Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
He buried the truth.
The words echoed in Emma’s mind for the third time in as many minutes.
It was almost all she had thought of during the lonely carriage ride home last night.
That and the warmth of Mr Stanton’s hand on her back.
She had been so preoccupied, she’d darted towards Soho Square still wearing Rowton’s tricorn.
None of that mattered.
Poor Mr Bellingham was dead. A man she had spoken to, prayed beside, sat with in the same pew. Those long hours in St Mary-le-Bow were not wasted. The Lord would care for his soul now. She could only hope justice would follow.
But who had buried the truth?
Could he not have left a clue or given a name? Something to steer them in the right direction. Was his father guilty of neglect at the mine? Was Lord Howden’s father alive and living in Italy? They were no closer to finding answers.
Yet that wasn’t the cause of her frustration. She’d thought more about Mr Stanton than the baffling clue. The man invaded her mind without invitation. He had no business there, yet he lingered like the scent of his cologne on the carriage seat. All musk and dark intent.
“Emma.” Melinda’s sharp reprimand tugged her from her reverie. “Lord Howden would like more tea.”
“Of course.” She reached for the teapot, her eyes slipping briefly to the lord’s knees. He might be a handsome man, but his legs were as spindly as a sparrow’s. Nothing at all like Mr Stanton’s solid thighs. Perhaps that was a good sign. One less distraction. “Sugar, my lord?”
Melinda huffed. “He takes one, Emma.” She smiled at Lord Howden, as sweet as treacle. A performance Emma had watched so many times she could have prompted the line. “Do forgive my sister. We’ve all had a hard time sleeping of late. I assure you, she is usually most attentive.”
What tosh. She was usually dreaming of escaping.
Lord Howden hated pandering. It was one of the few things she knew about him. That, and his fondness for the theatre. He hadn’t looked at her mouth once, unlike the owner of a certain newspaper. It boded well for the future.
Heaven forbid he proved to be a passionate lover obsessed with her bed, or the sort to invent a clockwork contraption for delivering love notes about the house.
Lord Howden smiled at her. With his blue eyes and golden hair, most ladies compared him to Adonis. “Thank you, Miss Vane. I’m quite capable of adding my own sugar.” He gripped the saucer, their thumbs brushing.
Nothing. Not a tickle in her stomach. Not a stir along her nape or a tightening in her bodice. Not even disappointment. Wonderful.
Melinda gave a theatrical laugh, her white-blonde ringlets trembling with the effort. “No one would look at you, my lord, and think you lacking. Would they, Emma dear?”
She should lie. “That depends on one’s definition of lacking.”
Melinda’s mouth pulled as tight as a drawstring purse.
Lord Howden laughed. “Tastes vary, Miss Vane. But I would rather you appreciate my wit than my thighs.”
Yet he failed on both counts. She’d seen more meat on a toothpick, but he was kind and polite, and that would suffice. As Melinda often reminded her, there was no use admiring the windows if the floorboards were rotten.
A blessing came in the form of her brother-in-law, Thomas. He appeared in the doorway, eyes half-closed, his cravat slightly askew. He caught Melinda’s gaze and straightened immediately.
The men discussed topical news, mainly the robbery on the heath and the theft of Lord Pemberton’s precious ruby ring.
“It belonged to his great-grandfather, gifted to him by King George.” Lord Howden shook his head at the sorry state of affairs but seemed certain justice would prevail. “I pity the thieving blackguard when he’s caught.”
“Surely they can’t hang an innocent man,” she said, reaching for her tea. “Lord Pemberton lost it in a game of faro at Boodle’s. He invented the story to avoid his father’s wrath.”
Thomas frowned. “Who told you that? I saw Pemberton at the club two days ago. His knuckle is black and swollen where the footpad ripped it off. A possible fracture, he said.”
Emma caught herself. She could hardly say Mr Stanton told her while they were watching a prizefight. That she had buried her face against his solid arm when The Gamecock hit the mat.
“How could a footpad rip it off his finger while holding a pistol?” She gave an unladylike snort. “Lord Pemberton is young and athletic. Did you not say he was Oxford’s pugilist champion three years running?”
Melinda narrowed her eyes. “You mustn’t listen to servants’ gossip, Emma. I shall have a word with your maid. Heaven knows where she’s hearing this nonsense. I should cut her half day. That might curb her loose tongue.”
“It wasn’t Abigail. I overheard a conversation in Hatchard’s while browsing the books. A gentleman said he’d read about it in one of the broadsheets.”
She could have changed the subject, but catching Mr Bellingham’s killer required a little prying. She pictured herself on Mr Stanton’s landing, armed with new information and a touch more pride.
“It may have been The Sentinel.” She smiled politely and offered the men more tea. “Or The Herald. It was busy in the bookshop.”
Lord Howden scowled, muttering “That dratted Sentinel” under his breath before Melinda spoke for him.
“Emma. We do not mention that ghastly newspaper in this house. It’s nothing but a rag for those with more time than sense.” She set down her cup as though the mere mention had contaminated the china.
“She was just making conversation,” Thomas said in her defence. He gave a covert wink when Melinda reached for a biscuit. Emma could have kissed him.
Lord Howden agreed. “No need to defend my honour. Everyone knows Bellingham’s son fed Stanton lies. He’s so desperate to compete with The Times, he’ll print anything.”
A few days ago, she would have agreed. But there was more to Mr Stanton’s character than she’d given him credit for. Beneath the arrogance lived a man of principle.
“It’s ludicrous to think your father faked his own death,” she said, pressing a little harder. When in need of facts, one could not stumble at the first hurdle. “What reason would he have?”
“Might we speak of something else?” Lord Howden’s tone cooled. “Forgive me. With my father’s killer roaming free, it was wrong of me to praise our justice system. This whole business has been a nightmare.”
Guilt stabbed at her conscience. “The fault is mine. It was wrong of me to speak about something that clearly pains you.”
“Please don’t apologise.” Lord Howden offered a smile that would make other women sigh and slip out of their chairs. “I’m the one who mentioned Stanton and his defamatory article.”
Was it defamatory?
That’s what she’d risked her neck to discover.
Melinda clapped her hands, breaking the hesitant silence. “We’ll take a walk in the garden. Heaven knows we could all use a moment’s respite.”
Emma returned her cup to the tray. “Is it not a little cold out?”
Her sister leaned closer and lowered her voice. “You walked for two hours yesterday morning, regardless of the nip in the air.”
Yes, to collect Mr Stanton’s note from the coffeehouse. “You wanted me to go to the ribbon shop to fetch your order.”
“It won’t kill you to take a turn around the garden. It’s hardly Hyde Park or the North York Moors.” Melinda let the veiled threat land before smiling at Lord Howden. “A few minutes will blow off the cobwebs. Escort Emma outside. We’ll join you in a moment.”
Lord Howden stood and straightened his coat. “You’re right, Miss Vane. You’ll need a pelisse. There’s a definite chill in the air.”
Melinda chuckled. “Emma will take your arm, my lord. That will serve as a shelter from the elements.”
Emma stole a quick glance at the lord’s arm and decided on a pelisse. Still, she was obliged to thread her arm through his for fear of causing offence.
If Mr Stanton was granite, Lord Howden was clay. Pliant and malleable. It should have been a blessing. A sensible woman did not lie awake comparing the two.
They walked in silence, falling into step with ease. He didn’t grab her hand and race ahead. He wasn’t the sort to seize her by the waist and bundle her into a carriage as though she were a parcel he’d forgotten to post.
“Your sister likes roses,” he said, nodding to the hips burning red along the garden wall. “The old-fashioned variety. Traditional.”
“Yes.” Emma stifled a yawn. Roses. Not the odds of who might win a fight with The Northman. Not Mr Stanton’s voice low in her ear as the crowd roared around them. “Thomas visits a nursery in Kent that specialises in hybrid variations.”
“He’s rather the dutiful husband.”
Hen-pecked was the better word. Though that was a little unfair. “Thomas craves what we all do. Peace.” And maybe a fleeting sign of affection.
He hummed in agreement. “Sometimes it’s hard to think of anything but the tragic events that shape us.”
She wondered if news of Mr Bellingham’s death had reached the gentlemen’s clubs. Lord Howden might not mention it to her, but he would have taken Thomas aside.
“Yes, we’ve both lost parents in tragic circumstances.” Wholly unnecessary ones. Hence her quest for a life where supper happened on time, doors stayed locked, and no one mistook danger for adventure.
“I sometimes wonder if I might have prevented it.” He paused, looking briefly away. “One never stops grieving, Miss Vane. One simply gets better at carrying the weight of it.”
She felt the truth of those words. They were not so different in that regard. Something inside her softened. She tried to focus on the kindness in his eyes, on their shared pain. But could she trust this man? It was the question that had led her to seek Mr Bellingham in St Mary-le-Bow.
Now he was dead.
“Speaking like this helps, I find.” She made it sound like a practical observation, not something she felt. “Though grief rarely follows a logical course.”
Yet it wasn’t her parents’ antics that left her baffled today. It wasn’t whether Lord Howden would make a compliant husband, or whether he was simply being polite.
It was one man. His command over her. A trait she ought to despise. So why did his words return to her time and time again?
You won’t disobey me in this, Miss Vane. I’m not averse to carrying you back to Soho Square.
The devil. She could still hear the steel in his voice.
“I’ll admit this to you, Miss Vane,” Lord Howden said, steering her past the old mulberry, “but this business with The Sentinel has left me questioning my own mind.”
“How so?” She tried to sound sincere, not excited about gathering information for a man she was supposed to despise. “You believe there might be some truth to Mr Stanton’s claim?”
The lord sighed as though he had no answers. “The claim that my father might be alive? Yes. If Stanton had suspicions, he should have come to me first. Instead, he accused my family of deception and paraded our grief for every gossip in London.”
She fell silent.
She could hardly tell him Mr Bellingham’s father had hired an assassin. It sounded like something from a gothic tale.
“If your father is alive, who is resting in the mausoleum?”
“A vagrant. A body stolen from the morgue. My father was a resourceful man, Miss Vane, and it would account for the missing items in the house.”
Mr Stanton was right and had done his research.
The thought grated.
“I trust I have your discretion in this matter,” he added.
“Of course.” She walked on for a moment before asking, “What sort of things are missing from the house? Perhaps there’s a reasonable explanation.”
He cast her a sidelong glance. If he thought her a busybody, he didn’t say so. Mr Stanton would have.
“Letters. Sketches of my mother. Her jewels. The poetry book he gave her on their wedding day.”
The things a man in love might cherish.
The things a man leaving forever might not abandon.
Mr Stanton had found the facts. He had missed the feeling behind them.
“That does seem strange.” Questions filled her mind, but she didn’t wish to rouse suspicion. She kept her gaze ahead. “Newspapers often embellish the facts. I’m sure readers will see the article for what it is.”
“A bored man’s need to stir trouble?” he mocked.
“Or a concerned man’s need to help those affected.” Mr Bellingham had told her the structural damage had made the mine unsafe. He still owned shares, but both men had left the mine idle.
She made a mental note to discover who stood to inherit Mr Bellingham’s estate. Was that the motive for murder?
“Help them how?” Lord Howden scoffed. “The mine is beyond repair. The land unsafe. The kindest thing is to let it rest.”
Did he feel the same way about his father? If the man were alive, Lord Howden would lose his inheritance. So why risk sharing his concerns with her?
“You must think me a fool for saying as much,” he said after a moment. He must have read her mind. “But I thought it only right you should know.”
She should have felt reassured by his honesty. Yet her stomach twisted into knots. It was one thing for Melinda to insist she marry a man with a title. Another to hear the optimism in his voice.
She could not marry this man.
Not without lying to herself.
He would expect more than one heir—the price for her independence—yet she could not share his bed. This walk had made that plain.
“As a family friend, it’s good of you to be so thoughtful.” She quickly changed the subject. “Did you watch Mr Reeve at the Adelphi last night? Tell me you saw the phantom’s transformation. Did the bat look as realistic as they say?”
“I did indeed. Though I confess the creature was more comical than terrifying.” He smiled, showing no sign he was put out by her earlier comment. “That said, my aunt kept her vinaigrette close.”
His aunt? He only had one, though he rarely mentioned her.
“Forgive me. I thought your aunt lived abroad.” She was careful not to name Italy. It was better to look like a dolt than a snoop. “I must be mistaken.”
“She lives in Lewes and is up for the month. She’s never left England. Can’t tolerate warm climates.” He glanced back as Melinda appeared on the terrace, nose in the air as though she could scent words on a breeze. “I hoped she might join us at the theatre next week.”
Emma smiled, purely to please Melinda. It meant she could escape the house without a row today. “Of course. I shall look forward to meeting her.”
She told herself it was the investigation that quickened her step back to the house. But it wasn’t the prospect of secretly questioning Lord Howden’s aunt that caused a coil of heat in her belly. She’d learned enough to justify seeing Mr Stanton again.