Chapter 10 #2
“I remember the address.”
“You have a head for facts, not figures.”
His smile came slowly. “Some figures I remember. Some I can’t seem to shake from my mind.”
The butler returned and ushered them inside as though they were French conspirators. He checked the street twice before insisting the maid stand guard at the door with her bucket.
Lady Bellingham lay propped against pillows on a chaise, her black gown stark against the pale cushions. The heavy curtains were drawn, a candle lamp burned low, and the air carried the sweet smell of sherry.
She waved them in with her crumpled handkerchief and urged them to sit. “Leave us, Parker, and no eavesdropping at the door. I shall listen for the creaky board.”
Parker bowed and left them alone.
Emma was deciding how best to introduce her employer when the lady saved her the trouble.
“Persistence does not always pay, Mr Stanton. You were keen to write your story, and now look at the devastation you’ve caused.”
He shifted beside her on the sofa. “Forgive me, my lady, but families lost loved ones when the colliery collapsed. I wanted those responsible to accept liability and pay compensation.”
Emma resisted the urge to reach for his hand. “Mr Stanton believed the former Lord Howden failed to make the mine safe and faked his death to avoid a hearing. It was your son, my lady, who claimed his father had hired an assassin.”
Lady Bellingham scoffed. “The boy was sick with grief and got himself all confused. I don’t know why he invented those tales about his father.”
“Are you saying your husband didn’t hire an assassin?”
“An assassin? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Your son wrote a confession stating that he had.” In truth, she had wondered if Mr Bellingham was not quite himself.
He had rambled in the pew, talking of sin and judgement as though the church might offer answers no one else would give.
“He left me that note”—Lady Bellingham clutched it in her other hand—“and was keen for me to investigate the matter.”
The lady sighed. “You’re an attractive woman. No doubt he found himself a little taken with you.”
“He was murdered in a graveyard.” Mr Stanton did not mince words. “By someone who knew how to keep him alive long enough to extract information.”
A choked sob escaped the woman. “You devil. Must you remind me?”
“We’re all in danger,” he pressed. “Your son knew something and died before he could tell us. Did Sir Robert bear some responsibility for the accident, and that’s why you’re unwilling to co-operate?”
“I don’t know what happened at that godforsaken mine. But I do know it practically broke us.”
Emma glanced around the elegant room. Not so broke they’d had to move to a lodging house. “Then why not sell your shares in the mine?”
“My son inherited when his father’s heart gave out. Heaven knows what we’ll do with them now. I’d rather not hear about the dreaded place.”
“What about your daughter?” Mr Stanton’s gaze never strayed from the woman. “Is she missing? Or is that another story invented by your son?”
Lady Bellingham’s handkerchief twisted in her fist. “Rebecca is visiting her cousin in Taunton and won’t be back for a month. Must I escort you to the ticket office to prove I paid? No doubt you’d like to count her smalls while you’re here.”
Mr Stanton stood. “No, but I insist on seeing her room, or I’ll return with the new magistrate once I’ve informed him she’s missing.”
Lady Bellingham slapped her hand on her leg. “We are in mourning, sir. That might not matter to you, but where are your manners?”
“Buried with my father,” he snapped. “Now, you allowed us in for a reason. Are you afraid to speak out? Are you being blackmailed? I know shady behaviour when I see it.”
“Blackmailed.” She snorted. “You’ve been reading too many newspapers, Mr Stanton. I invited you in to put paid to this nonsense, not to add to the speculation. My son is dead. I hate to say it, but his soul is finally at peace, and for that I’m thankful.”
A tense silence filled the room.
Emma stood. “This is a murder investigation. That’s not the only letter your son wrote.” Mr Stanton couldn’t chastise her for lying about that. “I shall show them to Mr Stroud at Bow Street. He will send a man to Taunton to verify your account.”
She saw the shift in Lady Bellingham’s expression, the slight hesitation as she weighed the consequences.
“You’re wondering what else your son told me.
” Emma lifted her chin. She was used to dealing with Melinda.
Lady Bellingham was a lap dog in comparison.
“I must insist on examining your daughter’s room and your escritoire.
” Someone had sent her that threatening letter with the black seal, and Lady Bellingham seemed a likely candidate.
“Or I shall write a story you won’t want to see in print. ”
After a brief battle of stares, the lady rang her little handbell.
Parker entered. “You called, my lady.”
“Our guests wish to visit Rebecca’s room. Give them free rein to search the house. In fifteen minutes, show them out and never let them in again.”
Emma curtsied. “Should you change your mind about Rebecca, or any other matter weighing on your conscience, you may visit Mr Stanton at The Sentinel.”
Once in the hall, Mr Stanton cupped her elbow and drew her closer, his voice dropping to a deep baritone. “I must admit to being both angry and aroused, madam.”
“Angry because I lied?” she whispered over her shoulder as they followed Parker’s slow trudge upstairs.
“Because your comment about knowing more may have made you the killer’s next target.”
She’d not thought of that when pressing her point. “And aroused because you’re keen to get rid of me?”
His gaze strayed from her back to rest on her bottom. “No. I find myself strangely in awe of your fearlessness, Miss Vane.”
He’d slipped back into the hungry lover again, the same look in his eyes that had sent her pulse racing in his chamber.
“I shall try to be braver more often.”
He came up beside her on the landing, lowering his head to hers. “Have a care. There’s a limit to my restraint.”
The creak of a floorboard captured her attention. Parker opened a door into a bright room overlooking the manicured garden.
The room smelled faintly of rosewater and powder, its pale furnishings softened by ribbons draped over the vanity, kid slippers beneath the chair, and hairpins in a porcelain pot.
“When did Miss Bellingham leave for Taunton?” Emma asked, crossing to the armoire, eager to peer inside.
Parker stared blankly. “A week ago, ma’am.”
“Has she written?”
“Not yet, though I’m not party to the contents of Lady Bellingham’s correspondence. Most have been notes of condolence.”