Page 101 of Ladies in Hating
Cat’s eyes flicked to Georgiana, whose lips had pressed tightly together at Percy’s soft-voiced defense.
Cat knew that look. It was the one Georgiana wore when she was trying desperately to pretend she was not moved. Cat wondered, for the space of a heartbeat, whether Georgiana had ever been the recipient of that gentle, brotherly protection. She wondered how often Georgiana had needed it.
“All right,” Jem said on a breath. “I scarcely know where to begin. I don’t even know who you twoare.” This was directed at Ambrose and Percy.
“What’s your business here?” Fawkes asked. “Begin there.”
“I’m James Lacey. I work as a clerk for Martin Yorke. Your solicitor.” He looked at Fawkes, who nodded in confirmation.
“A few weeks ago,” Jem went on, “I overheard some conversations between Mr. Yorke and others about the late duke. Conversations that had me… curious. So two days ago, while Mr. Yorke was out, I went into his office and looked through some of his notes about the late duke’s will.” He shoved at his glasses, slightly shamefaced, and very deliberately did not make eye contact with anyone. “Beckett came upon me inside the office. He saw what I was looking at—the papers and notes—and told me, most regretfully, that he’d been working with Mr. Yorke on the project of identifying the late duke’s inheritors. Unfortunately, he said, this particular bequest had come to naught. It was worthless—there was no reason to find the legatee.”
Jem straightened his spectacles, though they did not need it. “I believed him. But then, just after I left the office in the evening, Irealized I had forgotten a law book I needed. I circled back down the street to fetch it, and I saw Beckett emerge from Mr. Yorke’s office with stacks of papers—the same papers we’d only just been looking through—stuffed into his jacket. He walked outside without observing me and then he hired a hack. And so I… followed him.”
“What?” Cat demanded. She waved a dismissive hand at Fawkes, who was frowning at her interruption. “Youfollowedhim? Why didn’t you stop and find someone—a runner—orme,for heaven’s sake?”
“I didn’t know he was going to go this far!” protested Jem. “Believe me, if I had, I would not have chosen a donkey cart as my means of pursuit.”
Cat scowled. She knew precisely where her brother had got a donkey cart, and she very much regretted his friendship with the most mischievous errand boy in London.
Jem winced at her expression. “I am going to give it back!”
Fawkes cleared his throat rather loudly.
Jem’s gaze shifted back to the duke, and he sobered. “I followed Beckett all the way here in the donkey cart, and when I managed to get inside the house, I surprised him in the middle of ransacking the library.”
“I wasn’t!” This was Beckett, faintly, from inside the passage. “I was on an errand from Yorke!”
“Then why the devil did you shoot at me when I confronted you?” demanded Jem of the door.
Percy, nearest the door, addressed it as well. “You must admit, the firearm does make your story less convincing.”
Jem nodded in satisfaction, and then his brows drew together. “Whoareyou?”
“This is madness,” Fawkes muttered. And then he strode forward and unfastened the bone bar holding the latticed door closed.
“Wait,” moaned Beckett. “Please, wait…”
Out of an abundance of caution, Cat dragged Georgiana and Jem behind the marble statue of Saint Sebastian while they waited for Beckett to emerge.
He didn’t. Eventually, Fawkes made a sound of deep aggravation, bent at the waist, and dragged Beckett out by his ankle.
Cat recognized Elias Beckett’s thin frame, his familiar mousy hair. He appeared to be covered in bat excrement.
His gaze darted nervously around the oratory. “Is it gone?”
“Iswhatgone?” demanded Fawkes.
“The monster! The great white demon that locked me in!”
Cat glanced down at Bacon, who was sitting at their feet, his tail wagging lazily back and forth and his tongue protruding slightly on the left side.
Surely not.
Fawkes shook Beckett lightly by the shoulders. “There is no monster. And it was an express from Yorke about my father’s will that sent me down to Renwick House this morning, so do not attempt to prevaricate. Why the devil were you trespassing in my house?”
Beckett visibly deflated. “You had a message from Yorke?”
“Informing me that some of his notes about the property had been stolen.” Fawkes glowered down at Beckett. “Yes.”
