Chapter 5 #2
The rhythmic tick of the mantel clock was the only sound in the study until the door creaked open.
He didn’t even bother to look up. “Unless someone is bleeding, this interruption had better be worth it.”
His sister’s voice floated in. “There you are.”
Raising his head, he replied, “Indeed. Here I am—doing something terribly trivial, like working.”
Charlotte waltzed in, looking wholly unrepentant, and dropped into the chair across from him with a dramatic sigh. “I’m bored.”
Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose. “So naturally, you’ve come to torment me.”
She smiled sweetly and tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “We should go to Gunter’s for lemon ice. It’s far too fine a day to waste it with figures.”
“I’m busy.”
“I can see that,” she replied, her tone infuriatingly light. “But you could take a small break to spend time with your devoted sister. Couldn’t you?”
Alistair sighed and closed the ledger. His eyes stung from squinting at columns. “What if we go in an hour?”
Charlotte shook her head. “We mustn’t go too late since we’re expected at Lady Devon’s ball this evening.”
He sat up straighter. That could not be right. “Pardon?”
“I told you about it.”
“No, you did not.”
“I’m quite certain I did,” she said with a vague wave of her hand. “You probably just forgot.”
He leaned back, glaring. “Convenient.”
Charlotte’s eyes twinkled. “You never listen when I speak of such things.”
“Because I don’t want to go to such things.”
“You must. I’ve already confirmed our attendance. It would be beyond rude to decline now.” She paused, then added slyly, “Besides, what if Lady Jane attends?”
His entire body stiffened. “What of it?”
“She saved your life, Alistair. You would let her walk into a ball alone, with no ally in sight?”
He frowned. “I doubt Jane would attend.”
“You don’t know that for certain,” Charlotte replied. “And are you really willing to take that chance?”
He resisted the urge to groan aloud. This was a trap, and he was walking into it. “I suppose I could send a message to Lord Westmere’s townhouse and inquire if they will be in attendance this evening.”
Charlotte grinned. “That would be pointless. She’s no longer there.”
“She’s not?”
Her expression turned smug. “Her aunt arrived this morning and whisked her away. She’s now residing in Mayfair, at a townhouse let out by Lady Cosima.”
“Lady Cosima?” Alistair repeated, startled. “That Lady Cosima?”
“The very same,” Charlotte replied with relish. “The townhouse once belonged to Lord Wollet. It’s one of the grandest in London. Fitting, considering Lady Cosima is rumored to be wealthier than the king.”
He stared at his sister. “How do you know all this?”
Charlotte lifted one shoulder. “You’d be amazed what one learns by listening to the servants.”
“Eavesdropping, you mean.”
She sniffed. “Is it eavesdropping if it’s within your own home?”
“Yes.”
“Well, we shall have to agree to disagree.”
Alistair closed his eyes for a moment, praying for patience. “Back to Lady Devon’s ball, then.”
Charlotte perked up. “So we’re going?”
As much as he hated to concede, he thought it was for the best. “Very well. But we are not staying until dawn.”
“Of course not. You need your beauty sleep.”
He reached for the quill again. “I should like to finish another ledger before we depart for Gunter’s.”
“What if we went now?”
He looked at her. “You won’t leave until I agree, will you?”
“You know me so well.”
With a reluctant smile, he stood. “We can go now, but only because I need a reprieve from numbers.”
Before she could reply, Malone stepped into the room. “Lord Warwicke would like a moment of your time, my lord.”
“I need to speak with you,” Warwicke said, striding into the study without waiting for permission.
Alistair nodded. “Of course.”
Warwicke turned to Charlotte. “Miss Winslow.”
She dipped into a graceful curtsy. “My lord,” she murmured, then cast Alistair a knowing look. “I shall wait in the entry hall.”
As soon as she exited, Warwicke’s jovial expression faded. “The men who attacked you have been apprehended. They’re in Newgate.”
Alistair’s attention sharpened at once. “That’s excellent news.”
Warwicke’s face remained grim. “Not quite. They’ve refused to confess. The magistrate says there’s little evidence to hold them. We need you—and Lady Jane—to make a positive identification.”
Alistair’s heart sank. “I remember pieces. But it all happened so fast.”
“Exactly,” Warwicke said. “That’s why we need Lady Jane. Between the two of you, we might make a case strong enough to press them harder.”
He braced his hands on the desk. “Surely there’s another way since I don’t want Jane to set foot in a place like Newgate.”
“There isn’t. They’re only being held out of courtesy to me. The magistrate is running out of patience.”
“How did you even find them?”
Warwicke’s mouth curved into a half-smile. “Someone was bragging about roughing up a war hero turned viscount. Didn’t take long to make sense of things.”
“Did they say why they did it?”
“No. They’ve been maddeningly quiet. That’s why we need more. A clear identification will give us cause to press them harder.”
“You mean torture?” Alistair asked.
Warwicke’s face grew solemn. “We don’t like to use that word.” He paused. “Did you hear about Mark Austen?”
“I did. Did you serve with him?”
“No, but I know you did.”
“For a few months. He was a good man.”
Warwicke’s arms folded. “His death occurred within days of your attack. That doesn’t feel like a coincidence.”
“I considered a connection myself,” he admitted, “but I could not see one. So I dismissed it.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“I am,” he said firmly.
Warwicke didn’t look convinced. “Then think harder. Something’s afoot.”
He turned to leave, but Alistair called after him, “Is that all?”
“Did you expect more?” Warwicke asked.
“Not really.” Alistair glanced at the doorway. “Charlotte and I are going to Gunter’s. Would you care to join us?”
Warwicke opened the door. “No. I’m going home to my wife.” He tipped his head. “Miss Winslow.”
Of course, she was there, hovering just outside the room. Eavesdropping, as always. “You may come in, Charlotte,” Alistair said.
She stepped in, looking entirely unashamed. “You must convince Lady Jane to go to Newgate. She’s the key.”
Alistair gave her a long, exasperated look. “Truly, eavesdropping?”
Charlotte only lifted her chin. “I maintain that it isn’t eavesdropping if it’s in one’s own home.”
“You would be wrong,” Alistair said. “Come, let us go to Gunter’s.”
Charlotte beamed, victorious. “A wise decision. It is a good thing I instructed Malone to have the coach brought around ten minutes ago.”
Alistair gave her a sidelong glance. She was always two steps ahead when she wanted something.
As they stepped out into the warm afternoon sun, the sounds of the street greeted them—clattering hooves, distant shouting, the hum of London’s pulse.
Their coach waited at the curb, glossy and dark, with the family crest discreetly painted near the door.
But before they could reach it, a man stepped forward from the edge of the pavement.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, his presence solid and deliberate. Alistair’s instincts, honed on battlefields and in officers’ tents, immediately prickled.
“Lord Alcott, a word, if I may.”
Alistair stopped, his eyes narrowing at the unfamiliar man. “Who are you?”
The stranger adjusted the leather satchel strap on his shoulder. “Lord Luca Dexter,” he replied. “I wished to speak with you regarding your recent attack.”
Every muscle in Alistair’s body tensed. “No.”
He turned towards the coach, intent on ending the conversation, but Lord Luca stepped closer, unruffled.
“I understand you served with Mark Austen,” he continued, his tone calm but probing. “A man who, as you may know, was found dead in an alley only days ago.”
Alistair froze mid-step, jaw tightening. Mark Austen. The name stirred a mixture of grief and guilt in his chest. “What is it that you want?” he asked, voice clipped.
“Do you think there’s a connection between his death and your assault?”
“No,” Alistair replied curtly.
The man pressed on. “Then why is Lord Warwicke investigating both incidents?”
Alistair’s head snapped towards him. “How would you know that?”
Lord Luca merely smiled. “I have my ways. I assure you, I am not your enemy.”
Before Alistair could respond, Charlotte interjected. “You’re the man who purchased The London Gazette.”
Lord Luca turned his attention to her and dipped into a courtly bow. “I am indeed. And you must be the lovely Miss Winslow who has the ton so enamored.”
A faint scoff escaped her. “Flattery, my lord?”
“It is not flattery if it’s true,” he replied.
Charlotte raised her chin. “Well, I do believe I will wait in the coach.” She turned on her heel, but not before casting Lord Luca a final, appraising glance.
Alistair’s eyes followed her into the coach, then cut back to Lord Luca. The man’s gaze lingered a fraction too long on Charlotte’s retreating form, and Alistair felt a flare of protectiveness rise in his chest.
“Good day, Lord Luca,” he said, his tone brooking no argument.
But the infuriating man wasn’t done. He reached into his coat and pulled out a calling card, extending it to Alistair. “Should you remember anything—anything at all—I’d be grateful to hear from you.”
Alistair accepted the card, more out of habit than intention. “I wouldn’t hold your breath,” he muttered.
Without waiting for a response, he climbed into the coach and shut the door behind him with a firm click.