Twice Tempted (22 page)

Lennie was already halfway up the stairs. “Gov, quick. I jus’ saw Weams’s valley. ’e recognized me and bolted straight through out the back door.”

Weams’s valet? “You’re sure?”

“Yeah. ’e’s as big a weasel as ’is nibs.”

Lennie ran past Alex into the apartment and straight through to the bedroom window. “There! Running toward Shepherd Market.”

Alex saw a portly, balding man weaving through the back garden. “Stay here,” he snapped.

“You’ll never catch ’im,” Lennie protested, bending out the window.

Alex set her aside. “Yes, I will.” And before Lennie could protest, he swung out the window.

Oh, hell. Those handholds didn’t look any larger, now that it was his turn to use them.

“Lor’, lumme,” Alex heard above him as he shimmied down the three stories as quickly as he could using those slick window casings and corner bricks. The minute his feet reached the grass of the back garden, he took off after the lumbering valet, who looked just as rumpled and unkempt as those rooms.

Fortunately, the man was in no shape to escape. Alex caught up with him halfway down Shepherd Market, puffing like Tevithick’s little steam engine and sweating as if it had been high summer.

“Here.” Alex grabbed the man’s arm. “You’ll have a heart seizure. Slow down.”

The man made one attempt to pull away. It was no contest. “I got…nuthin’…to say.”

“Of course you do,” Alex said easily. “You just have to have enough wind to say it. Now come along. I imagine Weams has a fair supply of spirits up there. We’ll share a tot, and you can tell me everything you know.”

The man’s head whipped up, eyes hard and thick lips twisted even as he gasped for air. “Scarpered, has he? Might a’ known. Sodding bastard.”

Alex shored him up and turned him back. “I understand you are his valet.”

The man shrugged. “Quit a sennight ago. Was coming to try to squeeze last month’s wages out of the rum-touch.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what,” Alex suggested as he guided him back up the garden. “You tell me what I need to know, and I’ll pay your back wages. I’d give you a reference, but I’ve seen that apartment.”

The man needed only a moment to think about it. “Best offer I’ll get.”

Alex dragged the valet, one Millard Bixby, up to the apartment, where they found Lennie perched on the gray settee in the sitting room, feet swinging off the ground, nose in the latest racing sheets. Alex again had the urge to look around, make sure Lennie was safe. He simply couldn’t shake that sense of unease.

He sat the valet in a chair. “I was going to ask if you were still all right, Lennie, but I see you’re gainfully occupied.”

Lennie grinned up at him. “Fancy a flutter, gov? Seems they’re givin’ good odds on Playmaker in the fifth at Doncaster.”

“Put that paper down, you repellent brat.”

Lennie complied. “How are ya, Mr. Bixby?”

Mr. Bixby did not yet have the air to answer. Alex poured two brandies from the depleted drinks table. “And no, Lennie. You don’t get one. Now, go back down and keep watch. If you see anything suspicious, whistle, just like before. That was brilliant.”

“How ’bout I wait in the hall?” Lennie asked. “Cold as a whore’s heart out there.”

Looking at the impish child jump off the settee, Alex found himself freshly disconcerted. Not by the child’s preternaturally mature behavior. By his own blithe disregard for the child’s safety in dragging her into this. Oh, Thrasher had been this old when Lady Kate had found him. But somehow, this child was different. More innocent, more vulnerable, hidden away within an oversized disguise and a memorable top hat, only her sudden, whimsical smile and good grammar betraying her.

Had Fiona had a top hat to hide beneath? How had she disguised that flame-bright hair and unforgettable face? How had she protected Mairead? Suddenly it was important to know. It was important to protect this child from the streets since he had never had the chance to protect the other one.

Alex waited until Lennie stepped outside before turning to the much pinker Mr. Bixby. “Now, then,” he said, handing off the alcohol. “Do you have any idea where Mr. Weams is? His suitcase is open in his room, but there is no evidence of him.”

Bixby’s head came up, and he was frowning. “That’s not like him. If he was running, nothing would have stopped him. Strong sense of self-preservation, that one.”

“Would he have climbed out the bedroom window if he heard me coming?”

The valet laughed. “Not if God himself were chasin’ him.”

That was what Alex was afraid of.

“Well, then maybe we’ll get a chance to see him yet.” Crossing his legs, Alex settled back and deliberately sipped, as if he had all the time in the world. “In the meantime, I would like you to tell me where he hides things. False drawer bottoms, trunk bottoms, a slit in his mattress.”

Bixby had trouble facing Alex. “I don’t know anything. Why would I?”

“Because you simply aren’t the kind of man to leave anything to chance. Like maybe loose change that might make up for not getting paid in a month?”

He snorted. “There’s no money here.”

Alex cocked an eyebrow. “Then what would you have returned for? I don’t see any silver or artwork worth the effort.”

Silence. Alex noticed that Bixby’s hand trembled.

“Let me make an educated guess. You have helped Mr. Weams blackmail people. And like any good blackmailer, Mr. Weams has kept some of the evidence close by in case he needs to run. Can’t expect an unpaid body to pass up a chance at it himself.”

Now Bixby was sweating. “You can’t prove that.”

Alex offered a smile that had struck fear into the hearts of lesser men than Bixby. “But I don’t have to. This has become a matter of national security. I can make you disappear, and no one will take notice.
No
one.”

He took another sip. Bixby’s eyes darted around, unintentionally targeting at least one hiding place. Then he made the mistake of meeting Alex’s implacable gaze again and folded like a lady’s fan.

“You have it right. He’s squeezed dukes to moneylenders. But he doesn’t always get money. Papers, sometimes. Favors. At least that’s what he says. Sometimes I don’t know what he gets. He just passes it along somewheres. I do know he’s stone-cold feared of whoever
that
is.”

Alex got up to search the room as if his heart weren’t suddenly pounding. “Have you heard any reference to the Lions?”

Bent over the empty bottom desk drawer, it took him a minute to notice the silence. When he finally looked up it was to see a paralyzed Bixby. The man honestly looked as if the Lions would storm through the door any moment and slaughter him.

Alex straightened. “I assume that is a yes. What do you know?”

But Bixby remained silent. Alex was patient. He went back to the drawers. “Empty,” he pronounced, shoving the last one shut.

Bixby laughed. “Somebody wasted their time emptying that lot. Nothin’ but bills and markers.”

With one last considering look at Alex, the valet lurched to his feet and waddled over to one of the hunting prints. Lifting it off the wall, he exposed a small wall safe. Alex felt the back of his neck prickle again.

“He keeps most of it here,” the valet said. “He always said he had proof against people if somethin’ happened.”

“Something did happen,” Alex said. “Me.”

Bixby got a crafty look in his eyes. “What’s the combination worth?”

“Continued mobility. Open the safe.”

It was a treasure trove. No money, just as Bixby said. A neat stack of papers, letters, account books, and one beautifully chased gold locket the size of a guinea on a chain. When Alex picked it up, he froze. The gold was inscribed with a Tudor rose. Alex had seen the design before, on items relating to the Lions.

Hoping his hands weren’t shaking, he pried the locket open. Another jackpot. A thin strip of paper with that too-familiar grouping of letters. And beneath it… Alex sucked in a breath. The inside of the locket was inscribed with a line from that damn poem Chuffy was trying so hard to pull apart in hopes of finding a cipher key:

Three times thryce I begged of you

Alex almost cursed out loud.

“Where did he get this?” Alex asked, holding it up.

Bixby shrugged. “Think he was helping to clean up a mess somebody made that had to do with the people who hired him. Might’ve gotten light-fingered. All I know is that he brought it home and stuck it right up there, even though he was three months behind on rent and five on payin’ me.”

The insurance, Alex assumed. Alex had to get this back to Drake. They had to go through all of the stash from the safe.

Alex squeezed his eyes shut.
His father.
The only way to tell Drake was to reveal the truth about the letters.

Had he run out of time? Would he have to turn evidence in, even if it meant compromising the man he respected and loved most in the world?

He had to get to his father. He needed to talk to him first, no matter what it cost. Closing the watch, he slipped it into his coat and reached into the safe for the rest of the papers. He saw only one letter in Amabelle’s handwriting. Just one.
Another teaser
, he thought, bleakly. Another chance to disgrace Sir Joseph or turn traitor himself.

Or play the Lions against themselves. Couldn’t he pretend he was submitting? The Rakes had tried it before without luck. Maybe it was time to try again.

“Is that enough?” Bixby asked.

Alex lifted the letter on its watermarked lavender stationery. “Do you know anything about this?”

Bixby grinned. “Musta got another one. Sent out the last one right before I left. Opened it and laughed himself sick. Said as how this would serve some toplofty dandiprat right. Couldn’t wait to send it.”

Alex knew he should wait until he was alone. He couldn’t. Slipping his thumb under the wax, he cracked the seal and opened the packet. Another indicting letter from Amabelle to Geoffrey Smythe-Smithe. Another of his father’s letters inside, this with information about the Russian compact. Another plain white note folded in the middle.

We know you won’t say no. It’s time. We’ve watched you take

good care of the girls. Now it is our turn. Let us have them and

we will leave Sir Joseph in peace. We will contact you.

Alex thought his chest would explode. Fiona. Sweet God, what had he done? Had he inadvertently led the Lions right to her? He had to get back to her. He had to make sure his father was safe first. He needed to speak with him, or no amount of caution would do any good. And somehow he had to find Weams and shut him up.

“Is this all?” he asked, making sure the safe was empty.

Bixby shifted uneasily. “I don’t know. Mr. Weams wasn’t smart enough to hide his secrets all over. Would have lost ’em. Has a secret drawer at the top of his wardrobe.”

Alex looked up. “Let’s go look.”

Preceding Alex into the bedroom, Bixby stepped up to the wardrobe and pulled on the doors. They moved a bit and creaked, but failed to open, as if the catch were stuck. He frowned and pulled harder. This time the latch gave way with a snap and the doors slammed open, pushing Bixby back on his bottom, just as the dead and very blue body of his employer came spilling out of the wardrobe onto the floor at his feet.

Bixby screamed. Alex cursed. Well, at least he didn’t need to worry about Weams talking.

Chapter 14

I
n the end, they left Weams where he was, the garrote still around his neck. It was the only thing they could do if they didn’t want to become embroiled in questions they couldn’t answer. Alex did take the time to check the body over for anything pertinent. Another scrap of paper, an address. The Lion manifesto that would save them all the trouble of investigating other aristocrats and could get him back to Fiona and his father sooner.

He didn’t find anything, of course. Not on the body, which Alex suspected had already been searched, not in the secret drawer in the wardrobe, not anywhere else in the rooms. It went against every instinct, but he ushered Lennie and Bixby out the door and relocked it, as if they’d never been there. And then he went home.

Well, he went home after depositing Bixby in a room at an inn down by the docks to be close to leaving ships for when they finished grilling him. Then he guided his curricle back to Grosvenor Square. It was time to talk to his father.

“I cannot wake him, sir,” Sweet, his father’s valet, said.

“Cannot or will not, Sweet?” Alex asked, his patience paper-thin. “There is an important difference.”

He would have been far more upset if he didn’t know that Sweet would literally lay down his life for the man who had bought his freedom from a Georgia planter. A fussy little negro with frizzy gray hair and a permanent stoop, he was more mother hen than all of Alex’s governesses combined. “He won’t admit it, suh,” he said in his molasses-slow drawl. “But he’s worn himself to a shade. Can’t stop him from waitin’ on the gub’ment types. You know him. He don’ want to disappoint nobody.”

Alex rubbed at the headache that was blooming behind his eyes. “Should we ban those gentlemen from the house, Sweet?”

The little man had a wry smile. “You gonna tell ’im, suh?”

Alex suddenly felt exhausted. He couldn’t ask his father about the letters. He couldn’t go to Drake until he did. He couldn’t protect Fiona until he cleared his own mess up. And somehow he had to convince his father to hand off his responsibilities for a while. And that all had to be handled before he even thought of what he felt for Fiona and what that meant.

Then it occurred to him. The man who had threatened Alex about his father’s letters was dead. How could Alex know his father was safe? How could he leave him behind with no more than his house staff to protect him?

He was still rubbing his eyes when Soames approached. “Excuse me, sir. There was a note left for you. From a gentleman Sir Joseph contacted.”

Bugger it all.
The runner. Didn’t that just put the icing on the cake? Alex didn’t say a word as he collected the slip of paper.