Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
“Bellingham took a blade to the lower chest, piercing the right lung.” The earl sat before the tall sash window in Hugh’s office, with a view over Fleet Street and Temple Bar. “The coroner ruled it murder, though not a frenzied attack.”
Hugh sat forward, the image of Bellingham being carried to the morgue beneath a blood-stained sheet uppermost in his mind. “Not frenzied? Good God. He was stabbed.”
“By someone who knew precisely how far to bury the blade. Someone who inserted it slowly, despite the risk of being seen.”
Hugh had noted the small tear in Bellingham’s crimson waistcoat. The killer wanted information. Otherwise, he would have gone for the heart.
“You’re saying he was tortured.” And Miss Vane had raced towards the scene as though chasing a kite through the park. “The question is, did the devil get what he needed before we disturbed him?”
The earl sighed. “Either way, Bellingham’s testimony on mine safety dies with him. The bill will be delayed.”
Hugh doubted the bill would ever be passed.
Too many rich men stood to lose money.
“Did Bellingham come to you?” He needed to determine what had prompted the action. Was it penance for his father’s negligence? To shame Lord Howden? Or something else?
“The accusations against his father ruined their lives. He sought solace at church. The vicar told him it was never too late to make amends.”
Those last words brought a sting of bile to Hugh’s throat. His father had used the same term on his deathbed, though not to atone for the lies he told. Bellingham had been more principled. He’d put his confession in writing and handed it to Miss Vane.
No doubt she had visited the coffeehouse three times today, eager to receive his note. He smiled to himself. Maybe she’d dressed as a chimney sweep or a maid. Maybe she’d appear in the dark, wielding a pistol and Rowton’s hat.
“You’re lucky I was there to bear witness. The murder is being blamed on the bill. For now.” The earl’s mouth curved faintly. “But sentiment in Parliament is a fickle thing.”
Facts had little to do with it. Control of the narrative was everything.
There was a price for the earl’s silence. He left Hugh to name it. “If I uncover anything related to mine safety during my investigation, you’ll be the first to know.”
The earl nodded. “Good. I’ll expect a written statement.”
They finished their coffee over talk of the Sheriffs of London being sworn in at the Guildhall and the recent medical reforms.
The earl made to leave but paused at the door. “I trust your friend arrived home safely last night. She seemed reluctant to leave the matter in our hands.”
Hugh knew what friend meant and was quick to correct him. “Yes. She has a personal interest in helping me discover who caused the accident at the colliery.”
He made them sound like colleagues. It did not account for the moment he’d bundled her into the carriage, his hand at her back, nor the brief slide of his palm when her skirts tangled with his coat. She hadn’t thanked him, but she understood the cost of being named a witness at a murder scene.
“If she seeks the company of like-minded women, my wife will invite her to The Burnished Jade. She’ll find no judgement there.”
“I’m not sure there’s a woman in London with a mind like hers. Still, she’d find such an offer impossible to refuse.”
He might have laughed, but an odd feeling came over him. Miss Vane was a caged hawk, sharp-eyed and built to soar, yet forced to sit on society’s perch. He saw no escape for her while she lived with her sister.
A commotion on the stairs proved his point. The earl turned. Hugh didn’t need to. Miss Vane appeared, dressed in cornflower blue, her honey-gold hair fastened neatly beneath her bonnet.
Pullman hurried after her, gripping the banister to catch his breath. “You must wait downstairs, miss. I’ll fetch one of the junior editors. They’ll be—”
“My story is for Mr Stanton, and I won’t entrust it to anyone else.” She reached the landing, saw him and smiled. “There you are.”
The breath left him like a punch to the gut.
He schooled his expression and ushered Pullman away with a flick of the head. “I must get you a key, madam. It would save you the trouble of breaking in.”
She looked at the earl—Hugh counted the seconds—then at him. “Well, it’s good to see you’re both alive. I came because I feared you’d run out of paper.”
The earl pursed his lips, bowed to her, yet didn’t ask her name. “Excuse me. I have business elsewhere. I’ll be in touch, Stanton.”
She waited until the earl was out of earshot before speaking. “Is it the ink shortage? Are you conserving every drop? Is that why you failed to leave a note at the coffeehouse?”
He straightened his coat. He answered to no one, but had to admit she might have been anxious.
“We were with the magistrate until the early hours. I meant to send word but slept until ten.” He rarely woke past sunrise. “I had to approve today’s run, and there was a problem with the steam—”
“I was worried.”
The admission landed awkwardly between them.
“I’ve survived worse than a night in a graveyard.”
She smiled, her gaze tracing the breadth of his shoulders. “I suppose you’re as strong as you look. Though a man as handsome as the earl shouldn’t be out after dark. Someone may have been blinded and fallen into an open grave.”
“Thankfully, I’m immune.” He glanced at the reticule dangling from her wrist and her empty hands. “You went to the coffeehouse and didn’t think to bring me cake?”
“I was so eager to get here, it slipped my mind.”
“Why are you here?” He knew why. She’d seen a man die last night, and this levity was a way of settling her nerves. “Other than to check the Earl of Berridge can still stop hearts?”
She stepped closer, smoothing her gloves, her eyes bright with barely contained excitement. “I have news. About our investigation.”
“The matter is with the magistrate now, Miss Vane.” A man had been murdered, and she expected to accompany him on late-night outings? He’d be a fool to spend time alone with her. “Go home. Write your article. Leave the rest to me.”
“I see. Then you suggest I take my news to Bow Street?”
She was dangling bait, not asking a question. The journalist in him couldn’t resist. “What could you have learned in a morning?”
She paused like a cat at a mouse hole. “I wouldn’t want to trouble you when you have a mountain of work. As you said, these things are best discussed with the magistrate. Good day, Mr Stanton.”
She turned for the stairs and started to hum.
The minx.
“What do you want, Miss Vane? An oath in blood? A place to hide when your sister discovers what you’re up to?” It was only a matter of time before she was put under house arrest.
She glanced up as he gripped the banister, his fingers digging into the wood. “You know what I want, sir, but you can begin by telling the truth.”
He ground his teeth. “I’ve not lied to you. The magistrate is dealing with the murder. A date for the inquest has been set for next week.”
“But you’re still investigating.”
Damn right he was. The letter cast doubt on who was to blame, and he’d not have it said he printed misinformation.
“If it’s an escape you want, I’ve given you a way to earn money.
Hell, I’ll even double the fee.” It was worth it just to restore his sanity.
She should snatch the offer with both hands.
He was rarely this generous. “I’ll help you find respectable accommodation.
But that’s where this partnership ends.”
She eyed him suspiciously. He had to admit, it sounded like an offer a man would make to a mistress.
“And you want nothing in return? You rescue women because it serves a purpose?”
“As it happens, yes. I fund a refuge and almshouses in St Giles. There’s no room for you there.”
“You’re quite the conundrum, Mr Stanton.” She tilted her head as though he were a specimen in a museum case. “London ought to rethink your moniker.”
The veiled compliment slipped past his armour. Why he cared about her opinion was anyone’s guess.
“And you’re stronger than you think, Miss Vane. You don’t need to marry Howden or prove his father was innocent. You can support yourself.”
She fell silent. A moment passed before she joined him on the landing, her potent perfume wafting over him like opium smoke.
“You speak passionately when proving a point, sir. I imagine your blood runs hot quite often.”
She didn’t need to know he’d taken a cold bath after she left that first night. “I chase the truth. It frustrates and excites me.”
“I understand. I’ve never felt more alive than when chasing the truth with you.” A wistful smile touched her lips. “I blame my parents. Both refused to accept defeat.”
With you. Those two words were a complication he had no intention of examining.
Logic warred with his conscience. She’d come with news he needed. He’d worked alongside men half as sharp. In the name of journalism, the partnership made sense.
“I make no promises,” he said, yet gestured her into his office and rang for coffee. “I’ll not have you risking your life, so it seems we’ll work together, if only to bring this to a swift end.”
She sat, her gaze moving around the office as though every detail said something about him. Knowing her, she was already drawing conclusions. Probably the right ones.
“I’m surprised your sister let you out.”
“She makes concessions if I run her errands. I’m to collect threads for her embroidery and return her books to the circulating library on The Strand.”
“Won’t your coachman give a detailed report of your whereabouts?”
“She paid for a hackney. My brother-in-law has the carriage. It caused a dreadful row, but Thomas had an appointment at the bank. Heaven forbid the manager saw him using public transport. Rest assured, my maid is waiting downstairs.”
He snorted. “What can a chaperone do with three flights between you?”
“What would she need to do? You’re not likely to ravish me on your desk.”