The Bride Wore Pearls (36 page)

“Fine,” said Rance tightly. “And your roll?”

Mr. Kemble admired his own manicure for a moment. “Well, I used to make quite a nice living in—well, let us call it brokering life’s fineries,” he finally said. “Art, jewels, antiquities. That sort of thing.”

“You kept a shop?”

“Sometimes,” he said coyly.

“You were a thief?”

“Lazonby!” Anisha chided.

“Oh, heavens no!” Mr. Kemble set a hand over his heart. “Nothing so tawdry! I was a fence.”

“A
fence
?” Anisha turned to Rance.

“A receiver,” he said quietly. “Of stolen property.”

“Not all of it was stolen,” Kemble advised. “Some was willingly surrendered. Desperate young gentlemen were my stock-in-trade.”

“By desperate you mean gamesters?” said Rance quietly.

“Well, I was on speaking terms with the managers of every hell in Town, and a few of the better clubs,” he said. “Players who’d beggared themselves came to me, and oftentimes, I went to them. You see, it was occasionally—well, let us call it
prudent
—for an astute businessman to call in his debt whilst the player in question was still within his establishment, particularly if fellow in question wasn’t
quite
a gentleman and hadn’t a name to protect.”

“You mean he’d run too high a loss and they were afraid his IOU would be hard to collect,” said Rance.

“I see you perfectly understand.” Kemble beamed as if he’d discovered a prodigy.

“Desperate men, indeed,” said Rance. “And desperate men can be dangerous.”

Kemble’s smile turned faintly malicious. “Oh, I never worried overmuch,” he said. “I have a finely honed grasp of how to—oh, let us call it
motivate
people. So a hell might summon me to help relieve the fellow of his emerald cravat pin or his watch chain or his gold-chased snuffbox. In the height of such emotion, it was best to call upon someone impartial.”

Rance looked at him flatly. “And that would be you.”

“Well, I’m nothing if not honest,” said Kemble.

As if sent by God, a horrific crack of lightning rent the air, followed by an ominous roll of thunder. “Damnation!” Rance muttered, casting his gaze up.

“Oh, good!” Kemble clapped his hands. “It’s going to rain on my roses. And look! Here’s the tea.”

Monsieur Giroux did not reappear but had sent a servant with the tray. Kemble dismissed him at once and began to pour himself, which Anisha thought a little odd.

“This is
Shui Xian,
Lady Anisha, from the Wuyi Mountains,” said Kemble, tipping out a bloodred stream. It swirled cleverly round the inside of an Imari tea bowl so thin one could see his fingers. “And of the very best grade,” he continued, “for it’s been roasted, then aged ten years. You’ll find it rather different from your assams and darjeelings.”

“Ten
years
?” she said as he passed her the dainty bowl.

“Yes, and I counsel you strongly against the English habit of tainting it,” he said, waving his hand over the milk and sugar, “but there, if you must! I shall simply turn my head from the carnage.”

“Why, I wouldn’t think of it,” she murmured.

As he continued to pour, Anisha glanced up to see the sky darkening ominously. There was a chill settling over the glass house now, and with it a vague sense of unease. Worse, she could feel the press of time—and the heat of Rance’s thigh along hers. Both were disconcerting. Janet had been right; if they lingered much longer, or if the storm broke, she and Rance would not make it home tonight.

She tried to steer the conversation forward. “Mr. Kemble, it certainly sounds as if you had intimate knowledge of the gaming salons,” she said. “And because of those salons, Lord Lazonby was falsely accused of a heinous crime, so—”

“—so coming right to the point, you wish to know who shivved old Percy?” he said, putting the pot down with a
clunk.

Anisha and Rance exchanged glances. “Heavens, have you some idea?” she asked.

Kemble relaxed into his chair. “My dear child, everything in the world is motivated by one of two things,” he said, fanning out his fingers, much like a magician about to pull a scarf from his coat sleeve. “One has only to winkle out
which
in order to know
who
.”

Anisha gave a little shake of her head, attempting to clear it. “And those things would be . . . ?”

“Firstly, money, which equates to power,” he said, “and secondly, that age-old delight, sexual intercourse.”

“Good God, man!” Rance cut a protective glance at Anisha. “Gentlemen don’t speak of—”

“Money, yes, I know.” Kemble had the audacity to wink again. “But it’s been suggested I’m only half a gentleman. The other half being . . . well,
French
.”

Anisha set a restraining hand to Rance’s sleeve. “But this murder,” she said stridently, “and Lazonby’s false conviction—it cannot have been done without collusion. Can it?”

“Well, dead men tell no tales,” said Kemble, taking up his tea with an elegantly crooked finger, “but I wonder if anyone ever looked closely at Hanging Nick Napier? Now there was a fellow who lived well—a little
too
well, if you ask me.”

“At last, something we can agree on,” Rance growled.

Anisha ignored him. “I got the impression there was some money in the family,” she mused, remembering Napier’s theater box and Sir Wilfred Leeton’s odd comments.

“None old Nick got a taste of,” said Kemble. “He was disowned for marrying down.
Napier
was his wife’s name.”

“But Englishmen sometimes take their wives’ names,” Anisha countered.

“Only for money, my dear!” Kemble sagely advised. “And the late Mrs. Napier was descended from nothing more than a long line of government toadies. Yet Mr. Napier managed very well indeed—in Eaton Square, no less, in a house acquired just after Royden’s birth.”

“Aye,” said Rance pensively, “and he didn’t buy that on a government salary, did he?”

“Oh, I fancy not.” Kemble sipped delicately at his tea. “And we now realize Royden maintains a friendship with Sir Wilfred Leeton, the sort of man who should have been the bane of his father’s existence.”

“But Leeton is upstanding now,” said Rance. “And the Crown forced him to testify at my trial—not that he had much to say.”

“No, I’ll just bet he didn’t,” said Kemble. “By the time Leeton was finished tweaking his tale, the judge likely believed he was running a charity hospital out of that house in Berwick Street and simply found you and poor Peveril hiding in his pantry with a pack of cards in hand.”

“Well, it wasn’t even a gaming hell, was it?” Anisha glanced at Rance.

“Oh, heavens no!” trilled Kemble. “It was ever so genteel. Gentlemen dropped cards on a silver salver as if they were calling on the Duchess of Devonshire. And Leeton never touched money; if one owed the house, one was ‘invited’ to leave it in a little dish on the sideboard or some such nonsense. Quite honestly, the veteran hell owners laughed at him.”

“Oh, my,” Anisha murmured.

“Nonetheless, one did need nerves of steel to play at Leeton’s,” Kemble added almost admiringly. “Cards only, and play was devilish deep. But despite Leeton’s façade of gentility, every gaming salon in Town paid off
someone,
even if it was just a couple of shillings to the local constable.”

“Aye, you’re right about that,” Rance grudgingly admitted.

“So we are back to the sex and the money,” Kemble continued, “for I can assure you they drive mankind’s every breath, though they may wear the guise of something else—revenge and jealousy, most often.”

“Fine, then,” Rance snapped. “Which applied to Lord Percy Peveril?”

“Oh, heavens, money!” said Kemble, shuddering. “No one wanted to sleep with Percy. Did you ever look closely at the fellow?”

“Not in that precise light,” Rance returned.

“Well, he had a curious gap between his teeth, Percy,” said Kemble airily. “Worse, he laughed through his nose. Why, I once saw him spew a vintage
eau de vie
halfway across a roulette table.”

“Never noticed any of it,” said Rance dismissively. “What about Sir Arthur Colburne turning up his toes?”

Here, Mr. Kemble hesitated. “Incidental, I’d guess,” he finally answered. “Indeed, prior to poor Percy’s coming up to scratch over Miss Colburne—a matter in which you were
used,
Lord Lazonby, in case you were unaware—it was widely rumored Arthur would either try to marry money himself or flee his creditors by going to France, or perhaps his sister in Canada.”

“
Canada
?” said Anisha.

“Well, it might have been Connecticut.” Kemble made a dismissive gesture. “In any case, Miss Colburne was horrified, and old Percy fast became the lesser of three evils—the first being a stepmamma, the second being a life of grinding poverty in Pawcatuck or Manitoba or some equally unpronounceable backwater. But at worst, someone wanted him gone, not dead. He may have been vain, gutless, and venal, but Artie was harmless and everyone knew it.”

Anisha leaned into the conversation. “So, who made money, Mr. Kemble, by having Rance accused of murder?”

Kemble reached out and gave her hand an avuncular pat. “The better question, dear girl, is,
who stopped losing money?
And the answer is, every gaming salon and hell-hole from Westminster to Wapping. Your boon companion here was bleeding them like a jar of leeches. Slowly—but deadly if it goes on long enough.”

“But I’ve looked closely at each of those men,” Rance protested, setting his tea down with a clatter. “Most have died, aye, or vanished. But I’m not a fool, Mr. Kemble.”

Kemble just shrugged. “Looked at
each
of them, eh? But have you looked at
all
of them?”

Eyes widening, Anisha seized her satchel and dug out her sheaf of papers. On top were the folded gaming vowels. “I stole those,” she said, “from Royden Napier.”

“Oh, bravo!” Kemble brightened hopefully. “What have we here?”

“Perhaps Sir Wilfred Leeton didn’t want to pay his debt to Rance?” she suggested as Kemble’s eyes swept over the notes. “Perhaps he killed Peveril?”

“Over this sum?” Kemble murmured. “I doubt it. Old Will could have raised twice that by selling out his stables.”

Anisha had not thought the sum so paltry. “Lady Madeleine MacLachlan is taking me to the Leetons’ garden party on Monday,” she murmured. “Do you think he would know anything?”

“You might do better to ask the wife,” Kemble said, his finger stroking lightly round the penciled circle. “
She’s
a frightful gossip.”

“I saw that notation, too,” she said a little breathlessly. “What would you guess it means?”

Kemble tucked the papers back and pushed the file away. “Oh, I need not guess, child!” he said. “That is a reference to the Black Horse syndicate. Hanging Nick was wondering, you see, if Leeton was a member. And assuming he made the proper inquiries, he would have learnt that, no, he was not. He was far too junior, and while his house was pernicious as an adder’s den, it was as much about Leeton rubbing elbows with the nobs as making money. And in the world of serious gaming, that sentiment held no sway.”

“The Black Horse syndicate?” Rance straightened in his chair. “What the devil is that?”

Kemble made an airy gesture with his hand. “Oh, think of it as a sort of London guild,” he said. “Rather like the Worshipful Company of Fishmongers, but for gaming establishments—only the old pros, mind. It was quite something to aspire to. They dined twice a month in a private room over the Black Horse in Cripplegate. It was a shady crew, but I knew a few of them.”

“What did they do, exactly?” Anisha asked.

Kemble shrugged. “Oh, guarded one another’s backs, hired out bullyboys, kept a running list of counters and sharpers that wanted watching—and on rare occasion, they covered one another’s losses from a mutual aid fund.”

“Good God, like . . .
fire insurance
?” said Rance. “I never heard of it.”

“Oddly enough, they did not advertise,” said Kemble snidely. “Certainly not to you. More likely yours was the first name on their list.”

“But I—” Anisha bit back her words.

Both men turned to look at her. “Yes?” Kemble murmured. “What is it, my dear?”

Anisha shot Rance a sidelong look. “It’s just that I showed those to Edward Quartermaine,” she said quietly. “He runs one of the most profitable hells in London. But he said he thought the words had no significance.”

“
Quartermaine—
?” Rance turned to glower at her again.

Kemble merely chortled with laughter. “Oh, I’ll just bet he did! Young Ned was ever a sly one. But he’s right, in a manner of speaking. A den of thieves soon turns on itself, and the Black Horse gang died out, some fleeing to the Continent as rascals will do, and others going on to that great faro board in the sky. Well, all save for the chap who thought it up to begin with.”