Chapter 11 #2
“No.” Charlotte rolled onto her back and stared at the plaster roses on the ceiling, letting her hands fall limp at her sides. “I want to sleep and forget this entire day ever happened.”
“What about Lady Benson’s ball tonight?” the maid ventured, coming nearer.
Charlotte groaned and grabbed a pillow, pressing it dramatically over her face. “Go in my place. No one will notice.”
A soft tsk came from across the room. “You do not give the ton enough credit. They notice everything.” Sally moved to the windows and drew the drapes, dimming the room. “Rest, Miss. I’ll come back later to dress you for this evening.”
From under the pillow, Charlotte’s voice emerged faint and muffled but still laced with dry humor. “If I am still alive by then.”
Sally laughed again as she departed from the room. Charlotte closed her eyes, willing herself to sink into sleep. But an image of Luca came into her mind. She groaned softly into her pillow. Of all the things to think of, why must it be him?
Luca sat rigidly in the carriage, the rhythmic creak of the wheels and the clatter of hooves doing little to quiet the storm in his mind.
He ought to have been reviewing the questions he intended to ask Miss Dawlish, mentally preparing his strategy before they arrived in Cheapside.
But every time he tried to focus on the matter at hand, Charlotte’s face intruded—those defiant blue eyes, the way her chin lifted when she challenged him, the rare softness she tried so hard to hide.
He dragged a hand down his face. This is ridiculous. She’s distracting me even when she’s not here.
Across from him, Rupert lounged with his usual careless elegance. The faint smirk playing at his lips warned Luca trouble was brewing.
“Do you want to explain what happened earlier with Miss Winslow?” Rupert asked, breaking the silence.
“No,” Luca replied curtly.
Rupert’s smirk widened into a grin. “You have fallen for her, haven’t you?”
Luca exhaled slowly, staring out at the soot-stained buildings passing by. “Must we do this now?”
“It is quite evident that you have affection for her,” Rupert remarked.
“I am engaged to her.”
“Yes, but you also said you only offered because it was the honorable thing to do to save her from the Duke of Brackenford,” Rupert countered.
“That is true.”
Rupert leaned back in his seat. “If it helps, I do believe Miss Winslow cares for you, too.”
Luca snorted. “I daresay you need spectacles. Charlotte couldn’t wait to get away from me.”
Rupert tilted his head, studying Luca. “Perhaps. But I’ve observed her at countless social events. She flirts shamelessly with nearly every eligible man, yet with you, she restrains herself. Why is that, I wonder?”
Luca looked heavenward. “Do not analyze me or Charlotte. I’m not in the mood.”
Rupert raised his hands in mock surrender. “Very well. I will stop, but not before I say this: do not give up the fight for Miss Winslow.”
Luca’s brow furrowed despite himself. “I may regret asking this, but why?”
“There is more to Miss Winslow than meets the eye,” Rupert said, his usual levity softening into something close to sincerity. “She may present herself as vain and pretentious, but I believe she feels deeply. She’s… layered.”
Luca already knew this. He’d seen the flickers of vulnerability beneath her polished exterior, the quick wit and keen observation that most missed. That Rupert had deduced this after only a handful of interactions impressed him more than he cared to admit.
Seeking a change of subject, Luca nodded towards the velvet pouch resting beside Rupert. “May I ask where you acquired all those tools?”
Rupert casually placed a hand over it, his grin returning. “I’ve accumulated them over the years.”
“For what purpose?”
“It is best that you don’t know,” Rupert replied, his tone brooking no argument.
Luca studied his friend. Rupert was a puzzle—jovial and irreverent in public, yet beneath that facade was a man capable of deadly precision when it mattered. In that way, he was not unlike Charlotte herself: outwardly one thing, inwardly quite another.
The carriage slowed, then came to a halt. Luca leaned forward and pushed open the door, stepping down onto the pavement in front of Miss Dawlish’s townhouse. Cheapside bustled around them, but the house stood oddly quiet. He strode up the steps and rapped sharply on the door.
Silence.
He knocked again, harder this time.
Still nothing.
Frowning, he stepped aside and peered through the bay window. All the furniture inside was draped with sheets, no lamps were lit, no movement stirred within. Botheration. She was gone.
Rupert joined him on the step. “It appears as if no one is home,” he observed.
Luca groaned under his breath. “I was just here. How did I let her slip through my fingers?”
“You couldn’t have known,” Rupert said.
“I should have,” Luca muttered.
Rupert shook his head. “You followed the evidence. You couldn’t have predicted her involvement.”
Luca raked a hand through his hair. “All I have to go on now is the ledger.”
“Start there,” Rupert advised. “And don’t doubt yourself. Nothing good comes from dwelling on the past. Focus on the present.”
Luca eyed him. “When did you get so wise?”
“I have always been wise,” Rupert quipped. “You simply failed to notice.”
With a reluctant chuckle, Luca turned back towards the carriage. He paused when he noticed Rupert hadn’t followed. “Are you not coming?”
“No,” Rupert said, tucking the velvet pouch beneath his arm. “I have something I need to do.”
“In this part of Town?”
Rupert’s smile was enigmatic. “Good day, Luca.” He tipped his hat and strode off, vanishing into the crowded street.
Luca watched him go, that familiar prickle of curiosity crawling up his spine. Rupert always had a foot in some shadowed world, but now was not the time to ponder it. He had work to do.
Climbing back into the carriage, he retrieved the ledger from beneath the seat and flipped it open.
The entries were meticulous, most unremarkable—until he reached a deposit of two thousand pounds marked simply with the letter “A,” followed by regular monthly payments of fifty pounds for the past few years.
His pulse quickened as he scanned further and saw “B.” It was the same pattern repeated, an identical initial deposit and subsequent monthly payments, but this time it had only been for twelve months. This isn’t random. This is organized.
Although, there was one anomaly. The line item for “C” had a deposit of three weeks ago, but no other payments were listed.
He snapped the ledger shut, resolve hardening. Griffin would have answers. Luca leaned forward and instructed the driver to change course. Fortunately for him, Mr. Cloward had given him the address for Mr. Griffin.
A short time later, the carriage stopped in front of a red brick building. Luca strode inside and climbed the narrow staircase to apartment 2F. He pounded on the door. “Griffin, open the door!”
The door opposite creaked open and an elderly woman poked her head out, scowling. “Will you keep it down, you ruffian?”
He turned to her, forcing civility into his tone. “My apologies, Madam. I came to speak with Mr. Griffin. Do you know if he’s at home?”
“He was,” she sniffed, “but I’m not sure if he left with those men who came looking for him a short while ago.”
A prickle of unease crept down Luca’s neck. “Did these men say who they were?”
“No, and I didn’t ask,” she huffed. “I’m no gossip.”
“I understand, but this is important,” he pressed.
Her expression softened slightly. “Well, if you must know, they weren’t the sort I expected Mr. Griffin to associate with. They had pistols tucked in their waistbands and they were rude as anything.”
His stomach dropped. “Did you hear any noises? A gunshot, perhaps?”
“I did,” she said primly, “but it’s none of my business.”
Luca stared at the elderly woman, a cold dread coiling low in his gut. He was too late.
He turned back to Griffin’s apartment and reached for the handle. It gave easily beneath his hand. Unlocked. A sharp prickle of unease traveled down his spine as he pushed the door open.
The smell hit him first—a mingling of overturned ink, stale tobacco, and something metallic lurking beneath.
The sitting room was in complete disarray.
Chairs overturned. Papers scattered about on the floor.
A side table lay on its side, one leg splintered clean off.
Whoever had come here had searched with precision and left destruction in their wake.
“Good heavens,” the woman’s tremulous voice came from behind him. “Did something happen to Mr. Griffin?”
“Send for the constable,” Luca ordered without turning around.
She hesitated only a moment before bustling down the hallway.