A Dangerous Madness (13 page)

“Completely premeditated, you’re saying.”

Vickery laughed. “Well, it’s not the actions of a madman. This wasn’t done in the heat of the moment, or in a fugue. He planned it weeks in advance.”

“Perhaps.” James wasn’t convinced there wasn’t some madness there, though. Could a man be so in the grip of a certain idea, so obsessed with something, that he became mad in that thing alone, but could otherwise behave in a way that looked normal?

Whatever it was, he was convinced someone helped Bellingham. Pushed him along and encouraged him. Funded him.

“How did he pay for it all?”

“Back to this, are we?” Vickery shrugged. “He didn’t stint himself at his lodgings, I’ll give you that. He paid extra for a fire in his room, and sent his clothes to be laundered down the road.” Vickery spoke slowly. “He must come from money, or have saved some.”

“According to him, that’s not the case. And if he’s telling the truth, where did he get it? He’s been in London since December with no means of support, let alone enough to pay for new clothes, and rent, and the guns, if he bought them and wasn’t given them by someone. He also commissioned those pamphlets, not to mention the second application to the Prince Regent for compensation.” James was talking to himself, but he saw Vickery stiffen a little.

“I don’t have time to find out about that. Gibbs wants answers by tonight.”

James said nothing.

“What are you implying?” Vickery’s voice was a little strident, now, either forgetting James was a duke, or not caring. “That he was paid to do what he did? That someone was funding him?” The Bow Street officer’s eyes were narrowed.

“No.” James walked more slowly, and Vickery cut his own pace to match. “He says he acted alone, and I think he believes that. But someone made sure he could keep going. Fed his obsession.”

Vickery shook his head. “Even if they did, what can I get them on? Giving money to a murderer? He’s the one who planned it. He’s the one who pulled the trigger. Can’t get him to say different.”

“You’re quite right.” James saw Vickery flinch at his soothing tone. The big detective gave him another narrow-eyed look.

He stopped, and James realized they’d reached Bow Street.

Vickery squared his wide shoulders, and looked up at the building where he worked, then back at James. There was something in his eyes. Frustration, but acceptance as well. “It doesn’t matter. It should, probably, but in this case, it doesn’t. With what I’m going to take to the Attorney General tonight, Bellingham is going to hang.”

Chapter Nineteen

P
hoebe couldn’t stand being inside any longer. Her aunt’s dread pressed in on her and the stench of malice left by Lady Halliford lingered in the rooms. She needed air.

She stepped out into the landscaped area in front of the library, and watched Jake, the gardener, deadhead the roses to her left.

He would come to her rescue if someone scaled the wall again. And besides, it was daytime.

She had the feeling whoever meant her harm preferred to work under cover of darkness.

“My lady.”

She turned at the sound of Lewis’s voice. He was frowning at her from the top step. He couldn’t know everything that was happening, but he was intelligent enough to work out something was wrong, and he didn’t like it.

He looked down at the tray he was holding in his hands and his face changed, shedding the disapproval as he walked down the stairs toward her. The way he carried himself, the excitement in his eyes, made her focus on him more sharply.

Something had happened.

“A note for you.” The way he said it, the word ‘note’ had a capital N. He held it out on the good silver tray, and that in itself was so unusual that she stopped short.

She said nothing, but she thought Lewis’s cheeks reddened a little.

“A note from the Prince Regent.” He proffered the tray to her, and it trembled a little.

The Prince Regent? Phoebe stared down at embossed gold on linen paper.

“It was delivered less than five minutes ago.” Lewis lifted the tray to her again.

She picked the note up, reluctant, though she couldn’t say why. Perhaps because recently none of the surprises in her life had been particularly pleasant.

Lewis presented a letter knife with a flourish, and she slit the seal.

A card lay within, an invitation to a private dinner that evening. Written on the paper beneath it was a short note in a scrawled hand:

My condolences on the death of your betrothed. He was a friend. To commemorate his passing, I’m holding a small dinner in his honor. I could not think of having it without you.

The Prince Regent’s scrawled signature adorned the bottom.

She lifted her head. “I’m to attend a private dinner tonight with His Royal Highness.”

She held up the invitation that had been enclosed with the note, and saw the dinner was for eight o’clock at Carlton House.

“I will have to go.” She spoke to herself, thinking of the Duke of Wittaker’s warning to stay at home, but this was a direct summons, however politely couched, and one she couldn’t ignore.

Lewis looked at her strangely. “I’ll instruct your maid to get out your best gown.”

“Is the messenger waiting for a reply?” There was no mention of her aunt in the invitation, but it was unthinkable that she go without a chaperone.

Lewis gave a nod.

“Let him know my aunt and I would be honored to attend.” She put the invitation and the note back on the silver tray and Lewis disappeared inside.

She did not want to follow him in.

The gardener was still working on the rose bed on the other side of the garden, but well within earshot should she need him.

She turned and walked into her enclosed sanctuary, the thought of attending the dinner making it harder and harder to breathe.

Lady Halliford would have been at work since her visit earlier. Spite had shone out of her like the glitter of cold, sharp crystal. The news that Sheldrake had ended their betrothal, that she was ruined, may well reach the Prince before tonight, but even if it didn’t, given Lady Halliford’s reach, at least some people at Carlton House tonight would know. And they would be only too happy to spread the word.

Tonight would be awkward. Possibly a social disaster.

She started walking the paths, blindly picking herbs as she went and she had a fragrant bouquet by the time she reached the far end of the row.

“Do you not understand the meaning of ‘don’t go out’?”

The words were murmured just above her head.

She froze in surprise, and jerked her gaze upward. The sight of Wittaker, crouched above her like a vengeful angel, helped to steady her, but too late. Hot tears stung her eyes and she turned away immediately, breathing hard.

He jumped down instead of climbing, and before she was ready to look at him again hands gripped her shoulders and turned her around.

“What is it?” He studied her face with such intensity she looked down at his highly polished boots to hide from him.

A single tear escaped, sliding down her cheek, and a warm finger brushed it away. His arms enfolded her, so she was pressed against his chest, the herbs in her hands crushed between them, the scent of rosemary and sage mingling with the smell of wool and sandalwood. For a moment she let her head rest against the beat of his heart.

It was hard to pull away.

Harder still because he resisted, only releasing her when she jerked back. He seemed to have no sense of propriety.

“Why are you hiding in your garden, when you know it’s not safe?” He looked bigger, somehow. More dangerous than before.

“It should be safe. This was the one place I could count on.” Sheldrake, with his schemes and deceptions, had taken that from her, and the rush of anger at the thought gave her what she needed to find her equilibrium. She was fast friends with anger, and happy to use its steadying hand.

He said nothing, watching her intently.

He kept doing this to her, making her so uncomfortable she had to look away. The herbs were a mangled green mess in her hands and she concentrated on them. “I’m in trouble.”

“Someone is trying to kill you. Of course you’re in trouble.” He spoke softly, the way some men she’d seen at balls or dinners spoke to their wives, head bent close to her ear, warm breath soft against her skin.

“Not that.” She shook her head to hide the shiver that shimmered through her.

His hand reached out and cupped her shoulder, drawing her even closer to him. He held her gaze and she drew in a breath at the banked fury there. “You have more pressing troubles than someone trying to kill you?”

“Someone knows Sheldrake broke off the betrothal.” She tried to keep her voice steady. “And now the Prince Regent has sent me a command to attend a dinner at Carlton House tonight in Sheldrake’s honor, and I don’t want to go.”

He stared at her, and she realized she had rendered him mute.

“The invitation arrived a few minutes ago.”

“Was Sheldrake a particular friend of the Prince Regent?” Wittaker’s hand gripped her shoulder a little tighter.

“He said he was. That he was regularly in the Regent’s company. I thought he was exaggerating the connection, but…perhaps not.” She let the crushed herbs fall onto the path and looked down at her green-stained hands.

“Why don’t you want to go? Aside from the fact that leaving the safety of your house is dangerous?”

“Because the invitation makes it clear he thinks Sheldrake and I were still betrothed when Sheldrake died.”

Wittaker frowned at her. “You said someone had found out you weren’t. Who?”

She rubbed her hands together, smelled the scent of thyme again. “Lady Halliford came around well before the visiting hour today, and let me know she knew.”

“She didn’t say who told her?”

“She let slip it was a man, but that was all. She…” Phoebe thought back to the open glee on her ladyship’s face. “She was thrilled to have such a scandal. She began the visit by pretending to offer her support, but she was after gossip. Only, finding out from me that Sheldrake was dead derailed her plans. She didn’t know how to respond.”

“She may be at the Prince Regent’s tonight. Her husband is a close confidant of his.”

Phoebe closed her eyes. “Then the Prince will definitely find out I wasn’t Sheldrake’s betrothed when he died.” She shrugged. “I assumed she would spread the word, anyway, though.”

His free hand came up, and grasped her other shoulder. “It would seem someone has set Lady Halliford on you. I’ve heard she’s a gossip, but this seems a level above how she usually operates.”

“Who, though?”

He raised his brows.

“Not the men trying to kill me, surely?” But why not? Sheldrake was too vain and too conceited to get involved with anyone less than his social equals or betters. Which meant whoever he had plotted with had been his contemporaries. They would be exactly the people she would be dining with tonight.

“I will see if I can get an invitation to Carlton House as well.” Wittaker’s voice was tense.

She looked up, surprised. “I don’t expect…” She frowned, and realized his hands were still on her, still holding her. “You are surely busy with this investigation, Your Grace, you don’t have time to watch over me. I’ll be safe enough with the Prince Regent. He must be well-guarded, especially after the prime minister’s death.”

He gave a slow nod. “He will be. But you have to get to Carlton House and get back. I will escort you and your aunt.”

She thought of Lady Halliford, and how Wittaker’s name was already linked to hers, and shook her head. “I don’t know if that would be a good idea.”

He finally dropped his hands. “Why not?”

“Lady Halliford had another little surprise up her sleeve. She knew about your visit to me this morning.” Phoebe blushed. “She was already speculating about it.”

Wittaker went still. “Your house is being watched. And whoever has arranged the watching is at a high enough level to feed gossip to the likes of Lady Halliford.”

It came back to whoever told Lady Halliford about the end of the betrothal. It had to be the same person, or she suddenly had more enemies than she knew.

“But surely, by giving her that information, they’re revealing that they are watching me. Do they not mind that I know?”

“Perhaps they want to intimidate you. They don’t know the true nature of our relationship, and they may think you are alone, with no one to help you.” Wittaker looked thoughtfully up at the house, then back to her. “Or perhaps she was told the information in confidence but couldn’t resist using it to stir up trouble.” He gave a sudden grin. “I doubt they know I’m here now.”

Phoebe felt a little sick at the thought that he might be wrong. “What about last night?”

Their gazes met, and Wittaker lifted his hand again, sliding it along the back of her neck to cup her head like he had done in the dark of the garden yesterday evening. “They only know about last night if they’ve spoken to their assassin, although I doubt it. He’s hiding somewhere out of their reach, is my guess.”