Текст книги "The Vanishing Thief"

Автор книги: Kate Parker

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

“It was an accident. Drowning.”

I lowered my head and said a silent prayer for this life cut short. Then I said, “Will you show me?”

He led me outside and walked slowly with me. Her grave was past the oak tree in the sunshine. Her gravestone was large, but it only said her name, her dates of birth and death, and Beloved sister.

“The duke must have been beside himself.”

“Yes.”

“Was he the one who found her?”

“He was in London. Took him until dawn the next day to return here after we sent the telegraph. He was on a borrowed horse, splattered with mud, and ready to fall out of the saddle he was so tired.”

I couldn’t picture the duke in that state. He must have been heartbroken. “Does he come back here often?”

“Once a quarter, to visit her and check on the estate.”

Her death changed everything I knew about the Duke of Blackford. He’d kept his sister’s death a secret in defiance of law and custom. Did he hold Nicholas Drake responsible? I could barely contain my excitement over this clue to our case and the duke’s mind, but there was one more thing I hoped to discover in this village. “Did you know Nicholas Drake? He was from here.”

“Before my time. I’ve only been here three years.”

“And the Carters?”

He pointed. “That’s their house over there. Second one from the end.”

“Thank you.” I started in that direction, but the vicar called after me.

When I turned, he said, “This is a close community. Don’t bring trouble from the outside world to their doors. Especially trouble that doesn’t concern them.”

The priest must have known Lady Margaret’s death was being kept secret from the outside world. I didn’t know why he’d gone along with what had to be the duke’s idea, but it didn’t matter. “What trouble could I bring here? I’m sure no one here cares about the records of the peerage.”

“Everyone is very loyal to the duke.”

With a nod, I walked to the small, two-story stone cottage so like its neighbors. At my knock, an old lady opened the stout door a few inches. The doorway felt so low I ducked slightly. “I’ve recently spoken to the Carters’ daughter Anne and would like to bring her greetings to her parents.”

The door opened wider. “I’m Mrs. Carter. Anne’s mother. Come in. You’ve seen Annie? How is she?”

There was a second door to enter, as low and thick as the first, and then I was in a dim parlor with lace curtains at the small windows, no fire in the fireplace, and stiff, uncomfortable-looking chairs.

When I opened my mouth to answer, she said, “No, wait. Sit down, please. I’ll fix tea and call Anne’s da.” She bustled out of the room. “Papa, come here, please,” she shouted to someone.

I sat, admiring the braided rug on the plank floor and wondering how long it would be until someone reappeared. And how long I could breathe the musty coal-fire smell in this chilly room without sneezing.

Finally, a man as ancient as the woman appeared and sat down across from me. “Ma says you’ve seen Annie.”

“Yes, she’s in good health and sends her greetings.”

“She shamed us, she did. Did she tell you about going to prison? And all because of that lout she married.” He stared fiercely through faded blue eyes set in leathery, wrinkled skin.

I stared back. “She’s still married to him. They’re in London.”

“As long as they don’t come back here.” He waved a hand and looked away.

The old woman returned carrying the tea tray. “Annie’s in London, you say?”

“Yes, ma’am. She’s there with Nicholas Drake, in good health and spirits.”

“I’m surprised she found him once she got out of prison. I would have thought he’d abandon her, him with his fancy ways,” the old man said.

“They’re together and quite happy,” I reported, hoping my words were true. I could see their daughter loved Drake. I wasn’t certain of his feelings.

“Good,” the woman said, handing me a cup of tea. “It must have been a long journey to reach here.”

“Two days.” The tea was hot and weak.

“Why’d ye come? It wasn’t to see us,” the man said.

“I had business at the castle. Shame about Lady Margaret.”

“Annie helped in the nursery in her first job when Lady Margaret was small. She thought Lady Margaret was the most beautiful creature. And she was. But no one ever said no to her until she went to London. The shock was too much and destroyed her,” the woman said.

I took a sip of tea while I considered her words. Trying to sound only mildly interested, I said, “But drowning. How terrible.”

“Not as terrible as it was for those who had the watch of her, letting her escape. They didn’t find her body until daylight, caught on some rocks at the mouth of the river.” The man sounded like he relished the story, giving a jerky nod when he finished.

“Letting her escape? She was a prisoner?”

“Aye, orders of His Grace. She’d already tried to run away once before.”

“Why do you think she didn’t take the road and the bridge if she was running away from the castle? What would she gain by trying to escape by sea?”

“Perhaps it was a different escape she had in mind,” Mr. Carter said.

“Oh, don’t say that. ’Tis a sin and you know it. Lady Margaret loved life. ’Twas an accident, was all,” his wife told him in a sharp voice.

It took me a moment to take in the full measure of their words. Steering the conversation away from this new possibility as I digested it, I asked, “Do your daughter and Nicholas Drake know what happened to Lady Margaret?”

“Of course. At least Annie does. I told her when I visited her in prison. Terrible place,” her mother said.

“What did Annie tell you about Lady Margaret as a child? I heard she liked to pretend the Vikings were coming to Blackford Castle.”

“Aye, she did that. Imaginative little sprite she was. Spent a lot of time in the garden asking all sorts of questions about the flowers. Then when she got a little older, she became interested in the healers and apothecaries of the olden days. She knew good flowers and plants from poisonous ones before she could read well or do her sums. Her painting and sketching were marvels, but she hated to do needlework. Said it was too predictable.” Mrs. Carter smiled.

“Too imaginative by half, I’d say. Left on her own with no one but servants and governesses, and if you told her no, you’d be out on your ear,” Mr. Carter grumbled.

“You told her no a time or two, and you kept your post,” Mrs. Carter said.

“Only because the duke, father and son, respect a man for the work he does, and I did good work until the arthritics took over my body,” Mr. Carter said. “And she couldn’t drown me like she did her pets.”

“She only did that the once, and it was an accident.”

“What about all those kittens and puppies we found drowned over the years?”

I shuddered at the picture forming in my mind.

“But we know that wasn’t her, don’t we?” Mrs. Carter said.

“We do know it were her. The whole village knew.”

“That was only a daft rumor.”

“There seemed to have been a lot of rumors about Lady Margaret. Whether she meant to end up in the water, whether she was the one who drowned kittens and puppies. Are there any other rumors?” Hateful things, rumors, but I needed to know what was being said in the village where people knew her better than anywhere else.

“’Twasn’t rumor. ’Twas fact,” Mr. Carter said.

“It was all nasty rumor. She was a spoiled, lonely little girl, and not well loved around here for it. That’s the truth,” Mrs. Carter said.

“Rubbish,” Mr. Carter said.

I didn’t want to get sidetracked by what sounded like an old quarrel. “Drake worked for the family, too, didn’t he? As a footman? So he must know the duke.”

I must have spoken too eagerly, since the old man looked at me sharply. “Aye, he did and knows the duke. The duke knows him, too.”

Then why didn’t the duke point out Drake’s lies when he was engaged to Victoria Dutton-Cox? What would make someone like the Duke of Blackford put up with Drake infiltrating polite society posing as an aristocrat?

Unfortunately, the Carters didn’t know any more, or they weren’t willing to tell me. Whatever secrets Lady Margaret brought here wouldn’t be revealed to me.

I walked around the village and returned to the inn in time for my dinner. I needn’t have hurried. I was served, alone, by the hatchet-faced proprietress in the parlor bar while men’s raucous laughter could be heard from the main bar. I was certain no one in the other room was eating overboiled potatoes, mushy greens, and stringy mutton, or they wouldn’t have been laughing.

I had nearly abandoned the effort of struggling through eating deliberately bad cooking when the manageress returned with an equally grim-looking woman. “You have a visitor.”

Smiling, I said, “Won’t you sit down?”

The two women stood looking down at me. “Why are you here?” scowling woman number two said.

“I didn’t realize it was your business.”

“I’m His Grace’s housekeeper. You came to the castle. That makes it my business.”

“I came to see Lady Margaret.”

“She’s dead.”

“Yes. I saw her gravestone.” This conversation was almost as unpalatable as the dinner.

“And then you spoke to the Carters.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I was bringing their daughter’s regards.”

“You know Anne?”

“I also know His Grace.” I expected her to threaten me with telling Blackford I’d been there. I thought I’d better nip that nonsense in the bud, and then maybe I’d find out what she really wanted.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Then don’t.”

“If you’ve finished with your business with Lady Margaret, I suggest you leave in the morning.”

I saw a chance and decided to take it. “Not quite finished. Perhaps you can help me. What’s the truth behind the drowning of puppies and kittens in this village?”

The two women looked at each other and the room grew quiet. Even the noise from the bar lessened, as if the men were waiting for a reply. “You know about that?”

“Yes.”

“’Twasn’t Lady Margaret.”

I patted the back of the chair next to me. “Tell me.”

The proprietress nodded to her, and the woman sat. “There’s a young man in the village who wasn’t born with all his wits. He followed Lady Margaret around, and she always had a puppy or kitten with her. She drowned one kitten herself, while carrying the creature when she was trying to climb into a boat. She slipped and nearly fell in herself. The young man was there and saw what happened.”

She shook her head. “After that, her pets would be found drowned after a few weeks or a few months. No one understood why, and for a long time Lady Margaret was suspected, despite that she was upset at their deaths. It was finally discovered that the young man was to blame.”

“Was there evidence against him?”

The woman nodded. “Caught in the act. However, Lady Margaret was fanciful, temperamental, spoiled. She was feared in the village because if something didn’t go her way, someone would pay.”

“Pay?” That didn’t sound good.

“Outsiders would get sacked, but not without a good reference and a month’s wages. Villagers would be warned to stay away for a few weeks or shifted to another post. This didn’t happen as often as folks will tell you now that she’s gone.”

The woman stared at the fire for a moment and then continued. “Lady Margaret spent most of the little time she had with her family alone with the duke, and a duke has real power. Her idea of what was normal was warped. Especially after her mother’s death. Until then, her mother was her whole world. After that, no one had the heart to say no to her.”

“What happened to her mother?”

“You know the duke. Ask him.”

I planned to as soon as I reached London.

*

TWO DAYS LATER, I arrived back home to find Sir Broderick had called a meeting of the Archivist Society for that night. Proclaiming that I couldn’t face another hour with the grime and soot of travel on me, I left Frances Atterby helping Emma in the bookshop while I heated water in the gas geyser and poured myself a bath.

After four days of smoking railway engines, bouncing horse carts on dusty roads, crowded train cars, and lumpy beds, sinking into a tub of steaming hot water was glorious. While my body reveled in the twin pleasures of heat and soap, my mind studied what I’d learned on the trip. The locals appeared to suspect Lady Margaret of killing herself that night two years before and I was left wondering why. Did guilt drag her into the water?

And that led me back to Victoria Dutton-Cox’s puzzling death. I had no answers there. After letting my thoughts run in circles a few times, I picked up the sponge and rubbed down my skin.

If I’d found understanding Margaret’s and Victoria’s motives difficult, my parents’ killer was a complete enigma. Why had he killed my parents? Why had I seen nothing of him for a dozen years? His face haunted my dreams. That was my first investigation and my one failure. I needed to find him.

After a good soak and a scrub, I felt human and ready to face anything. Even reasons beyond my understanding.

*

PHYLLIDA HAD ALREADY unpacked for me and laid out clean clothes. She gave me the welcome news that there’d been no domestic accidents and there were spring peas for dinner.

She helped me dress in a white shirtwaist and blue skirt, but instead of going to the shop, I put on my cloak, hat, and gloves and went to Hyde Park Place. At that time of day, the sidewalk was busy with well-dressed men and women heading home from shopping or visiting or meeting with their men of affairs. Traffic on the street was busy with hansom cabs and carriages traveling between the City or Regent Street and the wealthy residential area on this side of Hyde Park.

I walked slowly along a four-block stretch, looking at every top-hatted man around me before I turned and strolled in the opposite direction. After my second circuit, a bobby stared as if considering whether I was up to no good, but I gave him a big smile as I walked past and he appeared to ignore me after that.

Clouds were blocking the sun, bringing an early end to the day and speeding pedestrians along their way. I couldn’t tarry much longer looking for my prey, when I heard, “I doubt you’ll find Drake along here.”

I swung around to find myself facing the Duke of Blackford, an umbrella replacing his usual walking stick. “No, I’m here on a different search entirely.”

“I hadn’t heard the Archivist Society handles more than one investigation at a time.”

“We don’t. This is a private matter.”

He raised his eyebrows.

I was saved from answering as a fat raindrop hit my nose. The duke put up his umbrella instantly and held it over both of us. “There’s a tea shop nearby on Oxford Street. Shall we have a cup of tea while we wait out the storm?”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

His smug smile made me think he’d offered to save me from a soaking for the pleasure of forcing me to call him “Your Grace.” I had to hurry to keep up with him, although he didn’t appear to be rushing. We arrived before we were dripping. The duke arranged for us to have a table by one of the windows to share a pot of tea and some biscuits.

“This is very kind of you.”

“My father raised me to be a gentleman. And while he’d never approve of leaving a lady out in the rain, he would expect me to ask why she was walking slowly along a busy sidewalk for quite some time.”

Our tea arrived and neither of us spoke until I’d served us both. “I told you, it’s a private matter.”

“Not so private that you can’t tell me. Who are you looking for?”

“What makes you think I’m looking for someone?”

He glared at me. “Please, Miss Fenchurch, don’t treat me like a mental defective. You were slowly walking down a major sidewalk staring at every passing man. I repeat, who are you looking for?”

“You’ll laugh at me.” Sir Broderick had told me it was hopeless.

“No. I won’t. I can tell it’s important to you.” His expression showed genuine interest.

“I’m looking for the man who killed my parents.”

“Why here? Why now? Didn’t your parents die years ago?”

“Yes, they did. However, I recently saw their murderer walking down that sidewalk. I was on an omnibus, and by the time I climbed down, he was gone. I’m hoping he has a reason to be in this area and I’ll see him again.”

“Have you looked for him before?”

“Every day for the past dozen years. Not actively, but I’d walk down the sidewalk, see a top hat, and immediately glance at the man’s face. The day I met you was the first time I’d seen him since the day my parents died.”

“You’re certain it was him?”

“Yes,” I snapped. I held up my hands. “Sorry. You sound like Sir Broderick.”

“Sir Broderick doubts you?”

“Yes.”

“Has he ever spotted someone he thought was that man?”

“He couldn’t. He wasn’t there when my parents and I were taken hostage. When I escaped, I ran to him as my father’s partner and as someone who knew how to take care of himself.”

I shivered, knowing it wasn’t from watching the rain fall. “When I pulled Sir Broderick out of the burning cottage after the beam fell on him, I saw our abductor standing nearby. Sir Broderick was unconscious at that point, or nearly so. And that was the last time I saw that horrible man. Until recently.”

The duke stared at me for so long I began to wish he’d say something. He reached over and touched the bare back of my hand with his fingertip. His skin was warm against my flesh. I reveled in his gentleness and the intimacy of the contact. A touch that overcame the differences in our stations in life and shouted out our human connection. I could love a man who said so much with one small gesture.

“You pulled Sir Broderick, a much larger person, out of a burning building?”

“Yes.”

“How?” He took a sip of tea while he waited for my answer.

“The cottage was being renovated. There was a lot of lumber around. I grabbed some boards and worked them under the fallen beam to raise it enough to drag Sir Broderick out.”

“You did that alone?”

“Yes.” Then I realized—“You don’t believe me.”

I started to rise, but the duke gestured with one hand for me to sit. “I believe you. What I find amazing is the amount of physical effort you put into your rescue.”

Sitting again, I took a sip of tea to keep from crying. “I can’t believe how badly I failed.”

“You saved his life.”

“His legs were crushed. And I couldn’t get back in to help my parents. The roof collapsed. I did a very bad job of saving anyone.”

“I find it amazing anyone survived. That two people did is a testament to your ingenuity.” He tapped his fingertip on the back of my hand again. “Can you tell me where this cottage was?”

“I’m not likely to forget. Why?”

“Somebody owned it a dozen years ago. That might give you a hint to who your mystery man is.” He ran one finger along my hand to my wrist. His touch felt like a warm breath and made my insides tremble.

I dragged my mind back to our conversation. “We tried that at the time. Neither the owner of the property nor the farm manager had anything to do with what happened. I met the farm manager, and the owner was in Egypt.”

“Still, give me the location of this cottage. I may be able to learn something useful.”

I was suspicious. “Why would you want to assist us in finding a man who’s done nothing to you? Our interests are similar concerning Mr. Drake, and you don’t want our help.”

“Give me a chance to try to help find this killer to repay you for your help at the Arlingtons’ ball. At worst, you’ll know as much as you do now. Let me talk to some people for you.”

I was grateful for his help. The duke had contacts I would never have. With his aid, I might finally find this elusive man.

I held out my hand to him across the tea table. “Thank you, Your Grace. I accept your offer.”

Chapter Eighteen

SHORTLY after we closed the bookshop that evening, Emma, Frances Atterby, and I ate fish, peas, and potatoes with Phyllida. After the terrible meals I’d had while traveling, I was grateful for Phyllida’s artistry with herbs and seasonings.

After dinner, we walked to Sir Broderick’s. Our conversation traveled from sales at the bookshop to the latest news in the neighborhood. I caught Emma’s eye and she gave a small nod. Neither of us mentioned the stealthy footsteps following us to the meeting, but I saw Emma ready the knife in her grip. Each soft step felt like a tiny jab in my spine, and I wanted to run to the safety of Sir Broderick’s front door.

Warmer spring weather had descended on London in my absence, but Sir Broderick’s fire burned as hot as ever and he sat as close. I thought I would melt as I walked over to him.

“Was your trip successful?”

“It was certainly surprising. Are you ready for me to start?”

“Have a cup of tea first. We have a lot to go over tonight. The ball is tomorrow. Hopefully your dresses will be delivered to Lady Westover’s in the morning.”

My stomach did a painful flip. “And if they’re not?”

“It’ll be hard to be the Fire Queen in your normal attire.”

He grinned and I looked down at the clothes I’d worn while having tea with the duke and then working in the bookshop. Blue skirt, white shirtwaist. Professional. Middle class. Ordinary. There was nothing extraordinary or regal about me. I needed the disguise of being wrapped in flame-colored material and rubies to act the part of a queen.

By the time we poured tea and Frances had two of Dominique’s scones, Fogarty had arrived and Jacob came up to join our meeting. Sir Broderick looked around and said, “We have a great deal to cover tonight. I’m going to recap what you’ve told me previously, and then we’ll learn what information is to be added.”

He settled in his wheeled chair and began. “Nicholas Drake, a known thief and blackmailer, was the victim of an attempted abduction. He escaped to his home outside Hounslow, where an attempt was made on his life. A friend of his, Harry Conover, was killed in his place. Nicholas Drake has since gone to his home in the London suburbs, from which he hasn’t strayed. We have someone watching the house day and night.”

Because of my trip, I was four days behind. “Have we notified the police of who was killed in Hounslow and who the target really was?”

Sir Broderick gave me a wry smile. “We have. The police have been less than pleased with our help. Our choices for attacker include the dukes of Blackford and Merville; the Earl of Waxpool; and Lords Naylard, Dutton-Cox, and Hancock. And then we found we could add the current Lord Caphart.”

I paused my teacup halfway to my mouth. “Lady Caphart was the one to sell Drake the cottage in Hounslow. Something new’s come out?”

“It turns out after leaving his wife Anne in prison and arriving in London, Drake went to work as a footman for the dowager Lady Caphart. She had inherited a few properties from her family as well as many works of art. Shortly before her death, she gave Drake the property in Hounslow and a couple of Renaissance paintings. He sold the paintings and bought his house in town. He kept the house in the Hounslow countryside for himself while he rented out the adjoining acreage to a nearby farmer.”

“And?” There was more. There had to be more.

“After Lady Caphart’s death, the current Lord Caphart found out his mother had given expensive gifts to a footman she hadn’t employed long and had a lawyer look into it. They lacked proof, but accusations of theft and forgery flew. Lord Caphart swore he’d get even, but he says he had nothing to do with the attacks on Drake.”

“What do you think?”

“Lord Caphart has been at his country estate until the day before yesterday, confined to his bed with pneumonia for the past four weeks. I don’t think his mind was on Drake.”

“Another possibility gone bad. I wish someone would slip up.” One day to go and we had no idea who was after Drake or why we were attending the ball. I felt the presence of a puppet master pulling everyone’s strings, but finding him was like walking in a strange neighborhood during a thick fog. I was unlikely to do anything but get lost.

Especially since I kept coming back to one puzzling suspect, one I didn’t want to consider. Blackford.

Sir Broderick started ticking our suspects off on his fingers. “Naylard doesn’t care that his sister converted. Blackmail over. Waxpool sent his son away to France and ended any possible embezzlement and the blackmail in a single day. The Mervilles are still paying blackmail over a child they don’t want society to know about, but Drake hasn’t proven to be greedy. They can afford it. Dutton-Cox married off his problem, and his son-in-law refused to pay a farthing.”

I remembered the scene when I learned about the Dutton-Coxes and felt my body overheat. Despite her large family, Lady Dutton-Cox seemed more alone than I was. She had everything but lacked what she wanted most. I pitied her.

“Georgia, you’re very red. Are you all right?” Frances asked.

“Probably just fatigued from my travels.” Then I recalled Viscountess Dalrymple’s confession. “The son-in-law refused to find out who was being blackmailed in private and Drake wouldn’t speak out in front of witnesses. Apparently, the viscount thinks what he doesn’t know is better for his marriage and his peace of mind.”

Jacob laughed. “It must be hard to blackmail someone when they don’t want to find out what you’re selling. Have we been able to confirm these stories?”

Sir Broderick said, “Some. We don’t have independent testimony to prove Merville’s willingness to continue to pay or whether Waxpool’s son embezzled from the family. The viscount, Dutton-Cox’s son-in-law, sent Drake packing from his club by ordering the doorman to throw Drake out bodily in front of a dozen witnesses. Naylard cheerfully admits to turning Drake down at his sister’s insistence while wondering if he should have, since he and Drake are friends. That young peer is hopeless.”

I waved at Sir Broderick as a thought struck me. “Have any of them been told Drake was killed or about his miraculous resurrection?”

“So far as we can tell, the only one who knows Drake might have been killed was the man who ordered his death.”

“So we still have Hancock and Blackford as suspects. And Waxpool has been lying to us.” I told them what I’d learned from Lady Julia Waxpool about her father’s secret and Drake’s blackmailing him with his incriminating love letters.

“Lady Julia is right,” Fogarty said. “As long as her father stays in France, nothing can be done to him here. By the time Waxpool’s son has to return, Drake may no longer have the letters or be in a position to use them.”

“Time may be against them. I’ve heard Waxpool hasn’t long to live,” Sir Broderick said.

“A dying man can’t chase after someone young and fit like Drake,” Jacob pointed out.

“Waxpool has a manservant, Price, who the old man bragged to me about at Lady Westover’s. Price will do anything Waxpool tells him to do. The earl may want to remove the threat of blackmail from the title before he dies, fearing his son will destroy the family fortune to save himself from prison.” I shook my head. “Poor Lady Julia.”

“Waxpool may also be worried about the family name. Consider him a suspect,” Sir Broderick said. Ticking the names off on his fingers, he continued, “Hancock is in deep financial trouble, which makes him a good suspect but not a good candidate for blackmail. The market for his one big invention is drying up as new chemicals make it obsolete, and nothing he’s worked on since has found a viable application. In fact, his inventions have a nasty habit of blowing up and injuring the people they are supposed to help.”

Sir Broderick shifted in his chair before he continued. “Any unentailed land the family had here or at his country home was sold off long ago. No, blackmailing Hancock wouldn’t have gained Drake anything, so I doubt he tried very hard.”

“Hancock tried to sell an old book to me for ten times what it’s worth,” I told them.

“Did he seem desperate?” Sir Broderick asked.

“He seemed angry.”

“The Duke of Blackford, however, is still a mystery.” Sir Broderick stared at me as if daring me to refute his words.

“Not any longer.” I had to tell them. “Lady Margaret, Blackford’s sister, died nearly two years ago from drowning near their country estate. She’s buried in the churchyard under her own name, but the death was never reported to the authorities, so it doesn’t appear in the books on the peerage. Anne Drake knew about the death from her mother.”

“And presumably she told her husband,” Emma said.

“What I don’t understand is why Blackford, who would recognize Drake from when he was a footman for his family, didn’t give him away when he met Drake out in polite society spending time with Blackford’s fiancée. Drake pretended to be descended from French aristocracy, but Blackford knew his true lineage.” Blackford was the only one in the group whose actions made no sense to me. Perhaps that was why I found him so fascinating.

“Do we know if Blackford is paying blackmail to Drake?” Fogarty asked.

“We don’t know. Blackford did admit Emma and I are to be bait tomorrow night,” I answered.

“Do we have any idea what’s behind Blackford’s plan for the masked ball?” Sir Broderick asked.

“No.” I could feel tension mounting in the room. All signs were pointing toward Blackford, and, while he was up to something, I didn’t want to believe he was the one who’d hired thugs to attack Nicholas Drake in his home. Remembering the way he’d looked at me, I couldn’t believe he’d hire anyone to hurt me. And after meeting Sumner, there was no possibility I’d think Blackford would hire anyone so inept as to kill the wrong man.

I’d come to admire Blackford. I didn’t want him to be guilty. “Do we know who followed Conover to Hounslow on the train that night?”

Fogarty shook his head. “Two strangers got off the ten o’clock train. One went into the Red Lion and the other disappeared into the town. We haven’t been able to get a good description or find out when the second man returned to London.”

“That’s a dead end, then,” Sir Broderick said. “Jacob, you’re going to be one of the footmen for the ball tomorrow night. And you will be armed. Fogarty, we’re going to have to find a way to get you into that house as well.”