Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
“How fortuitous,” the Marquess interjected with forced cheerfulness. “We were just discussing the odds of encountering you here, weren’t we, Your Grace?”
Leo’s glacial gaze flicked briefly to his friend before returning to Beatrice with electric intensity.
“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” he hissed.
His voice was pitched low enough to avoid attracting further attention, yet it still sent a tremor of apprehension down her spine. His eyes, usually a glacial blue, had darkened to the threatening shade of a winter sea before a storm.
“I believe I’m assisting in the search for Philip and Anna,” Beatrice replied with a confidence she barely felt, conscious of the curious glances from passersby. “As I have every right to do.”
Leo’s jaw tightened, a muscle twitching beneath the taut skin. “Every right? When I expressly forbade—”
“You may be my husband, Your Grace, but you are not my keeper,” she interrupted, matching his low voice but infusing it with unmistakable determination. “Our arrangement gives you no authority to dictate my movements or decisions.”
The Marquess shifted uncomfortably beside them, his customary nonchalance momentarily abandoned. “Perhaps this discussion might be better continued elsewhere? We seem to be providing rather compelling entertainment for the neighborhood.”
Leo ignored his friend’s suggestion, stepping closer to Beatrice until scarcely a handspan separated them.
His proximity sent an unwelcome flutter through her chest, a reaction that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the peculiar awareness that seemed to manifest whenever he occupied her immediate space.
“You have placed yourself in danger,” he said, each word precisely articulated. “And compromised our investigation through sheer stubborn impulsivity.”
“On the contrary,” Beatrice countered, lifting her chin in the gesture of defiance that had become habitual in their exchanges. “I’ve expanded your resources. A woman seeking another woman is far less conspicuous than two gentlemen inquiring after a missing maid.”
His eyes narrowed, the logic of her argument clearly penetrating despite his evident irritation.
For a moment, they stood in charged silence. Their faces were close enough that she could detect the faint scent of mint on his breath as well as the coolness that seemed to radiate from his skin even in the close air of the London street.
“If I might interject,” the Marquess ventured, inserting himself between them with delicate precision, “we are still in full view of at least a dozen interested onlookers, and our purpose here was discretion, was it not? Perhaps we might continue this… marital discourse in a less public venue?”
Leo’s gaze remained fixed on her for a moment longer before he stepped back, his expression settling into lines of displeasure.
“Very well,” he conceded with evident reluctance. “But you will remain by my side at all times and follow my instructions without question. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly,” Beatrice agreed, the sweetness of her tone belied by the determined glint in her eyes.
Leo’s mouth tightened further, but he merely offered his arm with rigid formality.
“The boarding house first,” he decided, addressing both of them. “The landlord may prove more forthcoming with a second interview.”
As they approached the modest establishment, Beatrice became acutely aware of the disparity between this neighborhood and the privileged environments she had known all her life.
The buildings, though respectable, bore the marks of practical economy rather than aesthetic consideration. Laundry hung from upper windows, children played in narrow alleys, and the mingled scents of cooking, coal smoke, and human industry permeated the air.
“The accommodations of Mr. Thompson,” the Marquess murmured, indicating a three-story structure with peeling paint around its windows. “A man of limited hospitality and even more limited information, if last night’s interview is any indication.”
The landlord who answered their knock looked precisely as the Marquess had described: a stout individual whose initial expression of impatient inquiry transformed to wary hostility upon recognizing Leo.
“You again,” he muttered, attempting to close the door. “Told you everything I know. She’s gone, rent unpaid, and good riddance.”
Before Leo could respond with what would likely have been a demand for compliance, Beatrice stepped forward, allowing her hood to fall back just enough to reveal her face while maintaining the modest appearance of her borrowed garment.
“Mr. Thompson,” she addressed him, her voice gentle yet clear. “We understand your frustration regarding the unpaid rent. Perhaps this might ease that particular concern?”
She withdrew a sovereign from her reticule, allowing it to catch the meager light from the hallway.
The landlord’s expression shifted, calculation replacing outright hostility. “Don’t know what more I can tell you,” he grumbled, though his gaze remained fixed on the coin. “Left two weeks ago—in the middle of the night, from the sound of it. Took hardly anything with her.”
“Did anyone else come looking for her?” Beatrice asked, maintaining the gentle tone that seemed to disarm his suspicion in a way Leo’s authoritative approach had failed to do. “Before or after her departure?”
Mr. Thompson hesitated, his fingers rubbing at a stain on his waistcoat. “There was a gentleman,” he admitted reluctantly. “Came round asking questions the day before she left. Proper toff, he was, not like the usual sorts that come asking after my tenants.”
Leo and the Marquess exchanged a glance that suggested this information confirmed some private suspicion. Beatrice, sensing they were approaching something of consequence, continued her gentle interrogation.
“This gentleman, can you describe him? His manner of dress, perhaps?”
“Fine coat, proper tailoring,” Mr. Thompson replied, warming to the subject as Beatrice pressed the sovereign into his palm. “Walking stick with a silver knob. Spoke like you lot, proper fancy. Didn’t give a name, but he was no common gambler or tradesman, that’s for certain.”
“And after speaking with this gentleman, Anna left in haste?” Beatrice pressed, piecing together the sequence with careful precision.
“In the middle of the night.” Mr. Thompson nodded. “Heard her on the stairs, I did. Thought of stopping her, rent being due and all, but she was in such a state, I reckoned it wasn’t worth the trouble.”
“A state?” Leo interjected, his voice sharp with sudden interest.
“Frightened,” the landlord elaborated. “Muttering to herself, looking over her shoulder. Said something about being watched and needing to get away.”
Beatrice thanked him for his cooperation, recognizing that they had extracted all the useful information he could provide.
As they departed the boarding house, Leo drew her closer to his side, his expression grim.
“It seems Lord Westbury has been making inquiries of his own,” he observed, his voice pitched low for their ears only. “Thompson’s description matches him precisely.”
“Which suggests his interest in Philip extends beyond mere social curiosity,” Beatrice concluded, keeping pace with his longer strides despite the uneven cobblestones.
“It’s too dangerous,” he declared abruptly, halting their progress. “You should return to Mayfair immediately. Adrian will escort you—”
“Absolutely not,” Beatrice interrupted, facing him with unwavering resolve. “My presence has yielded more information in five minutes than your questioning yielded. I will not be dismissed when I have proven my value.”
Leo’s expression hardened, but before he could formulate what would undoubtedly have been a cutting response, the Marquess interjected.
“She does have a point, Leo,” he said, his tone carefully neutral despite the gravity of the situation. “The good Mr. Thompson was remarkably forthcoming with her approach, whereas he all but slammed the door in our faces before.”
“Your observation is neither requested nor appreciated,” Leo retorted, though his narrowed eyes suggested he could not entirely refute the argument.
“Perhaps we’re more effective as a trio than a duo,” the Marquess suggested, his customary levity returning. “The stern Duke, the charming Marquess, and the gentle Duchess. Each with their particular talent for extracting information.”
Leo’s glare could have frozen the Thames in August, but he offered no further objection as they continued their investigation.
Their next destination was a modest tavern situated within sight of the Gilded Lion. A strategic location, Lord Tillfield explained, where servants and patrons of the gaming hell might gather during off-hours.
The tavern’s interior presented a stark contrast to the elegant establishments Beatrice had previously frequented.
Low-beamed ceilings trapped the mingled scents of ale, tobacco, and unwashed bodies.
The patrons, primarily men of the working class, regarded their entrance with undisguised curiosity and, in some cases, blatant assessment that brought a flush to Beatrice’s cheeks despite her determination to appear unaffected.
Leo guided her to a corner table, positioning himself such that his body shielded her from the eyes of the room’s occupants. The Marquess procured ale for the gentlemen and a small beer for Beatrice, explaining in a whisper that the water in such establishments was best avoided altogether.
While the men conducted discreet inquiries, Beatrice observed the room with careful attention, noting the subtle interactions and exchanges that might escape casual observation.
Her gaze settled on two maids conversing in hushed tones near the kitchen entrance, one gesturing subtly toward their table while the other shook her head in evident warning.
“There,” she murmured, inclining her head slightly toward the pair. “Those girls know something. They’ve been watching us since we arrived.”
Leo followed her gaze, his expression skeptical. “More likely they’re curious about unusual patrons.”
“No,” Beatrice insisted. “The dark-haired one keeps glancing at us, then looks away whenever you turn in her direction. She’s nervous, not curious.”
Without waiting for his permission, she rose and approached the maids, adopting the gentle, unassuming manner that had proven effective with Mr. Thompson.
Leo half-rose from his seat, clearly alarmed by her action, but the Marquess placed a restraining hand on his arm, murmuring something that she could not hear.
“Excuse me,” Beatrice addressed the dark-haired maid, whose eyes widened with apprehension. “I couldn’t help but notice… Do you happen to know Anna Finley? We’re friends of hers, and we’re quite concerned for her well-being.”
The maid exchanged a look with her companion, who promptly made herself scarce.
“Don’t know anything about anybody,” she mumbled, attempting to edge past Beatrice toward the taproom.
“Please,” Beatrice persisted, her voice lowering. “We mean her no harm. Quite the opposite, we believe she may be in danger, and we wish to help her.”
Something in her earnest expression seemed to ease the maid’s wariness.
After a moment’s hesitation, she stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “She was here, ‘bout a week ago. Looking for work, she was. Said she couldn’t go back to the Gilded Lion.”
“Did she say why?” Beatrice asked gently.
“Said she was being watched,” the maid replied, her gaze darting nervously around the tavern. “Kept looking over her shoulder, jumping at shadows. Never seen anyone so frightened.”
By this time, Leo had approached, his presence both reassuring and somewhat intimidating as he towered over both women.
“Did she mention where she was going?” he pressed, his tone carefully modulated to avoid alarming the maid further.
She hesitated, clearly weighing the risk of further disclosure.
“She spoke of a cousin who lets rooms,” she admitted finally. “Out past the tannery, near the edge of town. Said it wasn’t much, but it was somewhere they wouldn’t think to look.”
“They?” Beatrice inquired. “Who was looking for her?”
“Didn’t mention the names.” The maid shook her head. “Just that there was a lord involved, and that he’d kill her if he found her. Said she knew something she shouldn’t, something about the Gilded Lion.”
Leo pressed a coin into the maid’s palm, securing her continued discretion. “The cousin’s name?” he asked. “Or the exact location?”
“Mrs. Fairfax,” the maid replied, her fingers closing reflexively around the unexpected bounty. “On Crescent Street, past the old tannery. Small house with blue shutters, or so Anna said.”
“Crescent Street,” Leo murmured.
“But we already know that, don’t we?” the Marquess said from behind him.
Leo nodded once. “Yes. I wanted to make certain that the information was correct,” he said, his strides purposeful, and Beatrice followed without complaint.
His hand rested on the small of her back as they exited the tavern. The touch, though clearly intended as guidance, sent a frisson of awareness through her.
“We should make haste before darkness falls. These streets become considerably less hospitable after nightfall.”
The Marquess hailed a hackney cab, and soon they were traversing the increasingly modest streets of outer London.
The elegant facades of Mayfair seemed a world away from the narrow houses and workshops that lined their route, their facades darkening as evening shadows lengthened across the cobblestones.
“You were rather impressive with that maid,” Leo observed, breaking the silence that had settled over their small party. “A natural talent for extracting information, my Duchess.”
Beatrice felt his gaze on her profile, though she kept her own fixed on the passing scenery.
“People respond to genuine concern,” she said simply. “The maid recognized that our interest in Anna stemmed from friendship rather than malice.”
“Friendship,” he echoed, the single word carrying an unspoken question. “An interesting characterization of your relationship with a woman you’ve never met.”
“We share a connection through Philip,” Beatrice offered, finally meeting his gaze. “And now, a common adversary in Lord Westbury.”
Leo’s expression remained inscrutable, though something flickered briefly in his eyes. A reassessment, perhaps, or reluctant acknowledgment of her reasoning.
The moment stretched between them, charged with an awareness that seemed entirely disconnected from their current mission.
“Here we are,” the Marquess announced as the cab lurched to a halt. “Crescent Street, in all its dubious glory.”