Chapter Twenty-One #3
Lord Whitehill turned to regard the table.
When he faced Edward, his expression had morphed from frustration to anger.
“Young man, you seem to be under some mistaken notion that you can speak to me as your equal and interrupt my afternoon with my wife. I suspect you believe I have something to do with that fire at the den of iniquity that Griffendale and Shiredale’s disgraced son support. ”
Undaunted by the blustering aristocrat, Edward stepped closer and stared into Whitehill’s eyes. “Did you have something to do with the fire?”
Lady Whitehill’s gasp blew across Franny’s neck.
The air crackled with danger as Whitehill squared his shoulders and met Edward’s intense glare.
“The truth is, I am not surprised someone tried to burn that building to the ground. I am not even sorry. But I had nothing to do with it. I have no idea who did it. I will say this; I do not have to lift a finger to discourage female empowerment because others are angry as the dickens. If those pugilists continue to peddle their nonsense to vulnerable ladies, they will remain a target.”
Franny clenched her fist and stepped toward Whitehill with every intention of releasing her pent-up anger on his haughty upturned nose. Jonathan grabbed her around her waist and hoisted her backward.
Although Edward’s stance remained predatory, the tension in his shoulders eased slightly. Meanwhile, the fire in Franny’s soul threatened to explode, and if it did, she might engulf the entirety of The Tea Rose in her flaming orbit.
“And you, Davenport,” Whitehill growled. “How dare you?”
“How dare I what?” Jonathan asked with a smart-arse grin.
Did Whitehill know that Jonathan had been flirting with his wife?
“How dare you bring them here?” Whitehill pointed back and forth between Franny and Edward. “You need to keep that out-of-control hellcat on a leash.”
Jonathan shrugged. “As far as I know, I can bring anyone I want here, whenever I want. And you might want to temper your insults because if I let go of the hellcat, I am not responsible for what she does to your person.”
By now, everyone in the establishment was watching the dramatic scene with wide eyes.
Their server approached. “Is there a problem, sir?” he asked Whitehill, his voice quavering.
“These people are disturbing me.” Whitehill waved his hand wildly.
“There was a man sitting over there.” Edward pointed at the table in the corner. “He just left. His face is both bruised and scarred. Who is he?”
The server’s mouth opened wide, forming an “O”.
“Do you mean Lance Gerald Huntington?” Lady Whitehill meekly asked.
“Who is he?” Edward might not be the wealthiest man in that room, but his commanding manner and voice left little doubt that he was the one in control.
“The third son of Lord Michelson,” Whitehill said. “Nothing but trouble. Michelson disowned him a few months ago. Why do you ask?”
“He comes in here every Tuesday afternoon and sits at that table,” the server added. “Always by himself.”
“Lord Whitehill, think,” Edward said. “Have you ever talked about Lady Milton’s jewelry collection while here?”
Whitehill’s brow furrowed, his anger replaced by confusion.
“Yes,” Lady Whitehill said. “I told you how much I admired her ruby and diamond set. Do you not remember, Maxwell?”
Whitehill’s eyes clouded over. He probably had no idea what his wife was referencing because men like him did not pay women an inkling of attention. Suddenly, Franny hoped Jonathan seduced Laura and brought her a moment or two of pleasure.
“Have you had any recent theft at your home?” Edward asked.
“Yes, my pearls,” Lady Whitehill said. “How did you know?”
“My lord, have you discussed your displeasure with The Silk Knuckles Saloon while here?” Edward swung his hand palm up, indicating the tearoom.
“ ’Tis none of your concern what I discuss,” Whitehill declared.
“Maxwell, was it not you who told Lord Michelson his son was a reprobate?” Lady Whitehill said.
Maybe Jonathan’s attentions had emboldened Whitehill’s wife to confess truths.
“Bloody fool,” Edward grumbled. “I wager you have discussed very personal things sitting in a public teahouse, and Lord Huntington’s disgraced son is eavesdropping on your conversations.” With that, Edward turned on his heel and stormed from the establishment.
His grip firm, Jonathan escorted Franny outside and did not let go of her elbow until they were in the carriage.
“Lord Whitehill is not behind the arson,” Edward said.
“How do you know?” Jonathan asked.
“He is a despicable man, but he told the truth,” Edward said. “I could see it in his eyes.”
“Is Lance Gerald Huntington Lancelot?” Franny asked.
“Yes. I would not be surprised if he carved his scar to look like Excalibur and took the name Lancelot to get back at his father. He probably sought out an establishment called The Round Table to add even more symbolism to the mystic he is creating, suggesting that this is simply a farce to seek revenge on Lord Huntington.”
Suddenly, everything made sense. Franny sat forward. “I’ve read many versions of Camelot. King Arthur was said to have a strained relationship with his father, Uther Pendragon.”
“Yes.” Edward nodded.
“But then, why target The Silk Knuckles?” Franny asked.
Edward shook his head. “I don’t know. I suppose we will have to ask him after we arrest him.” His pointed gaze slid to Jonathan. “Lord Davenport, what were you whispering to Lady Whitehill?”
“Operation Charm the Wife.” The viscount winked at Franny. “Believe me, it never fails. You will see.”