Sixteen

EMELINE WATCHED THE GARDENER CAREFULLY while Anthony questioned him. She felt a good deal of sympathy for the poor man. He stood in the middle of the kitchen, nervously twisting his cap, and gave short, unhelpful answers. He was clearly uncomfortable, although Anthony had gone out of his way to be polite and soothing in his approach, just as he had with the other servants.

“Have you ever witnessed anyone going into his lordship’s dressing chamber at an unusual time? Late at night, perhaps?” Anthony asked.

“Never even seen his lordship’s dressing chamber. Never seen his bedchamber, for that matter. Never been upstairs.” The gardener cast his eyes toward the ceiling as though peering toward an invisible metaphysical realm. “Worked ’ere for seventeen years. Kitchen’s the only room I’ve ever seen inside the house.”

“Of course it is.” Mrs. Rushton, seated at the head of the long wooden table, spoke with conviction. “Gardeners have no business beyond the kitchens.”

Anthony’s jaw tightened. Emeline sensed his impatience. This was not the first time Mrs. Rushton had interrupted.

This morning’s investigation, which she and Anthony had begun with such great enthusiasm, had not gone well. None of the staff had been forthcoming. All had been ill at ease, and Emeline was quite certain she knew why. It was not guilt that made the maids, gardeners, and housekeeper so anxious. It was the fact that Mrs. Rushton had insisted upon being present during the questioning.

Anthony thanked the gardener, who was only too eager to escape. He caught Emeline’s eye and shook his head very slightly. She closed her notebook with a sigh.

“Well, then,” Mrs. Rushton said, “that is the last of the lot. Did you learn anything helpful, Mr. Sinclair?”

Anthony gave her a winning smile that, in Emeline’s opinion, did nothing to conceal the irritation in his eyes. But Mrs. Rushton did not seem to notice. She was clearly quite taken with him. She had, in fact, paid virtually no attention whatsoever to Emeline from the moment she had been introduced to Anthony. There was a peculiar expression in her eyes whenever she looked in his direction, which was rather often.

Emeline decided that if she had seen that expression when a gentleman eyed a lady, she would have accounted the man an out-and-out libertine and debaucher of the worst sort.

“We won’t know the answer to that until we compare notes with Mr. March and Mrs. Lake,” Anthony said. “Thank you very much for your time this morning, Mrs. Rushton.”

“Not at all.” Mrs. Rushton got to her feet. She kept her attention on Anthony. “You will contact me immediately if you learn anything concerning the bracelet, will you not?”

“Of course.”

“I would appreciate a personal report from you, Mr. Sinclair,” Mrs. Rushton said, lowering her voice to an intimate tone. “I feel that I can speak comfortably with you, sir. Indeed, I find it very reassuring to know that a gentleman possessed of such an obviously vigorous physique is assisting in this investigation.”

“Thank you for placing your confidence in me, madam.” Anthony gave Emeline an urgent look and edged toward the kitchen door. “We will keep you informed of our progress, one way or another. Now, my associate and I must be on our way.”

“A cup of tea before you leave?” Mrs. Rushton said quickly.

Anthony’s mouth opened. Emeline knew that he was about to refuse. She leaped to her feet, frantically trying to signal him with her eyes.

He hesitated, caught her silent message, and reluctantly subsided.

Emeline turned swiftly to Mrs. Rushton. “Madam, before we leave, would it be too much to ask if I might borrow your gardener for a quick tour of your gardens before we depart? I could not help but note that they are quite extensive. Gardening is a passion of mine.”

Mrs. Rushton hesitated.

“Mr. Sinclair could join you in a cup of tea while I examine your plants and herbs,” Emeline added smoothly.

Mrs. Rushton smiled. “Yes, of course. An excellent suggestion. Enjoy your little tour.”

“Thank you.” Emeline slipped her notebook and pencil into her reticule and jumped to her feet. “I won’t be long.”

Anthony gave her a hapless look as she sped out the door. She pretended not to notice.

 

TWENTY MINUTES LATER THEY FINALLY ESCAPED from the gloomy mansion. Anthony wore a decidedly grim expression.

It was clear to Emeline that his bad temper was only partially connected to the failure of their inquiries.

“I trust you had a very sound reason for leaving me alone with that dreadful woman for such an extended period of time,” he growled.

“Dreadful? How can you say that? Mrs. Rushton was obviously charmed by you. She did not care a jot about me, mind you, but I believe she would like to write a sonnet or an ode to your obviously vigorous physique.”

“I am in no mood for your teasing.” He took her arm in an unexpectedly forceful manner and steered her toward the park.

It occurred to her that this was the first time she had ever seen Anthony in a temper. It was a new and intriguing side of him.

“Good heavens, sir,” she murmured, “you really are out of sorts, are you not?”

“What was that business of touring the gardens all about?” He opened the iron gate and hauled her into the small, overgrown park. “You know very well that we did not go to that house today so that you could view a bunch of plants and posies.”

“I know precisely why we went there.” He was marching her so quickly now that her bonnet had started to bob and wobble in a precarious manner. She reached up to steady it. “And we failed miserably.”

“Because of that dreadful woman.” Anthony chose a path that cut diagonally across the park. “None of the servants was willing to be forthcoming in front of her. They know very well that, with Banks on his deathbed, she is their real employer. She could let any one of them go without any notice or references.”

“Indeed.” She was obliged to skip a bit to keep up with him. “And that is why I took my little impromptu tour of the gardens with that poor, terrified gardener.”

Anthony spared her a brief, searching glance. She could tell that he was still fuming, but he also knew her well enough to be sure she had not acted entirely on whim.

“What did you and the poor, terrified gardener discuss?” he asked.

She smiled, more than a little pleased with herself. “We discussed finances.”

“Bloody hell.” But he slowed his pace a little at that news. “You offered him a bribe?”

“A fee,” she corrected. “I was inspired by my aunt. Apparently she and Mr. March consider information a commodity like any other, and therefore they are on occasion willing to pay for it.”

“True.” Anthony paused to open the gate on the far side of the garden. “Tobias grumbles about the practice, but there is no doubt that it is effective. Was the gardener receptive to your offer?”

“I don’t know.”

“You mean he didn’t tell you anything?” Anthony drew her through the opening and turned back to close the gate. “I hope you didn’t give him money for nothing.”

“He was obviously too nervous to speak with me in a direct fashion. He was well aware that Mrs. Rushton was not far away. But I sensed he knew more than he had told us and I assured him that the offer I had made would stand for a full twenty-four hours.”

“I see.” Anthony took her arm again. He said nothing until they turned down a narrow street on the far side of the square.

“Not a bad scheme,” he finally allowed grudgingly.

“Thank you. I thought it was rather clever myself.”

“But was it absolutely necessary to sacrifice me to Mrs. Rushton just so that you could offer a bribe to the gardener?”

“I told you, it was a fee, not a bribe. And as for sacrificing you, I’m afraid I had little choice. I would remind you that I was forced to act swiftly.”

“That strikes me as an excuse.”

“Come now,” she said. “Tea with Mrs. Rushton wasn’t that bad, was it?”

“The worst twenty minutes of my life, if you must know. The woman tried to persuade me to pay another call on her at a later time. Alone, mind you.” Anthony gave a visible shudder. “She suggested an evening visit.”

“It must have been a somewhat harrowing experience. I vow, I have never seen you quite so shaken, sir.”

“When I asked Tobias to take me on as his assistant, he neglected to mention that there were clients such as Mrs. Rushton.”

“You must admit, we have embarked upon interesting careers.”

He cheered a little at that observation. “Yes, very interesting, indeed. Tobias is still not altogether pleased with my decision to follow in his footsteps, but I believe he has accepted it.”

“Aunt Lavinia shares similar reservations about me. But I think she understands.”

Anthony frowned slightly. “Speaking of Tobias and your aunt, there is something I wish to discuss with you.”

“You are concerned about their personal relationship, are you not?”

“I collect that you have similar concerns?”

“I have become a trifle worried of late,” she admitted.

“It is obvious that they have become quite, uh, close. And not just in the business sense, if you take my meaning.”

She fixed her attention on the far end of the street. “What you are trying to say is that you believe that they have become intimate.”

“Yes. Forgive me, I realize that this is certainly not the sort of topic one generally discusses with a lady of your years and station, but I feel I must talk to you about the situation.”

“Do not concern yourself with the proprieties,” she said gently. “You and I, Anthony, have not had traditional, sheltered upbringings. We have certainly had far more experience of the world than most people our age. You may speak freely with me.”

“If you must know, I am troubled by the fact that Tobias and Mrs. Lake seem to be growing more quarrelsome of late.”

“Yes, I know what you mean. The nature of their association appears to be quite nettlesome, to say the least.”

“I thought, following the success of their investigation into the affair of the waxwork murders, that they had both sailed into more harmonious waters. Indeed, I would have said that they were falling in love. If nothing else, it was clear that they had conceived a passion for each other.”

Emeline thought of Lavinia’s flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes on those occasions when she returned from one of her long walks in the park with Tobias. “Quite clear.”

“I have no doubt but that the problem stems from Tobias’s singular lack of interest in romantical matters. He simply does not know how to woo a lady. I have tried to give him some advice, but I fear the lessons are not taking.”

“I really don’t think that is the difficulty,” Emeline said thoughtfully. “It is true that my aunt loves romantical poetry, but I don’t believe that she expects Mr. March to conform to the standards of one of Byron’s heroes.”

“I am relieved to hear that, because I fear he lacks that sort of polish and has no intention of acquiring it. But if that is not the problem, what the devil is going on between those two?”

“Something Aunt Lavinia said recently leads me to believe that she thinks Mr. March is attempting to, uh, limit the competition, as it were.”

Anthony’s brows knotted. “Bloody hell. Why would she think that?”

“In part because Mr. March refuses to introduce her to some of his connections.”

“Yes, I know, but he has what he feels is a perfectly sound reason for refusing. Some of his connections have links to the criminal class. He does not think that it would be proper to introduce Mrs. Lake to that sort, and I must admit, I can see his point of view.”

“It is not just that Mr. March will not introduce her to some of his more useful associates,” Emeline continued. “I fear that lately he has begun issuing instructions almost daily and giving unwanted advice at every turn. She finds him quite overbearing. My aunt is not accustomed to taking orders from anyone, you know.”

Anthony contemplated that for a moment. “It is clear that we are dealing with two exceptionally independent, strong-minded people. What is more, they are both quite set in their ways, are they not? I wonder what—”

A child’s voice broke into his musings. It came from behind them.

“Sir. Ma’am. Please wait. My pa wants me to give ye a message.”

“What’s this?” Anthony halted and swung around.

Emeline stopped and glanced back over her shoulder. She saw a young boy of eight or nine years, clad in rumpled clothes and a cap, waving to them from the entrance to the narrow street. Excitement swept through her.

“That is the gardener’s son,” she said to Anthony. “I met him in the course of my tour. He assists his father at the Banks mansion.”

“What can he want with us?”

“I’ll wager his papa sent him after us with some news. He probably hopes to collect the fee I promised. I knew my scheme would work.”

The boy saw that he had their attention. He hurried toward them.

The sudden loud clatter of carriage wheels and horses’ hooves rumbled behind the lad. Emeline looked past the boy and saw a black hackney rounding the corner. The two-horse team was moving at a swift trot. When the vehicle turned into the street, the coachman cracked his whip loudly over the rumps of the horses. The beasts lunged forward at full gallop.

The gardener’s son was directly in their path.

Emeline realized that the boy was in danger of being trampled beneath the hooves and wheels.

“Look out,” she shouted.

She did not know if the lad heard her warning, but in that instant he seemed to become aware of the din behind him. He stopped and turned. For an instant he seemed to be paralyzed by the sight of the onrushing carriage.

“Move, boy, move,” Anthony shouted. He started forward at a run.

“Dear heaven.” Emeline seized fistfuls of her skirts and went after him.

The boy finally became aware of his dire situation. With a sudden, convulsive jerk, he made to dash for safety.

The breeze caught his cap and sent it skittering back into the path of the horses.

“Me cap.” The lad whirled and raced back out into the middle of the street, obviously determined to rescue the cap.

“No,” Emeline called. “No, don’t go back.”

But the boy paid no attention.

The carriage never slowed. Obviously the coachman did not see the lad dash back into his path. Anguished, helpless terror swept through Emeline. She could never reach him in time.

“Get into a doorway,” Anthony shouted to her over his shoulder. He was several paces ahead of her.

She flung herself toward the nearest entrance and watched, unable to breathe, as Anthony and the carriage bore down on the boy from opposite directions.

Incredibly, Anthony reached the lad seconds ahead of the flying hooves. He flung out an arm, scooped up the boy, and kept going toward the side of the street.

A moment later the carriage thundered past Emeline. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the coachman hurl an object at her. It thudded against the wall beside her and dropped to the pavement. She ignored it, too intent on reaching Anthony and the boy.

The vehicle rumbled on at breakneck speed, swaying dangerously. It rounded the corner at the end of the street and vanished.

Emeline ran toward the pair where they lay sprawled together on the stones at the foot of a short flight of steps. The boy had landed on top. His green cap lay on the ground next to Anthony’s shoulder. He stirred, raised his head, and started to lever himself to his feet. She saw that he was dazed but unhurt.

“Anthony.” She flung herself to the pavement beside him. “Anthony. For God’s sake, answer me.”

For an eternity of mindless, numbing terror, she feared the worst. The elegant knot in Anthony’s cravat had come undone, baring his throat. Ripping off one glove, she touched his skin with her fingertips, seeking a pulse.

He opened one eye and gave her a bemused grin. “I must be dead. I am obviously in the hands of an angel.”

She snatched her fingers back. “Are you injured, sir? Is anything broken?”

“No, I don’t think so.” He sat up and looked at the lad. “What about you, young man? Are you all right?”

“Aye, sir.” The lad held his cap in both hands, examining it with close attention. He looked up with a relieved grin. “Thank ye for saving me cap. My ma gave it to me for me birthday last week. She would have been right put out with me if I’d gone and ruined it.”

“It’s a very fine-looking cap.” Anthony got to his feet, absently brushing the dust from his trousers. He reached down for Emeline’s hand and hauled her lightly up from the pavement.

She turned to the boy. “Now, what was it that you wanted to tell us?”

The boy’s expression turned serious. He concentrated hard. “My pa said to tell ye that ye’ll want to speak with the valet.”

“Your master’s valet?” Anthony frowned. “He was not there today. I noticed the absence. Where is he?”

“Mrs. Rushton let him go a while back. Turned Mr. Fitch off without his wages or references, Pa said. Mr. Fitch was very, very angry.”

Emeline exchanged a glance with Anthony. “That is very interesting,” she said softly.

Anthony looked down at the boy. “Go on.”

“Pa said to tell ye that Nan, one of the chambermaids, says that she noticed Mr. Fitch acting very odd the day he got turned off. She was working in the linen closet that afternoon. Fitch never noticed her, but she saw him come out of the master’s dressing chamber with a small object all wrapped up in a neckcloth. He put it into his bags when he thought no one was looking, and left the house with it.”

“Why didn’t Nan say anything?” Anthony asked.

The boy shrugged. “We all knew Fitch had been let go with no references nor extra wages to see him through to another position. Reckon Nan figured he was entitled to help himself to a little something by way of a retirement pension.”

“Would Fitch have had access to the keys Mrs. Rushton carries?” Emeline asked. “Could he have made a duplicate?”

The lad thought about that and then shrugged. “Don’t see why not. He had plenty of chances to use a bit of wax to make a copy.”

“What do you mean by saying he had plenty of chances?” Anthony asked.

The lad looked surprised by the question. “During one of their afternoon meetings upstairs.”

Emeline frowned. “What afternoon meetings?”

The boy looked at her. “Soon after Mrs. Rushton arrived, she told Fitch that he was to make regular reports to her concernin’ the health and mental condition of the master. They used to meet two or three times a week in the afternoon in one of the upstairs bedchambers.”

Emeline felt herself turning pink. She dared not meet Anthony’s eyes. “I see.”

The boy’s brow puckered in some confusion. “I once overheard Fitch tell Pa that Mrs. Rushton was in . . . in . . . inedible.”

Anthony looked at him. “Inedible?”

The boy frowned. “Don’t think that’s the right word. It was in-something, though, I’m sure of that much.”

“Insatiable?” Anthony offered in a very neutral voice.

“Aye, sir.” The lad cheered. “That was the word. Mr. Fitch said that Mrs. Rushton was insatiable. ‘Wears a man out and that’s a fact,’ he said.”

“Did your pa give you Fitch’s address?” Emeline asked quickly.

“Pa said he had a little house in White Street.” The lad looked anxious for the first time. “Will you be paying me now, sir? My pa said I was to be sure to collect the fee ye promised.”

“No need for alarm.” Emeline gave Anthony a brilliant smile. “Mr. Sinclair will be happy to pay you.”

Anthony gave her a wry look, but obligingly pulled out some money to give to the lad.

The boy seized his fee, grinned happily, and raced off. Anthony watched him disappear around the corner.

“I seem to recall Tobias mentioning on one or two occasions that whenever Mrs. Lake offers a fee for information, he somehow ends up paying it.” He raised his brows. “It appears that particular skill runs in your family.”

“Keep an accurate account, sir. We shall settle the finances at the conclusion of the case when our clients pay us.”

She started to pull on the glove she had removed a few minutes earlier to check for Anthony’s pulse. She paused when she noticed that her fingertips were trembling. Anthony had nearly been run down. She was still shaky with relief. She had to work hard to adjust the glove.

“Emeline, are you all right?”

It was too much. He acted as if nothing untoward had occurred. She rounded on him.

“You could have been killed,” she said loudly.

The words seemed to echo against the looming walls that framed the street.

“I’m all right,” Anthony said.

“Yes, I know. You saved that boy’s life, but you could have been killed.”

“Emeline, I don’t think—”

“What would I have done if you had been crushed beneath that bloody carriage?” Her voice threatened to rise to a shout. “I cannot bear to think about it, do you hear me?”

“I expect they can hear you two streets over,” Anthony said.

“Oh, Anthony, I was so terrified.”

With a small cry, she threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

A small shock of surprise went through him, but he recovered instantly, holding her so close that she could scarcely catch her breath.

“Emeline.” His voice was low and hoarse. “Emeline.”

He yanked at the strings of her bonnet with one hand and pushed the obstructing hat back off her head. He raised her face and kissed her with a wild, reckless passion that stunned her senses.

What was left of her outrage evaporated in a rush of thrilling heat. She had dreamed of this moment for weeks, tried to imagine what it would be like when Anthony finally kissed her. But the experience was unlike anything she had envisioned.

Anthony’s mouth was urgent, hot, demanding. When he opened it against hers, she felt the edge of his tongue. She shuddered, utterly astounded by the intense intimacy. His arms tightened around her, molding her to the length of his body in such an intimate manner that she was aware of every contour of his strong frame.

He shifted slightly, one hand sliding down her spine to curve around her hip. She could feel him pressing against her thigh.

Two years ago she had prevailed upon Lavinia to provide some specific information on the nature of physical passion between a man and a woman. She had also given serious attention to the erotic decorations on some of the Greek and Roman vases she had seen in Rome. But nothing she had learned had prepared her for this raging excitement, let alone the size of the unyielding bulge behind Anthony’s trousers.

He dragged his mouth off hers, tipped her head, and kissed her throat. She was trembling now, utterly transported. The very pavement on which she stood threatened to dissolve beneath her feet.

“Anthony.”

“Good God.” Anthony abruptly broke off the kiss and raised his head. He was breathing hard. “Forgive me, Emeline. I don’t know what came over me. I can only apologize—”

“No.” She clapped a hand over his mouth to silence him. “I vow, sir, if you say that you are sorry, I shall never forgive you.”

He studied her over the edge of her fingers. Then a warm light appeared in his eyes. She felt his mouth curve into a smile beneath her palm. Cautiously, she lowered her hand.

For a few seconds they just stood there in the middle of the street, gazing into each other’s eyes.

“Anthony?” She was having difficulty breathing properly, she realized.

“Come.” Anthony grasped her elbow and propelled her forward toward the end of the lane. “We must hurry. Tobias and Mrs. Lake will want to know about Fitch.”

“Yes, of course.” She wondered if all gentlemen were so adept at switching moods in moments of great passion.

Then again, perhaps Anthony had not felt the same intensity of emotion that she had just experienced in his arms. This was, after all, the first time she had ever been embraced in what one could call a serious fashion. Granted, while in Rome she had indulged in a stolen kiss or two in a garden or on a terrace, but she had considered the small incidents more or less as experiments. The results had been interesting, but not particularly inspiring, in her opinion. Certainly they had not set fire to her senses as this kiss had just done.

Anthony, on the other hand, was two years older, a man of the world. He had no doubt kissed any number of women in such a fiery manner.

It was an appalling thought.

She was mulling over the dark vision of another woman in Anthony’s arms when she glimpsed the object that the coachman had hurled toward her.

“I almost forgot.” She came to a halt. “He threw something at me as he went past.”

“Who? The bloody coachman?” Anthony followed her gaze. His expression hardened. “Looks like a rock. Rot the bastard’s eyes. He could have hurt you.”

“There is something tied to it.”

She hurried across the pavement to where the rock lay on the ground. There was a string tied around it. Attached to the string was a piece of paper.

“It’s a note.” She removed the paper and unfolded it.

Anthony came to stand behind her. He read aloud over her shoulder.

Stay out of this affair. Where there has been one murder, there may well be another.