Chapter Fourteen
Lady Mary
I didn’t think I’d ever seen a black as dark as Lord Richford’s mourning garb. It seemed to suck in all the light around it, even making the white of his cravat seem dull in comparison.
The day of Lady Richford’s funeral would have been warm except for the constant blowing of the wind. Without a cleansing rain in weeks, the sky was sepia-tinted, making even the heavens look as dirty as this whole sordid affair was.
The funeral was well attended, the section of St. James’s cemetery where the viscountess was buried a veritable crush of somber greys and deep blues and purples.
The back rows of mourners had little chance of actually seeing Lady Richford’s casket lowered into the grave, or hearing the minister’s sonorous words as the wind whipped them away.
Being a white-haired society matron had its benefits. Most people gave way to me out of politeness, and when they didn’t, a well-placed strike to the shin with my walking stick did the trick. I had a front-row view of the funeral.
It wasn’t long. A chapter from Psalms was read.
A few prayers. A creed. But for Lord Richford, it wasn’t over soon enough.
As the gravediggers lowered the coffin into the earth, the viscount seemed to go down with it, his shoulders drooping, his knees sagging, until finally they hit the ground.
The viscount let out an undignified wail as he knelt before his wife’s grave.
Bannister frowned down at his father. He rested his hand on the viscount’s shoulder and squeezed.
It could have been a squeeze of sympathy, I supposed, but it looked more like one of rebuke.
The minister rushed over his last blessings.
Lord Richford’s grief was painful to witness.
Shifting in my low-heeled boots, I looked over the crowd.
Mr. Rollins was easy to spot, his auburn hair and top hat rising a foot above the women who seemed to have congregated around him.
I suppose I couldn’t blame the women. He was a good-looking man, and his job as a Bow Street Runner lent him an air of intrigue.
I didn’t see Miss Lynton, but she could have been hidden amongst the throngs.
I did, however, see one Mr. Enoch Ryder. He tipped his head when our gazes met. A woman next to him touched his arm, seeking his attention. He broke our connection to smile down at her.
I rubbed the seam where my fichu met my neckline.
Mr. Ryder appeared untroubled, serene even, an irritating quality for someone who was trying to destroy my business.
And, I reminded myself, for someone at the funeral of a woman who was violently murdered.
It was downright indecent to look so at peace.
Bannister raised his father to his feet and started guiding him out of the cemetery, an arm around the broken man’s shaking shoulders. A small form in a charcoal grey gown stepped in front of them.
Bannister’s eyebrows slammed together.
I tried to edge closer, threading my way between the departing mourners, to see who had brought such displeasure to Lady Richford’s son.
“Pardon me,” I said as I pushed past the minister, ignoring his pained expression when I accidentally stepped on his foot.
I skirted the open grave, found myself blocked by a group who had decided to chat instead of move out of my way, and marched up the slight incline on my right to circumvent them.
I heard Bannister’s sharp voice, his father’s appeasing one, but couldn’t make out their words.
“Lady Mary.” A man stepped into my path, blocking my way. “How lovely to see you again.”
I flicked my gaze to Mr. Cooke. He looked as piratical as ever, his finely-tailored swallowtail jacket a navy so dark it was almost indistinguishable from all the blacks around him.
He’d even managed to procure a rosebud of the same shade for the buttonhole in his lapel.
His silk breeches ended at the top of leather boots so finely crafted I knew even my nephew would be envious of them.
Crime paid well, and Mr. Cooke seemed to be enjoying the fruits of his sins.
I clutched at my hat as a strong gust of wind whipped through the cemetery. “Mr. Cooke.” Angling my body, I put Bannister, Lord Richford, and the woman in my sights. “What can I do for you?” If she would only turn her head. I could only see a slice of her cheek, the hint of her jaw.
“I wanted to apologize for my previous behavior.” He pressed his large, brown hand to his chest. “I was operating under a misapprehension.”
“Is that so?” I said, straining to see past him.
The woman turned, her eyes narrow as she spoke in a low voice to Bannister.
Miss Abbott looked as though she’d been crying, the skin around her eyes swollen, the tip of her nose red.
With a last remark, cutting if her expression was anything to go by, she spun on her heel and marched out of the cemetery.
In my conversations with both Miss Abbott and Bannister, I knew there was no love lost between the two, but what could have caused an argument by the side of Lady Richford’s grave? And in front of poor Lord Richford?
When I returned my attention to Mr. Cooke, he was glaring at me, chin lowered and eyebrow arched. He probably wasn’t used to being ignored.
I faced him fully. “What misapprehension was that?”
He gazed around the cemetery. The crowd was thinning, and we were garnering some curious glances, including one from Mr. Ryder.
There appeared to be a crack in his serenity now, a fact I found most interesting.
“Perhaps this is a conversation best held somewhere private,” Mr. Cooke said.
“Will you accompany me to the office at my club?”
I must admit I was curious what the office of such a man would look like. After he’d threatened me in my office, I’d done a bit of research on Mr. Cooke. Only a certain type of person had knowledge of Cooke, and those people spoke of him in hushed tones.
A criminal, Mr. Cooke had his finger in all the seedy pies of London’s underworld.
Gambling was his legitimate business, but I also heard tell of smuggling, robberies, and prostitution.
He didn’t engage in any of those activities personally, of course, but he directed the illicit activities like a foreman managed his factory workers.
I could hardly countenance that such a man was now within my realm of acquaintances. Life took such interesting turns. But with the reminder of violent death just next to me, I couldn’t find it in myself to be so reckless as to disappear into his office. I also didn’t want the man at my club again.
“Do you know Button’s Coffeehouse? If not, your driver can follow my carriage there.”
He nodded. “Privacy amongst the many.” He offered his arm, and seeing no polite way to object, I took it and let him lead me to my carriage. As he handed me in, I felt a disapproving gaze on my back, but that could have been my own conscience.
Fifteen minutes later, I was seated across from the man, two steaming cups of coffee before the both of us, mine heavily laden with cream and sugar, his, the devil’s black.
The coffeehouse was only half full, but the conversations were loud, bouncing off the uncovered wooden floors and walls, making it necessary to lean over the table to hear my companion.
“So, Mr. Cooke, what was it you wished to speak with me about?” I added one more lump of sugar to my brew before lifting it to my lips.
Coffee wasn’t my normal beverage of choice.
It was too bitter, too matter-of-fact. But there were some situations where the civility of tea seemed inappropriate, and the sweetness of chocolate, childish.
He watched all my motions with interest, his gaze assessing, curious.
It would have been flattering if I didn’t have the impression that he was looking for weaknesses, a wedge to give him leverage.
I’d seen a stuffed shark once at a naturalist exhibit, its black eyes and sharp teeth the thing of nightmares.
I had a feeling that Mr. Edric Cooke would have felt right at home in the ocean.
He rested his forearms on the table and laced his fingers together. “I want to start with an apology, Lady Mary. When last we spoke, I had made some assumptions that I now believe to be false. They led me to speak to you in an unforgivable manner.”
I did enjoy being apologized to. “Go on.”
The edges of his lips twitched. “It had come to my attention that for some months there were members of your club who were engaged in what might be termed a business competitive to mine. On a very small scale, of course, but I do like to keep track of such things in case….”
“The scale becomes larger?” And a potential threat.
“Just so.”
I tapped my thumb against my cup. “Your business interests are quite varied. Which type are we speaking of?”
He chuckled. “Very diplomatically asked. Let me just say that when I heard that a woman met with a fence in your club, I became curious. I reached out.”
A sudden chill iced my core. “Members are using my club to meet with a dealer in stolen goods?” I thought I ran a tight ship. I had a doorman, footmen who kept an eye out for trouble. It hardly seemed likely that clandestine meetings with criminals were occurring in the Tea Room.
He nodded. “And I assumed you knew and were taking a cut of the proceeds.”
I fear I gaped like a fish. I had been accused of many things in my lifetime, but never criminal behavior. “That’s absurd,” I finally managed to splutter out. “I would never.”
Mr. Cooke’s mouth broke into a full-out grin. “Wouldn’t you? What a pity.”
I ignored how handsome his face was when he smiled. I was too old to feel any sort of fluttering just because a rakehell decided to be charming. “Do you know who the woman was? The fence’s name?”
“I won’t tell you his name. He is not the sort of man with whom a woman like you should become acquainted.” His eyes went dark. “But the woman is one you know. We both attended her funeral today.”
I sat back in my chair. Lady Richford had been a viscountess, for heaven’s sake. Her husband a prominent member of the House of Lords. I knew virtue and vice were equally distributed among the classes, but if she had been caught, her and her family’s lives would have been ruined.
And it wasn’t as though she needed the money. I didn’t have a wealth requirement for my club, but my fees weren’t cheap. If one was a member, one had the means to pay. It didn’t make sense.
“Why?” I rubbed my temple, which showed the faintest beginnings of a megrim. “Was she a gambler? Was she in debt?” I looked to Mr. Cooke. He, after all, did run several gambling hells.
But he merely shrugged. “If she was playing cards, it wasn’t at my clubs.”
That was a thoroughly unsatisfactory answer. I frowned at the man. He’d opened up a Pandora’s box of motives and new suspects but without giving me any names to attach to the motives.
His eyes twinkled, expressing no guilt over his neglect.
“If you are ever interested in going into business together, I can assure you it would be highly profitable. I hadn’t thought of using women before for some of my…
activities, but they do have access to some things and places men do not.
And who would suspect them? Your club would make a useful location for certain meetings. ”
“Absolutely not.” I gathered my reticule and my walking stick from the seat next to me, my back stiff. Certain people already thought I and my club were immoral; I wasn’t going to prove them right. “Are you sure that you won’t give me the name of the person Lady Richford met with?”
“Positive.” He stood and cupped his palm under my elbow, helping me to rise.
I didn’t need the assistance, but I had to admit the gesture was appreciated.
I had servants, friends, family, but the common courtesies of a man helping a woman in intimate little ways were almost forgotten to me.
I had been a widow now for longer than I’d been married. The realization depressed me.
He guided me toward the door and out onto the street. “And are you sure you won’t change your mind about a business association?”
“I won’t.” I lifted my chin to let him know my seriousness.
“I believe you.” He held onto my arm until I was settled in my carriage.
He slid the window down before closing the door, then rested his elbow on the sill.
He tipped up the brim to his hat, setting it at a jaunty angle.
“Though I must admit, Lady Mary, it would be most amusing to try to get you to change your mind.”
And with one last nod, a smack to the side of the carriage, he strolled out of sight.
I called to my driver to be underway. Leaning back, I forced myself to look straight ahead, not seek out his form as we passed. Mr. Cooke was a devilishly irritating man.
He was also a dangerous one, a fact I shouldn’t forget. I felt in my reticule for the note I had decided to carry with me on a whim. The paper it was written on was thick, expensive, and to my fanciful mind, held a tinge of malice.
In Mr. Cooke’s line of work, he must be quite accustomed to making threats.
A man didn’t get to be as feared and powerful as he was by being considerate.
But I didn’t believe he had sent me this threat.
I couldn’t see Mr. Cooke writing the note, much less sending it anonymously.
He was much more direct, in both words and action.
His threats would come at the end of a pistol, no doubt.
Or would they come at the end of a cravat? If Cooke thought Lady Richford was encroaching on his business somehow, could he have sent someone to kill her?
I pressed a hand to my throat. I didn’t want to believe it of the man. I knew his reputation, but there was still something about him I liked.
But I’d been wrong before.