Chapter Eight #2
Gramma turned too. “Has a good seat on a horse, does he not?”
Prue couldn’t help laughing. “Gramma, you are outrageous!”
“I’ve heard the gossip. A rake, of course. Perfect for a dalliance, but not to marry. And he won’t do you a bit of good, my girl. You’re far too young for dalliances. You need a good, malleable husband.”
Prue sighed. Hadn’t she come to that realization herself? “Oh, Gramma. Can’t I marry for love?”
“Yes, my dear. I pray you will. But not a rogue, Prudence. He would break your heart.”
*
Jack’s good friend, Damian Beaufort, Earl of Ballantine, had observed the two women walking away down the path. His quizzical brown eyes looked at Jack. “Lady Aldridge. She’s quite a character.”
“And who was the stunning young woman with her?” Damian’s wife, Diana, Countess of Ballantine, asked. “I didn’t see her during the Season. Do you know her, Lucy?”
“I’ve never met her. I’m sure I’d remember. She is quite striking.” Lucy Fairburn, Countess of Dorchester, tugged the reins as her mount grew restive at the delay.
“But then, we are so seldom in Town since the twins were born.” Hugh, Earl of Dorchester, smiled fondly at his wife.
“I doubt you’ll see Lady Prudence much in Society for a while,” Jack said. “She is in mourning for her father.”
“Oh, how sad,” Lucy said.
“What is your interest in her, Jack?” Diana asked, her eyes dancing. “She is not one of your closely held secrets, I trust?”
Jack laughed. “Before you both turn it into an affair of the heart, I promise I shall tell you more of her story.”
“Oh, yes, do!” both ladies said in unison.
“When?” Diana asked.
Jack winked at Damian. “Perhaps when we dine at the Royal on Friday evening.”
“Oh, you are a tease.” Diana sighed. “Do let’s move on.” She nudged her horse into a trot, and they followed.
Jack cast a look back to see the two women walking away. His friends had happy marriages. It was indeed possible for some people. But it would be foolish for him to consider it even should he come to care for someone. Not with the work he did, which he had no intention of giving up.
Early the following morning, Jack departed London, driving his curricle down Portsmouth Road.
He’d disliked seeing the shadows in Lady Prudence’s lovely, sea-green eyes.
There was grit, too, evident in her firm chin.
It appeared she was still determined to find out who’d murdered her father.
He wanted to ease her concerns if he could.
But should the murder be related to the ring of saboteurs the Home Office was investigating, he would be unable to tell her about it; his work by necessity, had to remain secret.
He drove on, with the hope that a visit to the magistrate would offer something to give him a lead.
At the moment, he had nothing. Their investigation of the suspected saboteurs had failed to produce anything credible, and Jack hated being left in limbo.
He preferred to act. It was against his nature to kick his heels and wait for something to turn up.
People tended to speak out against the government and talk was cheap.
But to be so committed to change that they sanctioned such a violent crime? Home Office needed to find them.
It was past midday when he entered the home of the magistrate, Sir John, in Guilford. A footman showed him into the study. “Good to see you, Sir John.”
“And you, Lord Hereford.” The middle-aged man rose from behind his desk to shake Jack’s hand.
He had thinning ginger hair, his gray-green eyes revealing keen intelligence.
Sir John waved Jack to a chair. “I have some information to impart. Not much, nor as conclusive as we should like, but it could lead somewhere.”
Jack sat as Sir John cleared his throat.
“A possible suspect,” Sir John continued. “Or should I say probable? He has not been seen in this part of the country before and was observed on the Portsmouth Road, and again in the village not far from the earl’s estate.”
“Do you have a good description of the man?”
“Sources in Wandsworth and Esher reported a stranger who stopped for a meal and to water his horse. Their descriptions tally. He’s of lean build with dark whiskers.
Has an abrupt manner. Swarthy, someone said.
Dark eyes. He wore a brown coat with a black hat.
It appears he rode down from London. I know that doesn’t help much. The city is a big place.”
“Quite so.” Jack rubbed his jaw. “But it tells us that it was not a local matter. It’s possible he’s a hired assassin.”
“Although the question remains as to why anyone would want to murder Lord Sedgwick,” Sir John said. “A most personable gentleman.”
“Precisely, and I intend to find his killer.”
Sir John made to rise. “I wish I had more to tell you. May I offer you coffee or wine or something to eat, my lord, before you return?”
“No, thank you, Sir John. I’ll leave for London immediately. You might tell me where to locate those who saw this fellow, if you will. I’ll stop and have a word with them on my way. Perhaps I can ascertain from what area of the city the man came.”
Jack took to the road again. When he reached Esher, a small, sleepy village, he reined in at the stables where the farrier, Jeremy McBain, who had dealt with the man in question, curried a roan mare.
At his inquiry, McBain removed his hat and scratched his head.
“He waited while I shod his horse. Sullen fellow who gave little away about himself. But my daughter was here and managed to satisfy her curiosity. East End was my guess. Something he said to her led me to believe he came from the Stepney area. Wasn’t forthcoming about where he was headed, however.
Somewhere in the city is my guess.” He hung up the curry brush.
“Asked him what he was doing down this way, but he wouldn’t say. ”
Jack was sure he had the answer to that. But Stepney was a large parish in the East End. He hoped for a better description. “Can you describe him?”
“Mm. Brown coat and black breeches. Lean and dark, with longish hair and whiskers. My young daughter thought he looked poetic.” He shrugged. “So, as you can imagine, I was relieved when he rode on.”
“Did you see him again?”
“No, thank the Lord.”
The farrier’s pretty daughter came in and shyly bobbed.
Jack smiled. “Miss McBain. Can you add anything more to your father’s description of the stranger?”
She raised her head from toying with a piece of straw, her cheeks pink. “He had a tattoo on his neck here.” She pointed to just below her ear. “I’ve never seen one before. Papa thought he might have been in the navy.”
“Or a pirate, more like,” her father added.
“Can you describe the tattoo?” Jack asked.
“A rose with a dagger through it,” she said, her big, gray eyes wide. “I asked him what it meant, and he laughed. Said it was a sign of prowess, strength.” She pouted at her father. “Then Papa told me to go and help me mam.”
Taking his leave, Jack thanked her, making her blush again.
She came out to watch him as he climbed into his curricle and took up the reins.
Leaving the village behind, he drove along the road toward London, passing a packed stagecoach racing toward the city, the customers clinging perilously to their seats on the roof.
He still knew frustratingly little about this man who, he was confident, had shot Lord Sedgewick.
But he wasn’t ready to consider the trip a waste of time.
On impulse, he stopped again in Wandsworth to quench his thirst and water his horse. He questioned the tavern owner, who remembered having words with the man.
Jack came away with an interesting piece of information. Drinking his ale, the fellow had let slip how he lived within the shadow of the East End theater. He’d remarked on the new, fascinating gas-lit stage.
It was a large area to cover, but Jack didn’t give up easily. He was confident he would hunt him down. A man such as this would be sure to visit his favorite tavern. Jack just had to be there when he did.