A Dangerous Madness (24 page)

“Very likely,” Phoebe agreed. “Perhaps that’s why she’s late. He made her do her share this morning before coming to her new job.”

“How did Sheldrake get her the job here in the first place?” James propped a shoulder against the carriage himself.

“Slipped the publican a bob or two, and offered her services for free?” Jimmy said. “Made up some story about watching for a person, or sommat?”

That sounded entirely likely. “And now that she actually needs a paying job, perhaps she asked for one, and because he knows her, Mr. Legge has been happy to give her one.”

“Right, well, I doubt we’ll get anything out of her now. She’s already in trouble and won’t thank us for making it worse by taking up her time while she’s working. Jimmy, you stay here and watch her, and see if she goes back to Lord Sheldrake’s or if she’s already found a new place to stay. We’ll go on to the Baltick Coffee House.”

Jimmy gave a pleased nod, especially when Wittaker handed him money to while away the day in the tavern with, and the other two footmen took up their places as Wittaker pulled himself inside with her.

There was a hum of energy coming off him. Phoebe wanted to smile at it, but she found, when he caught her eye, that she shivered instead.

The carriage pulled away, and for a moment there was only the rumble of the wheels on the cobbles and the high-pitched squeak of the springs as they rattled through the streets.

“So,” Wittaker murmured, leaning forward until his knees were almost touching hers. “Where were we?”

Phoebe wanted the floor to open up and consume her, she wanted to go up in the pillar of flames she felt she was already standing in. She couldn’t help raising her hands to her hot cheeks and pressing her icy palms against her feverish skin.

“We were talking about…” She didn’t know how she’d had the nerve to speak about it before—now, she honestly didn’t think she had the courage.

“Young ladies aren’t supposed to talk about these things, are they?” Wittaker said. He pinched a tiny bit of wool from her skirts between his thumb and forefinger, and rubbed it.

Phoebe tried to look away, but it was fascinating to watch and oddly arousing.

“You’re thinking of abandoning your offer of last night because of the embarrassment of this conversation, and your fear of what will happen if you do become pregnant.”

That he had read her so clearly shocked her enough that she didn’t even nod her head, she simply stared at him.

He gave her a lopsided smile. “You are wise to worry, because I plan to get you into bed as often as I possibly can.”

She sucked in a breath, the heat in her cheeks shooting lower, the shock of his words stirring something in her that was quite wild.

“But I will also swear this to you, I can see a way for that to happen without any trouble coming to you.” There was something in his eyes, a gleam of satisfaction and amusement.

“And what way is that?” She forced herself to speak, and her voice came out low, and far more sultry than she could ever have imagined.

He took her hand and raised it to his lips as the carriage swung around a corner and they both slid down the benches. As they rocked to a halt, he brushed a kiss along the very tips of her fingers.

“Perhaps that is a conversation for another time.” Wittaker angled his head as they heard the footmen jumping down, and the door was opened.

He winked at her as he climbed out, leaving her speechless and unable to do anything but stare.

“You’ll have to wait here,” he told her. “I won’t be long.”

Phoebe said nothing as he closed the door, and dodged a cab on his way across the street.

The carriage moved again, jerking her back against her seat, and Phoebe looked desperately for a hand hold.

She wished she could have one for her dealings with Wittaker, as well.

Chapter Thirty-two

T
he Virginia and Baltick Coffee House in Threadneedle Street was so close to the Bank of England, it felt as if the Old Lady were leaning over it. James turned to watch the carriage stop and start through the traffic to find a place to wait for him, and genuinely regretted that coffee houses did not accept women as customers.

He would feel better with Phoebe with him, even shocked and quiet as she currently was.

He grinned.

A shout from a cartsman that he was blocking the way forced him off the street and through the door of the coffee house, into the warm bustle of tables and men talking with raised voices, and the thick, rich scent of coffee.

Wilson was either a merchant or a broker in the lucrative trade with the Baltic—everyone in this place was—and James again felt the rise of frustration that he may be running in circles, the lucky break identifying Margie notwithstanding.

Bellingham had been a trader and broker in the Baltic, his imprisonment there was what had set him on the tragic path he had taken in the first place. His money could well be legitimately come by and no mystery at all. That his current funds were from Wilson almost assured that.

Except, Bellingham himself had said differently during the committal proceedings. That he’d been brought almost to nothing by his search for justice and compensation.

Twenty pounds would be around four or five months salary to Bellingham. Not nothing at all.

It simply didn’t make sense.

James caught the eye of a man behind the counter and moved over to him. The only way to make sense of it was to speak to Wilson.

The proprietor pointed him in the direction of a busy corner of the room, and James made his way to a crowd of men bidding loudly for a shipment of lumber.

A few discreet questions later, and he found Wilson, sitting slightly apart.

“Mr. Wilson?” He hadn’t had time to come up with a clever reason to be interested in why Wilson owed Bellingham twenty pounds. The minutes were ticking by, too fast.

Wilson looked up, and eyed him suspiciously. “Yes?”

James lost all patience with lying. “The Duke of Wittaker, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Wilson went still, and then scraped back his chair and bowed. “Your Grace. What can I do for you?”

James sat in the nearest chair and pulled it close when Wilson sat as well, so he could speak without shouting. “I want to know what the twenty pounds you owe to John Bellingham is for.”

Wilson didn’t just go white, he went a grey-green color. Like he was seasick, or facing a firing squad.

He stared at James with stricken eyes, and then stumbled to his feet and pushed his way through the crowd to lurch out onto the street.

James followed in his wake, his blood pounding in his veins. If he were a wolf, he would have lifted his head to howl as he caught the scent of prey.

He hadn’t intended to let Wilson get more than a step or two away from the door but the merchant ducked left and ran.

James chased him down, weaving through the bankers, merchants and clerks in dark suits, and eventually lunged forward and gripped Wilson’s upper arm. He’d worked up a light sweat under his coat, but Wilson was panting with fear and exertion.

“You
will
answer me.”

Wilson struggled against his grip, but he was out of breath and his whole body shook. He said nothing, his eyes swivelling around, looking for some escape.

James suddenly had enough. He had far more interesting things to do. Like a woman to seduce and propose to.

He gripped Wilson’s other arm, and forced him backwards a few steps into a gloomy side alley. As soon as they were out of sight of the street, he slammed Wilson into the wall, pinning him against it, lifting him bodily so his feet barely touched the ground.

Wilson gaped. Took a long, shuddering breath. “I don’t know what the money is for. I’ll often take in money from one person, pay it out on their behalf to another.”

James jerked him against the wall again to show just how lacking in patience he was. “And who is it that you took the money from in this case, originally?”

Wilson shook his head. “I don’t know!”

There was something in his eyes. A desperation, and such a deep fear, James had the sense no threat he made would be enough to budge him. Not unless he was prepared to torture the man, which he was not.

But Wilson was lying. James was sure of it.

He stepped back, hands up to show Wilson he no longer had plans to hurt him. “I know you’ve given Bellingham money more than once. And I would say you had better get your story straight, because the next person to ask you the question may be the Attorney-General. And you won’t have the luxury of claiming you don’t know.”

Wilson stepped away from him, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his brow. He made a sound, a choking, croaking noise at the back of his throat, and then ran back to the street.

James followed him, quiet as he could. He hoped Wilson ran straight to his source. He was panicked enough for it. He was almost beside himself with fear.

Wilson stood outside the coffee house, trying to hail a hansom, and James spotted his own carriage making a slow trundle past.

They most likely couldn’t find a place to pull in near enough, and had decided to circle the block instead.

With Wilson’s attention on an approaching hackney, James ran across and pulled himself up beside his footman.

“Slow down,” he called up to his driver. He looked back and saw Wilson shake his fist as the hackney refused to stop.

Wilson peered over his shoulder at the alleyway where James had questioned him, and then began to walk away, head swivelling as if looking to see where James had gone.

James dropped to the ground. “Keep going. Take Miss Hillier to my house. Through the back door, in case someone is watching. I’ll make my way home when I’m done.”

The footman looked longing after Wilson. “Sure you don’t need my ’elp, Your Grace?”

James shook his head. “With Jimmy gone, I’ll feel better if all three of you are watching her and keeping her safe.”

He was sorry he couldn’t explain to Phoebe himself what was happening, but Wilson was almost around the first corner, and he ran after him.

The merchant had obviously given up watching for anyone. He had his head down, like a man in deep and troubled thought, and James slipped easily into the crowds behind him.

If he’d played his cards right in the alley and shaken Wilson up enough, hopefully he was about to lead him to the man who’d put him in his current situation.

The man who’d funded the prime minister’s assassin.

* * *

Phoebe saw Wittaker run across to them, leap onto the moving carriage and then drop down again and disappear into the crowd.

She envied him his ability to take action.

A footman opened the carriage door a little way and stuck his head in. “We’re taking you to His Grace’s town house, my lady. He’ll meet us back there.” He withdrew immediately, and Phoebe was left staring at a closed carriage door.

Wittaker may have been in a hurry, but there seemed no question that she would obey his command along with his men. She didn’t know whether to be annoyed or not.

The force of the turn as the carriage swung back towards the quiet enclaves of Mayfair made her slide down her seat. While she carefully undid the damage the ripped seat had done to her coat again, she decided it would be interesting to see Wittaker’s house.

Did men take their lovers to their homes?

She thought not. They snuck into their lovers’ rooms late at night, or met at weekend parties in the country. She’d heard enough gossip in the corners of ballrooms to think she had that right.

This might be her only opportunity to see where he lived.

When the carriage at last began to slow, she peered out the small window set into its door. They pulled into the large circular drive of an elegant mansion beside Green Park.

But they didn’t pull up in front of the door, the driver continued around to the back, and drew up beside a low set of stairs leading to the kitchens.

“His Grace asked us to come round the back in case someone was watching the house.” The footman opened the door for her.

She’d guessed that for herself, and as she stepped down, she noticed another carriage already waiting nearby. It could be Wittaker’s official carriage, but it didn’t carry his crest and there was a driver standing by the horses, as if waiting for someone.

Nerves fluttered up suddenly inside her at the thought of going through the back of the Duke of Wittaker’s house.

How would she explain her presence?

If the footman noticed her discomfort, he ignored it, bounding up the stairs and opening the door. “I’ll leave you in the library, if that’s to your liking, my lady?”

He held the door for her and she forced herself not to hesitate as she stepped into a well-lit and beautifully equipped kitchen.

Most of the staff merely glanced across and continued with their work, but as the footman led her between tables of activity, she found the way blocked by what had to be Wittaker’s chef, and a young woman of around her own age wearing half-mourning.