Page 22 of The Devil Himself
“Good man.”
“You are welcome to go eat in the dining room, you know. I do have work to get done.” He glowered with mock ferocity, trying to regulate his mood.
“Bah. You cannot tell me you were concentrating.” Julian waved at his ink-stained hands.
“No. I was not. Luncheon, please, Hodge,” he said to the young man who answered the bell.
“Yes, sir.”
“So.” Jules drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair. “Owen is shot. Presumably to pave the way to the title.”
“Yes.” Rys pondered that a moment, then grabbed his quill and a sheet of foolscap. “That’s good. We should construct a timeline.”
He drew a line across the page he’d turned horizontally, making a hash mark at the far left and labeling it “Owen’s murder”.
“Were you at the funeral?” Rys asked.
“At Owen’s?” When he nodded, Jules pursed his lips. “Yes. It was a tense affair. Daffyd was drunk. Arthur came quite late. Hannah was still very much in shock, and young Gareth was trying hard to assume the mantle of the marquess.”
“Did anyone seem out of place?” He made another mark and labeled it “funeral” where he wrote Daffyd drunk, Arthur late.
“Some of Arthur’s friends attended. Wild degenerates, the lot of them. And I mean that in the least complimentary way.”
“Coming from you, Jules, that’s quite a lot.” He moved across the page, leaving space, then wrote in Jules checking on finances, Gareth back to school, and Luc shot. “What else?” he asked as he handed Jules the paper.
Lunch arrived, and they worked through it, trying to make sense of any scrap of information they had, though Jules had yet to share anything he’d found. Rys was about to insist that Jules tell him when another knock sounded.
“Come!”
“Sir, Lord Angelsey is awake and asking for you.”
He shot to his feet, Jules close on his heels as he strode to Luc’s sickroom, his heart pounding.
“Fitzwilliam,” he said as he arrived at Luc’s bedside. “Warrington came to check on you.”
Luc opened his eyes, frowning a bit. But then the expression cleared. “Ah. Jules. And Rys. Good. Good.”
“How do you feel?” Jules asked.
“Like I’ve been shot.” Luc flexed his fingers just slightly. “But the physician assures me the stitches can come out in a week if I don’t get an infection, and that I should be mostly recovered in a fortnight, if sore.”
“Excellent.” Studying Luc, he noted the pale cheeks, but he supposed that meant no fever. “Do you need anything for the pain?”
“It is tolerable right now.” Luc smiled, the expression wry. “Mainly, I keep dropping off to sleep.” He glanced at Jules. “What news?”
“Daffyd is some ten thousand pounds in debt.”
That flopped between them all like a landed fish. Then Rys exploded. “Ten thousand! Good God. Who owns the notes?”
“Your competitor at the Carnival of Dionysus.”
“Indeed! That is fortuitous.” If it had been some other dandy at Brooks’ or White’s, he would have a wall he couldn’t scale. But since he knew Deacon Collingsworth well enough, he’d arrange a meeting.
“You know him?” Luc asked.
Jules hooted, the laugh like a honking goose. “My dear friend, if it concerns the dark underbelly of London, Rys knows everyone.”
Luc squinted at him, the expression rather befuddled, which he found somehow endearing. “I see. Well, then you will speak to him?”
