The Rake and the Wallflower (18 page)

“Miss Pettigrew. We discussed her shortcomings at the time.”

“What I can’t recall are any details of the instability. If it was a weakness of spirit, it may only have affected Constance, but insanity could surface in both.”

Gray groaned. “If he is guilty, then he has been nursing his grievance for three years already. I do not believe such a man would be satisfied with inflicting a few injuries. I never saw the suicide note that blamed me for her condition, but it reportedly contained a plea that she be avenged.”

“Dangerous.” Nick drained his glass. “I had forgotten that as well.”

“Or never knew it. The family tried to cover the manner of her death by claiming a fall. It was her maid who spread the tale. But I cannot accuse young Turner without evidence. Rockhurst announced that he considers me innocent of scandal. I won’t do anything to cast doubt on that judgment. Mary deserves better than a tainted name.” Gray dropped his voice as a noisy trio entered the room. “Will you accompany me in the morning? I wish to interview the cart driver who nearly ran me down. He should know who paid him. He cannot have conceived the plot by himself.”

“Have him charged with attempted murder.”

Gray shook his head. “We will talk with him first. I need facts before I decide the next step.”

“Where will we find him?”

“Near the docks. He works for one of my competitors.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

When Gray collected Nick at seven, he had yet to find sleep. After leaving White’s, he had sketched the design he’d been mentally refining for the last year. Then he’d dispatched a footman to see that Rundell and Bridge opened by six. A hefty bonus soothed the jeweler’s dignity and guaranteed that the work would be done by noon.

“I have been thinking,” said Nick once he was settled in the carriage. “The fact that the cart driver works for another import company is suspicious. Perhaps Turner is guilty only of hatred. If you recall, I suggested a business rival from the first.”

“But not Medford. He is more friend than rival. We often purchase shares in each other’s ventures as a hedge against losing one of our own ships.” He owed Medford a great deal. Shares he’d purchased while still in school had earned enough to pay his expenses that first year in London and allow him to live at Albany. Shares in a second voyage had won the stake to start his own company. And Medford’s advice had made that company profitable. He’d stake his life that Medford had nothing to do with his accidents. “Besides, he would never send an employee to attack me,” he continued. “How could he hope to keep his involvement secret?”

“Good point,” conceded Nick.

“I suppose a less friendly competitor might have hired Browning — which is why I must see him. I’ll not accuse Turner without evidence. And though I respect Mary’s acuity, she knows nothing about my business. So we will proceed methodically.” He had suffered from too many baseless charges himself to risk making them against others.

Gray withdrew into silence as his coachman threaded the crush of commercial traffic. Night dirt wagons carried reeking loads toward the Thames to be dumped. Water carts and milkmaids were making their morning deliveries. A laggard herd of cattle straggled toward a slaughterhouse. Farm carts trundled produce to market, along with flowers, hay, sacks of grain, and a hundred other products.

Delivery wagons already fanned across the city, carrying silks, spices, china, furniture, sugar, and other imports from the four corners of the globe. Hoping he would not have to chase Browning all over town, Gray jumped down the moment the carriage rocked to a halt before Medford’s warehouse.

“Is Thomas Browning still here?” he asked the harried manager.

The man frowned. “What might you be wanting with Tom, my lord? We’ve orders to deliver.”

“Some questions arose about that accident on Piccadilly the other day. We hoped he could answer them.”

“What’s this about a accident?” He seemed honestly puzzled — evidence that Browning had not been in Piccadilly on Medford’s business.

Gray shrugged. “A curricle bolted, causing considerable damage. Browning was one of the witnesses. I won’t detain him long.”

“If you say so. But he has a full schedule today.” The manager pointed to a partially filled cart attended by a burly man wearing a patched shirt and thinning trousers. As he heaved a heavy crate inside and shifted another to balance the load, the adjacent cart pulled out, leaving his isolated.

“It should only take a minute.” Gray headed for Browning’s cart, signaling Nick to join him.

As they approached, he called, “Mr. Thomas Browning?”

Browning turned, then paled.

“I thought so,” said Gray, sighing. “Who paid you to run me down the other day?”

“Ye’re barmy.” Browning’s fists clenched.

Nick stiffened. “Witnesses saw you whip your horses into a gallop, then aim them directly at Lord Grayson.”

“T’were an accident.”

“Easy, Nick,” murmured Gray. He kept his eyes on Browning, letting the silence drag out. Finally he nodded. “You look like an intelligent man — and an honest one. I suspect this was the first commission you’ve accepted.”

Browning again protested, but Gray kept talking. “There is no point claiming accident. Witnesses recognized the skill required to traverse the chaos of Piccadilly without a scratch. But beyond that, I know it was deliberate. In the past week I’ve escaped four brushes with death. If that happened to you, would you think it coincidence?”

Browning gasped. “What do ye mean four? Ye can’t blame me for yer own bad luck.”

“I know. Just as I know you had nothing to do with the first three. But someone arranged every one. You know who he is. So talk. Who paid you to run me down?”

Browning said nothing.

Nick started forward.

“Let me make myself clear.” Gray restrained Nick with a gesture. “You have two choices, Browning. You can tell the truth, in which case we will let the incident remain an accident — but I warn you, if you ever attack anyone again, you will pay. Or I can turn you over to a magistrate, produce my witnesses, and watch you be transported.”

“Ye can’t! My wife and sons would starve. The boys ain’t big enough to be aught but sweeps.”

“You should have considered their welfare earlier,” snapped Nick.

Browning sagged against the cart. His eyes pleaded with Gray. “I
was
, my lord. Billy’s been ailing ever so long. ’E needs a doctor bad.” He shook his head. “Ten guineas the cove offered. More’n I make in a month. But I was only s’posed to knock you down. I wouldn’ta done it if ’e wanted ye dead. Not even for Billy.”

“How did you know where to find me?” asked Gray.

“I followed ye. I knew ye on account of ye meetin’ with Mr. Medford so often. The man said ye was stayin’ in St. James’s Square, though ’e wasn’t sure which ’ouse. Piccadilly was the first time I ’ad a good shot at ye.” He shuddered. “Course when that lady pulled ye away, I missed. So he paid nothin’.”

Ice pooled in Gray’s stomach at this confirmation. No matter what Browning claimed, there was no guarantee he would have survived an impact. And his enemy knew it.

But this was not the time or place to think about it. He focused on Browning’s last statement. “He did not even pay part of the sum in advance?”

Browning shook his head.

“Who was he?”

“’E never told me ’is name.”

“Yet you believed him honorable enough to reward you when the deed was done. He must know you would have small chance of finding him and less of convincing the authorities that he hired you.”

Browning paled. “I was a fool.”

“Yes, you were, though it proves that you are new to this business.” He wondered if the footpad had received any pay. Or had the man agreed to assault him in exchange for his purse and watch. Perhaps drugging him to make the job easy was enough reward. “Had you injured me, you would now be on your way to Botany Bay.”

Browning straightened and met his eye. “I know.”

“Tell me everything. What did the man look like.”

“’E were a Swell, though young. About your height, but not filled out.” His eyes measured Gray’s chest and shoulders. “Pale face, collar to ’ere.” He touched his cheekbone. “’Is voice cracked like ’e was nervous. Or maybe excited.”

“Did he give any reason for wishing to hurt me?”

Browning shook his head. “I didn’t ask. The money seemed a answer to prayer, so I kept quiet. ’E acted like ’e’d take ’is business to another if I balked.”

“Nervous, you said. As if he had second thoughts?” asked Nick.

“No. ’E weren’t scared at all. But strung tight like a bow ’eld at the ready. ’E’d been plannin’ this awhile, or so it seemed. ’Ad all the details worked out in ’is ’ead. Muttered ’bout revenge, though. Don’t see that much with the nobs. Most of ’em are either drunk or bored.”

“Hair color?”

“Brown. Nothing special. But ’is eyes were a queer blue. Piercing. And ’is nose bent to one side.” He pushed his own to the left.

“Turner to the life,” murmured Nick.

“Good.” Gray concentrated on Browning. “You will never accept such a commission again, will you?”

Browning shook his head. “No, sir. I ain’t slept good since, thinkin’ ’bout ’ow many mighta been ’urt that day. I shoulda thought ’bout the other traffic.”

“You are lucky no one died. How is Billy?”

“Poor.” Anguish twisted his face.

Gray was moved that a man would risk his neck to help his son. His own father hadn’t even realized six-year-old Gray had broken an arm until four weeks after the incident — nor would he care overmuch if Gray died, even today. Gray had never fit into Rothmoor’s world. “Take the boy to Dr. McClarren in Berkley Square. He is Scots trained and the best physician I know. If anyone can help, he can. Tell him to let me know if he has any questions.” He handed Browning his card, wrapped in a ten-guinea note.

“I can’t—”

“You can.” He held Browning’s eyes. “You owe me for the distress you caused. You can repay that debt by seeking help for your son and by never engaging in such dealings again.”

“Thank ye, my lord.” Browning’s eyes glittered. “Ye’ll never regret this.”

“Make sure I don’t.” Nodding farewell, he and Nick strode back to his carriage.

Nick shook his head. “You surprise me, Gray. The man tries to kill you, so you pay him?”

“Unlike that footpad, Browning is not a criminal. And how can so devoted a father fail to touch a chord? Besides, he confirmed that Turner is behind this. Such information is worth a reward.”

“Where to now?”

“Turner’s rooms. It’s time to have a serious talk with that boy. Did you learn anything new about him?” Gray recalled little of the family, though the Turners lived near Rothmoor. Neither the old nor new Lord Turner shared Rothmoor’s interests.

“Not as much as I would like. After you left White’s, your betrothal and Miss Seabrook’s fall from grace dominated conversation, but I did manage a few questions. The subject of Miss Turner arose when Atkins mentioned Rockhurst’s defense of you.”

“I would hardly call it a defense,” protested Gray.

“Apparently he was more forthcoming after you left. He claims that your determination to avoid Miss Turner had made him doubt her tale at the time.”

“Good of him.”

Nick nodded. “I asked Atkins about the Turner family. He knew little, but Wainscott attended school with the current lord.”

“Constance’s half brother?”

“Harold,” confirmed Nick. “Odd family. His father’s passion was racing pigeons. He ignored Harold from birth and hardly noticed when his wife died two years later. Harold was a devoted son despite the neglect, even evincing an interest in pigeons as a way to spend time with his father. Turner shocked everyone by taking a second wife when Harold was fourteen. He doted on his bride, paying her more heed than his birds.”

“No wonder Harold hates his half siblings.”

“Hate is too strong. But he resented them, even though Turner ignored them, too. Turner and his wife died in a carriage accident after six years of marriage, naming Harold guardian for Constance and Leonard. Harold followed his father’s example by ignoring them. He didn’t even hire a governess until Constance was eight.”

“So they truly had only each other. That does not bode well.”

* * * *

It was after ten by the time Gray’s carriage returned to Mayfair. Dozing for much of the trip left him groggy and slow, but he could not afford to put off this confrontation.

Turner’s valet blocked the door. “Mr. Turner is not at home to callers.”

Gray had expected no less. “Meaning he is sleeping off last night’s debauchery. We will wait,” he declared, boldly shouldering past the valet. Nick followed. They took chairs in a small sitting room. Harold obviously kept his brother on a tight rein. The rooms were cramped and located on an upper floor of one of the cheaper rooming houses along Jermyn Street — cheap because the gaming hell in the cellar supplied the owner with a nice profit.

“What are you waiting for?” Nick demanded of the slack-jawed valet. “Wake your master and tell him that we have urgent business with him.”

The valet fled.

Protests arose in the adjacent room.

“Surly in the morning, isn’t he?” remarked Nick.

“Also hotheaded. Don’t antagonize him.”

They fell silent. Within minutes, Turner burst into the room. He had dressed in haste, leaving off his cravat.

“You have nerve,” he snapped, stalking to the fireplace, where he assumed a dramatic pose. “Are you planning to kill me like you killed my sister?”

“I had nothing to do with her death,” Gray said calmly, determined to hold his temper, no matter what. “I was not even in town at the time, as everyone knows.”

“What difference does that make?” snarled Turner. “You drove her to it. She was carrying your child!”

“Not mine.”

“Liar!”

“Never.” Gray paused to unclench his fists. “It is time you accepted the truth, Turner. These childish attempts on my life must stop.”

“I’ll not listen to your insults.” Turner assumed a fighting stance.

Nick tensed.

Gray continued. “Denying your intent is even more cowardly than hiring ruffians so you needn’t dirty your hands.”