Page 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

Springing the trap…

N early an hour after Jacob had left, Caleb’s temper had cooled enough to think more clearly about what had transpired in his absence. It was easy enough to see that the desk in the corner of the room had been rifled through. Then he understood perfectly why Jacob had wished to be alone in his chambers. No doubt there would be a significant number of banknotes missing. Likely, Jacob did not even consider it stealing as he felt the funds were simply his due. Still, it was difficult for Caleb to fully accept that he could be the culprit behind the attacks on Marina. Not because he had any particular faith in his friend’s morality but for the very reason Jacob had offered up himself. The man would never dirty his own hands. So how and why had the handkerchief come to be there?

Also, if Jacob’s covetous nature was at the heart of it all, then why was Marina the target instead of him? None of it made any sense. But perhaps he was going at it from entirely the wrong angle. Thinking of other incidents that had occurred with having seen both Lady Crowden and Mr. Nutter watching them, neither of them was above suspicion. The only player in the mix thus far whose motivation he did not understand was Miss Elizabeth Whitmore. Perhaps it was time to have a conversation with her and find out precisely what she knew and what she didn’t.

Turning, Caleb made his way downstairs once more. Grabbing his coat, he didn’t bother ringing for his carriage or a mount. It would take too long. Instead, he stepped outside, planning to get a hansom cab.

As his feet touched the pavement, he felt a frisson of unease. Ahead of him, parked in the street, was a dark carriage, the curtains inside it shut tight.

“Lord St. Aiden?”

Hearing the query from behind him, Caleb turned. There was only a split second to register what was happening. Then the blunt object glanced off his brow, sending him staggering to the paving stones. Another blow and the world went dark.

*

The two men stared at the prone form of the Earl of St. Aiden for a moment. Then they did as they’d been bade and hefted him up between them to deposit him in the carriage. A shadowy figure within produced a pair of coins in their gloved palm, extending it toward them.

Taking their bounty, the men turned and walked away.

“It don’t feel right, does it?”

The second man looked at his companion. “Harry, we can’t afford to worry ’bout how it feels. This right here is more than we’d make in six months for naught but givin’ him a knock on the head.”

“I reckon, Ollie, if we was to provide some information to folks who might come lookin’ for him, we might get paid again.”

Ollie smiled, revealing a large gap between his teeth. “Harry, you’re a right genius sometimes. Fine. We lay low a bit and see who comes lookin’ for him. It’s bad business this… don’t like working for someone when I don’t even know their face. Could pass ’em on the street right now and never know. Makes me nervous.”

*

Astrid had watched from her perch in the shadowed recesses of the carriage as the men loaded the Earl of St. Aiden into the nondescript carriage Mr. Williams had procured for this portion of their scheme. Now, with the lackeys paid, it was time to depart. She felt strangely vulnerable and exposed—fearful, even.

It had dawned on her while Stanford was making the arrangements for the carriage, that she was taking all the risks while he was reaping the rewards. She and Mr. Danvers were the ones who might face consequences from all their plots and schemes.

It was that realization which had her crafting her own plot. She’d be certain that someone knew it wasn’t just her—she wouldn’t allow him to ruin her or take the fall for his misdeeds. But he’d said it was imperative to keep the pair from being wed and she was just petty enough to want that herself. After all, she’d taken note of how he and Miss Ashton looked at one another, the closeness that seemed to be growing between them.

As a woman well past forty, she understood that others saw her as a fading, or perhaps already faded, beauty. All the creams and remedies in the world could not stop time. But his obvious preference for the youth and vitality of Miss Marina Ashton had wounded her vanity. And the price for that insult was one she would be only too happy to extract from him. That it would see Miss Ashton suffer as well was simply the decadent icing on the cake. She had never quite forgiven Stanford or that wretched girl for having the audacity to parade about society together, outwardly giving every indication of being a couple madly in love with one another. She’d fumed every time she’d seen them together.

Tapping on the roof of the carriage, she called out to the driver, “Number eight, Greenwood Street in Bloomsbury… and hurry.” The last thing she wanted was for St. Aiden to awaken in the carriage. The house she was taking him to was the one she normally used for her liaisons. The staff there was discreet. And more importantly, she had Watson. He would be able to get the earl into the house and he would be able to guard him until the hour of the wedding had passed.

The plan, initially, was that after a few days, St. Aiden would be blindfolded, taken from the house, and then deposited in one of the city’s many parks with another lump on his head and hopefully a very faulty memory. Watson would have instructions to eliminate any possibility of discovery.

But now, riding in the carriage with him, fearful that he might awaken at any moment, that plan was being replaced by another far more sinister one. It would be easier, she thought, and far less risky simply to kill him. But she wanted him to suffer, she wanted him to be utterly miserable. It was petty, but then she’d never aspired to be anything more than that. She would have to think on it for a bit before making her decision.