Elizabeth Thornton - [Special Branch 02] (8 page)

But that was before his wife tried to leave him, before she told him about the portrait. Now he saw that these women were not laughingstocks, they were truly dangerous. And one of them was the greatest threat to his ambitions that he had ever encountered. He could lose everything, and he had much to lose.

His star was on the rise. He was a member of the prime minster’s cabinet. His ambition was to be the next Home Secretary now that Fortesque had resigned, then prime minister. He would let nothing stand in his way.

As he stared at the earl’s portrait, he felt a sense of peace wash through him. Whatever he decided to do about Lady Mary was all right with the earl.

He would send her away from London and her pernicious friends. He would send her to Rosemount, his estate near Henley, and make sure she was well guarded. That wouldn’t arouse anyone’s suspicions. It was well known that Rosemount was Lady Mary’s favorite residence, and where else would she go to recover her health?

That would buy him some time to track down the person who had the portrait. And when he had it, they would all pay for making an enemy of him. It’s how the earl would have handled things.

On that thought, he left the library and climbed the stairs to the tower room.

Wheatley was boiling when he climbed into the hackney that was waiting for him in the drive. It wasn’t his fault that his father had committed some crime that could ruin him. If their positions were reversed, he would have been harangued endlessly for what he’d done. But he didn’t dare say a word or he’d be cut off without a penny.

He told the driver to take him to the Bow Street Office. Johnny Rowland’s body must have been discovered by now, and if he was to find out anything, it would be from one of the runners or the magistrate on duty. They might wonder at him coming out at this time of night, but he was an attorney. He could claim that he’d been sent for by some important client, then laugh it off as a practical joke when no client was found.

A joke. That’s what the Ladies’ Library in Soho Square was, a joke, but it had certainly got Gerrard all fired up. It seemed ludicrous to call in someone like Harry to deal with a flock of twittering ladies. Harry was a killer. He had to be told whom to kill. And he, Ralph Wheatley, would have to point the finger. Not
that he had any scruples about that. He just wished he knew whom to single out.

It was like looking for a needle in a haystack. None of the ladies on the list Gerrard had given him had the portrait in her possession. He’d done his job. They’d all been watched, and when they were out of the way, their homes had been searched. There was nothing.

This is not a game we’re playing
. You could bet on it if Harry became involved. Wheatley was convinced that Harry was a little mad. He couldn’t make up his mind whether Harry killed for money or pleasure.

Harry wasn’t his real name, of course. They’d met when Harry had asked Wheatley to represent him when he came under suspicion of murder. Wheatley knew that he was as guilty as sin, and Harry knew that he knew. All the same, he’d cleared Harry’s name by fabricating an alibi. It hadn’t even come to a charge and no one ever got to know of it. It was always understood between them that Harry would return the favor one day.

And he had, not for Gerrard, but for other clients who could pay well for Harry’s services. Wheatley had won more than one case because a witness had met with an untimely accident.

Gerrard was no fool. He’d put two and two together and had taxed him about the unfortunate witnesses who had met with accidents. So he’d bragged about Harry, and Gerrard had smiled and nodded, and stored the information away for future reference.

Wheatley had considered using Harry a time or two to get rid of his father, but he knew he would never get away with it. He would be the prime suspect even if he had an iron-clad alibi. He was to inherit everything, not only the late earl’s fortune that had come to Gerrard through his wife, but the house on
the Strand and the estate of Rosemount near Henley. He was no pauper, but a man could never be too rich.

All he had to do was be patient, and it would all come to him eventually. But if he didn’t find the portrait, there was no saying what Gerrard might do. The slimy bastard might even change his will. He wasn’t going to allow that to happen. He would find the portrait and with Harry’s help, take care of all the loose ends.

When he reached Bow Street, he found it practically deserted. Just about every officer had been called out to Sackville’s house when it was accidentally discovered, in the course of investigating Rowland’s murder, that an orgy was in progress. It seemed that a bootboy, who was smoking an illicit, stolen cheroot in the privy, had stumbled over Rowland’s body when he returned to the house and had gone screaming, not to his master, but into the night, and straight into the arms of the officers who were patrolling Hyde Park.

All the witnesses were still being interviewed at the scene of the crime. No one would think it odd for an attorney to make an appearance in such a case, so he went there straightway and managed to bribe one of the footmen into showing him the guest list.

Then he found his needle in the haystack. Mrs. Gwyneth Barrie of Sutton Row! Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn’t to find a member of the Ladies’ Library on that list. She’d either left early or managed to slip away in the confusion, but that didn’t matter. He’d made the connection between Rowland and Mrs. Barrie.

It was circumstantial, but he’d prosecuted and won cases on less evidence than that.

The night wasn’t over for him yet. He was beginning to think that maybe he had been too lax. It was Lady Octavia they’d suspected, and Lady Octavia whose movements were being watched around the
clock. Now they would concentrate all their attention on Mrs. Barrie.

Though it galled him to admit that Gerrard was right about anything, they needed someone like Harry to run the show. He would get onto it right away.

I
n the tearoom of the Ladies’ Library, Gwyn and her friend, Judith Dudley, were setting things up for the luncheon that would follow that morning’s program. Today was the library’s annual Open House, and the lecture room was crowded with people who had braved a steady downpour to hear a lecture on the plight of women in modern England.

“I’m surprised there are so many people here,” said Gwyn. This was her first Open House, and she didn’t know what to expect.

“Oh, that’s because of Mrs. Laurie. Not only is she an excellent speaker, but she is one of the leading hostesses in London. Everyone wants an invitation to one of her parties.”

Gwyn set down a cup and saucer and looked up. “That doesn’t sound like a good reason for being here.”

“Oh, but it is. Lady Octavia knows what she’s doing. People come here for different reasons, then they hear about our cause, and the next thing you know, they’re on our side. Look at Lady Mary. She came to hear a lecture on—I forget what it was.”

“Landscape gardening,” replied Gwyn.

“Yes. Landscape gardening. And after that, she became a regular attender until this last month.”

Both ladies fell silent as they thought of poor Lady Mary. She’d had some sort of mental breakdown and was now confined to her bed. They knew why she’d had a breakdown, and there was nothing they could do about it. Husbands who were tyrants could not be brought to justice.

Judith sighed, then went on, “Watch out for the men, though! The younger ones, especially, are here to make trouble.”

“What?” Gwyn was startled. “What kind of trouble?”

“Jokes. Heckling the guest speaker. Last year, they set off a firecracker. Don’t look so worried—Lady Octavia has called out the cavalry.”

She indicated the three gentlemen who were standing by the glass doors to the lecture room. Gwyn recognized them as the husbands of three of the library’s volunteers.

“Don’t they look sweet with their truncheons tucked into their waistbands?” Judith said.

“They look like thugs.”

“That’s the whole point. Only a fool would tangle with them.”

Since Judith didn’t look the least bit worried, Gwyn decided she needn’t worry either, at least about men making jokes and heckling the guest speaker. She had far graver things to worry about. She couldn’t stop thinking about the party at Sackville’s house two nights ago. In that morning’s paper, there had been a small column with the report that Mr. Albert Sackville had been charged with operating a common bawdy house. There was to be a complete report in the next edition of the paper.

There had been a raid, it seemed, and she had got away in the nick of time. But her name had been on
the guest list. Ruin was staring her in the face. She could see it now, her name in the papers. No right thinking parent would want his daughter to associate with a woman of easy virtue.

A woman of easy virtue; that’s exactly how they would brand her.

She gave a start when Judith touched her shoulder.

“I said,” repeated Judith, “that Mr. Ralph Wheatley can’t seem to keep his eyes off you.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Wheatley, one of our city’s most successful barristers.”

Gwyn followed the path of her friend’s gaze. She saw a man she judged to be in his forties shaking out his umbrella as though he had just arrived or was about to leave. When their eyes met, he looked away.

“I’ve never seen …” she began, then sucked in a breath. Maybe she hadn’t seen him before, but he might have seen
her
at that awful party.

“Gwyn, what is it?” asked Judith.

Gwyn looked at her friend. Dark ringlets framed a face that was pretty rather than beautiful. Judith’s eyes were her best feature—aquamarine, thick-lashed, and wide-set—eyes that mirrored her every thought. Right now, those eyes reflected her concern.

Gwyn did not debate with herself for long. There was nothing she could say that could shock Judith. It was Judith who was always shocking her. She was outrageous; she was unconventional. She poked fun at anyone who took himself too seriously, even the ladies at the library. No one minded because Judith was such a darling. She would do anything for anyone who was in trouble.

Gwyn was groping for the right words to tell her story when a round of thunderous applause came from the lecture room. That was the signal for the tureens of tea to be brought in.

“I’ll tell you later,” she said.

They spent the next few minutes pouring the tea into teapots and soon after, people streamed into the tearoom and mobbed the tables. The man whom Judith had pointed out to her, Mr. Ralph Wheatley, was her first customer. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her, and all her worries came back in full force. Maybe he recognized her from that disastrous party. Maybe all the men at the Open House recognized her. Jason had. So might others.

Jason. What had she been thinking to let him kiss her like that, touch her like that? It had seemed so right at the time, to feel his arms around her, his lips on hers, their bodies straining—

She looked up when she heard the sound of her name. Lady Octavia was pushing her way through the crush. She was in her late fifties and verged on the stout side. There were only two colors in her wardrobe, black and white. Today she was all in white. It was her happy color, she said, and she had much to be happy about. Her daughter had just been safely delivered of her third child.

“One of our visitors has fainted,” said Lady Octavia. “She’s in the office, and Nora Halliday is with her. But Nora can’t stay. You see she—oh, never mind that now. You’re so capable, Gwyn. Would you mind taking over for her?”

“Not at all.”

Gwyn allowed herself to be led to the office. As soon as she saw the young woman who had fainted, all thoughts of Jason and Sackville’s disgraceful party left her mind. The young woman was huddled in a chair. Her skin was ashen and she was trembling uncontrollably.

Nora Halliday said, “She doesn’t want a doctor. She says she’ll be all right in a few minutes. I don’t like to leave her like this.”

Gwyn said quickly, “Of course you must go. I’ll manage, and if I need help, I’ll call Judith.”

Lady Octavia gave a long sigh of relief. “Thank you, Gwyn. I knew I could rely on you. Army wives are always so capable.” Then, to the girl. “Gwyn will look after you until I return, all right? And Gwyn, I think a spot of medicinal brandy is called for here.”

The girl made a pathetic attempt to rise. “Lady Octavia …?”

When the door closed, Gwyn quickly crossed to the girl and pushed her back into her chair. “Don’t make any sudden moves or you may faint again.” She looked at the hand that had touched the girl’s coat. “You’re wet through!” Gwyn exclaimed. “No wonder you fainted. You must be chilled to the bone. First things first. Let’s get this coat off you.”

The girl clung to the edges of her coat as though she were naked beneath it. “Oh, no,” she began, “there’s no need.”

“There’s every need.” Gwyn spoke soothingly, as if she were comforting a frightened child, and that’s exactly how she thought of the girl, though she judged her to be in her mid-twenties. She smiled encouragingly. “Really, you’ll feel better without it.”