Chapter 12 #3
Christina and Isaac exchanged a glance. A younger, dark-haired man — it could be anyone, but the use of a lodging house and a false name suggested someone who wished to remain hidden. Someone acting on another's behalf.
"I thank you for your time, Mr. Simmons." Isaac laid a coin on the counter — generous, by the stationer's widened eyes. "You have been most helpful."
Outside, the drizzle had thickened to proper rain. Isaac hailed a hackney and handed Christina in before climbing after her. The cab lurched forward, and they sat in the dim interior, the rain drumming on the roof.
"Jermyn Street," Christina said. "That is not far from Lord Pennington's usual lodgings."
"No, it is not." Isaac leaned back, his expression careful. "But we must be cautious. A lodging house on Jermyn Street could belong to anyone. A date, an address, and a false name will not hang a man — nor even shame him, if he chooses to brazen it out."
Christina nodded slowly, the same taut thread of excitement she had felt during the letter comparison cooling into something steadier. "Circumstantial, every piece of it. We may return to it, if the other threads fail. But what we truly need is a witness. A confession. Someone who will speak."
"Preferably both." Isaac's voice was quiet. "Until we have that, Pennington's name stays off every page we commit to writing."
For a moment something else rose into Christina's throat — a thing her father had made her promise to keep close.
The settlement waiting on her marriage. The sort of motive a cold-minded man might bend himself to shape a future around.
Tell no one who does not need to know, my dear.
Her father's voice in the last weeks of his illness, thin but exact.
She had given her word, and she had kept it — she had told Bedford only days before; Sophie had guessed long ago.
Isaac did not know. She would tell him, she was certain of that now.
But not here, not in a hackney three streets from a stationer's, with so much still unsettled between them. She let the moment pass.
Isaac looked at her. The grey light from the rain-streaked window fell across his face, softening the hard line of his jaw, and something shifted in his expression — admiration, she thought, or perhaps recognition.
"You are extraordinary at this," he said, quietly.
"I pay attention to details," she replied, echoing her own words from their letter comparison. The corner of her mouth lifted. "You have mentioned this before."
"And I shall mention it again." His voice was warmer now, the tension of the investigation giving way to something gentler. "When this is over, Christina — when we have our answers and our path is clear — I would very much like the opportunity to pay attention to nothing but you."
She looked at him, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks and the answering pull in her chest. "I should like that also," she whispered.
They sat in the hackney as it rattled through the wet streets, their hands not quite touching on the seat between them.
The rain fell. The city moved around them.
And between them, something was growing — not just affection, not just the memory of what they had shared, but a new respect forged in the act of working together, of thinking together, of trusting each other's instincts.
It was, Christina thought, perhaps even stronger than the love they had lost. It was love rebuilt on partnership.
Lord Bedford was on his third cup of coffee and his second cigar when Lord Pennington appeared at his elbow.
"Bedford." Pennington settled into the adjacent chair with the ease of a man who had not been invited and did not consider the lack an obstacle. "You are looking very thoughtful this morning."
Bedford grunted. He had been thinking about Christina, as it happened — about the way she had spoken of Coventry, the quiet determination in her voice, and the uncomfortable realization that his sister had somehow navigated an entire secret engagement, its destruction, and its potential resurrection without his knowledge.
That she had done so while dealing with their father's death, a move to London, and the full weight of society's expectations struck him as rather more impressive than anything he himself had accomplished in the same period.
"Merely considering my investments," he said, because that was what gentlemen said when they did not wish to discuss what they were actually thinking.
Pennington's eyes sharpened. Bedford noticed it but assigned no particular significance — investment talk always sharpened Pennington's attention.
"As it happens," Pennington said, leaning forward with an air of shared confidence, "I have been meaning to speak with you about a venture that might interest you.
A shipping concern — modest outlay, excellent returns.
A friend of mine has secured contracts with the East India Company and is looking for a small number of investors. "
Bedford took a pull of his cigar and exhaled slowly.
The offer was not unusual — such proposals circulated through the clubs with regularity.
What was unusual was Pennington's eagerness.
The man's cuffs, Bedford noticed, were fraying at the edges, and he was drinking coffee rather than brandy, which was unlike him.
"What sort of outlay?" Bedford asked, more from curiosity than genuine interest.
"Three hundred pounds would secure a share. The returns are projected at fifteen percent within the year." Pennington's smile was warm and reasonable, but sounded like he had said it more than once. "I have invested myself, of course. One does not recommend what one would not personally embrace."
Bedford made a noncommittal sound. Three hundred pounds was not insignificant.
With their father's death, the estate's income had contracted — not dangerously, but enough to make a man think carefully about where his money went.
He had been considering ways to supplement the family's finances without alarming his mother, who believed their situation to be more comfortable than it actually was.
"I might consider it," he said, surprising himself.
Pennington nodded, the satisfaction in his eyes carefully masked.
Then, as if the thought had only just occurred to him, he tilted his head.
"You know, Bedford, it strikes me that your sister's situation is also worth considering.
Christina is unmarried, and I understand there are provisions — your grandfather's settlement, I believe?
— that would come into effect upon her marriage.
" He paused, his expression one of gentle concern.
"Properly invested, such a sum could provide security for the whole family.
It would be a comfort, I imagine, to know that the estate's future does not rest on a single source of income. "
Bedford's cigar stopped halfway to his mouth.
The mention of the inheritance — casually dropped, wrapped in the appearance of familial concern — landed like a stone in still water.
The settlement from their grandfather was meant to be private.
Christina herself had told Bedford only recently, in the carriage on the way to the ball, that Lord Coventry was unaware of it. How, then, did Pennington know?
A chill spread from the base of Bedford's spine to the back of his neck. He set his cigar down carefully.
"I was not aware," he said, keeping his voice level, "that details of our family's private arrangements were known beyond the family."
Something flickered behind Pennington's eyes — a brief, almost imperceptible tightening. "Oh, I did not mean to suggest — it is merely that your father and I discussed such things, years ago. He was fond of speaking about his plans for his daughters, as any proud father might."
It was a reasonable explanation. It was the sort of thing a man might say and be believed.
But Bedford, whose chief skill in life was not intelligence or charm but a stubborn, almost instinctive distrust of anything that felt too easy, was not convinced.
His father had been a careful man. He would not have discussed the settlement with a distant relation who had no business knowing.
"I thank you for the suggestion, Pennington." Bedford rose to his feet, the movement more abrupt than he intended. "I will give the shipping venture some thought. As for my sister's finances, I believe we have matters well in hand."
"Of course, of course." Pennington's smile returned, smooth and untroubled. "I meant only to be helpful."
Bedford nodded once and walked from the club without looking back.
The rain had started, and he did not have his umbrella, but he barely noticed.
His mind was turning over Pennington's words, examining them from every angle, trying to determine whether the cold feeling in his stomach was warranted or merely the product of too much coffee and too little sleep.
He decided, as he climbed into his carriage with rain darkening his coat, that he would not mention this conversation to Christina.
Not yet. He did not want to alarm her, and besides, Pennington's explanation was plausible enough.
Perhaps his father had mentioned the inheritance in passing.
Perhaps Bedford was being overly suspicious.
But the cold feeling did not go away. And when he arrived home, Bedford went to his study, sat at his desk, and very carefully wrote down everything Pennington had said — the shipping venture, the three hundred pounds, the mention of the inheritance, the explanation about their father.
He folded the paper, locked it in his drawer, and resolved to keep a closer watch on Lord Pennington from that day forward.
He did not yet know that his instincts were right.