The River Knows (9 page)

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.”

He crossed the small space to take the remaining armchair. He looked at Louisa, eyebrows slightly raised in silent inquiry.

“It is quite all right, sir,” she said. “I have explained the unusual circumstances of our association to Emma. You may speak freely in front of her.”

Anthony regarded Emma with grave interest.

“You are involved in this business of proving that Hastings has a financial investment in a brothel?”

Emma smiled. “No. It is Louisa’s project, but I am happy to assist her in any way I can.”

“By obtaining invitations for her so that she may search the households of persons of interest?”

Emma was impressed. “How very clever of you, sir. That is, indeed, one of the ways I try to be of use.”

Louisa cleared her throat delicately. “What did you conclude concerning the extortion evidence, Mr. Stalbridge?”

“I read the journals and letters. It appears that there are five people being blackmailed. As I suspected last night, it is not the young ladies who are paying the extortion money. In each case it is a wealthy, elderly female relative who also happens to be in rather frail health.”

“Why are they paying blackmail?”

“Each of them is paying it to protect the reputation of a young female relative who was compromised.”

“How dreadful.” Louisa paused, frowning. “Was it Hastings who compromised them? I suppose, objectively speaking, he is not unhandsome, but I should have thought him a bit too old to appeal to very young ladies.”

“That is one of the interesting aspects of the situation,” Anthony said. “Each of the young women was compromised by a man who is variously described in their letters and journals as a Greek God with golden hair, the most beautiful man on the face of the earth, and a knight in shining armor. All agree he is in his late twenties.”

“Hastings has dark hair going gray and is in his forties,” Emma pointed out.

“So there is another man involved in the blackmail scheme,” Louisa mused.

“Yes,” Anthony said. “I will make arrangements immediately to return all of the items to their rightful owners anonymously and assure the victims that the blackmail is at an end. However, that avenue of inquiry is obviously closed to us.”

“Of course,” Louisa said. “We cannot risk exposing the identities of the victims.”

“No.” Anthony met her eyes. “Nor would they be likely to assist us in any event. Mrs. Bryce, I think it is time we discussed my fee for last night’s services.”

Louisa straightened. “Yes, of course. How much would you say that sort of thing is worth?”

“I do not want your money. What I want is information.”

She tensed. “I beg your pardon?”

“I have come here today to lay my cards on the table. As payment for last night, I hope that you will see fit to do the same.”

“What do you mean?”

“I explained that, thanks to the necklace I discovered in the safe, I have concluded beyond a shadow of a doubt that Elwin Hastings murdered Fiona Risby.”

“Yes, you did say that,” she agreed politely.

His smile was very cold. “I see you have some doubts.”

“Forgive me for interrupting,” Emma said evenly, “but it did occur to me to suggest to Louisa that perhaps you might have a motive for pointing the finger of blame at Elwin Hastings. That is not quite the same thing as proving that he killed her.”

Anthony nodded once, comprehending immediately. “Yes, of course. You wonder if I am concerned that the old rumors will prevent me from shopping for a bride in certain circles. You concluded that perhaps I have set out to implicate another in the crime in order to clear my own name.”

Louisa winced at the phrase shopping for a bride.

Emma’s brows rose. “You will admit that it is a possibility that cannot be entirely dismissed.”

Anthony met her eyes in a very direct fashion. “At this moment I can only offer you my word that is not the case. Last night I found the proof I needed to convince myself of what I have believed for some time.”

“The necklace,” Louisa said.

“Yes.” He turned back to her. “To my mind it is all the evidence I require to be convinced that Elwin Hastings murdered Fiona, but I am left with another question, one for which I intend to get an answer.”

“What is that?” Louisa asked.

“I’m very sure he killed her, but I have no notion why. There is simply nothing to connect Fiona Risby with Elwin Hastings other than the fact that they were both at the same ball on the night she disappeared.”

“There must have been a large crowd at that ball,” she pointed out. “How did you narrow the suspects down to Hastings?”

“There were several aspects of the situation that made me curious about him. The first was the death of

his wife a few days later. I found the suicides of two women in Society, carried out in precisely the same manner less than a week apart, extremely coincidental, to say the least.”

Louisa tapped her pen lightly against the blotter. “One may have inspired the other. A woman overwhelmed by melancholia who happened to read of another woman’s suicide might decide to take the same path.”

Emma frowned. “I admit that I did not know her well, but I must tell you that I was quite shocked to hear of Victoria’s death last year. At the time I remember thinking that she did not seem at all the sort to take her own life.”

“That was my impression of her, too,” Anthony said. “I am even more convinced that Fiona would never have done such a thing.”

The door opened again. Mrs. Galt set the tea tray on the table in front of Emma.

“I’ll pour, Mrs. Galt,” Emma said. “Thank you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

No one spoke until Mrs. Galt was gone and the door was once again closed.

Louisa looked at Anthony. “You were saying that the coincidence of the two suicides caught your attention.”

He lounged deeper into his chair and regarded her over steepled fingers. “There were actually three suicides that same month. The third was Joanna Barclay, the woman who killed Lord Gavin. You may recall the name. The murder created a great sensation in the press.”

Louisa froze. Icy tendrils of fear uncoiled inside her. She was very careful not to look at Emma.

“Yes,” she managed. “I believe I did hear something about that suicide.”

It was all she could do to keep breathing normally. The old terror began to creep out of the deep shadows, where it was always lurking. He could not possibly know who she was. As far as the world was concerned Joanna Barclay was dead. Society had long since forgotten the sensation Lord Gavin’s death had created.