Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
ANTHONY
Anthony flipped through the pages of one of the betting books at White’s, keeping a thumb on the page of the most recent wagers. He searched the names, looking for one in particular.
His eyes caught on Lord Drayton’s signature, and his heart tripped as he hungrily read the names of the other parties, the stakes, and the subject of the wager.
His shoulders dropped. It was nothing but a bet over how long a pigeon would stay on a branch of a nearby tree.
With a sigh, he kept looking, flipping through page after page, slowly but surely losing hope he would find anything he might use against Drayton. Not that he had harbored any great hope when he had started.
Drayton came up a few more times, but none of the bets were anything out of the ordinary.
The man was too smart to put his name to anything unsavory on paper.
It was precisely why the diary had been so integral to Silas’s case.
Without that, they were unlikely to find anything incriminating.
Certainly, such records must exist—financial records, for instance—but those who held them would naturally be in Drayton’s pocket.
They either stood to gain too much from his continuing success or to lose too much if they betrayed him. Both, perhaps.
Anthony cursed under his breath, shut the book, then strode out of the club. He pulled a paper from the inside of his coat pocket, unfolded it, and read over the short contents.
The street Harris had mentioned in the note was only a few minutes’ walk, and Anthony traversed the distance more quickly than usual, for he was restless, eager for news.
Harris, on the other hand, was nearly a quarter of an hour late, and Anthony’s temper was fraying at the edges when he finally appeared, wide-brim hat pulled low so it took a moment for Anthony to be certain it was him.
“Might you not simply tell me a quarter-past-three rather than saying three o’clock and obliging me to wait?”
The way Harris’s mouth stretched into a grin sent a shock of hope through Anthony—one he refused to pay heed to until there was good reason. They had followed too many trails that had led nowhere.
“A quarter of an hour will prove well worth your sacrifice today, sir,” Harris said.
Anthony raised his brows, waiting for Harris to elaborate.
Harris grinned, tipping his hat up slightly. “I’ve located the other diary.”
Anthony’s heart skidded to a halt. His gaze went to Harris’s hands, but they were empty. “Where? Where is it?”
Harris’s self-satisfaction flagged slightly, and he hesitated.
“You say you have it,” Anthony said. “Then, where is it?”
“I said I located it,” Harris clarified with a grubby finger.
Anthony stared, his impatience returning with force. “Meaning?”
“I don’t have it, but I know who does.”
“Who?”
Harris’s hesitation returned.
“Who, Harris?”
He watched Anthony carefully as he responded. “Drayton, sir.”
There was utter and complete silence.
Drayton had the diary they needed to prove that it was him and not Silas who had killed Langdon.
“But now that we know he has it,” Harris said, “we can get our hands on it.”
Anthony’s teeth gritted together, his hope dashed to bits. “You’re a fool, Harris.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps not.”
“There is no perhaps about it. If Drayton has the diary, it is because he knows its value—he realizes it could ruin him. There isn’t a chance he will let anyone get their hands on it.
He has likely destroyed it already.” Anthony turned aside, running a rough hand over his chin, despair beginning to rear its ugly head inside.
Would Silas be forced to live the rest of his life an exile?
“Now, that is where you are wrong,” Harris said. “Well, not about him not wanting anyone to get their hands on it, but about destroying it.”
“And how would you know that?”
Harris grinned again. “I make it my business to know these things.”
Anthony waited, jaw clenched.
“Servant talk, sir. The diary’s been seen in a particular drawer of Drayton’s at Barrington Hall. Apparently, he recognizes the value of the other information within it.”
“And who is to say he has not ripped out the pages we need and burned them?”
“I thought of that, sir, and my informant assures me the diary is intact.”
“And why did the servant not bring the diary to you himself instead of simply providing you with this information?”
Harris shot Anthony a significant look. “Because he knows what’s good for him, sir. Drayton is a hard master, and he’s been known to dismiss every maid and footman in the house when something’s gone missin’.”
Anthony shook his head and turned away again. “It is irrelevant. If Drayton has the diary, he may as well have burned it for the good it will do us.”
“Unless you manage to make a visit to Barrington Hall,” Harris said enigmatically.
Anthony whirled around. “Are you mad? The man would never invite me to his estate. Is this all you have to offer?”
Harris swallowed, then gave a reluctant nod.
Anthony’s impulse urged him to scream out every profane word in his vocabulary. Instead, he clamped his teeth together and strode off.
Head in his hands, Anthony stared at the place where the grass and the stone intersected beneath the bench on which he sat in his aunt’s garden.
He hadn’t felt this defeated, this hopeless and alone since the night Silas left for France. Today was the first time since then that Anthony truly considered whether there was any way to bring his brother home, any way for him to atone for what had happened that night.
He simply couldn’t live the rest of his life with this guilt in his heart or this burden on his shoulders. He would go mad.
The squeak of a door sounded, bringing his head up.
Charlotte stopped short in the doorway to the garden, her eyes on him.
She had been distant with him since the opera last night, and he couldn’t blame her. She had tried to be kind to him, and he had been a cur in response. He had wanted to confide in her, had been on the verge of doing so, desperate to unburden himself to someone.
But then the memory of that night had returned. The last time he had trusted a woman, she had disappeared—to Drayton, apparently—and his life had turned into a shambles. His decision had hurt those he loved most. It was still hurting them, though Aunt Eugenia and William would never admit it.
“Forgive me,” Charlotte said. “I hadn’t realized anyone was in the garden.” She turned and opened the door again to return inside.
“Wait.” Anthony’s voice came out rough as gravel—and almost pleading.
Charlotte paused on the threshold, then turned her head toward him.
He didn’t want to be alone, and though his mind told him not to trust Charlotte, his heart told him she was worthy of that trust.
“Will you sit with me a while?” he asked. More difficult words he had perhaps never uttered—a cry for help. The help he had refused just last night.
Charlotte’s gaze searched his long enough that he thought she might refuse, just as he had refused her last night. But she finally nodded, closed the door, and came to sit beside him.
They sat in silence for a time, Anthony leaning forward with his elbows on his knees as he gathered the courage to speak the words he had been keeping within him for months and months, unable to confide in anyone but Harris—and the man was hardly the sort of confidant one wished for.
Charlotte remained silent, reluctant, he could only imagine, to say anything after the way he had gone about things last night.
“Silas is innocent.” A rush of nerves surged in his chest as Charlotte’s head turned slowly toward him, her gaze alert and steady.
He kept his own fixed ahead as he continued.
“Silas and I and another man—the one who was killed—had invested in Drayton’s shipping business a few months after he created it.
Things went well for a time, and we began to see profits.
Promising profits. Then, profits began to decrease, and our largest competitor began to thrive—beating us to ports with similar shipments, pricing in ways that made it difficult for us to recoup our costs.
At first, Silas suspected Langdon, for he was the one handling the books.
But a confrontation between them made it clear that it was Drayton.
The three of us decided to meet with Drayton and give him a chance to explain himself.
Drayton agreed to meet after a party that same night. ”
Anthony shut his eyes and clasped his hands together rigidly as the memories flooded back.
“In the weeks leading up to that night, I and many other men had been eager for the attention of Miss Baxter. But no one had yet been successful in capturing her attentions. On the evening in question, I attended the same party as Drayton. Miss Baxter was there, and for the first time, she chose to bestow her precious attention upon me.” His nostrils flared.
“When the hour for the meeting came, she begged me not to leave, and, like a fool, I submitted to her pleas, thinking Silas and Langdon could manage on their own. What need had they of me for a simple conversation?”
His clasped hands tightened, his knuckles going white.
How was it simultaneously so difficult and such a relief to speak these things?
“When I returned home that night, it was to find Silas gathering his things in the dark, insisting he needed to reach Dover without delay. It was not until we were on our way there that he told me what had happened. Langdon was dead—shot by Drayton. Rather than kill Silas too and bring suspicion upon himself, Drayton claimed he and Langdon had confronted Silas for cheating the company, and that Silas had killed Langdon and fled. He told Silas to leave England and never return unless he wished to meet his end at the gallows. Silas took the next packet across the Channel, and that was the last time I saw him.”