The Suspect's Daughter (8 page)

Before the footman reached them, Grant waved him off, grabbed the handle of the door, and opened it. “Here, sir, allow me.” He steadied Fairley as he climbed up. As Fairley’s back was turned, Grant slipped the note out of Fairley’s pocket.

Meeting postponed one day. Same place
.

A message about a covert meeting; it had to be. If only it had given the address. Grant slipped it back in before Fairley turned.

Once Fairley had seated himself, Grant shut the door and stepped back. “Have a good evening, sir.”

Fairley hesitated. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“No, no. Just waiting around for my brother.”

Fairley glanced at the doors of Westminster. “Ah, yes. Of course. Good evening.”

Jackson had already started tailing Fairley’s coach. Satisfied, Grant turned to the doors as if he really were awaiting Cole. His brother stood watching Grant with an unreadable expression. Perfect. Mindful of Fairley’s possible gaze, Grant strode directly to his brother. Cole wore his signature blue colors, stylish enough that less confident men of fashion imitated him, but no one would accuse him of being a dandy.

Cole’s brow dark raised. “What’s this new fascination with Fairley?”

“Just following a lead.”

Cole’s gaze shifted to Fairley’s departing coach. “If a majority votes no confidence on Lord Liverpool, I’d planned to nominate Fairley as the new prime minister. Is there some reason why I shouldn’t?”

“None at all.”

Cole put on a hat and started slowly toward his coach. “I realize you can’t discuss a case with me, but my offer stands. If I can help...”

“I know.” Grant turned up his collar against the sprinkling of rain and put his hands in his overcoat pockets.

As they reached the Amesbury town coach, Cole gestured. “Can I offer you a ride?”

Considering the excuse he’d given for being here, Grant cast off his usual response and replaced it with, “My thanks.”

Inside the Amesbury-crested coach, Grant settled against the upholstered squabs. He’d forgotten the luxury of traveling without getting one’s teeth rattled. As the well-sprung coach glided over the normally bumpy road, Grant glanced out of the windows. They left behind the towering Westminster and turned onto St. James Place, passing the green park bearing the same name as the street.

He returned his focus to Cole who watched him thoughtfully. Finally, Grant asked, “What do you know about Fairley?”

“Devoted, hard-working, well-spoken. Honorable.”

A description that differed from Barnes’s.

Cole continued, “His son was killed in the war. His wife died of some illness a few years ago.”

“Who are his closest friends?”

“From what I can see, Lord St. Cyr and Mr. Dawson, among others.”

Absently, Grant nodded. He’d met Dawson at the ball. And Lord St. Cyr had been the recipient of a note as well. They must be co-conspirators.

Cole grinned. “He has a pretty daughter. Not the usual society miss. She reminds me a bit of Alicia—genuine, in possession of substance, truly kind, steady.”

Grant scowled. “I’m not interested in his daughter.”

Still grinning, Cole stretched out his legs. “I see.”

Let Cole believe what he will. Grant’s only interest in Fairley’s daughter was as a possible means to incriminate her father.

“Do you want to come home with me for dinner? Alicia would be happy to have you join us.”

Grant tossed out his usual response without thinking. “No. I’ll eat later.”

Cole leaned forward and eyed him. “You don’t have to wait for a wedding or funeral to come by. Jared and Elise, and Christian and Genevieve are in town for a few weeks. Alicia wants to plan a family dinner. Will you come?”

Grant let out a healthy snort. “And spend the evening with a room full of newlyweds? I’d rather put out an eye.”

“Margaret and Rachel would be there, too.”

“They aren’t enough buffer.” Besides, Grant might not be able to refrain from stabbing Margaret’s husband to end her misery.

“Is it the abundance of marital affection that bothers you or the fact that you haven’t found a loving wife, yet?”

A sharp, bitter laugh leaped out of Grant. “Marital affection turns my stomach. And I have no wife to find.”

Cole eyed him thoughtfully, speculatively, so Grant turned his attention back out the window.

“Did she break your heart or die a tragic death?”

That grabbed Grant’s attention. “Who?”

“The reason you’re so bitter. You’ve always been aloof and cynical, but since the war....” He shook his head. “What happened?”

As visions of
her
, and the love he’d believed they’d shared mingled with her final act of betrayal crowded his mind, Grant clamped his mouth closed and glared before returning his focus out the window.

When he thought he could speak around his bitterness, he said, “This is close enough. I’ll walk the rest of the way.” He banged on the roof to signal the coachman.

Releasing a long exhale, Cole dragged a hand through his hair. “Don’t leave. I’m not trying to pry; just understand.”

“There’s nothing to understand.” As the coach slowed to turn, Grant opened the door and jumped out.

He strode to the Bow Street Magistrate’s office and sat at the back of the courtroom while Richard Barnes processed the latest batch of criminals the Runners hauled in. As Grant sat, he tugged at his cravat until he loosened enough that he could breathe. The whiteness of his shirt and neck cloth made him feel conspicuous in the dimly lit courtroom.

Barnes, wearing the traditional white powdered wig of his station, glanced Grant’s way, but stayed focused on his duties as magistrate.

When the last felon was led away, Grant stood. Barnes glanced at him and relaxed his mouth into a tired smile. Grant followed him into his private office. As Grant’s former commanding officer removed his wig and fell into a chair behind his desk, Grant took a seat opposite.

“What has you so blue-deviled?” Barnes asked.

Grant looked pointedly at his clothes. “Next time you send me undercover, I’m going as a chimney sweep.”

“Your shoulders would get stuck.”

“A stable hand, then.”

“Cut your hair before you visit the Fairleys again.” Barnes scribbled something on a scrap of paper. “Here’s my barber. Tell him to give you a…hmmm. I think a Titus style would do well on you—a little longer than the Brutus.”

Grant slumped. Great. First clothes. Now a haircut. But Barnes was right; if Grant wanted to fit in with the leaders of society, he needed to look and act the part.

“What did you learn?”

Grant straightened. “I found two clues. Not substantial but enough to suggest a possible connection but encouraging.” Grant retrieved the burned corner he’d rescued from the fireplace in Fairley’s study and flicked it onto the desk.

Barnes picked it up and read. “Well, well. That can’t be innocent.”

“I also picked Fairley’s pocket and found a note that said the next meeting time had been changed but the location was the same. Jackson is tailing him now.”

“Excellent. Put your energies into getting invited to their meetings.”

Grant nodded.

“Don’t worry. I won’t let Fairley and his cronies get away with murder.”

More than Grant’s reputation was at stake; a life was at risk, and perhaps the safety of England.

Grant shifted his weight, keeping to the shadows of the narrow alley where tall buildings sagged drunkenly against one another, and the gray sky narrowed to little more than a pinprick above. Emaciated cats picked through moldering piles of refuse, and cloaked forms hurried along broken cobblestones.

For three days and nights he and Jackson had taken turns trailing Fairley, but the suspect attended no secret meetings, unless they took place inside Westminster. Fairley’s wastrel of a son returned to Oxford two days ago, which removed him as a lead. Today, Jackson tailed Fairly, so Grant had the duty of watching Fairley’s daughter. The most unusual thing she’d done was take a basket of food to a family in the slums. Admirable, that, but futile in the face of so many in need.

He was going to have to try something more direct, like talk to some of Fairley’s closest associates, just as soon as he followed Fairley’s foolish daughter home. The foolish chit might get herself killed traipsing around the seedier side of London wearing all her finery and fripperies or whatever females called their many layers of clothes that they seemed to change a dozen times a day. Worthless, the lot of them. And in this case, unhelpful in leading Grant to evidence against Fairley. She probably had no involvement in, or knowledge of, her father’s plot. Still, Grant liked to be thorough.

Opposite the hovel into which the Fairley girl had entered, another door opened. Two girls, talking quietly, exited together and entered the narrow alley. Grant barely gave them a glance. Yet something familiar about them drew Grant’s attention. Maggie and one of the other light-skirts who frequented the streets pulled their wraps around their thin shoulders.

Grant shook his head. He’d tried everything he knew to get them off the streets, but they seemed bent on destroying themselves.

As they approached, Maggie’s expression brightened. “So, it’s you, Mr. Smith.” She smiled but it came out strained.

By way of greeting he said, “Girls.”

“You goin’ to be me first customer tonight? It’s a little earlier than me usual workin’ time, but I’ll make an exception fer ye.” Maggie picked up their usual game of her offering her body, and his offering an escape from her chosen way of life.

“I’ll buy you dinner if you let me take you to Mrs. Goodfellow’s House for the Reformed.”

“Now, ye know we’re not wantin’ that.”

“She helps girls like you find honest employment.”

One of her friends said, “Owwoo, we’re ’onest. I never stol nuthin’.”

“Honest employment.” Maggie let out a scoff. “At least I know what me customers want. Employers ain’t always so straight up.”

In clear defiance, the girls linked arms and launched into a bawdy song as they headed down the street. Grant mulled over her words. Maggie had likely been the victim of unwanted advances from the man of the house. Scoundrel. May he rot in the deepest pit.

A moment later, three figures stepped into the alley from the hovel into which they had disappeared about an hour ago. Grant recognized the Fairley girl, a young girl who was probably her maid, and a handsome woman carrying an umbrella. They all smiled and practically skipped—probably proudly congratulating themselves on their great act of charity and anxious to get home and brag about how wonderfully condescending they were to the poor, and then promptly forgetting the objects of their charity as they dressed for the next ball.

Silently, Grant slipped in and out of shadows and obstacles, keeping his senses tuned to the females. He sensed rather than saw the Fairley girl glance about cautiously. He was almost certain she’d noticed him the first day he’d tailed her. Unexpected, that. But she hadn’t gotten more than a glance before he made sure he disappeared from her view. He’d been more careful today.

She relaxed her posture, and they chatted amongst themselves as they turned off the alley and headed to a wider street where they would find a hansom waiting to take them home. The attractive lady, who couldn’t have been much more than five years the Fairley wench’s senior, walked with the proud bearing of a duchess, perfectly confident of her place in the world. The younger girl exercised more caution, as if she understood she trod on turf belonging to those who viewed her as an aristo and therefore the enemy.

His senses went on full alert as he spied another shadow tailing the women. Some thug had noticed a couple of easy targets. The predator might have only theft and not something worse on his mind, but Grant moved into position to stop him. The ruffian slipped behind the women.

The thrill of the hunt coursed through Grant’s veins. The world became sharper, each sound more clear, every color more vibrant. He trotted across the street, reaching for his gun. Knives were less messy and more elegant, but the gun made a better display of threat, and he wasn’t in the mood to stick a knife in someone’s ribs this afternoon. That might change by tonight.

Grant dodged a milk cart. He wasn’t exactly dressed to pay a call on a member of Society, and revealing himself would lead to all sorts of questions, but it couldn’t be helped.

The blighter leaped in front of the girls and brandished a knife he’d probably used to chop wood. “Gimme yer valuables and I won’t ’ave t’ use this.”

The maid let out a gasp, her hands flying out to the side. The lady with the umbrella merely drew herself up as if her status alone protected her from harm.

Grant moved closer and to the side as the Fairley chit offered the armed a compassionate smile. “I realize you must be very desperate to threaten ladies. And while I will agree to give you all the money I have on my person, I must tell you that if you’d simply asked, I would have offered it freely.”

Grant almost snickered. Oh, that was rich; she was trying to help the blackguard. Grant had to admire her courage, though. She didn’t fall apart like her maid. Hesitant to break up the little drama and deprive himself from a moment’s entertainment, Grant waited to intervene.

The thug made an inarticulate sound something like, “Ugh?”

“Here.” The Fairley wench opened her reticule and drew out half a crown and six pence.

“Jocelyn, no,” said the lady with the umbrella.

The Fairley girl ignored her. “This is all I have. Although now you leave me in the difficulty of not having enough to pay for our fare home.”

The thug swiped the money out of her hand but then he got greedy and grabbed her by the wrist. “Wha’ else ye got fer me, ducks?”

The Fairley girl’s cry of surprise rang out. “Let go of me!” She kicked his shin.

The Fairley girl’s companion swung her umbrella and landed a solid hit on the thug’s shoulder. “How dare you! Let go of my niece at once, you villain.”

The cretin grunted in surprise. He jerked the Fairley girl closer to him and put his knife to her throat. The girl sucked in her breath and went utterly still. Grant’s thirst for justice sharpened and he got into position.