Page 19

Chapter Nineteen

“You’ve taken a room here?” Daniel peered out the carriage window at the facade of The Raven Hotel, suspicion clouding his mind.

“It’s one of the few places in town to guarantee discretion,” Magnus said, stepping cautiously down to the pavement and scanning the bookshop doorway. “I won’t be long. Are you sure you need Mother’s novels tonight?”

“Positive.” Daniel watched Magnus race into the hotel. He considered following him and questioning the clerk again, but the prospect of Denby’s challenge weighed heavier on his mind. He turned to Rothley. “I have something important to ask. It involves Clara and Elsa.”

Rothley arched a knowing brow. “You want my two shillings.”

“I don’t trust that imbecile,” he said, referring to his brother-in-law. “I know you want people to believe you’re Lucifer reborn, but there’s no man more honourable than you.”

Rothley reached into his pocket and tossed him a sovereign. “I rarely carry small change, but accept this token. My loyalty is yours without question.”

Daniel took comfort from the warm metal in his palm. “If I end up cold in the ground, you’ll protect my family?”

“With my life.”

They shared a silent look, a bond that went deeper than words.

“Do you want me to offer for Clara?”

Though Daniel found the question amusing, it saddened him to think Rothley had no intention of marrying for love. “I wouldn’t wish that on either of you. But I appreciate the gesture.”

The last thing Clara wanted was a man’s pity.

She had to realise her worth. Any companion would need to see beyond her disfigurement. Daniel would have to allow her a certain freedom if she had any hope of finding love.

Magnus returned, panting like he’d run the length of Hadrian’s Wall. “Here you are.” He gave Daniel the three books and settled in the seat beside him. “Though I fail to see the urgency.”

Too weary to explain, Daniel instructed Jarvis to take them to Denby House, then drew the intricate magnifying glass from his coat pocket. He turned to the ex-libris in one book, saw the fox and oak design, and tossed it aside.

Magnus watched intently. “Are you looking for something specific? If it’s a clue as to how someone might fake their death, look no further than The Monk .”

The odd comment stole Daniel’s attention. Magnus wasn’t referring to Carver because he was certainly dead. No man lost that much blood and lived to tell the tale. And he had visited the unmarked grave during his visits to Edenberry, wishing there had been another option .

Rothley spoke from the shadows, his voice low and edged with suspicion. “What do you know about the subject?”

“Nothing, but I met an old friend of yours in Geneva and thought he must have had a reason to disappear. Was it money troubles?” Magnus gave a humourless chuckle. “I have thought of vanishing myself a few times.”

“Which friend?” Daniel said, picking up the copy of The Italian . “Who are you referring to?”

“The fellow found dead in the woods at Cambridge. He visited Thorncroft several times when you were home for the holidays.”

Rothley turned as white as a sheet. “Justin Lovelace?”

“Yes, though he disappeared from his hotel when he realised I came from Chippenham and my sister was married to Dalton.”

A heavy silence filled the air.

Rothley sat motionless, his haunted eyes fixed on nothing.

“He told you his name?” Daniel sought to clarify.

“Only his Christian name, but I’m positive it was him.”

Daniel resisted the urge to elbow Magnus sharply in the ribs. For ten years, Rothley had refused to believe Justin was dead. Now, it would take another decade before he let the matter rest again.

Knowing nothing he could say would settle Rothley’s mind, Daniel opened the copy of The Italian . Sure enough, this book had the new ex-libris, and so he held it up to the carriage lamp and peered at the tome through the small magnifying glass.

“Cursed saints! There is a message in this book!”

The Last Will and Testament of Georgina Denby

14th March 166 8

Daniel read it aloud. Something told him it was the key to this whole wretched affair. But it meant nothing without inspecting the will at Doctors’ Commons or obtaining a certified copy through the Prerogative Court.

Magnus peered over Daniel’s shoulder. “The writing is so small you can barely see it. Why would anyone hide a message there?”

“Because it was not meant to be found by just anyone, only someone who knew what to look for.” Daniel gave a brief account of the clues they’d followed so far. “Your visit to Port Noir was pointless.”

“Not pointless,” Rothley said in a voice like smoke and steel. “I have evidence to corroborate my theory.”

To Daniel’s relief, they’d arrived at Denby House. He would rather face pistols at dawn than fuel Rothley’s growing suspicions.

He knocked on the door and turned to Rothley. “Do you know a Clarence Denby? A clue hidden in a book led us to the name, and I need to understand the connection.”

Rothley gave it some thought. “Yes. I believe he was Denby’s great-uncle. Died abroad, if memory serves. The title then passed to Denby’s grandfather.”

So Elsa and Denby were second cousins. Was that why the lord was so determined to marry her? Out of a twisted sense of entitlement tied to bloodlines and inheritance?

The butler answered promptly, eyeing them with polite curiosity before disappearing to consult the master. Daniel clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to pace. He wasn’t afraid of Denby. On the contrary, he welcomed the chance to settle the score.

So why did he have a bad feeling in his gut, like the hush before a storm when the air turns heavy and the birds fall silent?

The butler returned and stood aside. “Please follow me.”

He led them to an elegant drawing room where gilt-framed landscapes lined the walls, and French windows overlooked a manicured garden. The scent of roses and beeswax mingled with the smell of wet dogs.

Denby stood tall before the fireplace, his expression as stern as a king’s guard and dismissed the butler before he announced them.

“You have some nerve, Dalton.” He gestured to his mother, who sat perched on the edge of a gold brocade sofa, clutching her white Pomeranian. “Mother is still in shock.”

Lady Denby kissed her darling dog and tried to feed it chicken from a silver plate. “Poor Foofoo hasn’t stopped shaking. He won’t settle. He won’t eat. I’ve not seen him in such a state since the fireworks at Lady Montclair’s garden party.”

“Have you tried mackerel?” Rothley suggested. “I hear it works wonders for a nervous constitution.”

“Fish? Fish!” the lady cried, recoiling. “Jonah ended up in the belly of one, and look what good it did him.”

“That was a great fish , not a mackerel,” Rothley said drily. “Though I doubt Jonah made distinctions.”

“Forget about fish,” Daniel snapped, tearing the letter from his pocket and flinging it at the pompous lord. “You’ve no grounds to issue a challenge. Miss Tyler was not betrothed to you when I married her. Your quarrel is with her brother.” He jabbed a finger at Magnus. “But if you want me to shoot you between the brows, name the time and place.”

Foofoo whimpered.

“Mr Dalton! Must you use that dreadful tone?” Lady Denby covered the tiny dog’s ears. “We’ll find a way to see this marriage undone, or I’ll pray the Lord delivers you into the path of a wayward carriage.”

He glared at Denby. “Is that the reason for dragging me here? You want me dead so you can marry my wife?”

Denby frowned. “Seeing you six feet under would bring immense satisfaction, but you’re the one who demanded pistols at dawn. I’m gentleman enough to insist on seconds.”

The situation was unfolding like a tragic comedy, each moment more ridiculous than the last. Either Denby was as barmy as his mother, or someone else was writing the script.

“I received your challenge an hour ago.” Daniel grabbed the note he’d flung at Denby and thrust it into the man’s palm. “Read it. It bears your signature.”

Denby grumbled as he peeled back the folds, then frowned like he’d read a complex riddle. “I didn’t write this and certainly didn’t have it delivered to you. What sort of game are you playing? You demand no seconds, then arrive with two men.” He turned to the mantel and retrieved the letter tucked behind the clock. “I received this an hour ago.”

The sting of deception burned behind Daniel’s ribs as he studied the note: a challenge that bore his name. “I didn’t send this, but by God, I’ll answer it. Pistols, swords, name your weapon and I’ll see you at dawn.”

Lady Denby gasped. “That’s enough! All this talk of fighting will give Foofoo the vapours.”

“It’s nowhere near enough, madam.” Daniel doubted he would have another opportunity to confront Denby so hit him with a barrage of questions. “Why did you want to ruin Jacob Tyler? Why hire his man of business to spy?” That was an educated guess.

With an arrogant curl of the lips, Denby said, “Jacob Tyler was his own worst enemy. He was clueless when it came to business. As for Carver, why would I hire an incompetent man who lost his employer a small fortune?”

Magnus shot forward. “Father said you secretly lured him into schemes, then offered loans with extortionate rates of interest.”

Denby looked smug. “I gave him money to settle large debts but didn’t charge interest. In return, he signed the marriage contract. Whatever else he told you was a lie to hide his shame.”

“Carver said you forced my father to pay fifteen per cent.”

“Then Carver is a liar and a thief,” Denby countered. “Doubtless he’s bleeding his new employer dry.”

Daniel studied the lord. Did he believe Carver was still alive? Or was he as skilled as a cardsharp when hiding his hand?

“If Tyler was a fool, why were you desperate to marry his daughter?” D esperate was hardly the right word. When a man loved a woman, he didn’t wait years to announce his betrothal.

Denby shrugged. “She has spirit.”

“Or perhaps it has something to do with the fact she’s your second cousin, and you wish to right a past wrong.” He watched the blood drain from Denby’s face. “A way of atoning for what happened to your great-uncle Clarence.”

Lady Denby shot to her feet, sending poor Foofoo skittering beneath the settee in fright. “Clarence Denby drowned in Switzerland over fifty years ago. It was a dreadful tragedy. A matter that should not be used as a pawn in your devious game, sir. ”

Before Daniel could reply, Denby said, “I suggest you leave. You’ve caused enough upset this evening.”

Daniel chuckled to himself. Avoidance was a clear sign of guilt. “Are you denying Clarence and Cynthia had a child? A daughter who survived and was raised in Oxford by Josephine and Terence Parkes?”

Magnus muttered something about his grandparents.

Lady Denby clung to her pearls like a lifeline. “Stop this at once. I did not take you for a gossipmonger, Mr Dalton.”

But Daniel pressed on. “It’s not gossip. There’s a record of their marriage and of their daughter Diana’s baptism.”

Lady Denby gripped the arm of the sofa. “Poppycock. Everyone knew they lived in sin. He bought her a house in Chelsea while he stayed in Mayfair. I heard they married in Geneva like modern Bohemians.”

“I’ve seen the parish records,” he said, deciding not to disclose where. “They married in London, and their child was legitimate. I have letters, evidence Clarence and Cynthia were murdered by his family.”

The look Denby shared with his mother—as if the ceiling might cave in—confirmed they were not ignorant of the fact.

“What do you want, Dalton?” Denby said tightly.

He could ask for numerous things—answers to a dozen questions. But only one thing mattered more than all the lies and secrets.

“I want to know who shot my wife.”

A heavy silence descended.

The Denbys appeared stunned.

The matron stumbled over her words before saying, “Shot? Where? When? I trust this isn’t another trick to intimidate us, Mr Dalton.”

“You can’t think we’re involved,” Denby added .

Daniel told them what had happened to Elsa at Edenberry. “She’s lucky to be alive.” The memory of the lonely hours spent at her bedside, blaming himself, haunted him still.

Dragging a hand down his face, Denby muttered, “Carver has to be the shooter. She must have uncovered his treachery. The man was up to something. He was always making trips to London, forgetting papers meant for Tyler or inventing an excuse to return.”

“I’m quite certain it wasn’t Carver.” He explained the scheme involving fraud and the plot to ruin Jacob Tyler. “There was a conspiracy to see him bankrupt,” he said before telling them Charmers was now in custody. “It was Charmers’ lackey who murdered Lord Grafton some days ago. The killer bears a scar on his cheek from a recent knife wound.”

The matron’s eyes widened. “A scar? H-how recent?”

“A month at most. Mr Daventry’s men are dealing with the case. It’s only a matter of time before they find the person responsible.”

“Mr Daventry’s men? Good Lord!” Lady Denby collapsed into the seat. She pressed her trembling hand to her brow and closed her eyes tightly. “You’ll have to tell them. It’s no good. Truth is Daventry’s quarry, and he hunts it like a man possessed.”

“Mother, you’re speaking in riddles.” Lord Denby turned to them. “She has a weak constitution. It’s all too much for her.”

Too much for her !

“You should have married Miss Tyler the moment her mother died.” Lady Denby gripped the edge of her seat like she teetered on a precipice. “We wouldn’t be in this predicament if you’d not been so desperate to cling to your bachelorhood. ”

“Mother!” Denby said firmly. “We will discuss this privately.”

“Yes, over a crude table in the Marshalsea once Daventry has picked the carcass dry. The moment Mr Carver told you, we should have taken steps to protect our assets.”

“Be quiet, Mother!”

“It’s a little late to caution her now,” Rothley said. “She’s practically admitted you’re involved. The ship has sailed and set fire to the docks on its way out.”

“She’s delirious and doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

On the contrary, as Rothley pointed out, Lady Denby’s ramblings were an admission of guilt. But strange she mentioned the Marshalsea, not Newgate. Why speak of poverty and not their role in a violent murder?

“Your mother is referring to the Last Will and Testament of Georgina Denby that dates back to the seventeenth century,” Daniel said, placing his final cards on the table. They didn’t know he hadn’t read the will, so he stayed quiet, hoping they’d say more.

No one spoke. But Daniel saw the flickers of unease and their tightening jaws. They couldn’t beat his hand, and their only option was to concede.

“I didn’t know Clarence had a child until Carver told me,” Denby confessed. “At that time, Jacob Tyler had already lost quite a vast sum of money in a mining venture in Northumberland.”

“But you knew about the will,” Daniel countered.

Denby drew a weary breath. “Of course I knew about the will. Do you think my father would have kept it a secret when Wendlow Follies accounts for over a third of my income?”

Daniel mentally fought to put the pieces together. Would the daughter of Clarence and Cynthia have inherited Wendlow Follies? It seemed odd, given the laws of primogeniture. But that would explain why Denby needed to marry Elsa.

“What did Carver want for his silence?” The man was a conniving devil and must have overheard a conversation or seen the letters in the musty box. That’s why Elsa’s parents had hidden the evidence.

“What all men want. Money.”

“You paid him to spy and make mistakes.”

Denby shook his head. “I paid him to destroy the evidence.”

“Because as the descendant of Clarence Denby, Elsa has a claim on Wendlow Follies,” Daniel guessed.

“My poor, sweet little Madeline,” Lady Denby cried. “Wendlow is her inheritance. It’s why she’s not wed. The girl receives her settlement when she turns twenty-five next April.”

So Wendlow Follies was unentailed, an estate passed down the female line. Doubtless, there were some stipulations that the male heir kept control in the absence of an heiress.

“Then Miss Denby must be the first woman to inherit since 1668. It’s a wonder she survived long enough to stake a claim.”

Denby scoffed. “I wouldn’t hurt my sister just to get my hands on her inheritance. Moreover, she must pay the barony a portion of the profit, as outlined in the terms of the will. Wendlow comes with a thousand acres and twenty tenant cottages.”

Miss Denby wouldn’t inherit a thing if Elsa could prove she was Clarence Denby’s granddaughter. The process would be long and taxing, involving?—

Daniel froze .

A chill chased down his spine.

He cursed under his breath as a dark suspicion took root.

Dear God!

He’d left Elsa at home, thinking she was safe. But if he was right, danger might be knocking on her door. She would expect a man, not a woman—the woman who had orchestrated everything while hiding behind silk petticoats and sugar-sweet smiles.

“May I speak to Miss Denby?”

Lady Denby drew herself up with indignation. “Why involve Madeline? She has nothing to do with this. I would rather spare her the disappointment. She is as innocent as my darling Foofoo.”

“Fetch her. Tell her the Marquess of Rothley asks for an introduction.” Daniel heard Rothley grumbling behind him. “I won’t mention our conversation, but I’ll rest easier knowing she is in the house.”

“Refuse, and I’ll hunt for her myself,” Rothley added.

The matron sighed heavily, her expression clouded with frustration as she summoned the butler. “Inform Miss Denby the Marquess of Rothley requests an introduction.” When the butler left, she shook her head. “This is absurd. Madeline has a mind for nothing but pretty bonnets and theatre trips. I won’t have her dragged into a scandal.”

They stood silently awaiting Miss Denby, each second stretching longer than the last. The matron’s posture stiffened as if preparing to shield her daughter from a threat.

But before the servant returned, Lord Denby made a startling confession. “Madeline isn’t here.” His voice was tight, his jaw muscles clenching. “She left half an hour ago to visit Miss Marshall. ”

Lady Denby blanched. “Left with whom? Her maid is upstairs.”

“Graves,” he snapped, the name bitter on his tongue. “The scarred coachman who follows her around like a lapdog.”

Lady Denby flinched, her shock palpable. “And you let her go?”

Denby’s gaze hardened. “Poor, sweet Madeline has me by the proverbials, Mother. She’s been blackmailing me for months, threatening to withhold funds from Wendlow once she inherits.”

A cold, suffocating fear gripped him. Graves had already killed twice at Miss Denby’s behest. Elsa was next—and he had foolishly left her alone again, just when she needed him most.