Leslie Lafoy (32 page)

A fop. With a greedy, murderous streak. “Is he lodged with the sisters?”

O’Brien shook his head. “West End. On Shaftesbury.”

The puzzle pieces fell together with an almost audible click. “Near Nickel’s Sweet Shop.”

“How’d you know that?”

“Candy wrappers,” Barrett explained obliquely, his mind occupied by the other possibilities. “Who else is in town? The Choteau brothers? Neville Martinez? Anyone named Dandaneau?”

“If they is,” O’Brien answered, flicking ash off the cheroot, “haven’t heard or seen so much as a shadow or a whisper of ’em. Got our boys still lookin’, though. Better sure than sorry in my book.”

Barrett nodded, considering the odds of the conspiracy being any broader than it already was.

“You want the rest of it now?”

Deciding that the sisters and Caribe were likely the only players in the game, Barrett drew hard on his cheroot and smiled as he blew a stream of smoke toward the tin ceiling. “This would be the worse part?”

O’Brien cocked a brow and leaned his shoulder against the wall. “Larson hauled me in at half past nine last night an’ forced me to spend two friggin’ hours in his sparklin’ company. Had a lot of questions for me, he did.”

Larson and O’Brien. Not a good combination. If blood hadn’t spilled it would have been one of their tamer sessions together. “Questions about what?”

“Where you are, mostly,” his man replied. “He’s not believin’ you’re in Paris like your da’s sayin’ you are. That dead bastard in your rear yard has Larson turnin’ over every rock he can find as fast as he can lay eyes on ’em. He’s figurin’ two murders makes you the meanest dog in London an’ that his bosses’ll have his head if he doesn’t serve yours up first.”

No real surprise in all of that, Barrett decided. “I’m assuming that in your usual efficient fashion, you’ve been turning over a few rocks yourself. Tell me about the dead man.”

“I figured like you. That he was bein’ paid for his brawn. Can’t tell you for sure that the coins in his pocket was from the Lemon Girls or from Prancer though. I’ve had the boys watchin’ all three of ’em since they turned ’em up an’ no one’s seen a meetin’ with anyone that looked like a hirelin’. Don’t know how the word’s being passed down on what they want done.”

O’Brien might not be able to see it, but he could. Someone in Nickel’s was a conduit, passing instructions from the conspirators to their henchmen. Caribe or the sisters went to purchase candy and deliver their wishes. Someone else went in after them and was handed their marching orders, sweetened with chocolate and peppermint. As a strategy, it was well designed; Caribe and the sisters remained neatly and safely removed from direct, overt involvement.

“Don’t know who killed the one in your yard, either.”

“But you’re working on it,” Barrett ventured.

The man nodded and took another pull on the cheroot before answering. “It was a clean shot from what Larson let slip in demandin’ information outa me. Someone will be awantin’ the credit for it. I’m waitin’, listenin’ for the cock to crow. Also have a man lookin’ for the wake an’ plannin’ to be there when the talk flows like a river of whisky.”

Barrett counted the hours back. A little more than eight hours ago. An eternity considering all that had transpired since then. In another eight the word of the wake would be passed. And whoever had pulled the trigger would be nearing the end of their restraint. “All in all,” Barrett observed, “it’s not terrible news. I was expecting worse.”

“Well, I was just workin’ my way along,” O’Brien countered dryly. “Larson’s got the docks covered, boss. You ain’t gonna make a dash for Paris now without havin’ to slip past his men. Got the rail stations buzzin’, too. An’ it’s not just Larson an’ his bloody beagles you got to worry ’bout. You’re front page of the early edition of today’s friggin’
Times
. With a hundred pounds over your head.”

“Well, that does meet my standards for worse,” he confessed with a wince. Knowing that there wasn’t anything to be done about the unexpected turn of events, he set it aside. “Did Larson ask you any questions about Belle?”

“Who?”

“Isabella Dandaneau.”

O’Brien flicked another ash while slowly shaking his head. “Only skirt he mentioned was the one found dead in the alleyway. That Mignon Richard woman.”

“What did he want to know about her?”

“If I knew her or anything ’bout her an’ you. Gave ol’ Larson honest answers on those. Figured it couldn’t hurt you none an’ might even help a bit for him to hear your story one more time.”

“Did he ask about the de Granvieux sisters or Emil Caribe?”

“Nope. Them I held close to the vest, figurin’ it was up to you what’s to be done ’bout ’em.”

O’Brien, Barrett mused—not for the first time—might lack social graces, but he more than made up for the shortcoming in his ability to think fast and on his feet. He had an uncanny, innate sense of what to say, when, and to whom. Not once in all the years of their association had the man blundered.

“Boss?” he asked, intruding on Barrett’s silent appreciation. “What do you want me to do next? Keep lookin’ for the ones we haven’t found yet? Or just watch real close the ones we have?”

It was, Barrett realized, only one of several decisions that had to be made. Larson was on the hunt; it was only a matter of time before he found them. When he did … Barrett frowned up into the cloud of smoke. He didn’t want Belle to see him taken into custody. He’d humiliated Larson and his men in making them run all over London in search of him and they’d return the favor tenfold the first chance they had. He could endure the rough treatment, but he wasn’t at all sure that Belle could watch it happen without trying to intervene. If she entered the fray with a weapon …

No, he couldn’t let Larson find him. Better to find Larson himself. There were now enough pieces of the puzzle to present. He had the story of Mignon’s past and the roles the de Granvieux sisters and Emil Caribe had played then and the parts they were likely playing now. He had the story of Lafitte’s treasure. He could hand Larson a beautifully wrapped package of motive and opportunity. If Larson was willing to hear him out with an open mind, he stood a reasonable chance of walking out of his office an absolved man.

But if Larson’s mind wasn’t open … Barrett chewed on the end of the cheroot and considered the possibilities and his options.

“Boss?”

The decision made, Barrett blew another stream of smoke toward the ceiling and replied, “I assume that you still have the boys working to find the others?”

“I do.”

“Then let them continue with their task. For the moment, I want you to stay here and keep watch over Belle. She’s sleeping upstairs. If I’m lucky, I should be back well before she wakes.”

O’Brien’s chin went down as his brow went up. “Where are you goin’?”

“Lord Lansdown’s Haven House is first,” Barrett explained. “He’s going to accompany me to Larson’s office.”

“The son of a bitch will arrest you, boss.”

A distinct possibility, he had to admit. But it was a risk he’d already weighed and deemed an acceptable one. “Even if he does, he’ll have to ask me some questions sooner or later. Most likely sooner since Carden—my friend and a well-regarded, influential peer—will be there to see that he exercises both restraint and common sense. Once he hears the stories I have to tell, he’ll have no choice but to focus his suspicions where they properly belong.”

His man shifted between his feet and glanced toward the back door. “Are you sure ’bout this? It’s damn risky.”

Barrett shrugged. “It involves considerably less risk than any other course I have at the moment.”

“What do you want me to tell the lady if your luck turns to shit?”

Barrett made a mental note to write Belle a quick missive before he left. Just to tell her O’Brien was there and to warn her about the man’s rougher edges. “Give her nothing more than my basic plan and keep your doubts to yourself,” he instructed, knocking the fire out of the cheroot and handing the remnant of it to the other man. “If I’m not back here by mid-morning, take her to Haven House and deliver her into Lady Lansdown’s care. Seraphina will manage matters from there.”

“Boss, I—”

“Stow the reservations, O’Brien,” he interrupted, his mind clicking through the tasks, large and small, that lay in the hours ahead. “I appreciate your concerns, but they’re groundless. Everything will come right in the end.”

*   *   *

The hair on the back of his neck prickled again, harder, and Barrett stilled in the deep shadows of Carden’s carriage house. The east side of his friend’s home loomed ahead, dark and silently slumbering in the cold gray predawn mist. Nothing moved. The only sounds were those in the distance, those typical of a city that never truly retired for the night. Watching, listening, he slowly reached behind himself and drew his revolver from the small of his back. His gaze and the muzzle sweeping over the ground between himself and the house again, he lifted his left hand to press it against the breast of his coat, making sure that the land grant was still safely tucked inside.

Reassured, he took a cautious step forward, straining to hear, to see. The sound was fast, the blow even faster. He heard the bone snap a full heartbeat before the pain blasted into his brain, a full two heartbeats before he saw the gun tumble from his useless hand. Instinctively, he whirled toward his right, his left arm up in defense. A dirt-streaked face. Two. Three. A blur of motion, an explosion of pain. His left leg crumpled beneath him. His stomach heaved. Sparks danced before his eyes and then there was nothing at all.

Chapter Seventeen

It was a good thing Barrett had thought to scribble her a note, Isabella thought as she accepted the cup of steaming coffee from the wiry Irishman. If he hadn’t, she’d have shot Patrick O’Brien dead in the parlor doorway. Between his ratty, ill-fitting clothing and the distinct odor of whisky that wafted around him … Well, Barrett had warned her that he wasn’t exactly the most reputable-looking sort. And the way his eyes unexpectedly darted toward the slightest noise … She gave him a strained but hopefully polite-looking smile, and lifted her mug to him in salute to the new day.

“I figure ten to be mid-morning,” he said. “If’n the boss ain’t back by then, I’ll haul you over to Lady Lansdown like he told me to.”

To her ears O’Brien sounded rather excited about the prospect. Hopefully he didn’t mean to literally haul her. Being dumped in Lady Lansdown’s foyer like a sack of potatoes was utterly unacceptable. If ten o’clock arrived before Barrett did, she’d have to tussle control of the situation from his man. While smiling sweetly, of course. And letting him think that he’d surrendered it of his own accord.

But judging by the pale light coming through the kitchen windows, ten o’clock was at least a good two hours away. Waking to find Barrett gone had been disconcerting, but it was nothing compared to the prospect of passing two hours with a very nervous stranger. Having decided on reading Barrett’s note that the rules of basic hospitality applied, she’d climbed into a dress and put up her hair before coming down the stairs to meet her temporary protector. And once begun, there was no going back. Retreating to her room now would be unconscionably rude. She would simply have to find some subject on which they could pleasantly converse and pass the time.

“So,” she said, smiling politely, “do you happen to know where Barrett went?”

“He was going first to Lord Lansdown’s an’ then the two of them was headin’ over to Larson’s office.”

Her heart slammed up into her throat. “Larson’s?” she managed to croak out around it.

O’Brien nodded and took a long, slow sip of his coffee. “I’m supposed to tell you—in case you miss it—that Mr. Stanbridge has the land paper. He took it with him so he could lay it down in front of the inspector. Proof of motive and all, ya know.”

Her mind reeled between all the points of information she so unexpectedly needed. “Barrett wouldn’t have gone to see Larson without having a suspect to hand him. Who is it?”

O’Brien’s gaze darted out the window. Pointing with his coffee mug, he said, “You can ask him yourself. Carriage just pulled up an’…” He leaned forward and tilted his head to presumably get a better view. “Yep,” he declared, coming back to center and taking another sip of coffee, “it’s Lord Lansdown comin’ through the gate.”

Belle stepped to the window. Carden was already halfway to the back door. The carriage sat in the alleyway, the driver still in the box and clearly waiting for his return. But the gate was closed and Carden was alone. “I don’t see Barrett with him,” she said, moving to the door and pulling it open.

“Must have hit a rough patch at Larson’s,” O’Brien said morosely from behind her. “I warned him not to go.”

“Carden,” she offered in greeting as he gave her a tight smile and stepped past her into the kitchen. “Where’s Barrett?”

He looked at her, at O’Brien, and then back at her. The thinness of his lips, the hard light in his eyes set her pulse skittering. “Where’s Barrett?” she repeated, unable to keep the notes of burgeoning panic out of her voice. “Has something happened to him?”

Barrett’s friend visibly squared his shoulders and widened his stance. “I presume that he was on his way to Haven House for some reason?”

The shudder that ripped through her was instant and cold and soul deep.

“He was thinkin’,” she heard O’Brien supply, “to take you with ’im to Inspector Larson’s office. He didn’t get that far, did he?”

From his pocket Carden drew a crumpled bit of paper that had been folded into quarters. “This was wrapped around a rock and pitched through my parlor window not thirty minutes ago.”

Belle took the paper from him with one hand while blindly setting her coffee aside with the other. Her hands trembling, her breathing shallow and painful, she opened the note. The script was feminine, but the gentle lines didn’t mask the harshness of the message.

We have Stanbridge and the land grant. We’ll trade him for a legal transfer of the grant to the bearer. Tonight at six on the steps of the West Portico of St. Paul’s. Isabella comes alone. If she’s late or brings the police, Stanbridge will be killed.