Another Country (23 page)

“I’m well aware of that.”

“I don’t want you to become ill.” Rupert stared at
her helplessly, and Eleanor felt a queer fluttering in her chest,
as if something long buried, thought dead, was just stirring into
life again.

“Why not?” she asked quietly.

“Are you mad? I wouldn’t want anyone to become ill!”
he exclaimed.

“I see.” Eleanor looked away, the fluttering inside
her quieting again.

“Especially you.” The words were almost forced out,
and Eleanor appraised him coolly.

“Very touching, I’m sure.”

Rupert looked annoyed, and then suddenly, as if
transformed, he grinned. “You’re right. I’m not good at this. I’ve
gone about it all wrong.”

Eleanor said nothing. She waited, hardly daring to
hope...

“Eleanor, I care for you. I...” Rupert took a
breath. “I love you.”

Eleanor felt her face flame, although inside her
heart filled with joy. She kept her features composed as she met
his gaze. “Then you will have to trust me, won’t you?”

Rupert opened his mouth in surprise, and Eleanor
smiled. “I’ll fetch Henry.”

And with that, not daring to say or reveal more, she
left for the kitchen.

Rupert stared after her, frustration and admiration
mingled within him. She had courage, he thought with a little
smile, courage and daring. Had he expected her to fall in his arms,
swooning?

No. Not Eleanor. Yet he still wished she’d said
something... given him hope that she returned his affections...

His smile widened. He would just have to do what she
said. He would have to trust her.

“Rupert?” Henry came down the stairs, running a hand
wearily through his hair. “I thought I heard your voice.”

“I’m sorry to disturb in this time,” Rupert said,
and Henry shook his head.

“It’s not easy. I haven’t put my head to business in
days, I know...” He sighed. “Life goes on, doesn’t it? Business
must. You mentioned in your note that you had something to discuss
with me regarding the accounts?”

Rupert nodded, and Henry ushered him into the study.
“I know it’s a bit early in the day, but...? He gestured to the
whiskey bottle on the sideboard, and with a shrug, Rupert
nodded.

Henry poured two healthy measures, handed one to
Rupert, and gulped his down. “All right.” He sat at his desk and
looked up. “There is a problem, I assume?”

“Yes. A forgery.” Briefly Rupert told him of the
Bank of New York notes, and how the smear of ink had made him
suspect the money was counterfeit.

“And you had it confirmed at the bank?”

“Yes. I also looked in the office
ledger. The money, I believe, was received from a local wine
merchant in payment for shipment on the
Julia Rose
.”

“I believe I remember it.”

“What shall we do?” Rupert asked, his expression
direct, and Henry let out his breath in an irritated whoosh.

“I don’t know, Rupert. I haven’t dealt with this
before, you know. And I hardly have the presence of mind to deal
with it now!” He stood up, striding across the room with restless
energy. “Right now the health of my wife is more important than a
pile of fusty bank notes.”

Rupert was silent, unwilling to argue the point.
Henry shrugged in something like apology. “I’m sorry. You should
not have to bear the brunt of my temper.” He paused. “Forgery is
usually handled by a marshal, although I’d prefer to keep the law
out of it for the moment. From what I’ve heard, marshals have not
got the best results, and they often scare the forgers into hiding
without actually finding them. Besides, if word gets around, it
could be damaging to the business, not to mention dangerous.”

“Dangerous? How?”

“Forgers are not nice people.” Henry smiled wryly,
although there was a hard, flinty expression in his eyes. “Some of
the larger forgery rings have been involved in a good deal more
than copying bank notes. They have, on occasions, resorted to
murder. Or so the newspapers report.”

Rupert drew himself up. “What do you suggest we
do?”

“I’m not sure.” Henry glanced out the window, his
expression shuttered. “As I told you, I don’t have the time--or
desire, frankly--to deal it with myself.”

“Of course. I’m happy to put any plan you might
suggest into action.”

“Are you?” Henry glanced at him shrewdly. “What I’d
suggest is to investigate it quietly, but it wouldn’t be easy or
safe.”

“I don’t mind that.”

Henry looked at him directly. “I cannot put you in
danger.”

“You aren’t, if I volunteer.” Rupert shrugged,
smiling, and Henry shook his head.

“Why are you so eager to put yourself in
danger?”

“I’m eager to see justice done. And, I don’t mind
admitting, I intend to rise in this world, and that starts with
proving to you and anyone else what I’m capable of.”

“You think you can catch these forgers?”

“Yes, I do.” Rupert wished he was as certain as he
sounded, but he had no doubts that he intended to try. This was his
opportunity, bald and staring, and he would grasp it with both
hands.

“Very well. I give you leave to begin an
investigation. You can report to me anything you discover. And for
heaven’s sake, Rupert, be safe.”

“Thank you, Henry.” Rupert clapped his
brother-in-law on the shoulder, his expression sombre. “And God be
with you, and Margaret.”

“Yes,” Henry agreed quietly, “God be with us
all.”

As Rupert left the house, he felt the mingling of
excitement, determination, and a little bit of fear, like a taste
of iron in his mouth. He swallowed, keeping his eyes straight
ahead.

He would solve this forgery, and he would show
Henry--and who knew who else--just what he was made of... no matter
what it cost him.

The obvious place to start, of course, was the wine
merchant’s. Rupert doubted the merchant knew the bills were
forgeries. It was unlikely to be such an easy discovery, and any
criminal with even a modicum of common sense would not pass off so
many of the bills so directly. Yet, perhaps he would be
fortunate.

The wine merchant’s offices were over his warehouse,
near the docks. It took Rupert the better part of an hour to find
them, and then finally to corner the merchant in his private
office.

“Rupert MacDougall, of Moore Shipping Enterprises.
May I have a word?”

The merchant, Ben Phillips, a small, dark man,
looked up with a mixture of curiosity and unease marring his
features. “Yes, if you must.”

Not the most promising beginning, but Rupert smiled
easily. “We recently brought a shipment of Madeira to you, for
which you paid...”

“Handsomely,” Phillips interjected, looking a bit
irritated.

“Are you suggesting the price was unfair?” Rupert
smiled pleasantly.

“Of course not. I wouldn’t have paid it if it had
been. I just don’t see what your business is, tracking me down. The
payment was in order, wasn’t it?”

“Actually, it wasn’t.”

Phillips’ face suffused with color. “What do you
mean, it wasn’t? I supervised the handling of the money
myself...”

“There was enough money,” Rupert hastened to assure
him. He paused, significantly, while Phillips waited, irritated and
uneasy. “Unfortunately, the money was counterfeit.”

Phillips’ face, once mottled red, now drained of
color. “All of it?”

“Yes.”

As if realizing his error in making such an
admission, Phillips began to bluster. “How do you know it was from
me? Perhaps you’re just looking for a scapegoat!”

“Very well.” Rupert leaned back in his chair. “Why
don’t you tell me what bank notes you gave in payment to Moore
Shipping. That should be a simple test.”

Phillips paused, seeing the trap. “Well, I can’t be
certain...”

“Surely that sort of thing is written down? I assure
you, it’s in our ledgers, we gave you a receipt...” He shrugged. “I
imagine that would be enough for a court of law.”

“How dare you threaten me!”

“The truth is, Mr. Phillips, I could have the law
here in under an hour, searching your offices, your cash boxes. Are
there more of those fake notes? I imagine so, and from what I hear
marshals these days aren’t concerned with catching the printer,
that’s too difficult. They’re happy to arrest anyone with the notes
in their possession, and that means you.”

“How was I supposed to know they were counterfeit?”
Phillips mumbled. His shoulders were slumped in obvious
despair.

“Of course, I’m sure you had no idea,” Rupert said
smoothly. “However...”

“What?” Phillips looked up, cornered and angry
again, reminding Rupert of a rat. “What is it you want,
anyway?”

“An excellent question. Moore Shipping, of course,
wants the money back, not forgeries.”

“I’ll have to pay double!”

Rupert shrugged, the expression on his face
delicately implying that was not his concern.

“We also want to find the printer.”

“The printer?” Phillips looked, for the first time,
genuinely afraid.

“Yes. The printer. To stop it once and for all. And
that’s where you can help.”

“Why should I?”

“I believe I mentioned the law...” Rupert pressed
the tips of his fingers together, as if waiting.

“Are you threatening me?” Phillips demanded.

“No, I’m merely informing you of the consequence of
possessing counterfeit money.”

Phillips made a sound like a growl. “Very well. I’ll
have to look in the ledger.” He stood up as if to leave the room.
“It may take some time.”

“Fortunately, I have no pressing engagements.”
Rupert smiled. “Why don’t I come with you?”

They left the cramped office on top of the warehouse
for a more spacious, albeit dingy room, down below, crowded with
shelves and drawers, and a spotty young clerk bending over some
figures.

“Dobson,” Phillips snapped to the clerk. “I need the
ledger with the figures for transactions in...” he paused, shooting
Rupert a quick, speculative glance. “The last month.”

What was that about, Rupert wondered. He doubted
Phillips was part of the forgery ring; he wasn’t brave or clever
enough for that. Yet the man might know more than he was letting
on.

It took Phillips the better part of half an hour to
go through his ink-splotched ledgers, laboriously squinting over
each transaction detail.

“There.” He pointed to an entry in the book. “Bank
of New York notes.”

Rupert smiled slightly; he had never said the notes
were from the Bank of New York, yet Phillips knew the notes in
question. Was he, perhaps, one of the members of the ring, lower
down on the rungs of power? If so, he should fear his betters in
crime even more than the law.

Rupert felt a stirring of unease. He wasn’t afraid
of Phillips; the man was small, greasy, but easily handled. There
were others, though, whom he had not yet met, who would hear of his
inquiries and take action. He needed to be careful.

“Who were the notes from?” Rupert asked
brusquely.

Phillips paused before answering. “Summers. That’s
his name. He bought twelve cases of port.”

“That’s quite a lot, don’t you think?”

Phillips only shrugged.

“And if I tell this Summers that you gave me this
information?” Rupert asked.

“What should I have to fear?” But Phillips did not
quite meet his eyes.

“Do you have Summers’ address?”

Phillips gave it; it was another warehouse near the
docks, which seemed suspicious. What could another merchant want
with so much port?

“I’ll be back,” Rupert warned. “After I’ve spoken to
Summers. So I hope you are not thinking of going anywhere.”

The wine merchant smiled rather unpleasantly. “And
where would I be going?”

Dusk was falling as Rupert left the warehouse. He
turned his collar up against the cold, wishing there were more
people in the street. He felt vulnerable, walking the rough cobbles
on his own. Easy pickings. He picked up his pace.

He heard the footsteps behind him, light and quick
as a cat’s, but before he could turn or move at all, he took a
crashing blow on the back of his head and fell to the ground.

Spots danced before his eyes, and he fought to
retain consciousness as rough, grubby hands turned him over and
grabbed the lapels of his coat.

“That’s a warning,” someone growled, inches from his
face. “Stop your prying, if you know what’s good for you.”

A face swam in and out of focus
before Rupert was dropped back on the sharp cobblestones. The last
thing he heard was someone hurrying away before he blacked out
completely.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Eleanor stared up at the front of the Moore
residence. Imposing and regal, she’d been impressed by the house’s
elegant proportions the last time she’d visited, to take tea with
Isobel.

Isobel had taken the opportunity to inform Eleanor
of her intentions; now Eleanor wanted to inform the young woman of
hers.

She took a slow, steadying breath, and knocked.

“
May I help you?” the butler,
ponderous but with a kindly smile, looked down on her.

“My name is Eleanor McCardell. I’d like to speak
with Isobel, please. She doesn’t expect me, but I am a friend of
hers.”

The butler glanced at her dress, slightly worn but
respectable, and after a second’s hesitation, nodded. “Won’t you
come in, miss?”

“I’d rather not.” Eleanor smiled apologetically. “No
doubt you’ve heard of the typhoid sweeping the city. I’m nursing a
sufferer myself, and I’ve no wish to spread the contagion.”

The butler took a step back, an expression of
fearful distaste on his face. “Could you please ask Miss Moore to
meet me outside? Perhaps we can take a turn in the park, where the
air is fresh.”

“I will speak with her, Miss.” The butler left
quickly.