Page 83 of From Rakes to Riches

“We need to speak to the Earl of Essex,” the taller man stated.

“I am Essex,” Theodore replied, chagrin overriding his earlier annoyance. It wasn’t every day he was mistaken for the butler.

“May we have a moment of your time, my lord?” This came from the shorter man. “We’re from Bow Street. There’s been an incident of which you should be informed.”

The latter remark ignited curiosity instead of concern. He was an only child with deceased parents and distant, if any,extended family. Having been away for over two years, he couldn’t imagine what the Runners sought at this ungodly hour.

He angled the door wider in a gesture meant to invite the men in. Perhaps if he could dispose of the issue quickly, he’d have the chance to reclaim some much-needed sleep tonight.

“What is this about?” Theodore asked as he led the Runners into the front drawing room. A modest fire still burned in the hearth keeping his chair warm until he could return. He walked to the decanter atop the mahogany console table and gestured to the crystal glasses. “Brandy?”

Both constables declined.

“I’m Frederickson and this is Johns,” the taller man said, indicating the other. “We’re here on official business.”

“Ordinarily I would offer you tea and refreshments, but unfortunately I’ve just returned from travel in America. I haven’t staffed the house yet.”

“Thank you, my lord, but that isn’t necessary,” Fredrickson continued. “There’s been an incident and we’d like to ask you a few questions in regard to the matter.”

“So then, I’ll need a brandy.” Theodore turned, poured himself a drink and took a hearty swallow. “Obviously there’s more to the story. What happened? And what does it have to do with me?”

“You returned yesterday?” Johns asked, glancing at the pad in his hand.

Theodore wasn’t aware the man had taken notes. “Yes. By way of the packet shipEsmeralda. She docked two nights ago and I’ve since arrived in London.”

“Are you acquainted with Stephen Blakely, Viscount Fremont?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?” Theodore hoped his closest friend and ally hadn’t found his way into trouble.

Fremont was a devil-may-care type fellow who never failed to lighten the mood in a room with his entertaining antics. He was one of the few people Theodore trusted implicitly, having gone through university together and later maintained their relationship into adulthood. Despite Fremont’s escapades, he possessed a heart of gold and unflappable character. They didn’t share bloodlines, but in actuality the viscount was the closest thing to a brother Theodore would ever have. He valued their friendship immeasurably and looked forward to seeing Fremont now that he’d returned to London. An unexpected smile accompanied that thought. “What has the wastrel done? Gotten foxed and waded bare arsed into the St. James fountain? Popped someone’s cork over a pretty lady? Or has he raced his phaeton down Rotten Row? You must tell the buffoon I’ll not pay his fines again.”

A formidable silence permeated the room. Theodore turned from where he’d grinned at the fire and met the solemn stare of both constables. “What’s happened?”

“We are sorry to inform you of Viscount Fremont’s passing.”

For a moment, Theodore couldn’t breathe. Had he misheard? “What are you talking about? Stephen is my age, only nine and twenty. He’s not dead. You’re mistaken.”

“With regret,” Fredrickson shifted his stance, his shoulders straightening with the movement. “It is not a mistake.”

Theodore downed the last of his brandy and set the glass on the mantel, anger quick to override all other emotion. “What happened? I’ve asked you three times. Tell me what happened.” He paced across the room, wanting to separate himself from whatever the two officers meant to share and at the same time, needing to learn every detail. Fremont couldn’t be dead. The son-of-a-bitch was too full of life. Had too much to live for. Something was very wrong here.

“He was the victim of a crime at Vauxhall Gardens earlier this evening,” Johns said plainly. “We’re working to understand exactly what occurred. At this point we know the viscount was overtaken on one of the private paths. He was stabbed and killed. It may have been a simple robbery.”

“A simple robbery.” Theodore repeated the words as he strode across the room, not stopping until he stood within a pace of the two Runners. His thunderous expression caused Johns to take a step back. “There’s nothing simple about this.”

“Of course not.” Fredrickson was quick to amend. “But crime happens all the time at Vauxhall and while we work to investigate?—"

“Crime, yes. Stolen watches and illegal dice. Not murder. Not murder of a nobleman. Not murder of my friend.” His voice had grown louder with each statement until he’d shouted the last words. Drawing a deep breath, he waited, attempting to process the inconceivable idea Fremont was gone.

Fremont was gone.

“What do you know?” Theodore asked, impatience and rage coursing through him like repeated lightning strikes. “Tell me what you know.”

“My lord, we’ve come tonight because Viscount Fremont had a letter from you in his coat pocket.”

“Yes. I’d written to him. About my return. We’d planned to meet once I was settled.” Theodore shook his head, still rejecting the truth. There would be no meeting now. He’d never hear his friend’s jovial laughter. Never hear his voice again. “What have you learned about who did this? Stop wasting time. Shouldn’t you be at Vauxhall questioning people?”

“Unfortunately, our information is limited,” Johns answered more delicately, nodding for his partner to continue.

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