Chapter 7 #2
Mr Hawke studied her as a naturalist might study a rare beetle. “Does your hatred of him stem from being offered to the highest bidder, or is there something else you’ve not told me?”
The question struck where every woman was weakest. How could he know what it was like to be denied a voice?
But then she remembered the child lost on the street.
“Based on what you told me about your time with Mrs Haggert, you know what helplessness feels like.” Few men would admit it. “You escaped that life. I was still trapped in its cage.”
“Was? You still have one foot in the cage, Miss Harland. I sense there’s more you haven’t said.”
She wasn’t about to tell him his eyes reminded her of forbidden forests and twisted fairy tales, where the girl saved the prince.
“In that, we’re kindred spirits, Mr Hawke. Perhaps that’s why bartering for information is such an engaging pastime.”
The man gave an amused snort as he regarded her pelisse for the umpteenth time. As if needing to test the fabric, he took hold of her sleeve while helping her to the pavement.
The front door opened before they could knock. A young maid peered out, her lips pinched, her gaze wary. She eyed the carriage as if it were the Bedlam cart come to collect the master.
“Can I help you?” Her knuckles whitened around the doorjamb. “If you’re calling for Mr Brown, he ain’t home.”
Daphne studied the comely woman. Even an amateur sleuth could tell she was terrified. Not just that. Her vowels were polished, her skin scented with expensive soap, not tallow.
“We’re investigating a murder on the bridge last week.” Daphne considered asking to come inside but chose a different approach. “We seek answers to a few questions. We’re happy to converse on the doorstep.”
The maid’s chin quivered. “I didn’t see anything, ma’am. You’ll have to speak to Mr Brown. As I said, he ain’t here.”
“Is there a Mrs Brown we might speak to instead?” Daphne asked gently.
The girl shook her head. “No. Mr Brown’s a bachelor.”
“We’re trying to corroborate his statement.” Daphne leaned in slightly. She didn’t want to frighten the girl, but urgency crept up her spine. “A witness is often considered a suspect, and there are already whispers at Bow Street. I’m quite confident Mr Brown is not the killer.”
The last word caught in her throat, and she fumbled in her reticule for her handkerchief. Merely stage directions to fool the audience. What she hadn’t expected was Mr Hawke handing her his instead.
It was black, his monogram stitched in gold, the scent so enticing she nearly sighed aloud. Her knees went weak, which rather suited her performance.
“Forgive me.” She made the mistake of sniffing into his handkerchief—an act that felt far more intimate than staring at his firm calves in the shower-bath.
“The victim was my father.” She gestured to Mr Hawke, whose cologne ought to be labelled a dangerous substance.
“I’ve hired an agent recommended by the Home Secretary. ”
She contemplated giving him a ridiculous name like Mr Crabbit, but he spoke before she could introduce him.
“I’m a thorough man, miss. I’ll not see an innocent hanged just because those fools at Bow Street know no better.”
The maid glanced along the street before opening the door and welcoming them inside. She closed it firmly, sliding the bolt, as if Napoleon might come knocking.
“Come into the drawing room.”
The drawing room? Not the servant’s parlour?
Daphne exchanged a knowing glance with Mr Hawke before stepping through.
The room bore the hallmarks of genteel wealth: a Persian rug softened the floors, carved shelves flanked the marble fireplace, and sombre military prints lined the walls.
But among the masculine touches were subtler clues—violets on the escritoire, lace on the chairs, and a silk fan tucked behind a vase on the mantel.
The maid gestured to the sofa and sat in the fireside chair.
One thing was certain. Her duties here amounted to more than sweeping out the fireplace and turning down the bed.
Mr Hawke began with an important question. “Can you confirm that Mr Brown was out on the night in question?”
The maid nodded. “He said he was delivering a client’s accounts, though he never mentioned who. He also helps at the church, handing out food parcels to the poor in the squalid houses by the river.”
“The church hands out parcels at midnight?” he asked.
The maid’s chin quivered. “I don’t know, sir. That’s all he told me.”
“Did you wait up for him to return?”
“Yes.” She pressed her hand to her throat, as though trying to calm her voice. “I did that night. But I assure you, Mr Brown wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s the kindest soul.”
She was in love with Mr Brown. That much was clear.
“Where does he work?” Daphne asked.
“Here, ma’am.” She fidgeted with her hands in her lap. “He’s a scrivener. He writes up legal documents and contracts for all sorts of clients.”
Daphne didn’t miss the vague phrasing. All sorts of clients. But were they respectable men of trade, or the sort who ran protection rackets like the Moseley brothers? And if Mr Brown bent the rules for them on parchment, what else might he be willing to do?
Mr Hawke must have read her mind, though she hoped his talent for doing so was limited to their current enquiry.
“Has your employer ever mentioned the Moseley brothers?” he said, his voice measured. “They’re moneylenders who work out of a premises in Covent Garden.”
The woman pursed her lips and blinked as if she had grit in her eye. “No. I can’t say he has. But I’m only the maid.”
What tosh. There was a sherry glass beside the brandy snifter on the side table.
“But you can confirm he was agitated when he returned home the night he witnessed the murder?” She didn’t give the woman time to reply. “Did he come here first, or summon a constable?”
The maid looked overwhelmed. “I … erm. He found a watchman and visited the watch-house. It’s just around the corner on Charlotte Street. From there, I think they took him to Bow Street.”
“In Mr Brown’s statement, he claims he was on the riverbank.” Daphne leaned forward and gently squeezed the maid’s hand. “I have to ask, could he have seen the killer and been too afraid to say so?”
Mr Hawke added a sprinkle of menace to the pot. “It’s important you tell us, miss. His life may depend on it.”
That’s when the first crack in the dam appeared. A tremble swelled into a wracking sob. The maid dropped her head into her hands, shoulders shaking.
Daphne knelt beside her, rubbing the poor girl’s arm. “We only want the truth. Where is Mr Brown? There’s a reason you bolted the door behind us.”
“I don’t know,” she blurted.
“When did you last see him?” Daphne tried to sound concerned, but couldn’t help thinking Mr Brown was involved in the crime.
“Two days ago.” The maid glanced up through bloodshot eyes, her distress impossible to fake. “A carriage stopped outside. There was a row. He climbed in, and I’ve not heard a peep from him since.”
Daphne looked at Mr Hawke, who wore suspicion like an old coat. She lifted her brows in silent question: What now?
He stood, dragging his palms down his thighs, the fabric pulling taut over the muscle beneath. “We’ll need to search his study.”
The maid whimpered but was quick to refuse. “I can’t let you look through his personal papers. Not without his say-so.”
“Don’t you want to help us find him?” Mr Hawke’s tone could have frozen the fires in hell. “If he saw something that night, there’s a chance the killer means to silence him.”
That earned more tears, along with a lifted brow from Daphne.
He ignored her silent plea.
“We don’t care that you’re lovers. A man was murdered. Your employer knows something he’s not told Bow Street.”
“He doesn’t. Edward would have told me.”
Well, that confirmed they were close.
The maid straightened, wiping her cheeks with the edge of her sleeve. “I’m sorry, but you must leave now.” Her voice was steadier than before, though her hands trembled. “You can return tomorrow. If Mr Brown’s back by then, he’ll speak for himself.”
Mr Hawke stood rigid. He was a man accustomed to getting his way. “If Brown is in trouble, every hour counts. At least let us search his private rooms.”
Daphne feared he might charge upstairs regardless. She crossed the room and laid a hand on his sleeve. “That’s enough for one day.”
She meant for herself and the maid.
They had a long ride back to Kingston.
“Please,” she added softly.
He looked at her, gaze sharp as a blade, and she felt the jolt deep in her belly. “Fine. But you owe me.”
The words rang like a forbidden promise. What worried her most wasn’t what he’d demand in return. It was the thought she might be tempted to pay.
She faced the maid. “Thank you. We’ll return tomorrow.”
The maid gave a shaky nod and ushered them out, nearly catching their heels as she slammed the door.
Mr Hawke wrenched the carriage door open. “Either Brown killed your father, and the Moseleys are hiding him, or he’s already dead in a ditch.”
For a clever man, he’d overlooked the obvious.
“Have you considered that your own actions might have been the catalyst? What if the man you’re seeking is part of the ton and knew my father could expose him?”
Mr Hawke had saved her life by storming into the ballroom. But the cost to her father had been steep. Whatever the cause, it was her father’s wickedness that got him killed.
“The sins of Shadowmere began long before I hosted decadent parties.” He extended his hand, more a challenge than an invitation. “We’re standing here because your father’s cruelty knew no bounds.”
She slipped her hand into his, ignoring the sudden rise in her pulse. “Yes, but you can’t discount the possibility someone else is involved.”
He glanced at their joined hands, then at her. “We’ll discuss it later, at the party. It will keep your mind from the guests’ lewd antics.”
She blinked. The party was sooner than expected.
“Mr Ramsey said the Autumn Masque is next week.”
“It is. But I’m calling in a debt.” Mr Hawke tightened his grip on her hand, drawing her dangerously close.
Her breath caught. She hated that he could do that with a single step.
“You owe me, Miss Harland. We’ll enjoy the delights of town before returning home tonight.”
She should have asked, What party?
But it was the way he said home that sent her thoughts scattering like birds in a sudden storm. He made it sound as if they were married, had a past, a future, and something deliciously dangerous in between.
“I have nothing to wear,” she managed, but based on the devilish look in his eyes, she doubted it mattered. “We’d be fools to linger in town. Not with eyes on every street.”
He seemed to take pleasure in her mild distress. “We’ll party where no one dares to look. Among the demimonde. We won’t stay long.”
The man was a walking contradiction.
“I thought you despised sybarites.”
“I do. But we have one more task before we leave.”
She was afraid to ask what it was.
That wasn’t entirely true. She was more intrigued than afraid.
“Won’t people wonder why we’re together?”
“Why would they?” The rogue drew her hand to his lips, his gaze holding hers as his mouth brushed her knuckles, sending every nerve in her body sparking to life. “Everyone thinks you’re my mistress. Let’s give them what they crave.”