Lord Ashford's Wager (13 page)

“Money. The commonest of motives, I am afraid,” said Gideon with a rueful smile. “Lady Fairhaven inherited a fortune when her husband died.”

“Yes, but Mark is quite wealthy in his own right. He inherited the estate, the title, and takes in quite a bit from the business. What more could he want?”

“For some people, when it comes to wealth, there is never enough,” commented Gideon. “What of Lady Fairhaven’s will?”

Tony looked blankly at him, and Gideon thought to himself that either he was a very good actor, Lord Ashford, or he was telling the truth. And he gave equal weight to each possibility at the moment.

“Would she even have made out a will yet? After all, she was a relatively young widow.”

“But a very wealthy one. The Fairhaven solicitor saw to that. Mark Halesworth was to inherit everything in the case of her death, should she not remarry and have children.”

“So he stands to inherit all now? Doesn’t that give him a strong motive?” asked Tony.

“It might. Except that evidently Lady Fairhaven made some changes in her will in the last two weeks. I do not know the details, but I understand they were to your benefit, my lord.”

Tony’s eyes widened. “But we weren’t even betrothed at that point.”

“You seem to be telling the truth about one thing, my lord. Lady Fairhaven did indeed love you. My guess is that she left you enough, whatever happened between you, to save your estate. It is unfortunate, however, that she could not foresee her murder…”

“Well, I am a dead man then,” said Tony, getting up from the table.

“Not yet. The will has not yet been read. If it is not read before the hearing, you may well be freed.”

“And then arrested again immediately after!”

“Not if I can find any evidence that points to someone else, my lord.”

“It is hopeless, Naylor.”

Naylor sighed. “You have so little faith in my abilities, my lord.”

Tony had to laugh at the patently mocking tone in Naylor’s voice.

“I admit your situation is not good. But neither is it hopeless.”

“Do me a favor, Naylor.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You will no doubt be reporting back to Lady Joanna?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Ask her to send me Miss Austen’s latest, will you? I don’t think I can go back to Marcus Aurelius after this.”

Joanna smiled when Naylor conveyed Tony’s request. “Tony is not drawn to the stoic Roman? Well, I suppose I am not surprised. Marcus Aurelius was one of Ned’s favorites. Tony preferred Caesar and his battles. How did you find him otherwise, Mr. Naylor?” Joanna asked, motioning the Runner to sit down.

“He has little enough confidence in my skills, my lady. Or else he knows there is no one else out there to find.”

“And which do you think is the truth?”

“I try to stay open-minded, my lady, while I am investigating a case. There was certainly enough evidence against Lord Ashford to arrest him. Whether there is enough to hold him is for the judges to decide.”

“But having talked to Tony again, you cannot possibly believe that he is a murderer,” protested Joanna.

Gideon looked very different for a moment or two, his face hard, his eyes sharp. “I have proved the most innocent-seeming men and women guilty of horrendous crimes, my lady.”

Joanna shivered. It seemed that Naylor was seeing, right then in his imagination, deeds bloody and violent. Then his face softened. “But I must admit that Lord Ashford is most convincing in his protestations of innocence.”

Joanna breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Have you discovered anything about the missing footman?”

“Not yet. In fact, that is what I will be concentrating on again tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Mr. Naylor, for all your efforts,” said Joanna, summoning the butler to show Naylor out.

She sat there in the library for a while. The hearing was in a few days. How on earth could Naylor find out anything by then? What if this Jim were dead or had fled London? What if he hadn’t seen anything at all? Then Tony might be bound over for trial, and quite possibly hanged. And she would have to live out the remainder of her life without him.

* * * *

Gideon started early the next morning. About to break for a pint and a steak-and-kidney pie, he tried one more house on Curzon Street. At first, it seemed as if in all the households: no one could remember an older footman named Tolin. But then the cook, who had been working there for years, said, “Wait a minute, Mr. Naylor. Does it have to be a footman?”

“What do you mean?” Gideon asked.

“Years ago I knew a house parlormaid by that name. She would be about the right age now to be this lad Jim’s mother.”

Gideon’s face brightened. “Used his mother’s name perhaps? That in itself is very interesting. Do you remember what happened to her?”

“She married the footman from the Pentlow household. But I don’t remember what happened to her after that.”

“And what was the footman’s name?”

By this time all of the servants were holding their breath. Imagine old Mrs. Conklin being able to help solve a murder case.

“Crook? No. But something like that. Let me think…”

Gideon waited patiently as Mrs. Conklin screwed up her face and closed her eyes.

“Rooke. That were it. Henry Rooke. He was a very handsome young footman. I don’t blame her for running off with him.”

The butler pounded Mrs. Conklin on the back. “Good for you, Mrs. Conklin. You just might have solved the case, eh, Mr. Naylor?”

Gideon grinned. “Not yet. But this may make it a lot easier.”

And it did. He only had to retrace his steps and give the correct name at a few houses before he came to one where an older servant remembered the Rookes very well.

“He worked for Sir Horace Pentlow for many years, sir. But he retired a few years ago.”

Gideon was off. Sir Horace lived only a few streets away, and by this time he was too intent on finding Jim’s parents to pay attention to his protesting stomach.

Sir Horace was at home, and when he was reassured that no information he gave would be used against his old servants, he gave Gideon their address.

The Rookes lived in the first small house next to a pub off the King’s Road. The Bird and Whistle. Gideon could smell the ale and decided, since it was now almost supper-time, he could justify a short detour. The Rookes would likely be home having their own tea or supper anyway.

He took a window seat and watched the residents of the street come and go. It was a poor neighborhood, but respectable, and he felt much more at home in this pub than he had in Lady Joanna’s library, although she would never have guessed it. That was one thing about being a Runner, thought Gideon. You dealt with such riffraff all day that a street like this felt like a corner of Mayfair. And what was he, after all, but an old west-country man? His own father had been in service to the local squire: his head groom. Gideon could have stayed and worked his way up, either in the stables or the house, but couldn’t stand the idea of not being his own master. When the recruiters came by one day, he just up and left. Of course, he had hardly considered the fact that in the army one was not one’s own master! And the irony was, with all his knowledge of horses, he ended up on the 47th Foot. He had seen a bit of the world, both beautiful and awful, and when he returned to Somerset, he found his mother dead and his father pensioned off.

There was nothing for him at home, and so after a long visit during which he stayed with his sister (she had married a neighboring farmer) and enjoyed being Uncle Gideon to her children, he took off for London. He had heard of the Runners and knew that an ex-soldier had a good chance of being hired. He could have applied for the horse patrol, but liked the greater freedom the Runners had, traveling all over England. So here he was still, with aching and swollen feet, he thought, as he wiggled his toes in his boots.

He wondered if Jim would have taken refuge with his parents. Well, he would soon find out, he thought, as he rose and left his money beside his plate.

A few minutes later he was knocking on their door. They were on the second floor, just above a small butcher shop. Mr. Rooke, who answered the door, might well have been a footman still, with his straight posture and expressionless face. His eyebrows lifted, however, when he recognized Gideon as a Robin Redbreast.

“Mr. Henry Rooke?”

The old man nodded.

“I am Gideon Naylor of Bow Street. I need to ask you a few questions. May I come in?”

Mr. Rooke pulled the door open and Gideon followed him into the parlor.

“How can I help you, Mr. Naylor?” asked the old man, sounding puzzled.

“You have a son, Jim, I believe?”

The mask dropped, and a concerned father, not a well-trained servant, stood in front of Gideon.

“Nothing has happened to our Jim, has it?” he asked, his voice lowered.

“I have no reason to believe so. Yet,” added Gideon, “it is just that he has disappeared from his place of employment rather suddenly. And I need to ask him some questions.”

“From Halesworth’s?”

“Yes, three nights ago. The butler left him in charge when he retired for the evening, and Jim was gone in the morning. He had never even gone up to his room, according to the other footman. He could still be in his livery, as a matter of fact,” said Gideon slowly, not having thought of that. Although, he immediately said to himself, if he were indeed still in his livery, he might well be dead.

“What do you mean, the other footman? Livery? You must have the wrong Jim, Mr. Naylor. My son is not in the service.”

“But
you
mentioned the Halesworths,” said Gideon.

“Yes. Halesworth Limited Jim is a clerk there,” said his father proudly. “We sent him to school so he would not have to follow us into service.”

“Your son, Jim Rooke, works as a clerk in Mark Halesworth’s—Lord Fairhaven’ s—firm?”

“Yes, sir. Has done for some months.”

“When did you last see Jim?”

The older man frowned. “He usually comes home every Sunday, but these last few weeks he has been coming over on Wednesday afternoons.”

“And he never told you he was working in Lady Fairhaven’s household as an under-footman?”

“No!”

“Well, he was. And on the night of the murder, he was the last one to see her alive, except for the murderer and Lord Ashford. Unless Lord Ashford
is
her murderer,” added Naylor under his breath. “Thank you, Mr. Rooke, you have been a great help to me.”

“Wait, wait, Mr. Naylor. You mean to tell me our Jim is mixed up in a Mayfair murder and you don’t know where he is?”

“Not yet, but I intend to find out.”

When Jim had run from the house on the night of the murder, he had, in fact, thought of taking refuge with his parents. Then he realized how obvious a place it would be to hide. If he went there, he would likely be found immediately, by the Runners or by Lord Fairhaven. Of the two, he preferred the Runners, he thought, as he remembered the scene in the library.

He was very lucky Lord Ashford was a generous man, for here he was, a fugitive from justice, with no clothes on his back but the Fairhaven livery, which would make him memorable to anyone who saw him.

He had turned down a deserted alley halfway between his parents’ house and the Fairhaven townhouse and decided it was as good a place as any to spend what was left of the night. He huddled against a building and tried to ignore the sounds of the rats and the smell of the sewer. When the sun rose, he took off his jacket and was about to leave it in the alley when he realized he could probably get good money for it in Petticoat Lane. So he put it over an arm and made his way to the market.

The old-clothesmen were shrewd bargainers and Jim ended up making an even trade, rather than getting a few shillings extra for what was obviously the better suit of clothes, livery or not. But at least he hadn’t had to spend anything. And thank goodness, he’d remembered the half-crown in his breeches pocket from Lord Fairhaven, before he handed over the clothes.

At the thought of Fairhaven, Jim could almost feel his heart start and stop again. Lady Claudia Fairhaven was dead, and she had been such a lovely woman and very kind to him as a new footman. Why had he ever agreed to spy on her in the first place?

Of course, Lord Fairhaven had convinced him that it was for her own good, that she was being taken advantage of by Lord Ashford. But from what Jim had seen, Lord Ashford had been very fond of his mistress and she, most certainly, had been enamored of him. And Lord Ashford had been very happy that night when he left, giving Jim a generous vail and saying: “I finally have something to celebrate, Jim, so you should too.” He had leaned forward and whispered: “I’ve proposed and she’s accepted and you may be the first to wish me happy. But mum’s the word.” He’d smiled and winked and Jim had grinned back. Lord Fairhaven would not be happy with the news, but Jim couldn’t but feel that it was a good thing for Lady Fairhaven to have such a handsome and charming man in her house. And her bed.

He hadn’t even had time to inform Lord Fairhaven, who had arrived shortly thereafter and gone right to the library, saying that there was no need to announce him. And then, that awful sight of his mistress being laid on the floor. Thank God Fairhaven had been too involved to notice the door quietly opening and closing.

Perhaps it was foolish to have run, but how could he have gone back to his post, handed Lord Fairhaven his coat, and pretended nothing was wrong? And what if he had been seen? Any man who would kill a woman would have no compunction about getting rid of a young, naive, and stupid clerk.

For he had been stupid. Stupid to believe his employer.

But no matter now, thought Jim. Done was done. He had to find a place to hide while he thought of what to do.

He had heard of St. Giles. Certainly if he went there, he’d be just one more criminal and hard to find. But he wasn’t a real criminal, he protested to himself. And, to tell the truth, he was too scared to walk the worst streets of the city. Perhaps on the edges of St. Giles he could find something. A cheap boarding house where he could rent a room.