Chapter 2 #2
The question made him drain his glass. He hissed as the liquor burned his throat. “We all carry the scars of our parents’ actions, Miss Vane. Ask yourself why Howden hasn’t visited the colliery. He could have done the honourable thing and paid the miners compensation.”
She sat with that thought, indulging in a slow sip of brandy to disguise any signs of doubt. She should have been questioning the lord’s principles. Instead, she wondered what scars Mr Stanton had inherited from his parents.
“You’re right.” How could she argue? He had a way of presenting the facts with absolute certainty. “A man with a conscience would make amends for his father’s mistakes.”
He eyed her as he stood to pour himself another drink. “But you have a different opinion. I can’t help feeling like a fish nibbling at bait.”
Her stomach chose that moment to betray her. “I did miss supper tonight.”
He stilled, decanter in hand. “What are you saying, Miss Vane? That you’re luring me in because you’re hungry? A journalist must choose her words with care.”
Her chest felt a little hot, doubtless from the brandy. “I’m hungry for the truth, Mr Stanton, but I wouldn’t refuse the offer of supper.”
He stared as if she were an oddity in a pawnbroker’s window. “You invade my premises, hold me at gunpoint, and I’m expected to feed you and indulge every whim.”
“You must be hungry yourself, sir.”
“You have no idea, Miss Vane.”
The air shifted between them.
For a few seconds, neither spoke.
“You’ll find a platter and cutlery in the kitchen.” He gestured to a side door. “I eat at the club during the day, but my maid prepares supper before she leaves of an evening.”
Emma glanced around the drawing room, as elegant as any in Mayfair. She’d assumed he kept at least two servants.
“We’re alone here?”
“Entirely alone.”
She wished he’d not said it in that velvet voice.
He seemed to find it amusing, grinning to himself as he shrugged out of his frock coat and draped it over the chair.
“You made a mistake, Miss Vane.”
Yes, a foolish assumption. But she had trouble thinking about that when he stood in his shirtsleeves, his black waistcoat moulded to his chest, his collar open at the throat.
“Though not your only one tonight,” he added. “Fetch supper. I’ll light the fire. Disappointment hits harder when you’re cold.”
The kitchen was small but functional. A range kept the room faintly warm. Copper pots hung unused. She found the covered platter on the wooden table, silver cutlery in the drawer.
In the drawing room, the fire had caught, flames licking through the kindling, the coals only just beginning to glow. But that wasn’t what softened the scene.
Mr Stanton stood, a leather-bound book open in his hands, his finger tracing the page. Careful hands for a man with such a brutal reputation. He looked more like a scholar than the Devil of Fleet Street.
“I considered stealing a bite, but I haven’t removed the cloth.” She laid the plate on the table as he set his book aside.
“So you found your integrity amongst the pans, Miss Vane.”
“I may have entered The Sentinel uninvited, but I have not lied to you, sir.” She glanced at the pistol. “My father did give me that weapon and said I would know when to use it.”
“You know I could have disarmed you.”
“Of course. But the element of surprise is more unsettling than a woman who can’t shoot straight.”
“To the average man, maybe. Howden would have been quaking in his boots.” He drew back the cloth to reveal a selection of cold meats, pickles, cheese, and what looked like a savoury French tart. “I’ll fetch napkins and side plates. I’ve counted the sliced ham.”
She stole a glance at the book while he was gone. Perhaps he was reading Paradise Lost with Satan the central character. He must have learnt those cutting quips somewhere.
But no. John Buddle’s Treatise on Coal-Mine Explosions was his preferred read. The spine was cracked, pages earmarked. She imagined him poring over them when alone at night. Perhaps he had a connection to the deaths at Hartham Colliery, something that drove him to dig for the truth.
“According to Buddle, poor ventilation is no accident. It’s mismanagement,” he said, as if nothing escaped him.
“I’m not disputing that the company was negligent. Only that Lord Howden’s father may have been misled by his partner.”
He gave her a plate and a napkin. “We should eat before you show me the letter that proves I’m wrong. One of us won’t have the stomach for it afterwards.”
He gestured for her to proceed. She’d not expected an intimate supper for two when rubbing ink into her apron. She doubted he had either.
“Are we eating here?”
He frowned. “You want me to entertain a pistol-wielding trespasser at the dining table? Wear a gown next time and I’ll consider it.”
“Next time?” she said, hiding a smile as she sat. “I suspect you won’t want to lay eyes on me again after tonight.”
“Then I’d best take my fill now.”
His fill?
He leaned back in his chair, his gaze trailing over her with an attention that made it difficult to remember how to hold a fork.
She tried to eat, but every movement of her mouth felt laboured. Heat crept up her neck. Her pulse quickened, each breath an effort.
She reached for the brim of her cap.
“Under no circumstances remove that hat,” he snapped.
“Why? It’s quite warm in here.”
“Keep your questions to the matter of the mine.”
She reached for her glass, but the mantel clock chimed one.
She stared at the hands, blinking.
She had stayed too long.
He sensed her panic. “I’ll summon my carriage. Heaven forbid you’re missed. You have twenty minutes while Rowton harnesses the horses.”
“But there’s a hackney waiting for me at Temple Bar.”
“You’ll not leave here in a hackney.”
It seemed pointless arguing over something trivial. “I presumed you would read the letter and dismiss me.”
“On the bright side, it’s past midnight and you’re still here. This is no fairytale where you race home leaving a slipper.” He rose from the chair. “Marry Howden and it becomes a cautionary one.”
He left her with that thought and went downstairs.
She was almost afraid to breathe. Even when absent, he dominated the room. She’d never met a man who moved as if every bone were made of steel, whose resolve was forged from the same metal.
She should avoid him after this. Pray he did the right thing and published a retraction. He was not a man one ignored. Not a man to challenge lightly. And certainly not one to invite into her life.
Surely talk of writing for the paper had been a ploy. The offer of work made no sense. Had she seemed that desperate?
She felt a strange flutter in her stomach when he returned.
“I settled with the jarvey. I’ll deduct the cost from the guinea I’ll pay for your first article. Perhaps a piece on the plight of the poor.”
With such a serious expression, it was difficult to tell if he was joking. He certainly meant to take two shillings for the ride home.
“Why not include the supper and the brandy?”
“Excellent idea. You owe me an article, Miss Vane.”
Now she knew how he’d earned his moniker. “Nineteen shillings for a slice of ham and a nip of brandy?”
“Two for supper. Seventeen for my company.”
She stood, lifting her chin. He set a high price on himself. “You should be paying me. Tell the truth. Your evening would have been dull had you not encountered me on the landing.”
The twitch of his brow said she was right. That the best he might have hoped for was a cold collation and mining theories.
“Is there a deadline?” she said.
“No. I prefer a researched piece based on facts.” He glanced at the mantel clock. “On the subject of facts, where is the letter?”
“In my apron pocket.”
He retrieved it from the coat stand. “This had better be worth the trouble. You called me a liar. I trust you have good grounds.”
She snatched the garment. “I said there were other possibilities. That you were too quick to accuse.”
“You libelled my friend, Hawke.”
“I was angry.” She recalled saying something about him being in league with a devil. “Despite my attempts to gain your attention, you failed to reply to my letters.”
“I’ll not send private correspondence to a coffeehouse.”
“I could not receive them at home.”
She thrust the apron over her head, knocking off her cap. Her braid slipped over one shoulder.
Mr Stanton stared. His mouth opened, then closed. He picked up the cap but made no move to return it. “The evidence, Miss Vane.”
She drew the signed confession from her pocket and offered it to him. “I trust you will investigate the matter.”
He gripped the end, though she wasn’t quite ready to let go. “If it’s worthy of my time.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. The image of her foolish parents hill-walking in a storm surfaced. Her sister was right. Life needed order. Every aspect planned to precision. No risks. No gambling with tomorrow. Yet she feared she had inherited her parents’ reckless streak.
“I trust it is, Mr Stanton.” She let go, releasing the breath she’d been holding.
He moved closer to the lamp, peeled back the folds, and studied the words carefully. Twice he looked at her and frowned.
“Sir Robert Bellingham’s son wrote this?” he said.
“Yes. He will testify that his father hired a man to kill the former Lord Howden. To beat him in an alley in Covent Garden and make it look like a robbery gone wrong.”
Mr Stanton read the confession again.
“I don’t know which man is guilty of neglect at the colliery two years ago,” she added. “I imagine both are culpable. But surely you should find this assassin and discover whether he did commit murder.”
She paused, waiting for him to speak.
He didn’t.
“Your story is based on the former Lord Howden faking his death to cover up a conspiracy,” she continued. “He blamed Sir Robert, ruining his life. What if neither is true?”
His gaze moved over her, quietly assessing. “How did you obtain this? What led you to pester the Bellinghams?”