Chapter Thirty-Two
“What do you mean he’s gone?” Gideon demand of the customs office clerk. “He’s on a break, off for the day, on holiday? Speak, man.”
The young man’s eyes bugged in response to Gideon’s temper.
He was getting nowhere. He asked himself how Gwen would handle the situation, then sent the man a genial smile. “What is your name?”
“H-Harry Fitzsimmons, sir.”
“Harry, I would like to speak with Mr. Rory on a rather urgent matter. You say he’s gone. By gone, am I to understand I should come back later today?”
Harry shook his head, appearing to relax. “He quit, sir, a month or so ago. Up and retired. Claimed he got some sort of inheritance from an ailing aunt and was looking forward to living a life of leisure. As for where he might be now, I can’t say.”
“Very good, Harry. You’ve been most helpful.” Gideon let himself out of the office and strode for the curb, frustration speeding his steps. Apparently he’d be hiring the runner who’d located Mrs. Kennedy again.
On the street, he reached into his pocket to retrieve some coins, tossing them to the urchin who’d volunteered to keep an eye on Gideon’s phaeton, then hefted himself onto the box. With a snap of the reins, he started for the fashionable neighborhood where Brice and Lady Mary resided.
Unfortunately, he’d promised to accompany Brice in calling on Lloyd’s this morning to apprise them of the Home Office’s decision to close the file on its investigation into Gideon’s possible involvement in the stolen rifles.
Having Gideon along to weigh in on the matter likely had merit, as it would apply no small amount of pressure on the insurance company to close their own investigation and pay out.
Brice, as always, needed funds—especially now that he’d taken up with Mrs. Trent. Not that Brice’s arguably negligent financial practices concerned Gideon one way or the other. He did, however, feel a certain amount of gratitude toward Mrs. Dove-Lyon who had provided him the means to come home.
The means. Gideon snorted. She’d bloody matched him. She’d offered to do so numerous times, and Gideon had always turned her down flat. Now, he was exceedingly glad he had—not that he would admit that to anyone, much less the Black Widow of Whitehall.
He’d get her money for her, though. With Bessie, money talked.
In all, it had not taken more than a quarter of an hour for Brice and Gideon to conclude their business at Lloyd’s. Gideon might be able to track down the runner after all.
The Lloyd’s’s agent with whom they spoke had assured them an enquiry would be sent to Sir Phillip and, after they received confirmation that Gideon was incontrovertibly cleared, they would close the investigation and process the claim.
“I knew they would dance to your tune, Gid,” Brice said once they stood on the paved walkway outside the posh office. “I never knew a man luckier than you.”
Gideon shrugged. “The fact I’m walking around a free man does lend credibility to my claim of innocence. I find it interesting you keep calling that fact lucky.”
Brice scowled. “You must admit, in general, you are a lucky chap.” He slanted Gideon a coy look as they made for their respective equipages. “You don’t find yourself lucky to have met and married Mrs. Devereux?”
“You make a good point.”
Brice slapped his thigh. “By God, I never thought I’d see the day some chit had you by the throat.”
Gideon studied Brice. He didn’t know if he was annoyed, amused, or appalled—because Brice had the right of it. He opted to leave it alone. “I’ll see you later.”
“What’s your hurry? What’s say we visit one of our clubs for a bite and a draught?”
Gideon shook his head. “Not today. I have need of a runner and want to get him started as quickly as possible.”
“A runner?”
“I went to have a conversation with the London customs official today, that man, Rory, and learned he’d recently retired.”
Brice arched his brows and fished in his pocket for change for the street urchin guarding their rides. “Why should you care if some government official has retired?” He handed the boy several shillings and then eyed Gideon.
“If you must know, I believe there’s a possibility he was involved in the rifle caper.”
Brice’s eyes went wide with evident shock. “How in God’s name did you leap to that conclusion? And why are you investigating, Gid? Let the Home Office do their job. I assure you, they are quite good at it.”
He arched a brow. “So good at it, they nearly accused me of treason.”
Brice tugged at his white, lacy cuffs. “There is that. All right, you have piqued my curiosity. Why do you think he’s involved?”
“I believe he lied about my shipments coming in light.”
He seemed to consider that. “What would that do for him?”
“Look Brice, I haven’t the time to—”
He held up a hand. “This is serious, Gideon. The man held a position of trust. I really must insist you explain yourself, and, in return, if I can assist you, I will.”
Gideon crossed his arms over his chest. “Assist me? How?”
“Through my connections at the Home Office, I may be able to track down this Rory’s address, if I feel there’s sufficient cause.”
“Very well. I believe he gammoned me with a purpose of misdirection. He wanted me out of the way, and he achieved that end.”
Brice rubbed an expertly manicured hand over his smooth jaw. “You’re saying Calcutta was all a lure? You found no evidence of any foul play, once there?”
“Correct.”
He nodded. “Then Kennedy and Rory were partners. They planned the whole thing.”
Gideon saw no point in defending his friend. It would only raise questions about where he’d learned of Rory’s involvement—Dirk’s wife. She was safely away from all of this, and Gideon meant to keep her that way. He had failed his friend in life, he would not fail him in death.
“Give me the rest of today to see what I can come up with. If you’re right, the Home Office owes you a bloody medal.”
Gideon deposited his phaeton in the mews and started for the town house. A simmering anticipation coursed through him over the prospect of seeing his wife. He was fairly certain he’d find her home as he saw that the carriage was safely stowed in its stall.
Mayhap she would have time for a short break from her endeavors. Mayhap, a long break.
One of his footmen came trotting around the corner, breaking into his pleasant revery.
“You there, Murphy, isn’t it?”
The footman halted, coming to attention at once. “Yes, sir. Good afternoon, sir.”
“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” Gideon asked, although he had a pretty good guess it had something to do with Gwen.
“Mrs. Devereux has requested the carriage be readied at once, sir. She…er…indicated she was in a bit of hurry.”
Bloody hell. “Go on, then. We don’t want to keep her waiting.” Gideon picked up his own pace. If Gwen was in a hurry, it stood to reason something had occurred to put her in that state.
Gwen paced Gideon’s den, unable to sit still while she waited for the carriage to be brought ’round. Those wily stakeholders. Those tricksters. Thinking they could pull the rug from under her feet.
The sound of the front door opening and closing stopped her in her tracks. She stared at the open door. Surely, Murphy, the footman would be coming from the back of the house.
Which meant Gideon had returned home.
Fisting up her skirts, she raced to the sofa and dropped onto it, trying to appear relaxed, as if she hadn’t received another vexing letter from the Bell & Company stakeholders.
His handsome visage appeared in the doorway. From the corner of her eye, she watched him search the room ’til his gaze fell on her.
“Good afternoon, madam. I passed one of my footmen en route for the mews as I made my way home. On an errand for you, I understand.”
She glanced up. “Oh, hello, Gideon. As a matter of fact, yes, I have an impending meeting with the Ladies’ Literary Society.”
He sauntered toward her, his green-gold gaze warming. “I see. Based on your hurry, I gather it was not previously scheduled—unless you forgot the appointment?”
She went for a breezy tone. “No, I did not forget. As it happens, it was recently called.” At her behest, she silently added, the heat of battle bubbling up inside her once more.
“Everything all right?”
Waggling her fingers in a dismissive manner, she answered, “Oh, a small miscommunication between myself and the stakeholders. Nothing I can’t handle.” She lifted her chin.
Gideon’s eyes narrowed as he lowered slowly onto the sofa beside her. The subtle scent of his woodsy, understated cologne wafted toward her, tantalizing and elusive. Despite being up in the boughs over the challenge she faced—one she meant to meet with alacrity—her stomach shivered in delight.
“Gwen?” The low rumble of his voice curled through her. “Why do I get the feeling your stakeholders are proving more difficult than you imagined? And am I to understand you plan to discuss the situation with your friends, but do not wish to do so with me?”
Gideon’s insightfulness, though she found it admirable in most instances, could be most annoying. “As I said, a small hurdle, and I am discussing the missive I received with my friends because they are essential to my solution.”
“I’m confused. Are you talking about a miscommunication, or a hurdle? You used both terms.”
She glanced toward the open door. Would the carriage never arrive? “Sir, I really haven’t time to mince words with you over such a minuscule matter.” She turned back to him. “Tell me. How did your visit with Mr. Rory go? Did you learn anything useful from the customs agent?”
He eyed her a long moment, and she sensed he was deciding whether to answer her, or press her for more information. Finally, his mouth firmed. “The answer is complicated. I propose we discuss everything in detail later tonight—after dinner.”
After dinner could only mean one thing. He wished to convene with her in his chamber. Her heartbeat skittered.