Page 35 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke
She withdrew a sovereign from her reticule, allowing it to catch the meager light from the hallway.
The landlord’s expression shifted, calculation replacing outright hostility. “Don’t know what more I can tell you,” he grumbled, though his gaze remained fixed on the coin. “Left two weeks ago—in the middle of the night, from the sound of it. Took hardly anything with her.”
“Did anyone else come looking for her?” Beatrice asked, maintaining the gentle tone that seemed to disarm his suspicion in a way Leo’s authoritative approach had failed to do. “Before or after her departure?”
Mr. Thompson hesitated, his fingers rubbing at a stain on his waistcoat. “There was a gentleman,” he admitted reluctantly. “Came round asking questions the day before she left. Proper toff, he was, not like the usual sorts that come asking after my tenants.”
Leo and the Marquess exchanged a glance that suggested this information confirmed some private suspicion. Beatrice, sensing they were approaching something of consequence, continued her gentle interrogation.
“This gentleman, can you describe him? His manner of dress, perhaps?”
“Fine coat, proper tailoring,” Mr. Thompson replied, warming to the subject as Beatrice pressed the sovereign into his palm. “Walking stick with a silver knob. Spoke like you lot, proper fancy. Didn’t give a name, but he was no common gambler or tradesman, that’s for certain.”
“And after speaking with this gentleman, Anna left in haste?” Beatrice pressed, piecing together the sequence with careful precision.
“In the middle of the night.” Mr. Thompson nodded. “Heard her on the stairs, I did. Thought of stopping her, rent being due and all, but she was in such a state, I reckoned it wasn’t worth the trouble.”
“A state?” Leo interjected, his voice sharp with sudden interest.
“Frightened,” the landlord elaborated. “Muttering to herself, looking over her shoulder. Said something about being watched and needing to get away.”
Beatrice thanked him for his cooperation, recognizing that they had extracted all the useful information he could provide.
As they departed the boarding house, Leo drew her closer to his side, his expression grim.
“It seems Lord Westbury has been making inquiries of his own,” he observed, his voice pitched low for their ears only. “Thompson’s description matches him precisely.”
“Which suggests his interest in Philip extends beyond mere social curiosity,” Beatrice concluded, keeping pace with his longer strides despite the uneven cobblestones.
“It’s too dangerous,” he declared abruptly, halting their progress. “You should return to Mayfair immediately. Adrian will escort you?—”
“Absolutely not,” Beatrice interrupted, facing him with unwavering resolve. “My presence has yielded more information in five minutes than your questioning yielded. I will not be dismissed when I have proven my value.”
Leo’s expression hardened, but before he could formulate what would undoubtedly have been a cutting response, the Marquess interjected.
“She does have a point, Leo,” he said, his tone carefully neutral despite the gravity of the situation. “The good Mr. Thompson was remarkably forthcoming with her approach, whereas he all but slammed the door in our faces before.”
“Your observation is neither requested nor appreciated,” Leo retorted, though his narrowed eyes suggested he could not entirely refute the argument.
“Perhaps we’re more effective as a trio than a duo,” the Marquess suggested, his customary levity returning. “The stern Duke, the charming Marquess, and the gentle Duchess. Each with their particular talent for extracting information.”
Leo’s glare could have frozen the Thames in August, but he offered no further objection as they continued their investigation.
Their next destination was a modest tavern situated within sight ofthe Gilded Lion. A strategic location, Lord Tillfield explained, where servants and patrons of the gaming hell might gather during off-hours.
The tavern’s interior presented a stark contrast to the elegant establishments Beatrice had previously frequented. Low-beamed ceilings trapped the mingled scents of ale, tobacco, and unwashed bodies. The patrons, primarily men of the working class, regarded their entrance with undisguised curiosity and, in some cases, blatant assessment that brought a flush to Beatrice’s cheeks despite her determination to appear unaffected.
Leo guided her to a corner table, positioning himself such that his body shielded her from the eyes of the room’s occupants. The Marquess procured ale for the gentlemen and a small beer for Beatrice, explaining in a whisper that the water in such establishments was best avoided altogether.
While the men conducted discreet inquiries, Beatrice observed the room with careful attention, noting the subtle interactions and exchanges that might escape casual observation. Her gaze settled on two maids conversing in hushed tones near the kitchen entrance, one gesturing subtly toward their table while the other shook her head in evident warning.
“There,” she murmured, inclining her head slightly toward the pair. “Those girls know something. They’ve been watching us since we arrived.”
Leo followed her gaze, his expression skeptical. “More likely they’re curious about unusual patrons.”
“No,” Beatrice insisted. “The dark-haired one keeps glancing at us, then looks away whenever you turn in her direction. She’s nervous, not curious.”
Without waiting for his permission, she rose and approached the maids, adopting the gentle, unassuming manner that had proven effective with Mr. Thompson.