Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
St. Alard’s Priory
Near Headley Heath, Surrey
Hugh stood hidden in the depths of the priory ruins, beneath fractured arches and a crumbling transept, waiting for his friends to enter the roofless chapel and throw down their coins.
Hawke appeared first, his stride sharp enough to suggest he’d rather skip the ritual and get straight to Hugh’s troubles. He flicked his wolf coin onto the cracked flagstone, a glint of gold in the gloom. Then waited, arms folded.
Montfort’s coin hit the stone before anyone saw him. He emerged from the shadows without disturbing so much as a twig.
“I see Daphne hasn’t dismissed your tailor,” Montfort said, shaking the rain off his hat, “and still permits you to wear black.”
“She likes the air of danger I bring to our bed. What’s it like sleeping alone?”
Montfort laughed. “Safer, for a man like me.”
Hugh imagined Emma naked beneath the furs.
The arrangement was ludicrous.
Hawke knew it.
Daphne knew it.
Ramsey was probably laughing into his whisky.
Hugh had stared at the marquee and wondered whether he should strangle his closest friend or commend him. A woman he craved would be lying beside him in bed, draped in nothing but blasted furs.
He cursed the faceless statue of St Augusta, then stepped from the blackness and tossed his coin, knowing precisely where it would land. “I’m with Montfort. Sleeping alone avoids complications.”
And yet he hadn’t stopped imagining all the ways he might complicate things with Emma tonight.
“Be thankful you don’t have to sleep with one eye open,” Saint-Clair said from somewhere in the depths of the ruins. “Sleeping alone becomes a habit when half of London wants you dead.”
Saint-Clair appeared at last, sporting a beard he hadn’t possessed last month. “Veritas Vincit,” he began as he always did, with the motto of their brotherhood. “Truth conquers. If only it could be relied upon.”
Eight years later, the ritual remained unchanged. Four coins. Four men. One scandal the ton refused to bury. No one had cared for the facts. Lies were easier to believe.
They stood in silence, staring at the coins.
The wolf stared back from the metal. Saint-Clair claimed it represented loyalty. Hugh had always thought survival the likelier answer. The distinction had been simpler before Emma Vane.
Still, the ritual served its purpose. Saint-Clair was one step ahead of the hangman. Perhaps if they found Vienna Mallory, he wouldn’t need to keep running.
“Business first.” Saint-Clair repeated the usual phrase like a man who expected nothing and preferred to be proved right. “I’ve learnt not to hold my breath while you deliver your reports.”
Hawke retrieved his coin, tucking it into his coat pocket. “I have news. Now I’m no longer holding parties for the debauched, they’re eager to pay for my discretion.”
“You want me to trust the word of a man who dresses like a donkey?” Saint-Clair’s mocking tone echoed in the desolate cloisters.
“Mallory and Crowthorne quarrelled publicly two days before Mallory attacked your sister. An argument in a supper box at Vauxhall.”
Saint-Clair took a step forward. “Did the ass say why?”
“Crowthorne claimed it was over a gaming debt. My source wasn’t convinced.” Hawke paused. “She swore it was over your sister.”
Saint-Clair swallowed hard.
“Then Crowthorne lied,” he said with a measure of disgust. He turned to Montfort. “Break into his study if you have to. I want everything from his desk.” His gaze shifted to Hugh. “Have that fool Digby follow him. I want to know where he eats, where he sleeps, when he breathes.”
As it happened, Digby was no fool.
“There was talk you were the footpad who stole Lord Pemberton’s precious ruby ring,” Montfort said, picking up his coin. “Stanton’s man proved he’d lost it in a game of faro at Boodle’s.”
“A footpad?” Saint-Clair mocked. “Then I may have to rob someone on the heath. The last rumour cast me as a menacing highwayman with a beast of a horse called Beelzebub.”
Hugh reached for his coin, his heart thudding. He was about to wipe the grin from Saint-Clair’s face. “I visited Fenwick’s Books and Bindings. The proprietor was a little more accommodating.” He steadied himself. “Vienna Mallory paid for a new identity and is very much alive.”
The heavens rumbled.
Saint-Clair said nothing.
His silence stretched long enough to become its own answer.
“We’ve been chasing ghosts for eight years,” Hawke said. “These are the first solid leads we’ve had.”
“I may yet live to see you proved right.” Saint-Clair took his coin and flicked it in the air, catching it on the back of his hand. “The wolf,” he said, lifting his palm. “Still standing, against all odds.” He pocketed the coin. “Now to more interesting news. Something to relieve the boredom.”
Hawke and Montfort looked at Hugh.
That was all Saint-Clair needed. “Trouble at The Sentinel?”
Hugh drew a breath and told them everything. Everything except for the intimate interlude in Stonefold’s library.
“Which brings me to you, Montfort, and Bellingham’s will,” he said.
Saint-Clair raised a stilling hand. “And Miss Vane is at Shadowmere now? A woman who left the safety of her family to investigate a murder with you?” He grinned. “Is she sane?”
“None of us are.”
“True. The musketeer disguise left me muttering ‘en garde’ in my sleep for days.”
Hugh smiled. “That explains the beard.”
Saint-Clair stroked his beard. “I’d like to say the ladies appreciate it, but life on the run provides precious little feedback.”
“I have news on Bellingham’s will,” Montfort said. “The mine was divided equally between the brother and sister. The solicitor swears Miss Bellingham never expected her share.”
That matched what Mrs Fenwick had implied. Miss Bellingham hadn’t fled despite the inheritance. She’d fled because of it. Yet it hardly made sense.
“Her father died a year ago. Why run now?”
“Your article,” Hawke said. “The timing can’t be a coincidence. Something you wrote stirred the hornet’s nest.”
“What prompted the article?” Montfort asked. “You wouldn’t accuse Howden’s father of faking his death without good reason.”
He recalled the night the letter came. Not perfumed paper that drove a man to distraction. A simple note alleging negligence at the mine.
“A tip. Whoever sent it had knowledge of Hartham Colliery, which made it seem convincing.”
Hawke folded his arms. “Bellingham is dead. His sister has disappeared. If they were tied to the same secret, the old lord may well be alive. Someone is still protecting him.”
Yes. Whoever strung up that effigy in his apartment had not come seeking answers. They were delivering a warning.
“That’s not all,” Montfort said. “Miss Bellingham inherited her brother’s shares. If the will stands, she owns half the mine.”
Perhaps whoever killed Bellingham knew it. “What about old Lord Howden’s will?”
“Everything unentailed went to the son and the aunt, including the shares in the mine. Howden had a private burial, attended by no one but them.”
“Convenient,” Saint-Clair said.
The aunt had spoken as though her brother still lived. So why wear mourning clothes and weep at a tomb? Unless she was confused. Or drunk.
“That leaves us with Long Ditton.” An address. No name. No explanation. Just a clue from a dead man.
“There is a more pressing question.” Saint-Clair paused for effect. “What happens to Miss Vane once the crime is solved?”
He refused to think beyond tonight, beyond the desire to lose himself in a woman who made it easier to breathe.
“That depends upon Miss Vane.”
“Good God,” Saint-Clair said. “He’s already speaking like a husband. So, you’ve banished the ghosts from Stonefold?”
“It would take more than a priest and a gallon of holy water to rid the house of that bastard.”
“Best to begin with the devil in your head.”
“He’s too damn stubborn. Don’t go dusting off your easel and paints.” Saint-Clair had a habit of turning ruined houses into handsome landscapes, as he’d done for Shadowmere. “Stonefold will always be a monstrosity.”
“Then perhaps it’s just as well you’re illegitimate.”
The word hung like a blade above him, as sharp as it had been the night his father made the deathbed confession. A cruel jibe to surpass all others. One last cut from a man who spent a lifetime deepening the wound.
“Am I? He found a way to leave me chained to Stonefold all the same. I never found written proof.” Perhaps that was the final punishment. Forcing him to relive every memory in that house.
“And you likely never will.” Saint-Clair stepped farther into the circle. “Assume he invented the lie to hurt you and move on.”
And yet the threat hung over him, a rope worn thin enough to snap. He’d protected himself by taking nothing but the inheritance left by his maternal grandmother. No one could touch The Sentinel. That belonged to him.
“There’s joy to be had in marriage, Stanton.” Hawke’s expression softened, which somehow made him look more dangerous. “Don’t call it principle when it’s fear. I did, and it almost cost me Daphne.”
It was easy to say. Hawke hadn’t grown up doubting whose blood ran in his veins.
“No child of mine will ever live at Stonefold.” And who would want to marry someone’s by-blow? “Are we done here?”
Saint-Clair smiled. “For now.”
Emma returned to the marquee bathed and wearing a clean nightgown.
Daphne had pressed it into her hands with an innocence she had been foolish enough to trust. Her hostess surely used the same modiste as Melinda.
The neckline barely covered her breasts.
The semi-sheer Indian muslin would offer little protection from the cold or Hugh Stanton.
She placed the bottle of burgundy and crystal goblets on the table and glanced at the bed. She could roll a blanket and make a divide down the middle. A wise woman would build a barrier before he returned.
Perhaps it was time to admit she was as reckless as her parents. The idea of sleeping beside him held a dangerous appeal.
And dangerous ideas required wine.
Her hand shook as she poured, and she ended up taking a gulp, not a sip.