No true gentleman, p.17
No True Gentleman, page 17
Quickly, de Rohan scanned the paper with Sisk and Kemble staring over his shoulder. “Anyone look familiar?” Kem asked almost gleefully.
There were only three names. A wealthy American banker, a minor French count, and . . . Good God! Bentham Rutledge? The name was all too familiar to de Rohan. Rutledge was a rake and a gamester of the worst sort, and this was not the first time his name had turned up in a criminal investigation.
De Rohan must have sucked in his breath sharply. “Turns up like a bad penny, doesn’t he?” remarked Kemble, tapping a well-manicured fingertip on Rutledge’s name.
“Lady Sands was sleeping with him?” De Rohan could not hide his shock. “Why, he hardly seems polished enough—not to mention rich enough.”
Kem hesitated ever so slightly. “Well, just a quick tumble or two, so far as I can discover,” he confessed. “But remember, some women find rough edges appealing. After all, even you managed to get a dinner date this week.”
Spewing with sudden laughter, Sisk bent nearly double. De Rohan felt his face flame. “Keep your bloody opinions to yourself, Kemble.”
Kemble just smiled and pinched de Rohan on the arm. “Oh, don’t get your drawers in a knot!” he responded. “Unlike Rutledge, you’re fine enough in your ways, dear boy. It’s just your personality that’s rough-edged. And where did you find that farm-fresh lovely, anyway? My God, I’d kill for skin like that!”
“None of your business, Kem.” Swiftly, de Rohan urged Sisk back through the velvet curtains and into the shop.
Kemble followed them through the shop and jerked open the door. “Well, there’s a bit of intrigue! I know everyone in town—and I’d never seen her in my life.” Kemble handed the jewel chest over to Sisk with a calculated flourish, then gave it a little pat. “Now, off you go, boys! Time to break the bad news to old Harry.”
Chapter Ten
Take care that conversation
does not lead you into any impropriety.
—LORD CHESTERFIELD, 1776,
The Fine Gentleman’s Etiquette
After a rather dismal half-hour spent explaining to Lord Sands the unfortunate truth about his family jewels, de Rohan sent Sisk back to Queen Square with the jewel chest, which, technically speaking, had just become police evidence. It was agreed that he and Sisk would resume work later in the day. Hastily, de Rohan wolfed down a pork pie he’d snagged from a vendor in Green Park, then made his way toward the Chelsea Road. He arrived to discover that Mrs. Frier had let Nate into his flat, and set the boy to work. With a forced smile, de Rohan ruffled Nate’s hair and exchanged a few pleasantries.
When de Rohan had first gone in search of a suite of rooms near Whitehall, Mrs. Frier had looked upon Lucifer rather suspiciously, and after a scant two weeks in residence, the mastiff had fallen into outright disfavor. First, there’d been a “digestive indiscretion” deposited in the good lady’s rose garden. Then she’d caught sight of the “nose smears” on the windows. De Rohan had simply found himself a couple of buckets, and Nate, the erstwhile pickpocket, had found himself gainfully employed. Between the myriad errands the lad now performed within de Rohan’s two households, Nate could now feed his mother and six siblings.
De Rohan let his gaze drift over the boy’s tattered clothes. Dannazione! How, in a land of rampant plenty, could children be left to starve? Had the Revolution taught the English nothing? But he knew too well how little one man could do, and so he turned his mind to the wrong he had some hope of avenging, settling at his desk to jot down all that he’d learned from Kemble. He’d barely set pen to paper, however, when Nate’s chirpy voice cut into his thoughts.
“Yer looks fair fagged t’day, gov,” said the boy as he scrubbed the parlor window.
De Rohan looked up from his notes. “A bit, yes.”
Nate lifted one pale brow, all innocence and solicitude. “Late night, was it?”
“Umm,” agreed de Rohan vaguely.
Suddenly, he caught Nate glancing toward the small table where de Rohan washed and dried his meager dishes. “Must a’ had a bit o’ company last night, eh?” the boy persisted, his wet rag squealing across the glass. “See you got a couple o’ them fancy wine goblets laid out to dry.”
“Do I indeed?” An ugly suspicion began to dawn.
“I’m thinkin’ it must a’ been that Lucy Leonard,” continued the boy conversationally, his arm working in broad, sweeping circles. “A right proper armful, she is. Clean, too, and got all ’er teeth.”
With a muttered oath, de Rohan stretched out one hand, snapping his fingers impatiently. “Get down, Nate,” he growled. “Give it here.”
“Wha—?” demanded the urchin, holding up his hands. “I ain’t pinched nuffink.”
With utter confidence, de Rohan snapped his fingers again. “Nonna Sofia’s money,” he warned. “La bustarella! Subito! And don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”
For a moment, Nate looked as if he wasn’t at all sure which hand that might be. Nonna Sofia, de Rohan guessed, had been sharing her leftovers with more than just Lucifer. Finally, with a huff of resignation, Nate tossed down his rag and crammed his hand into his pocket, but his surrender was forestalled by Mrs. Frier’s knock. De Rohan opened the door to find his landlady, her nose tilted haughtily upward. Constable Sisk stood at her elbow, looking grubbier than before, if such a thing were possible.
“I brought the files,” the policeman grumbled.
Soon, de Rohan had set the kettle on and cleared the glassware from the small table. Together, he and Sisk hefted it nearer the windows. Sheepishly, Nate took up his wash bucket and slunk out into the garden to wipe the outside glass, and for the next hour de Rohan poured over Sisk’s records. Methodically, he compared his notes and sketches to Sisk’s, finding no discrepancies. Then he settled down to skim over the interviews again. There was nothing new or meaningful that he could see.
De Rohan gave a weary sigh and tossed down his pencil. “Blister it!” he whispered, frustrated. “Nothing!”
Sisk settled back in his chair, hooking his thumbs in the bearer of his trousers. “P’raps we’d best go over the suspects again. You went to that Lord Walrafen’s to-do on Friday night, didn’t you?”
De Rohan ran his finger up their list of names, stopping at the top three. “I spoke briefly to these gentlemen,” he explained, shaking his head. “But I daresay we’ve little prospect amongst them. Reeves in particular. He claims to have been drunk at the Oriental Club.”
“So the porter says,” Sisk grumbled. “Cast up his accounts on the card-room carpet.”
With a grunt of disgust, de Rohan marked off the name. “I heard.”
“And cross off Sir Everard Grant whilst you’re about it,” continued Sisk. “He spent the whole week at a fancy house party in Maidstone. Lots o’ witnesses there.”
De Rohan shoved himself away from the table with another oath. “Then why in God’s name did he deny even knowing Lady Sands?”
“Did ’e?” Sisk seemed unsurprised.
“Yes,” hissed de Rohan. “And now, you’re telling me he had an alibi and never mentioned it?”
For a long moment, the constable was oddly silent. “The fancy don’t care to bow to the police, de Rohan,” he finally answered. “You knows that as well as anyone. And you still got the hard, cold eyes of a Runner.”
When de Rohan opened his mouth to protest, Sisk lifted one hand to forestall him. “Oh, aye, you might be a fine Westminster beak now. But as far as the nobs ’re concerned, most of ’em still think you stink of Bow Street.”
“Thank you, Sisk, for your social commentary,” grumbled de Rohan, pressing the heels of his hand into his eyes.
Sisk shrugged ambivalently. “No insult meant. You were a bloody fine constable and a better Runner, for all that you’d no business being either. And w’ them languages you speak—why, it’s no wonder the River Police come beggin’ for you. Even after that all trouble wi—”
De Rohan cut him off with an icy glare.
“Aye, well, never mind that. I’m just telling how things are. You’re not like them. Hell, you’re not like me. So there it is, y’see?”
He did see. Sisk, devil take him, was right, and de Rohan had always known it. But only now had he begun to give a damn. To consider what he’d given up. Good God. He did not wish to think of that just now. “Back to Lady Sands,” he muttered, shoving away a stack of files. “Who’s next on our list?”
“Bodley.” The constable spat out the name like sour milk. “Says he was home alone, no witnesses. Frankly, I’d wager he was down at Covent Garden trying to diddle the little orange girls.”
De Rohan heaved a weary sigh. “Jesus, Sisk, you’re disgusting.”
Sisk yawned, then gave a little stretch. “Ah, well, it’s a disgusting world, de Rohan,” he said, scratching himself inappropriately. “Now, what of our pretty Mr. Vost? Anything there?”
De Rohan shook his head a little morosely. “I’m persuaded he’s done for, too. A wealthy widow showed up in my office yesterday to explain that Vost had been warming her bed that night. All night. She was very clear on that point.”
“Hmph,” said the constable. “What did Vost say?”
It was de Rohan’s turn to shrug. “Initially, he was vague. Protecting her reputation, of course. He may be a Queer Street rogue, but there must be a bit of the gentleman in him.”
Even Sisk looked disappointed now. “Aw, frig it,” he said, drawing a thick line over Rupert Vost’s name. “That leaves us w’ Kemble’s three. They’ve already sent Eversole and one o’ the magistrates to Calais to try ’n run that Frenchie count to ground.”
De Rohan was impressed. “So swiftly?”
Sisk smiled, showing all eight of his yellow teeth. “Yeah, but I s’pect it’ll come to naught, for he’s known in town, and got no motive as I can see. And then we’re down to . . .” He paused to squint mightily at his notebook. “Aye, just that scoundrel Rutledge, and Fordham, the banker from Philadelphia. Can’t find neither of ’em yet, but if Sands didn’t do the deed, then I’ll put two quid on Rutledge. Pure trouble, that ’un.”
“What do you mean?”
Sisk snapped shut his notebook. “Bad blood, I hear, on his sire’s side, though the old man’s long dead. But add that to the latest rumor which says he owes Tommy O’Halleran’s gaming hell two thousand pounds, and I’m thinking it was theft, plain and proper.”
Two thousand pounds? De Rohan heaved a sigh. “You’d best go look about Hampstead,” he muttered. “Rutledge sometimes holes up there.”
But he still couldn’t imagine the killer was Sands. Nor had he wished it to be Rutledge. The young man had gotten himself horribly entangled in the Nazareth Society murders, but based on what little de Rohan had seen, he hadn’t the look of a thief. Still, Rutledge was a wastrel who kept very low company.
Worse, de Rohan was uncomfortably close to withholding evidence, for he’d said nothing to Sisk of Dr. Greaves’s suspicions about an abortion. But the truth wouldn’t bode well for Sands. If Sands had guessed Julia was pregnant . . . well, no nobleman wanted another man’s child as his heir. But then there was Rutledge, another grim prospect. He’d lost a child once, de Rohan recalled. Initially, and irrationally, Rutledge had blamed the child’s mother. He’d been insane with anger and desperation. If he lost another babe by the hand of its mother . . . Dio, the thought was appalling. He looked pointedly at the constable. “Do you still think it was Sands?”
Sisk was just beginning to shake his head when Mrs. Frier knocked again, much more impatiently. With a deep sense of misgiving, de Rohan opened the door. This time, the good woman’s nose wasn’t just turned up; a steady rain could have drowned her. Max looked past her shoulder and started praying for a monsoon.
“A lady has called,” she coldly announced. “On police business!” The last was pronounced with the same chilly edge she had hitherto reserved for Lucifer’s rose garden faux pas.
In the shadows of the corridor, a tall woman threw back the hood of her red carriage cloak. “Good afternoon, Mr. de Rohan,” said Lady Catherine, her voice unusually soft and throaty. “I’ve come to deliver the materials her ladyship promised last night.” She held up a remarkably large rosewood lap desk and gave it a little twitch.
He stared at Catherine’s burden, and memory stirred. Lady Sands’s personal effects! Cecilia had said she’d bring them. So why was Catherine here? “Where is Lady Delacourt?” he demanded.
Catherine feigned innocence. “I believe the babe still had a touch of colic, and his lordship was called to a special session in the House.”
“Then how kind of you to help out, ma’am,” he said, reaching out his hand to take the lap desk by its handle.
But Catherine did not surrender so easily. “There are also some things Cecilia bade me discuss with you, Mr. de Rohan,” she interjected. “In private.”
Mrs. Frier began to tap her toe disapprovingly.
Max was astonished. Catherine meant to come in? Mrs. Frier would ruin her good name. Certainly, he could not introduce her to a boor like Sisk. And it was beyond foolishness to let Nate get a glimpse of her. Still, he was almost as glad to see her as he was angry with her for being so foolish as to come. But why should he turn her away? He was tasked with stopping crime and corruption, not feminine folly. If Catherine had no better sense than to call upon a man in his private lodgings, on her head be it.
She was looking at him impatiently. “I suppose you mean to come in?” he responded.
With a faintly apologetic nod, Catherine swished her skirts around Mrs. Frier, who thumped shut the door at once. Sisk, of course, was already on his feet, grinning like a river rat as he ineffectually smoothed the wrinkles from his yellow waistcoat. In the garden beyond, Nate had plastered half his face to the window glass in a wet, pink smear of flesh so that he might better peer inside. It only wanted a barking seal, a trick pony, and a burst of applause to complete the horrible sensation that de Rohan was standing naked in the center of Astley’s Amphitheater.
Catherine seized control, thrusting out her empty hand at the grinning policeman. “Catherine Wodeway,” she murmured, eschewing her title. “I’m just running an errand for a friend.”
The policeman’s smile grew to his ears. “Charmed, mum,” he answered, eyeing her assessingly. “I’m P. C. Sisk, Westminster Police Court, and I’m just running—”
“Along,” interjected Max, violently sweeping up the files and thrusting them at Sisk. “As in leaving. Now. He’s expected back at Queen Square.”
“True! Very true!” agreed Sisk, waving back at Catherine as Max propelled him inexorably toward the door. “A pleasure, Mrs. Wodeway! A pleasure!” Shooting Max one last speculative grin, Sisk winked and slipped away, his arms wrapped awkwardly about the bundle of papers.
Max turned to Catherine, the skin drawn tight around his mouth. “Sit down,” he barked, striding across the room to deal with Nate.
Catherine tried not to laugh at Max’s obvious irritation. Clearly, he did not normally entertain ladies in his lodgings. On that rather intriguing thought, she watched as he stalked across the room to yank open the french door. “Nathaniel Corcoran!” he roared at the boy in the window. “Come down this instant!”
At once, the lad scrambled down from his perch, dropping his wet rag into the bucket at Max’s feet and slopping soapy water over his boots. Max did not seem to care. Instead, he jerked a surprisingly thick roll of banknotes from his coat pocket and ripped one off.
“La bustarella, blister it!” he growled, thrusting it at the wide-eyed boy. “And if so much as a whisper of this passes from your lips to you-know-who’s ear, I’ll be serving your gizzard as Lucifer’s luncheon.”
The lad rocked back on his heels and studied Max through slitted eyes. “I get to keep the signora’s money, too?” he challenged, stuffing the note into his trousers.
“You’ll put it in Father O’Flynn’s alms-box!” grumbled Max. “Now, out over the garden wall! And don’t let Mrs. Frier see you leave.” But just as the boy went slithering over the stone enclosure, Max’s parlor door cracked again, and Sisk poked his head back in. Max whipped around to glare at him.
“The lady’s maid!” Sisk demanded, thrusting out his hand and snapping his fingers impatiently.
“What—?” roared Max.
“Genevieve Durrett. You left ’er statement out.” Impatiently, Sisk motioned toward the desk. “Give it ’ere. I’m ter question the chit again tomorrow.”
With short, impatient motions, Max rifled through a pile of papers on his table and extracted something. Soon the flurry of activity was over. Nate was gone, Sisk had finally vanished, and Max had bolted all the doors behind them. A grim silence fell across the room.
“Perhaps,” Catherine mordantly suggested, “you might wish to draw the draperies as well?”
Max rounded on her at that. “Lady Catherine,” he harshly began. “What on earth do you think you’re doing here?”
Catherine tried to look confident. “Nothing as exciting as you seem to think, I’m afraid,” she answered, sliding out of her carriage cloak. “Dare I hope you’re at least a little disappointed?”
She passed her cloak to Max, and in a true testament to his loss of composure, he did not notice. Instead, he merely stared. “This is a bachelor’s household,” he reminded her. “And you are a lady. An unmarried lady. For the nonce, my landlady will assume the boy is here, but you need to go.”
His voice was harsh, but his eyes, she saw, were already softening at the corners. Relieved, Catherine simply tossed her cloak over a blanket-covered settle. “It’s all right, Max, really,” she said, discreetly waving away the ensuing cloud of dust and dog hair. “I’ve two of Delacourt’s brawniest footmen outside. I’m sure they’ll leap to my aid should you decide to make some inappropriate advance upon my delicate, ladylike personage.”
