Luckily, there had been no further indications that he was in danger. Indeed, in the past few days he had begun to believe that he had overreacted. Perhaps his suspicions and fears were groundless. Maybe Grantley really had taken his own life. It wouldn’t be the end of the world, because the investment consortium was fully formed and ready to be launched.
He had even been thinking of dismissing Quinby and Royce, but the disaster last night had changed everything. The fear had returned to chew on his vitals. Much as he disliked having the guards constantly hovering, they were necessary for his peace of mind, if nothing else.
He consoled himself with the thought that when the profits from his new investment venture began to pour in he would at least be able to rid himself of his irritating bride. He wondered if the suicide of a second wife would raise too many eyebrows in the Polite World. Perhaps an accident this time. But first he had to deal with the current catastrophe.
He reached for one of the velvet bell pulls hanging on the wall behind his desk and yanked hard, twice. Quinby and Royce appeared immediately.
He looked at Quinby first. It had been evident from the outset that he was the more intelligent of the two guards. He was also the most dangerous and the most annoying.
“Tell me again what happened in the hall outside my bedroom last night, Quinby.”
“I already gave you a full report, Mr. Hastings.” Quinby raised one shoulder in a careless shrug. “Nothing more to add.”
Elwin clamped down on another wave of rage. Quinby’s attitude was infuriating. He was rarely overtly insolent or disrespectful, but the lack of deference for his betters was always there, just under the surface. It was obvious that he had been born into the lower classes. He did a remarkably good job of concealing the accents of the street, but they were there, nonetheless, in his speech. That gold-and-onyx ring on his finger was clearly expensive—a gentleman’s ring—but the bastard worked for a crime lord. How did he dare to consider himself the equal of a true gentleman?
Royce, on the other hand, hulking and dim-witted, at least displayed proper respect for those born into a higher station.
If he had any choice in the matter he would dismiss Quinby in a heartbeat, Elwin thought. But that was the problem, of course. He did not have a choice. He required protection, and, according to Clement Corvus, Quinby was the best in that line. Elwin believed it. One look at Quinby’s eyes told you that he was cold to the bone.
“Go through your tale again,” Elwin ordered evenly.
“I was doing my usual rounds,” Quinby said, sounding bored. “Keeping an eye on the interior of the house while Royce watched the gardens. I finished the top floor and went down the back staircase to the floor where the master bedrooms are located. There was a lady and a gentleman in the hall. They were kissing.”
“Mrs. Bryce and Mr. Stalbridge.”
“Yes, although I didn’t learn their names until I talked to the footman.”
The woman had definitely been Louisa Bryce, Elwin assured himself. Her identity had been confirmed by the servants who had seen her leave with Stalbridge. There was no mistaking Lady Ashton’s unfashionable country relative. With her spectacles, unstylish gowns, and dull conversation, she was a perennial wallflower at every social event she attended. The only mystery about her was why Stalbridge had shown some interest in that direction.
Elwin leaned back in his chair, trying to think. This was another one of those occasions when he missed Victoria’s shrewd insights. She had always been extremely clever when it came to comprehending what motivated men.
“Any idea how long Stalbridge might have been up there in that hall outside my bedroom?” he asked.
“Not more than a few minutes,” Quinby said. “When I spoke with the servants a couple of them mentioned having seen him in the ballroom shortly before I found him upstairs.”
“How long does it take to crack a safe?”
Quinby spread the fingers of one hand. “Depends on the expertise of the safecracker. Most of the professionals are fast. Very fast.”
Royce cleared his throat. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but your strongbox is an Apollo Patented Safe.”
“What of it?” Elwin demanded, forcing himself to hang on to his patience.
“They’re known for being impossible to crack without the aid of an explosive device,” Royce said. “And there weren’t any used last night. Explosives, that is.”
“Damn it, Stalbridge is not a professional safecracker.” Elwin surged up out of his chair and started to pace the room. “He’s a gentleman.”
Quinby’s mouth twisted in a derisive smile, but he did not offer a comment.
Elwin tensed. “What do you find so amusing, Quinby?”
“Just struck me that, although there seems to be an unwritten rule that says a member of the lower classes can’t aspire to be a gentleman, there’s no law that says a gentleman can’t become a member of the criminal class.”
Insolent bastard, Elwin thought, but he refused to allow himself to be drawn into a discussion of the niceties of social rank with a man who had come out of the gutters of London.
“My point,” he said aloud, “is that Stalbridge has no reason to turn to burglary or safecracking. The family has become extremely wealthy in the past few years. And where in blazes would a gentleman learn the trade of safecracking?”
“Good point,” Quinby said. “Probably not the sort of thing they teach at Oxford and Cambridge.”
Elwin clamped his teeth together. He could not afford to let Quinby distract him. He had to keep his attention fixed on the problem at hand.
Royce cleared his throat again. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir.”
Elwin sighed. “What is it now, Royce?”
“The name Stalbridge, sir,” Royce said diffidently. “Would there be any connection to Mr. Marcus Stalbridge, the gentleman who designed the Apollo Patented Safe?”
Elwin felt as if he had been struck by lightning. He turned slowly, slack jawed.
“What’s this?” he said tightly. “Marcus Stalbridge designed my safe?”
Quinby scowled. “What the devil are you talking about, Royce?”
Royce fidgeted nervously. “Got a cousin who knows a bit about the safecracking business.”
“That would be Bert,” Quinby said. “And the reason he knows something about the business is because he is a professional safecracker.”
“Retired now,” Royce said hastily.
“Get on with it,” Elwin snapped.
“Yes, sir.” Royce shifted uneasily on his big feet. “It’s just that I’ve heard Bert talk about the subject. More than once he’s told me that, generally speaking, the professionals avoid Apollos because in the end the only way inside is to blow a hole in them.”
Elwin gripped the back of a reading chair. “What are you getting at, Royce?”
“Explosives create a lot of noise and draw attention, which is not what your average safecracker is after,” Royce explained, assuming an instructive mien. “Especially if the safe happens to be located in a private house like this one, where there are usually a number of people on the premises.”
“I am not interested in how one cracks a safe,” Elwin said, spacing each word out with great care the way one does when conversing with an idiot. “Tell me more about Marcus Stalbridge.”
Royce’s head bobbed up and down several times. “Yes, sir. Well, the thing is, sir, Marcus Stalbridge is much admired by my cousin and certain of his, uh, colleagues on account of he holds the patent on the Apollo.”
“Damnation.” Elwin wanted to throw something at the nearest wall. “Anthony Stalbridge grew up in the household of a man who invented the most secure safe on the market, the very safe I happen to own. If anyone would know the secret of opening an Apollo, it would be him.”
“Or his father,” Royce pointed out helpfully.
“Bah. Marcus Stalbridge was not here last night. His son was.”
“What of the woman, Mrs. Bryce?” Q
uinby asked.
“She’s not important.” Elwin waved that aside with a short, chopping movement of one hand. “A little nobody. Stalbridge must have used her for some purpose. Probably as camouflage to hide his real reason for being in that part of the house in the event he was discovered coming out of the bedroom.”
“I don’t think it’s wise to jump to conclusions,” Quinby said.
“Surely you are not going to suggest that Mrs. Bryce cracked that safe,” Elwin snapped.
Quinby’s shoulder rose in another one of his annoying shrugs. “Never pays to underestimate a woman.”
“It strains credibility to the breaking point to think that dull female is a skilled safecracker,” Elwin said, “but someone opened my safe last night. Whoever he was, he certainly knew what he was about. There was nothing to indicate that anyone had even been in my bedroom. If I had not opened the safe this morning I still wouldn’t know that certain very valuable items were missing.”
Quinby lounged against the corner of the desk with the insouciant ease of a man who felt as if he were in his own home. “Calm yourself, Mr. Hastings. We’ll get this sorted out.”
Another burst of rage flashed through Elwin. “Don’t you dare patronize me, you criminal bastard. Remove yourself from that desk at once. I’ve had enough of your insolence. Who in bloody hell do you think you are?”
Quinby’s jaw jerked. His eyes turned very, very cold. He rose slowly from the corner of the desk, uncoiling like a cobra.
A small, breathless whisper of dread swept through Elwin. He reminded himself that Quinby and Royce took orders from Clement Corvus and that Corvus had instructed them to guard him. Nevertheless, the fact remained that both men held their current positions in Corvus’s organization precisely because they were capable of cold-blooded violence.
Royce’s blunt features screwed up into an expression that was no doubt intended to express polite curiosity.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir,” he said. “As you just said, by all accounts, Mr. Stalbridge is a wealthy gentleman. Why would he want to break into your safe? He doesn’t need your valuables.”
That, of course, was the question here, Elwin thought. He released his death grip on the chair and forced himself to concentrate. There was only one thing that connected Stalbridge and himself: the death of Fiona Risby. And that damned necklace was the only piece of jewelry that had been taken. Coincidence? What in blazes was going on here?
For a time after Fiona was pulled from the river rumors had circulated to the effect that Stalbridge was not convinced that she had committed suicide. But even if he did suspect that Fiona had been murdered, why did he care? By all accounts, he had been about to terminate the engagement, anyway. There was even gossip that he had found her in bed with another man. What possible interest could he have in avenging her? And why would he wait this long to act? And if Stalbridge was the thief, why did he also help himself to the extortion items and the business papers?
It was all so bloody bewildering. He felt hopelessly muddled and very, very uneasy. Something had gone badly wrong.
He stalked to the window and stood looking out into the garden. He wished he could discuss the problem with someone he could trust. He certainly did not intend to confide in Quinby and Royce. He was playing a dicey game with their employer at the moment. The last thing he wanted to do was make a slip that might get back to Clement Corvus.
In the old days he would have sought Victoria’s advice. She had possessed an extraordinarily clever mind when it came to fitting together the pieces of this kind of puzzle, but Victoria was gone, and so was Grantley, the only other person he could consult. There was no one else he could trust.
He hesitated. There was always Thurlow, he thought. Victoria was the one who had chosen him as the seducer par excellence to compromise the various young ladies in their extortion scheme. Thurlow had his talents. He was, according to Victoria, one of the most handsome men in London. Certainly the innocent young women he had seduced had thought so.
Thurlow, however, was also a devout gambler. That was what had made him so useful, of course. He was regularly in need of money to clear his debts. But Victoria had never entirely trusted him. “A gambler’s first loyalty is to the next game of cards,” she had said.
Another uneasy thought arose. Thurlow knew about Grantley. Damnation, maybe it was Thurlow who had murdered Grantley. That appalling possibility sent another jolt of fear through him. Had Thurlow decided to go into the extortion business himself? Perhaps he had started out by getting rid of the middleman—Grantley—and then helped himself to the items in the safe, items that Thurlow, himself, had originally stolen from the young ladies. It seemed highly unlikely that Thurlow was skilled in the art of safecracking, but perhaps it was not altogether impossible. That still left the question of Stalbridge’s role in the affair.
Elwin began to feel as if he were sinking into quicksand. It was all so damned complicated.
He swung around to face Quinby and Royce. “Here is the plan. First, you will both make certain that Stalbridge does not come anywhere near me or this house again. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Royce said dutifully.
Quinby shrugged.
Elwin hesitated. He desperately wanted to order the guards to kill Stalbridge and Thurlow as well, just to be safe, but that was not possible; they were Corvus’s men. The crime lord was unlikely to agree to allow members of his organization to be used to murder two gentlemen.
Corvus was not overly troubled by scruples, but killing two respectable men, one of whom moved in Society, would be a dangerous business for a man in his position. That sort of violence would attract Scotland Yard’s attention. Corvus had no reason to take that risk.
“Second,” Elwin said, “I want to employ someone to keep a watch on a man named Thurlow, who lives in Halsey Street. I assume one of you is acquainted with the sort of person who can be hired to perform such a task?”
Quinby shrugged again.
Royce cleared his throat. “There’s a man named Slip, who might be interested in that type of employment.”
9
Shortly before two o’clock that afternoon brass clanged on brass with precision and absolute authority. Someone was on the doorstep, demanding and expecting admittance.
Louisa felt her pulse leap. She tried in vain to suppress the quickening of her senses and the tingle of excitement that made her stomach flutter. Concentrate on the business at hand. Do not allow yourself to be distracted.
Mrs. Galt hurried past the open door of the study, wiping her hands on her apron.
Emma appeared in the doorway. She was dressed in the old gown she used when she worked in the conservatory. Anticipation lit her eyes.
“I expect that will be your Mr. Stalbridge,” she said.
“He is not my Mr. Stalbridge.” Louisa put down her pen in a very deliberate way, trying to appear cool and composed. “But, yes, I imagine that will be him. He did say he would call this afternoon to collect his fee.”
Emma gave a small ladylike snort of amusement. “As if a Stalbridge needs your money. I doubt very much that is why he is here.”
The front door opened. A low, masculine voice emanated from the front hall. Louisa felt a shivery little thrill stir the fine hairs on the nape of her neck. Calm yourself. This is a business arrangement, not a love affair.
A moment later Mrs. Galt appeared, looking suitably impressed and not a little curious.
“There’s a Mr. Stalbridge here to see you, Mrs. Bryce,” she said. “Says he’s expected.”
Mrs. Galt had every reason to be interested, Louisa thought. Until now the only regular gentleman caller at Number Twelve Arden Square was Mr. Rossmarten, Emma’s sixty-five-year-old admirer from the Garden Society. The two shared a mutual passion for orchids. Having learned a great deal about Emma’s adventurous past, Louisa was fairly certain the pair shared another sort of passion, as well. Discreetly, of course.
“Please show him
in, Mrs. Galt,” Louisa said, maintaining her composure with an act of will. “And then we will need a fresh tray of tea, if you don’t mind.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Galt disappeared back toward the front hall. Masculine footsteps echoed.
Mrs. Galt reappeared in the doorway. “Mr. Stalbridge.”
Something deep inside Louisa tightened at the sight of Anthony. Until now she had only seen him illuminated by the glittering lights of a ballroom or enveloped by the shadows of a darkened carriage. A part of her had wondered if the disturbing sensations she experienced in his presence would vanish in the light of day. But Anthony was as coolly elegant and just as excitingly dangerous in an expensively cut coat of dark gray wool and matching trousers as he was in his black-and-white evening attire. He wore a stylish striped four-in-hand tie, and his shirt featured the latest winged collar. His dark hair was brushed straight back from his high forehead. She liked the fact that he was clean shaven. Whiskers were currently quite fashionable for men, but she was not fond of the style.
He inclined his head with masculine grace.
“Ladies,” he said politely.
Mrs. Galt vanished in the direction of the kitchen. There was a short silence. Anthony waited, looking amused.
Louisa finally became aware of the fact that Emma was making a small, urgent motion with one hand. It dawned on her that she was just sitting there, staring at Anthony. Embarrassed, she pulled herself together to make the introductions.
“Good morning, Mr. Stalbridge,” she said hastily. “Please come in. I believe you are acquainted with Lady Ashton?”
“Of course.” Anthony came forward and bent over Emma’s hand. “A pleasure to see you again, madam.”
“Mr. Stalbridge,” Emma said in her customary crisp manner. “Do sit down, sir.”
“Thank you.”