A Useful Woman (25 page)

“May I ask if you learned what you wanted to know?” inquired Faulks.

“I did, as it happens.”
Including the fact that the betting book can be easily requested by a member, or simply filched by a waiter.

“Intriguing.” Faulks turned his stick in both hands, as if examining its surface for fresh scars. “Mr. Harkness, I am due to attend what I expect to be a terribly dull party. I wonder if you'd care to accompany me?”

The question was so unexpected, Harkness didn't have a chance to guard his expression, and Faulks laughed.

“Oh, don't worry, Harkness. You're not my sort, and neither, I expect, am I yours. This is purely a friendly invitation.”

“And why would you invite me to a party?”

“I told you. I expect it will be terribly dull. You will add interest.”

“I'm not an entertainer, Mr. Faulks.”

Mr. Faulks bowed his head in acknowledgment of this stern truth. “No, you're not. But you are circumscribed in your movements by the little ways of society. I offer to open a door or two. It's one of my functions, as Miss Thorne herself could assure you.”

“Again, why?”

“I told you before, I cannot bear to see men of rank treating women shabbily. It is coarse and undignified. I suspect Lord Casselmain has treated Miss Thorne shabbily, and while I cannot call him out on that matter, neither do I have to sit idly by.”

“I shall consider it, Mr. Faulks.”

“That, sir, is all I ask.” Faulks smiled his thin, knowing, false smile.

A Meeting with His Superiors

He seems to have impressed every one—thieves included—with an idea of his infinite experience . . .

—Percy Hetherington Fitzgerald,
Chronicles of the Bow Street Police Office

As matters transpired, Harkness was soon presented with the opportunity to take Lord Casselmain's measure for himself.

After their informative sojourn into “clubland,” Sanderson Faulks dropped Harkness off at the Bow Street station. He hadn't got halfway across the ward room when one of the office messengers—a man who went by the extremely unfortunate name of Charlie Crook—came up to him.

“Mr. Townsend's in his office, Mr. Harkness,” said Crook. “He's been asking for you.”

Harkness bit back an oath. He'd intended to spend this afternoon setting down his thoughts about what he'd found at White's while the adventure was all still fresh in his mind. After that, he needed to write to Miss Thorne to find out if they could arrange to meet privately. However, one did not keep John Townsend waiting. Not twice anyway.

“All right, Charlie. Tell him I'll be along directly.”

As Harkness hung up coat and hat, he couldn't help noticing
how the handful of constables who were warming their feet and backsides at the wardroom fire studiously avoided meeting his gaze. He nodded to them, and received mumbled answers. It was not a good omen. Harkness straightened his black cravat, and his shoulders. Then he knocked on Mr. Townsend's door.

“That you, Harkness?” came an answering bellow. “Come in, man, come in!”

Harkness obeyed.

John Townsend was a man who displayed his prosperity, his connections, and his girth with equal enthusiasm. Compared to the ward room, and the patrol room, Townsend's office was a luxurious nest, with carpets, curtains, candlesticks, clocks, and paintings, many of them gifts from his aristocratic patrons. He never wore any hat but the wide-brimmed white one that the Prince of Wales had given him. It was widely known that he carried the prince's purse and watch when His Royal Highness ventured to the theater or the gaming houses.

Just now, Townsend sat behind a desk of good English oak, his hands folded across his gold and scarlet waistcoat. The firelight gleamed on the silver buttons of his blue coat, and the gold signet ring on his hand. Neither was he alone. A well-dressed gentleman with black hair and startlingly bright gray eyes sat in one of two chairs in front of the desk. Compared to Townsend, his dark coat, buff waistcoat, and breeches were severely plain.

The gentleman rose as Harkness entered, his face cold and closed off.

Townsend heaved himself to his feet. “Well! Mr. Harkness! I was just telling His Grace you'd be along shortly.” He clapped his meaty hands together. “Lord Casselmain, may I present Adam Harkness, principal officer and one of our finest men. Mr. Harkness, I introduce to you His Grace, the Duke of Casselmain.”

Harkness made his bow, and received a polite nod from the duke.

“How do you do, Mr. Harkness?”

“Very well, Your Grace, an' I thank you.” Privately, Harkness noted that His Grace had a wary, assessing look behind his hard eyes. For a man at the top of the ladder of London society, he was not at ease. Harkness wondered if this was inspired by his current surroundings, or something else altogether. Such as having treated Miss Thorne shabbily, as Mr. Faulks suspected.

“Sit down, Harkness.” Townsend smiled expansively. “Now, I expect you're wondering what this is about.”

“I expect it's about the Aimesworth matter,” said Harkness carefully.

“And you'd be right at that.” Townsend nodded vigorously. “The blessed thing's kept all of London talking for weeks now. I was fully expecting you to call on me, you know. A young fellow like you shouldn't be ashamed to talk to his seniors about a serious case.”

He was being dressed down, gently and cheerfully, but dressed down all the same. Harkness didn't let his gaze stray to the duke, who maintained his silence, but gripped his gold-handled stick tightly.

“. . . our very best officer, is what I said to His Royal Highness the other day,” Townsend continued. “I've complete faith in Harkness. Practically a legend for how he broke up Red Lowell's gang. Still, two heads are better than one. Especially on such a sensitive affair.” He touched the side of his nose. Harkness remembered Mr. Faulks making the exact same gesture.

“I didn't realize His Royal Highness had taken an interest,” Harkness murmured.

“Oh yes, oh yes.” Townsend leaned back, determined to relish the telling of this particular anecdote. “It was at the opera
the other night, His Royal Highness turned to me and he said, straight out, as is his way, ‘Now, Townsend, what about this Almack's business, eh? It's too bad the bottom ain't been plumbed yet.'”

Harkness said nothing.

“That's when I told him about you, and how you're our best and most thorough of men. Not the fastest, mind, but the best. When Adam Harkness is on the job, I assured him, he don't give up until he lays hands on the right answer. The
right
answer,” Townsend repeated. “But still, as I say, I was waiting for you to come to me. Now . . .” Townsend glanced at Lord Casselmain. “Well, His Grace has kindly taken time out of his day to come down personally and give us the last piece of the puzzle. It was only what I was expecting to hear, of course, as I would have told you, and we could have had this all cleared up shortly after it happened.”

Townsend was clearly prepared to continue working over this theme, unless someone stopped him.

“If I may, sir?” said Harkness quietly, and when Townsend nodded his permission, he turned to the duke. “Your Grace, are you here to tell us about the betting book at White's?”

“You've heard about it?” said Lord Casselmain, his voice tight.

“I have, Your Grace. I have, in fact, just returned from visiting the club.”

“I see. It was Lord Blanchard who told you, I expect.” The duke meant the statement to be casual, and he failed. Either the man was not used to this level of social deception, or he was not expert at it. He'd been the second son, hadn't he? That meant he would have been almost ignored by society's most ambitious, until the death of his brother catapulted him to the position of heir.

“I've seen the entry,” Harkness said. There was a pause while Casselmain waited for him to say more. Now, however, it was
Harkness's turn to maintain his own silence. Townsend did not seem to notice the tension deepening around them. He kept his attention, and his determined smile, pointed at Harkness.

“I'm not proud of what I did.” Casselmain spoke softly and, Harkness noticed, entirely to Mr. Townsend. “It was a moment's foolishness and then . . . this. I confess I wanted my name kept away from it because of my connection with the Aimesworth family. But when I saw the papers and how the speculation was all spiraling out of control, I felt I must say something.” He paused. “The fact of the matter is I'd come down to Almack's that day to try to stop Jasper before he went in, but I got caught in the crush in Kings Street and I was too late. I will regret that to the end of my days.”

“Now, now, Your Grace,” said Mr. Townsend comfortably. “You can't have known how it would turn out. And we're most grateful to you for taking the trouble to come here now and clear the matter up. I will personally write to the papers, naming no names, of course, but confirming that we have found the whole of it to be a tragic accident. With the name of John Townsend, and the reputation of Bow Street, behind such a letter, you may be sure that an end will be made of any remaining rumors. I'll be writing a letter to Mr. Willis to that effect as well, of course, and Mr. Harkness here will be able to turn his attention to his other duties.”

Which was, of course, meant to end the matter, and the interview. Lord Casselmain got to his feet. “I would like to pay your man's fees,” said the duke. “Since it was my silence that caused such a waste of his time.”

“That's very handsome, your lordship.” Townsend beamed. “Very handsome, indeed.”

“But not necessary,” added Harkness. This got Casselmain to glance in his direction, if only briefly.

“I insist on it.”

Townsend spread his hands, indicating his unwillingness to argue such a trifling matter with His Grace. “I'll have the clerk write up a receipt, and send it around, if you'll be so kind as to leave your address. Will that be satisfactory, sir?”

“Quite. Thank you, Mr. Townsend. Mr. Harkness.”

They made their various bows. “I'll show His Grace out,” said Harkness, more or less to see if Lord Casselmain would refuse the escort. He did not, however, and Harkness walked him through the main patrol room and the ward room, and out onto the steps, all the while watching the man silently struggle to make up his mind about some concealed point.

Outside, Lord Casselmain paused on the top step and faced Harkness fully. “I'm sorry you were put to all this trouble, Mr. Harkness.” He held out his hand. “I never did believe the matter would go this far.”

Which was probably truer than a number of things His Grace had said in Townsend's office. The real question, thought Harkness as he shook the duke's hand, was what had made the man lie?

But before Harkness could muster a reply, a muddy hired carriage pulled up to the foot of the stairs. For a moment, Harkness thought it must be Lord Casselmain's conveyance, but the man only frowned in evident confusion as the driver opened the door and helped out a woman dressed and veiled in unrelieved black. Lord Casselmain's face fell into an attitude of complete shock. Behind the first woman came another in a plain coat and bonnet, and all at once, Harkness and Lord Casselmain found themselves face-to-face with Rosalind Thorne.

“Good lord!” cried the woman in black as she grabbed her hems and climbed the steps. “Casselmain? What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same, Miss Aimesworth.” The duke bowed, but he wasn't looking at Miss Aimesworth. He was looking past her to Miss Thorne, who was climbing the steps more slowly, and trying very hard to wipe the shock off her face.

“We've just come from Jasper's rooms,” Miss Aimesworth told Lord Casselmain. “Who is this?”

Harkness bowed. “Adam Harkness, at your service, Miss Aimesworth.”

Miss Thorne was still looking at Lord Casselmain, and still trying to bring her expression under some sort of control. Harkness could swear he saw fear as well as anger flicker across her pale features.

“His Grace had come to explain the nature of the wager in the betting book at White's,” Harkness told the women.

“He did?” murmured Miss Thorne. Lord Casselmain met her gaze, and even Harkness could see the apology written across his face.

“I told you about it when we spoke yesterday, Miss Thorne,” said His Grace. “I did not want you to be surprised when word of my folly reached the papers.”

He was lying again. Harkness watched Miss Thorne closely. She was not taken in, but then, the lie wasn't for her, at least not directly. Miss Aimesworth felt her exclusion from their silent conversation, and her face turned thunderous. But that changed nothing. The duke's declaration was for Harkness, and any other listening ears. But there was also a warning on his face, and in his stance and his tone. That was entirely for Miss Thorne.

“And it's as well His Grace did come here,” Harkness said. “I'd gone to the club myself, with Mr. Faulks, as you suggested, Miss Thorne, and I fully intended to write out a report explaining the reasons I believed that wager was a forgery.”

They all turned to him, their shock and their anger written
plain. But the reasons behind those emotions were very different for each. Casselmain was angry that Harkness had sussed out the falsehood. Miss Thorne was stunned that he'd spoken at all. Miss Aimesworth was furious that she had not been heard.

“Forged!” Miss Aimesworth cried. “You cannot be serious!”

“Why would you think that?” snapped Lord Casselmain. “You—”

“He looked at the rest of the book,” whispered Miss Thorne. “He saw that your name did not appear anywhere else in it.” The wind blew hard and her eyes glittered.

“I did, as a matter of fact, and that is exactly what I saw.” Mr. Harkness bowed his head in acknowledgment. Miss Aimesworth's face flushed scarlet. “What made you think of it, Miss Thorne?”

Her smile was faint. “Lord Casselmain abhors gambling. His brother ran up considerable debts before he died.”

“Rosalind,” breathed Casselmain. “Stop this.”

Anger flashed in Miss Thorne's eyes, evaporating the tears that had threatened a moment before. But whether it was for the command, or the casual use of her Christian name, Harkness could not tell.

Miss Aimesworth did not seem to feel any such confusion. “You lied!” she shouted at Casselmain. “After everything we agreed! You lied to
me!
” Miss Thorne laid a hand on her arm, but Miss Aimesworth shook her off.