Page 51 of When a Lady Desires a Wicked Lord
“Of course,” she said. “Regarding the investigation, I am in favor of mingling with some Society types while Benedict draws them in with tales of his recent expeditions. Members of the Exploration Society are set to host a gathering in two days. It’s possible someone there might possess vital information.”
“An excellent idea. But there’s something you should know,” Colton said. “I take it you are acquainted with Raymond Stockwell.”
The professor’s second son.Surely Benedict’s ears had deceived him. “What in Hades does that dandy have to do with the investigation?”
“At this point, we cannot rule him out as a suspect.”
Alex frowned. “Professor Stockwell’s son is a playwright. Over the years, he has demonstrated no interest in the pursuit or acquisition of antiquities. What could we possibly glean from him?”
“Raymond Stockwell is hosting a ball at the Barrington Hotel tomorrow evening. It would be to our advantage if the two of you were in attendance.”
“Good heavens…so very soon after his father’s death?” Alex’s forehead furrowed in puzzlement. “How very odd.”
“As we understand it, he’d been planning the affair for months. His latest play has made its debut in the West End, and the event was intended as a celebration,” Colton explained.
“But the man’s father has died.” Alex’s cheeks colored as shock and indignation infused her voice. Her emotions were on full display, as if they’d been painted on the wall in vivid hues.
For his part, Benedict held his tongue. Professor Stockwell’s younger son had not even attempted to adhere to propriety and what seemed like common decency. Unsurprising, really. Far from it. Raymond Stockwell had shown little regard for his father, displaying thinly veiled contempt for the expeditions to which the professor had dedicated his interest in his later years.
Unexpectedly, a bleak sadness washed over Benedict. Since learning of the professor’s death, he’d kept his thoughts squarely on his vow to protect Alex. He had not given in to grief. After all those wasted years, he’d finally had a chance to bridge the chasm he’d created and reconnect with the man who’d been a mentor and a friend. For a time, their bond had felt akin to a father sharing wisdom with a son. But now, the chance to fully repair the wounds he’d inflicted on their relationship had been snatched away. The loss was brutal, akin to a physical blow.
Mentally, he shook off the barrage of memories. This was not the time to ruminate over the mistakes he’d made in his life. He had to focus on the most important challenge he’d ever faced—keeping Alexandra alive.
Benedict forged a bland facade. “Rather unusual, I’d say, though the father and son were never close.”
Alex frowned. A tiny vee formed between her brows. “Well, I cannot imagine that his brother approves. He would certainly insist on a proper mourning period.”
“Last I’d heard, Stockwell’s eldest was on an expedition in Africa,” Benedict said. “I do not know if he has even been notified of his father’s death.”
“I have it on good authority that Harold Stockwell has been duly informed,” Colton said, his expression unreadable. “The man was occupying a suite at the Barrington at the time—delivering the telegram was not a difficult task.”
The words were a dash of cold water in the face. Colton’s statement made no sense. Professor Stockwell himself had informed Benedict of his son’s most recent endeavor.
“A suite at the Barrington? Are you certain?” Benedict questioned. “The professor believed his son to be in West Africa. He’d spoken of him and the pursuit of a rare artifact shortly before I left Cairo.”
Colton shook his head. “I do not possess the specifics as to the precise timeline, but Stockwell’s eldest son arrived on a steamship little more than a week ago.”
“Perhaps he returned to be a part of his brother’s celebration,” Alex suggested.
“Not likely.” Benedict pictured the brothers in his mind. The siblings had little similarity in physical appearance, and even less common ground between their interests and temperaments. To say the men had never been close would have been an understatement.
“Why do you say that?” Colton asked.
“Professor Stockwell enjoyed some closeness with his oldest son. They’d shared an interest in archaeology, though Harold’s focus was not devoted to Egyptian antiquities. To my knowledge, the younger brother wanted nothing to do with their pursuit of artifacts. Within the family, Raymond was viewed as a bon vivant, leeching off his father’s funds to finance his theatrical pursuits.”
Colton seemed to take in what Benedict had revealed. “Given his son’s unusual response to Stockwell’s demise, the ball will prove an interesting experience, to say the least.”
“I don’t know if I can be party to a celebration…my heart aches at the mere thought of the professor’s death. The idea of watching his son enjoy a festive event while I am grieving may be more than I can stomach.”
“I understand, Alexandra,” Colton said. “Bear in mind that any information you glean during the ball may help us to solve the mystery surrounding Professor Stockwell’s death. I do not expect an answer tonight, but we must have a decision by the morning.”
“I presume you will obtain invitations for the two of us,” Benedict said.
Colton gave a nod. “Consider it done.”
Alex’s gaze locked with his. Confusion and concern marked her features. “Benedict, are you certain? It is so very soon…I cannot imagine attending this ill-timed celebration. I know how close the two of you were…how close we both were to the professor.”
Benedict carefully considered his words. God knew he understood Alex’s reservations. But he could not allow his own reluctance to keep them from a gathering that might well produce vital intelligence. After all, the champagne would likely flow in abundance. What better way to subtly question Stockwell’s sons than when their guards were down.
