Page 20 of The Ladies Road Guide to Utter Ruin (The Ill-Mannered Ladies #2)

20

Samuel bowed as we approached the drawing room doors, his gaze dropping to the gun clasped in Evan’s hand. His expression, however, did not change. Good lad.

I glanced at Evan: Ready?

His mouth firmed, as did his grip upon the gun: Ready.

I nodded to Samuel, who promptly opened the drawing room doors.

We walked in.

“Ah, you are here,” Julia said brightly from her seat upon the sofa, beside Mr. Kent. Very close beside Mr. Kent.

The Runner stood—his arm no longer in a sling and his stance wary. Beneath his well-fitted jacket, he wore the smart scarlet waistcoat of his vocation. Was that a sign of intention?

“I thought this was going to be a peaceful meeting,” he said, his eyes upon the gun in Evan’s hand. He made a bow. “Good morning, Lady Augusta. Good morning, Lord Evan.”

“It will be peaceful if you do not do anything stupid,” Evan said pleasantly.

“And by stupid you mean arresting you for the crimes you have committed?” Kent countered.

Well, this was not starting as well as I had hoped.

It had not occurred to me before, but the two men were evenly matched should it come to a physical fight. Both above six foot, similar muscular builds, although Mr. Kent had a small advantage of weight. And each as stubborn as the other.

Julia rose to her feet beside the Runner and placed a hand upon his arm. “Please, Michael, give them a chance to present their proof.”

Michael? That was a development. My sister, however, did not acknowledge my raised brow.

“I do not have much choice, with a gun pointed at me,” Kent said.

I glanced at Evan.

He quirked the side of his mouth: Really?

I gave a nod.

With a sigh, Evan lowered the gun and placed it on the sideboard next to him.

Mr. Kent considered us, doubt clear upon his face. “Lady Julia’s note said you have evidence to give me. What kind of evidence?”

“I think we need to start at the beginning,” I said.

And so I told the story of twenty years ago: of Sanderson, and the Exalted Brethren of Rack and Ruin, and of Evan’s memory of visiting the club. Of the duel forced upon him at White’s, and the death of Sanderson, for which he had been transported. And the story now: of discovering the heinous wager book and Miss Hollis’s body, dumped at Bart’s, and the wager entry made twenty years ago—one month before the duel—over Sally Lawrence, possibly with child, who had the same surname as the doctor who had attended the affair of honor.

“That is despicable,” Julia said, shaking her head. “To wager upon another’s suffering and death. Are you sure? I cannot believe there is such wickedness. And by men who claim to be gentlemen.”

“I ripped the entry out of the wager book,” I said, and dug into my pocket, bringing out the two folded pages. “See, the names of the club members are in code, but their victims are not. And the other page is from the dissection ledger at Bart’s. A nameless pregnant woman dumped there at the right time.”

I passed Kent the pages. He unfolded them and studied the entries, Julia looking over his shoulder. I could see my sister’s horror growing.

Kent refolded the papers but did not look as impressed as I had hoped. “So, you think this Sally Lawrence is connected to the doctor at the duel?”

Evan and I both nodded.

“And you think that if he knew how she had died, he might have had motive for killing Sanderson, if Sanderson was indeed the man who had killed her?” Kent held up the pages. “This is not proof at all, Lady Augusta. We have no way of knowing who the club members are; you have not established any connection between the Sally Lawrence on this page and the doctor who attended the duel or, indeed, Sanderson’s culpability. Not to mention the fact that you illegally broke into the club—members of which you claim number among the Alien Office and House of Lords—and stole the page from the book and ripped another from a hospital ledger. Those are transportable offenses.”

Ah, I had not thought of it in that way. Even so, it did not negate what we had found.

“But do you not see the connections?” I demanded. “You yourself posited that someone of high rank in the Magistrates’ Court or Home Office has ordered Mulholland to kill Lord Evan, and now we have found a nefarious club, of which Sanderson was a member, which Lord Evan visited, and whose membership includes people of high rank in the Alien Office and probably the Home Office. It all adds up. We saw Miss Hollis’s body, Mr. Kent. They are killing women! For their amusement! You can go to Bart’s now and see her corpse. See what they have done to her!” I turned to Evan. “Perhaps you saw a murder twenty years ago. Perhaps that is why someone is trying to kill you.”

“I cannot remember seeing anything,” Evan said. “I am sorry, but I cannot.”

“I think that what you say is plausible, Lady Augusta, but it is not anything I can act upon. Especially since you were involved in the theft of this page. I cannot even act upon the death of Miss Hollis—you have not established that connection either. I have no way of proving anything about her demise that would not draw you into scandal and prosecution.” Kent passed the pages back to me. “If I were to bring that evidence forward, it would not clear Lord Evan’s name, but it would incriminate you.”

“I told you he would not listen to reason,” Evan said.

“I listen to reason and proof,” Mr. Kent snapped, “just not wild supposition or evidence obtained by theft.”

“What do you need, then?” I asked. “Tell me what you need and we will find it.”

“Frankly, you would have to find someone else to confess to the crime,” Kent said. “Even then—”

“But how—”

A knock upon the door silenced us both.

“Who is it?” Julia finally called.

The door opened.

Miss Grant peered in and, upon seeing Lord Evan, exclaimed, “So you are here—I thought I heard your voice.” She walked in, her stride full of purpose. “I wish to speak to you urgently, and this time you must listen. We cannot stay—” Belatedly she noted Mr. Kent. “Ah, I beg your pardon.” She managed a credible curtsy, although her body still held the stiff intent of unspoken demands.

Damn, I had not anticipated this meeting. Nevertheless, Miss Grant and Mr. Kent were connected even if they did not know it yet. Perhaps that could be useful.

“Miss Grant, may I introduce Mr. Kent, from the Bow Street Magistrates’ Court. You did not meet him at the time, but he is the agent who helped rescue Lady Hester from the asylum and kept us all safe afterward. He is a great friend to us. And continues to be so.”

Mr. Kent made a small sound of denial, but I had cornered him in his own service and he knew it.

“Mr. Kent, this is Miss Grant, Lady Hester’s companion.”

He bowed.

Miss Grant—momentarily taken aback by the introduction—scrabbled for her manners and, thankfully, found them. “Mr. Kent, Hester and I owe you a great debt of gratitude. Thank you so much for your assistance in rescuing Hester,” Miss Grant said, smiling. She could be rather charming when she tried.

“Not at all,” Mr. Kent said, bowing again. “I do hope Lady Hester’s health has improved.”

“It is why I am here. Hester had a bad night but overall she has improved some and is now adamant—”

The sounds of commotion downstairs interrupted Miss Grant. We all looked down, as if we could see through the floor. Then Weatherly’s voice shouted, “You shall not enter!” A huge slam reverberated through the house, like the front door being kicked back, and then the sound of feet, running. Up the stairs. Toward us.

Evan grabbed the gun from the sideboard and aimed it at Kent. “Did you lie? Are these your men?”

“I swear it is not,” Kent said, but he had pulled his own gun—from his boot, I think—and aimed it at Evan. Of course he had a gun too.

I grabbed Miss Grant’s arm and wrenched her back from the doorway, maneuvering her behind me. She gaped at the firearms but at least remained upright.

“Perhaps you should both aim at whatever is coming through that door,” I said, pulling the sheathed dagger from my sleeve. “Julia, my dear, move behind Mr. Kent.”

“Do as your sister says, Julia,” Kent said.

Julia stepped behind the Runner.

Miss Grant clutched my arm. “What is happening?”

“Kent?” Evan said.

The Runner stared hard at him for a moment, then gave a nod.

Both men shifted their guns to aim at the door.

We all stood silently, braced, as the sounds of yelled commands and feet upon the staircase—multiple pairs of feet—approached.

Good God, how many were there?

There was a cry—Samuel, I think—and the door slammed open.

In hurtled Mulholland, gun raised, Pritchard close behind.