A Dangerous Madness (21 page)

“I can’t imagine why Gascoyne would embellish the truth, but then again, he made a huge production about recognizing Bellingham, too. It was as if he was determined to show himself the hero of the hour.”

Could it be that? Or something a little more sinister?

Whatever the case, Dowling had told him all he could.

James stood, and gave a short bow. “Well, thank you for your time, Dowling. You’ve been most helpful.”

Dowling pushed himself out of his chair, and from the look on his face, James had the sinking feeling he’d been recognized.

“You’re most welcome,” Dowling said. “Your Grace.”

James half-shrugged. “No doubt I’ll see you around Parliament.”

Dowling pursed his lips, but he could not bring himself to question a duke. “No doubt.” He opened the door for James and as James walked down the stairs and along the lane, he stood in his pyjamas on his top step, watching all the way.

Chapter Twenty-nine

“J
immy tells me you went out earlier.” James tried to keep his voice level as their coach lurched away from the back entrance of Home House. After all, she had taken his men, and been gone less than fifteen minutes. And the trip had been undertaken at seven o’clock in the morning. Not a time anyone would consider it likely for a jaunt.

Even though it had been a full hour and a half after his own early morning trip.

His men had seen no one around, and they had been watching since the night before. They had also been persuaded by Lewis that the trip was necessary.

All this told him she had not been rash, but he could rationalize it all he liked. He was still angry.

“I forgot to mention it last night, because…” She looked up at him from under her lashes and blushed, and he found himself completely immobilised.

He was charmed. And aroused. He could not seem to shake the sensation off.

She cleared her throat delicately. “I took the opportunity to talk to Sheldrake’s staff before the Wentworths move in, and offer them some assistance until they find new positions.” She lifted her shoulders. “The Wentworths could move in at any time, and although they have no money, they would have refused to allow me to help. I had to act immediately.”

“Why?” James tried to unwrap himself from her little finger and get some distance by leaning back against the cracked red leather of the old carriage he had managed to hire for the day. A solid, serviceable, but ancient contraption that would hopefully attract no one’s notice as they spent the day following the leads he had gathered yesterday.

She frowned. “Because if I didn’t go first thing, I might have missed my chance.”

“Why did you want to help them, I mean?”

She didn’t answer right away. Like him, she leaned back against the leather and then made a sound of disgust as a sharp edge where the seat had split caught the wool of her coat. She carefully unhooked the thread, her eyes on her task. “It was the right thing to do. And I would have done it, no matter what my relationship with Sheldrake had been, but my urgency, my sense of needing to get it done, in case the Wentworths somehow stood in my way, was because I know I hold some of the blame for the way things were between Sheldrake and myself.” She finally worked the coat free, and tried to smooth the thread back into the wool fabric.

“I held myself back from him. I don’t suppose it would have made any difference if I had been more open. He may well not have noticed, but I didn’t try, even though I’d agreed to marry him.” She finally looked up, her blue eyes serious. “I should have refused. No matter the impact it would have had on my relationship with my father, no matter what he would have done as far as my financial well-being was concerned, I should have said no to that marriage. I was persuaded to say yes, and then held myself stiff and cold. I held Sheldrake in contempt. No matter how he behaved to me, that was unworthy of me. I had no business being his betrothed with that sentiment. And helping his staff, doing right by them…” She gestured with her hands. “I feel as if I’ve atoned, somehow. Balanced the scales.” She drew her coat tighter around herself, her finger going back to the pulled thread, pressing and smoothing it down. “I feel as if I’ve fought my way free.”

He leaned forward and took her hands. “I like the thought of you free.”

The rumble of the carriage wheels and the squeak of the chassis stretched between them, while he kept her hands in his, the feel of them like warm satin between his palms.

When the carriage stopped with a jerk and a call to the horses by the driver, James realized he had no idea how much time had passed.

He looked out the window and saw they had arrived at Snow Hill.

“Do I come with you?” Miss Hillier—Phoebe—asked, leaning close to him to peer out the window as well.

He nodded. “I understand Mr. Beckwith specializes in small guns that can be concealed in reticules and pockets. The majority of his clientèle are women. So today, I will be your adoring husband, looking at pistols for my lovely wife.”

She frowned. “We have to pretend to be someone else? I thought you just wanted to know who he’d sold the gun to.”

He shook his head. “I learned last night Beckwith sold Bellingham the pistols he used in the assassination. So we’ll be Mr. and Mrs. Lewis, to be safe.” He had dressed respectably but not extravagantly for today’s outing, and he could be a banker, a lawyer, or a merchant. “There may be a connection between the gunsmith and one of the conspirators. Otherwise it is a real coincidence that Bellingham chose to buy his guns the same gunsmith as our attacker from last night. Whether the gunsmith understands what is going on or not, he may mention our visit, and I would prefer that he didn’t know our real names.”

She would stand out, bright as a shaft of sunlight, even sensibly dressed as she was in a dark coat and dark wool dress, but there was no helping that.

With luck, she’d dazzle Beckwith, and he would not think anything unusual of their questions.

He got out and held out his hand.

She hesitated, then took it. She was thinking of the moment he’d helped her down last night, he guessed. And he was sorry he had only gotten one single good blow in to their attacker before he’d fled.

“Your arm.” She looked down on him from the carriage’s top step with big eyes. “Is it all right? I should have asked how it was earlier.”

He shook his head as he helped her down. “A little stiff. Lewis did an excellent job, and it really is only a scrape.”

She said nothing more as she straightened her skirts, but she bit her bottom lip in a way he was coming to recognize as distress.

James forced himself to focus on the job at hand, and check on the four footmen travelling with them. Two on top in the driver’s seat, one on each side of the carriage, all dressed in street clothes, not their livery.

As he’d ordered, three dropped to the ground and melted into the crowds as soon as he and Miss Hillier stepped down, so the carriage looked exactly as it should, worn and with a single, half-asleep driver nodding off at the top.

The other three would be a moment away, watching for any undue interest.

James left them to it and took stock of the shop in front of them. Beckwith, Esq. Gunsmith was worked in green and gold onto a sign over the door, and the shop looked trim and prosperous.

There was no one behind the counter to greet them when they walked in to the tinkle of the doorbell, and James could smell oil and the acrid, sneeze-inducing smell of gunpowder.

He heard the sound of feet shuffling, and a man in his forties came out from the back, wiping his hands on a grey rag.

“Mr. Beckwith?” James could see black powder ingrained in the man’s fingers, and dark smudges on his face and the apron he was wearing over his clothes. Even his grey and brown hair looked faintly stained with black, as if the gunsmith had run his fingers through it.

“Aye. I’m Beckwith.”

“You come recommended, sir.” James made his voice a little too hearty, and beside him Phoebe stiffened. He caught her gaze and grinned down at her. “I want to get a pistol for my wife to carry around with her.”

Beckwith reached under the counter and pulled out a ledger. “What sort of size are you looking for?”

Phoebe lifted her reticule. “To fit in here, please.”

“Yes, I have just the design.” He flipped through the book and then turned it to face them. It contained a detailed sketch of a small pistol, with the dimensions and the price listed neatly to one side.

“Do you happen to have one with this design?” James asked him, taking the pistol Lewis had found on the road last night from his pocket. “It’s a good weapon, and I saw your stamp on it. I thought to get one like it for my wife, only smaller.”

Beckwith took it and turned it over in his hands. “Where’d you get this?”

“A friend gave it to me.” James leaned against the counter, and watched Beckwith consider his words, his gaze never leaving the pistol in his hands.

“Recently?” He eventually raised his eyes.

“Relatively recently.” James smiled.

Beckwith balanced the pistol between the forefingers of each hand and spun it, and James had the sense it was something the gunsmith did often when he was thinking. “This is my work, as you say, but from before I started specializing in smaller weapons. Four or five years back, I made this.” He caressed the barrel. “I don’t remember who I sold it to.”

“Do you keep records? Surely they would tell you?”

Beckwith shook his head. “I do keep records. But this one was part of a set of two, and I made maybe a dozen pairs of these, all identical but for the inlay in the handle. Why are you so interested in who it belonged to originally?”

“My husband likes to know the provenance of things, Mr. Beckwith.” Phoebe had been studying the ledger while they spoke, but she intervened smoothly. “He likes to collect things, and know where they came from.” She smiled at the gunsmith, and distracted, he smiled back.

“Well, I can’t help you, I’m sorry to say. Except to tell you that all those guns were bought by men of standing. They could have been bought and sold a few times since then, but if I recall correctly, every one of those guns went to a nobleman to begin with.”

James forced himself to look satisfied. He could feel the heat of Phoebe’s body pressed close to his, and he longed to touch the delicate skin on her nape, bent again over the ledger as if she were truly interested in what was on the page.

“How quickly do you want the pistol?” Beckwith only had eyes for Phoebe as well—he was ignoring James completely.

“A week?” James wondered whether the gunsmith would confess he would be busy in the days to come, as a witness in Bellingham’s trial.

Beckwith took a step back, and scowled. “Can’t do it, I’m afraid. Have something on.”

“And what is that, Beckwith?” James made himself sound impatient and annoyed.

Beckwith hesitated. “You’ll probably read it in the papers anyway. The man who shot the prime minister on Monday bought his pistols here. I’m to testify to it at his trial and I don’t know how long it will last.”

Beside him, Phoebe did a good impression of shock and interest. “How terrible for you, Mr. Beckwith. Will it affect your business, people knowing you did business with him?”

Beckwith frowned. “Don’t rightly know, but why should it? I take pride in my work an’ most pieces is custom made. No ruffians or petty thieves can afford the likes of a Beckwith Original.” He gestured at the pistol in his hand in outrage. “Even a gun like this one, though it’s not unique, is hand finished. And it cost a pretty penny. I cater to Quality, I do. A few gents like yourself, in the law or business, just like that Bellingham fellow, too, but mostly the Upper Classes. And how was I to know that Bellingham was stark raving, I ask you?”

James lifted his hand to rest on the small of Phoebe’s back. “You couldn’t, of course.”

“Quite right.” Beckwith glared at him fiercely, and then seemed to realize James had agreed with him. He huffed out a breath. “Quite right.”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Beckwith.” Phoebe smiled. “I would like to order this pistol.” She pointed to the drawing on the page. “I’ve been in a few situations recently where I’d have been happy to have one with me. I can wait until you are able to get to it, though. Shall I send someone around in two weeks to see how far along you are?”

Beckwith had obviously not been expecting a sale, and he smiled at Phoebe warmly. “I’ll be as fast as possible, Mrs. Lewis, but two weeks is fine.”

James hid his surprise at her order. He hadn’t planned to buy anything here, but there was no doubt Beckwith was pleased by it. He held out his hand for the pistol he had given Beckwith to look at.

“Sorry I couldn’t be of more help with this.” Beckwith handed it back reluctantly.

And as James took it from him, almost having to pull it from the gunsmith’s grasp, he thought he hadn’t been the only one lying.

Beckwith was most definitely not sorry.

Chapter Thirty

P
hoebe didn’t think Wittaker would let her come with him to visit Bellingham’s solicitor, Harmer, but he surprised her by getting out the coach and offering her his hand.

“The carriage can’t stay here, and I’d rather have you with me,” he said when she raised her brows in query, and as she got out she saw he was right. There was no place for a carriage to pull up here, they could only drop their passengers off and move on to find a place further along the road.