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And it was true, in a way. Parkinsonhadbeen discreet, and he had protected the family name at all costs. And yes, when he was asked to do any task, he carried it out with admirable efficiency. But it was only when he had died, quite unexpectedly following a sudden heart seizure, eleven years ago now, that Henry had discovered the full extent of the rewards the man had been taking in exchange for his loyalty.

It was Harry Trimble, the man Henry had engaged to replace Parkinson, who had first alerted him to the discrepancies in the ledgers. Trimble had suggested a detailed examination of all the account books and records be undertaken to get to the bottom of the matter, and Henry, worried about what incriminating information might be found in those old papers, had gone to Corbett for help. That was when Corbett had introduced Henry to Simon Reid, vouchsafing that Reid was a man who could be trusted.

Reid had set about the matter with typical efficiency, sending his associate, Alun Jones, to Wiltshire to painstakingly go through the estate records. Jones had examined every entry in every ledger, and every single page in the voluminous boxes of papers pertaining to the estate. Quiet and unassuming, Jones had spent three long months at Avesbury House working his way through decades of documents. At the end of it, he had presented Henry with a file of evidence that showed the fraud Parkinson had committed, together with a box of papers relating to Henry’s personal affairs that Henry had promptly locked away. The file had shown that Parkinson had been stealing from the ducal estate for years, long before Henry had inherited the title.

After that, Reid had spent a couple of years trying to track down the money Parkinson had embezzled, but most of it had been spent meeting the man’s gambling debts. Eventually, Henry had given up on any further attempts at recovering the losses, and Reid had closed the case.

So far as Henry had been aware, Parkinson’s fraud had been restricted to stealing money. But now he had to wonder. Christopher was supposed to get the property at Paddington Green when their contract ended. Parkinson had known that—he’d told Henry it was taken care of, and Henry had not questioned the matter.

Over those difficult first few weeks and months after leaving London, Parkinson had come to Avesbury House several times, on each occasion with a sheaf of documents to be signed by Henry. Documents that, Henry recalled, he had, uncharacteristically, signed without reading.

Had Parkinson seen an opportunity, and taken a chance?

Was it possible that he had stolen Christopher’s rightful entitlement?

“What’s the address of the property?” Reid asked, and Henry gave it to him, watching as the man wrote it on his blotter.

“And what is it you want to know about it?” Reid continued. “The current owner, I assume. Anything else?”

“As much as possible,” Henry said. “Who owns it now, and anyone else who has owned it in the last eighteen years.”

Reid eyed him curiously, but he nodded. “Very well.”

“I need to know the position as soon as possible,” Henry said. “Can you get to the bottom of the matter today?”

Reid looked doubtful. “Unlikely, but I’ll see what I can do. If you wish, I can call by the house this evening on my way home to let you know what progress I’ve made?”

“Please do,” Henry said. “I’m anxious to discover the truth as soon as possible.”

7

Kit

By Thursday, Betty was feeling quite well and Clara was able to return to work, so Kit decided to leave Clara to deal with the club for the afternoon while he paid his fortnightly visit to Mabel Butcher.

Mabel had been known asLa Tigresseat the height of her courtesan career. Later, she had become Madame Georgette, the presiding madam of the select Golden Lily brothel. But these days, almost ten years after her retirement, she preferred to use her rather more prosaic given name, and had adopted the persona of a respectable elderly widow.

Theirs was a strange relationship. Mabel had, after all, been the madam of the brothel where Kit had worked. She had procured patrons for his services. She had also left him to the not-so-tender mercies of Lionel Skelton, just because she had lost her temper with him for refusing to follow her advice about Henry Asquith. She had been hard-nosed and bad-tempered sometimes. But on other occasions, she had protected him fiercely, and she had nursed him when Skelton had beaten him, and looked after his money when he was being foolish. And when he wanted to get out of the game and build something of his own, she had given him endless help and advice.

She had never once in her life been soft with him, but she had looked after him, in her way.

She wouldn’t have done those things for just anyone. She did them for Kit because of Minnie.

Minnie, Kit’s mother, had died when he was not quite fifteen. She’d been a whore at the Golden Lily too. And she’d been something else to Mabel—even now, he wasn’t sure precisely what.

The illness that had killed Minnie had come on quick and ended painfully. Mabel had never shown her soft side with Minnie before then—not that Kit had ever seen, at least—but that changed when Minnie was dying. In those last few weeks, Mabel had often sat with her through the night, dabbing her fevered face and neck with cool cloths, murmuring soft, soothing words, and spooning powerful medicine from a small blue bottle between her lips when the pain got too much.

Kit, young and terrified, had been grateful for her presence. She wasn’t always there—sometimes Kit sat with his mother on his own—but she was there as often as she could be, and she was there when Kit had to eat or sleep.

She was there at the very end, on the night Minnie died.

It was late when it happened, in the early hours of the morning. Kit had been so weary, but he’d been afraid to leave his mother, feeling sure that if he did, she’d be gone when he woke.

He’d been curled up in an armchair, draped in a blanket and half asleep, while Mabel watched over his mother. There’d been almost no light in the chamber at all—only the dimmest glow from the fireplace—when his mother’s breathing had begun to rattle strangely. The sound had roused him.

At the very moment he'd opened his eyes, his mother had rasped, “You got to look out for Kit, Mabel. Promise me.”

“Course I will, Min,” Mabel had said roughly. Her voice hadn’t been like it normally was, all clipped and tight. Instead, it had been hoarse with emotion, and common as his mother’s.