Chapter 5 #2
He opened his mouth. Closed it. It didn’t banish the vision of scattered books and a breathless bluestocking. The arrival of coffee had never been more welcome.
“Lord Howden came to take tea today,” she said when he offered her sugar. “I have a list of interesting things to share.”
Howden was a damned nuisance. He was dancing around a proposal like a nymph at the bloody ballet.
Hugh sipped his coffee, forgot it was hot, and spilt some on his waistcoat. She was around the desk before he could stop her, tugging his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing at the silk.
“Has it soaked through? It’s sure to scald.”
“It’s fine. It’s hardly anything.”
But still she tried to mop up the spillage.
“Miss Vane.” He caught her wrist. Their eyes locked. She was so close. Too damned close. The flush of heat pooling low had nothing to do with the beverage. “Sit down. I’ll see to it myself.”
Yet she didn’t step away. Probably because his fingers circled her wrist, his thumb grazing her pulse point.
“Then release me if you don’t want me to fuss.”
He relaxed his grip. Damnation. This mind-thief had stolen every rational thought he possessed. “Return to your seat, Miss Vane. Let’s hear this interesting news of yours.” He spoke as though she were a junior reporter and not the woman who’d just had her hands on his chest.
She did so, pressing her fingers to her rosy cheeks. “Firstly, Lord Howden has an alibi for last night and didn’t murder Mr Bellingham.”
Hugh’s pulse settled. He was more comfortable finding holes in stories than bantering with Miss Vane. “I presume you have the details.” She did nothing by halves.
“He was at the Adelphi watching Mr Reeve in The Sleepless Woman. Most go for the transformation scene. The bat alone is worth the price of admission. He left around midnight, in the company of his aunt.”
Hugh inwardly sighed. Even with the bat taking centre stage, it would be easy to prove Howden was there. Shame. He’d hoped to see the lord rot in a gaol cell. Still, one thing caught his attention.
“His aunt?”
Miss Vane sat forward, looking like a cat with the cream. “His only aunt. She lives in Lewes, not Italy, and is visiting London for a month.”
Satisfaction hummed in his blood. “So who lives in the house in Italy? Howden’s father, surely.”
“It sounds plausible.” She pursed her lips, the faint line appearing between her brows again. “Do you have the list of sentimental items you said were taken from the house?”
Why did he feel like this was a test? He moved to the oak cabinet and found the maid’s statement, along with other details about the mine.
“A bundle of old letters tied with red ribbon,” he said, returning to his seat. “They’d been on his nightstand for years.”
“From his wife, I imagine. That’s the power of words on paper. One is transported back to a precious moment in time.”
Hugh looked at her, surprised. “That’s a romantic observation for a practical woman, Miss Vane.”
“Practicality takes effort, Mr Stanton. Not everyone can afford the luxury of romance.”
A vision of her clutching a letter to her heart intruded. She’d have a long wait for Howden to play Byron.
“Letters were among the items Lord Howden mentioned were missing,” she said. “Along with a poetry book given to his mother on their wedding day.”
“Yes, Samuel Rogers’ The Pleasures of Memory.”
She straightened. “You’ve read it?”
“Only to consider why he’d taken it to Italy.” He was averse to maudlin sentiment and preferred plain speaking.
“Like you, Lord Howden suspects his father may be alive.” She lowered her voice as though the fop were behind her. “It’s the first time he’s mentioned it to me, though I pressed him harder than a lady should.”
His eyes met hers over the papers in his hand. “We’ll make a journalist of you yet, Miss Vane.”
“Finding answers in the drawing room is vastly different from finding them on the street. But I owe you an article.”
“Let’s deal with Bellingham’s murder first.” He couldn’t believe he was entertaining the idea of working together. “Did Howden tell you anything else?”
She sipped the coffee he’d poured and winced.
“Too bitter? Not enough cream?”
“I prefer tea, but it’s fine. I do have one more piece of information. It relates to the mine.”
He set the maid’s statement aside. He owed Berridge something for his silence. “Howden spoke to you about the accident? I’m surprised.”
“Only that the mine is idle because Mr Bellingham refused to sell his shares, and he hadn’t the money for repairs. That begs the question: who stands to inherit them now he’s dead?”
It was motive enough for murder.
Hugh took a sheet of paper from the drawer and made a note to question Lady Bellingham. Out of respect, he should wait a day or two. Or perhaps offer to pay for the funeral.
She craned her neck and read his note. “We should speak to the vicar at St Mary-le-Bow. Mr Bellingham was often found with his head buried in a Bible, occupying the same pew.”
“I agree. But you can hardly accompany me during daylight hours. Unless you want to ruin your prospects of marrying.”
“You may have to question them without me. I can’t keep leaving the house without raising suspicion.”
That should have been the excuse he needed. He would investigate alone, keep her updated, and avoid unnecessary contact. So why the pang of guilt?
“Could you escape the house tomorrow night?” It was hard to believe the words had come from his mouth, let alone formed in his brain.
Her smile lit her eyes first. “That would be easier. In the meantime, I could pester my brother-in-law. He might know something.”
“Don’t be too obvious. You’re merely seeking to learn more about the man you might marry.” There had to be someone better than that toad. Someone who wouldn’t leave her to wither in a drawing room.
“What will you do?” Her gaze moved over him, lingering just long enough to make him wonder if she was asking how he planned to spend the night, and with whom.
“I want to speak to the coroner.” It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the earl, but he preferred to ask his own questions. “Bellingham may have been tortured. If so, the killer needed information.”
“Tortured?” She wanted every detail.
He repeated the earl’s words verbatim. “The letter you brought mentioned a hired assassin. Are you sure Bellingham was in his right mind when he made the confession?”
She pursed her lips and thought. “I’ll not lie to you, Mr Stanton. He seemed nervous and referenced verses in the Bible, but he was adamant he’d overheard his father hiring a man.”
Hugh looked at her. She had courage in abundance, but he’d not forgotten how delicate her hand was in his. “Who knows you spoke to Bellingham?”
“The vicar. My maid. Strangers in the pews.” She put her palm to her chest. “Should I be worried?”
Damn right she should, but for once he chose his words with care. “Rowton will take you to finish your errands and see you safely back to Soho Square. Remain at home until we meet tomorrow night. Feign illness if you must.”
“I’m sure Rowton has better things to do than play nursemaid,” she said with a stiff smile. “I have money for a hackney.”
He should march her to the carriage himself, but he’d been forceful last night. He wouldn’t want it to become a habit.
“Then we’ll convene tomorrow and visit the vicar at home. Who can argue with a clergyman as a chaperone?”
“Who, indeed?” Miss Vane stood and bid him good day. “If I’m not waiting, it will mean Melinda has run out of laudanum.”
“Wouldn’t it have been on the list today?”
She smiled, the light catching the blue of her eyes. “Always so perceptive, Mr Stanton.”
Except when it came to her. There, his instincts deserted him.
He watched her descend the stairs. Why the hell was he so concerned with her welfare? He’d made more concessions than the Whigs during the Great Reform.
She was right. He had a new moniker: Stanton the Obliging. If his friends found out, they’d be printing epitaphs for the Devil of Fleet Street.
He returned to his office, but not his chair. The window drew him. He could have told himself he was spying on The Herald. But he scanned the crowd for a pelisse in cornflower blue. He needed to be sure she’d left and wasn’t hiding in a blasted broom cupboard.
It wasn’t hard to spot her in a sea of dull browns and greys. She moved with purpose, the chaos of the street parting in her wake. The young woman beside her hurried to keep pace, and he felt an odd sort of kinship.
A costermonger’s cart rattled into his line of sight, and she vanished behind a jumble of wheels and shouting men. When he found her again, she was stepping out of the bakery across the street, carrying a small paper parcel.
Had he known she enjoyed running errands, he might have asked her to bring him a steak pie.
She moved to cross, waiting for a gap in the traffic. A man barged into her, shoulder to shoulder, forcing her off the kerb. A carriage came up too close, the driver swearing as he hauled on the reins. She stumbled back, her skirt catching the mud as the wheels clipped past.
And for one damning moment, he forgot how to breathe.