down that path once again. To find yourself disappointed in yet another man. They always let us down,” Sybil stated. “No man will take any of us seriously. We are outsiders. Doing a man’s job.”

“You sound bitter, Cousin,” Eleanora said.

“I am. So should you be.”

“I have to admit that Christian was genuinely concerned for Ellie after her carriage adventure,” Althea interjected. “Sybil, if you could have seen his expression. Stark worry. Concern. Ellie vomited on his boots, and he didn’t turn a hair. The man stayed all night. He will return before dinner, he said.”

Sybil snorted. “Sounds as if the duke has won you over, Althea.”

Her sister shrugged. “He’s not what I expected. Now Brookton? He lives up to every stereotype of an arrogant peer. But I believe Allenby is a different sort of man. One worthy of our respect.”

“There has to be something wrong with him,” Eleanora muttered. “Some dark secret or a disgusting quirk of his personality he keeps well hidden.”

“If anyone can get to the bottom of it, it’s you, Cousin,” Sybil teased.

“The case.” Eleanora brightened at the subject and sat up straighter. Althea dutifully fluffed the pillows behind her. “Thank you, Sister. Now, I will need one of you to travel to Hertfordshire and make a visual check that Huxley is actually at the Bevan Sanatorium receiving treatment; and if he was there when this carriage incident took place.” Althea was about to speak, but Eleanora flapped her hand to silence her. “I am well aware he could have made all these arrangements before he departed, but we need confirmation nonetheless. The rest home is in Standon.”

“How far away is that?” Althea asked.

“North of here, about forty-five miles. There is no use writing; these places have strict rules of confidentiality, best we get a visual on him. With the trains, you could be there and back in less than two days. It will require an overnight stay.”

“Me?” Althea questioned.

“Yes, you.”

“I can go with her,” Sybil interrupted.

“I need you here. Sybil, Uncle Reece offered his network of coppers should we require assistance. I also need a follow-up from Doctor Buchanan. I am also waiting on a report from Archie concerning the footman. Sybil, go to Uncle Reece and ask for anything he can find on the coroner’s inquest on Hayes Addington, age sixteen. He was heir to a baron. The reported and supposed death took place fourteen years past. We also need the name of the distant cousin who inherited the barony. Also, inquire if Buchanan has completed his inspection of the severed hand. When he does, I want him here, giving me his report as soon as possible.”

“Very well,” Sybil replied.

“We have a list of former members of The Rakes, we will have to investigate the men soon,” Eleanora added.

Sybil smiled and pulled the list from the pocket of her skirt. “Althea already gave it to me. What are these names crossed out?”

“Watford said they are happily married, like the baron listed there, Simon Wolstenholme. Let’s set those names aside for now, and concentrate on current friends and members.”

Yes, she was feeling more like herself. Much recovered. No time to wallow in sentimental sensitivity. Something she should remember when next with the duke.

“Tomorrow, I will pay a visit to the baronet, Sir Howard Whitney,” Eleanora continued. “And yes, Allenby will be coming with me. I will not be able to gain an audience otherwise. I will question the man about the drowning incident and the whereabouts of his son, Ford Whitney.”

Eleanora doubted the man had anything to do with this. According to Christian, Whitney’s letters were all friendship and good cheer. However, all avenues must be explored.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Eighteen hours earlier…

An abandoned warehouse in the East End

 

 

“How long do we have to wait? I want my pay for the job done,” one of the men groused. He tossed the floppy hat and cape aside.

“Momentarily,” Jeffrey Mason crooned. “I’m to have your assurances that you will not speak of this to anyone. If you do, there will be consequences. We know where you all live and work. I do not like making threats, rather poor business in my mind.”

Jeffrey looked at the six men standing before him, hired as carriage drivers and masked passengers. “But a threat it is. Do I have that assurance?”

“Yes, Aye,” the men answered in unison.

Nodding, Jeffrey moved behind a stack of empty wooden crates and brought out a small valise. Taking out bundles of pounds notes, he passed it to each man. “Leave the disguises on the table by the door. You are to send word to the barkeep at The Ten Bells if anyone comes around asking questions. Leave the message for Mr. Mangle.”

Jeffrey had made certain he hired actual carriage drivers that worked for various wealthy families in London instead of renting traceable carriages.

The men gathered up their money and departed. However, the last man, still in disguise, lingered, waiting until the others left before doffing his hat and scarf. Closing the door, he turned to face Jeffery as he tossed the bills into the valise.

“Honestly, Ford, what possessed you to act as one of the hired men?” Jeffery admonished.

Ford Whitney smiled. “It was quite thrilling, especially when that beast of a woman made chase.”

Jeffrey shook his head. “You could have killed her. The driver told me what happened.”

“I watched out the rear window; she was moving about on the cobbles. Not dead.” He removed the cape and threw it on top of the other garments. “We’ll have to burn all of this.”

“What is next? We have accomplished our goal of breaking up that club of rakes. Huxley has tucked tail and left town, Tolwood is off pursuing rich heiresses. We rattled them good and proper according to your man, Phillips. The game has reached its conclusion.”

Ford shook his head. “No. They haven’t suffered enough.”

“This has already gone too far. Keeping a dead prossie on ice? It’s beyond macabre. And the circumstances of her death are murky at best. You never explained the particulars.”

Ford took a step closer to Jeffrey. “What are you implying?”

Ford had gathered together a few men, Jeffrey included, with one common theme: they all detested The Rakes of St. Regent’s Park. All of them had their reasons, but none as significant as Ford’s, at least in his mind. Jeffery must have seen the dangerous look in his eyes, for he took several steps in reverse.

“N-n-nothing. You found her dead, I-I believe you.”

Well, Emily McCarthy had been in the final stages of her debilitating illness; Ford merely assisted her along with a pillow over her face. It would not be the last time he ended a life. He had it in him. Look at what had occurred that night so long ago with Hayes. Although with McCarthy, he looked upon it as a mercy, for she had suffered immensely.

He initially had discovered her sleeping in an alley. Ford knew of every brothel his former friends frequented. When Emily mentioned her place of previous employment, he enticed her with the promise of a roof over her head, food, and comfort. She took it gladly, filling him in on the doings of his reprobate former friends.

“Besides,” Jeffrey mewled, “As you well know, Allenby has hired an investigative agency and is keeping company with ‘the beast of a woman,’ as you called her. The next step they will take is reporting all this to the police. I say we end this before we place ourselves in danger of discovery.”

Ford grabbed a fistful of Jeffrey’s shirt and pulled him close. “This concludes when I say it does. You are in this to the bitter end, as are the others.”

“What others? I only know of Phillips.”

Ford tightened his grip. “And that is all you need to know.”

“Yes. Fine. Release me at once,” Jeffrey said, his voice shaking. “I cannot abide aggressive behavior. It’s rather unsettling.”

Ford released him and snorted with disgust.

Damned sniveling coward.

But the man had proved useful—and stupid. If any of the hired men were found and asked to make a description, they would only know of Mason and not him. And as dumb as Mason was, he innately understood that if he pointed any blame in Ford’s direction, his life would not be worth a farthing.

Jeffrey straightened the collar of his shirt. “What is next, then?”

“Allow me to mull it over. I will call a meeting soon enough. Meanwhile, I have to deal with my father.”

“Right, he doesn’t know you have returned to London.”

He damned well knew Ford had left Switzerland, though. The owners of that wretched asylum no doubt informed his father of Ford’s escape and the fact he had cleaned out the safe. They probably demanded recompense for the twenty-odd thousand pounds he had stolen. Good.

After that horrible summer night fourteen years past, Ford had returned to his father, begging for his assistance, only to be beaten within an inch of his life. Ford trailed the tip of his finger along the jagged scar that ran from his left temple to his jaw. His father had used a heavy brass candlestick to thrash him. Had the butler not intervened, Ford believed his father would have killed him.

At times over the next several years, Ford wished that he had.

Instead, his father sent him away to that remote school in the Alps of Switzerland. School. More like a military prison. There he suffered unspeakable torture and abuse, physical and emotional.

Not one word from his father in all those years. Letters went unanswered. He even sent letters along to Damon and Christian, they, too, went unanswered.

No one cared. They never did.

Oh, he tried to escape, more than once, only to be dragged back through the snow and thrown into a windowless locked room no better than a prison cell. Then to be transferred to an asylum? Ford played the part of a madman, biding his time, planning his escape.

Ford rubbed his temple as his head began to ache as it often did when recalling those haunted memories. No more ruminating on the past. Not today. He had to think clearly of what to do next.

Revenge is what kept him going.

Only when he exacted his revenge on those who had wronged him could he start to live. Only then would the nightmarish images fade. Only then would his head stop aching.

What next? Financial ruin? Public disgrace?

Murder?

The thought took root. Murder was a messy business, but one not to be completely ruled out. What Ford’s former friends had done was mild compared to what his father perpetrated. The plan would need further reflection.

“Grab the valise and let us depart,” Ford commanded.

Ford gathered up all the garments on the table and followed Jeffery out the door. It was dark outside; the gaslight illuminations cast eerie shadows on the coal fog rolling past. They passed an unattended burning barrel, one often used by anyone who wished to stop and warm his hands or cook a potato over it. Ford dropped the garments in it and kept walking.

Yes, revenge is indeed—sweet.