Page 105 of Never a Duchess
They’d made love in the cabin and again in the carriage.
Determined not to spend another day without her, they’d agreed to marry as soon as he could procure a licence.
Daventry was about to climb into his vehicle when he saw them alight. Though dressed in a fine black coat and trousers, his bloodshot eyes said he’d not slept a wink.
Daventry scanned their less-than-pristine attire and grinned. “I mean to surprise O’Malley and force him to make a statement. I have his address in Bermondsey. It’s probably best if we take one vehicle.”
“Do ye have Baudelaire and Valmary in custody?” Punishing the men was Callan’s priority. He’d not return to the Highlands until they were ruined, imprisoned, or dead. “Lillian said ye have the notebook. It shouldnae be difficult to make a case against Baudelaire.”
“No. Neither man went home last night.” In a rare display of frustration, Daventry shoved his hand through his black hair. “I’m hoping O’Malley might know where we can find the Frenchman.”
The desire for vengeance stirred like a beast in Callan’s belly. “Then we’ll come with ye, for I want this matter settled today.”
The four-mile journey through town and across the Thames took an hour. Daventry spent the time explaining what he’d been doing while they’d been indulging in every lustful pleasure.
“The coroner is examining the report on Mrs Rowlands. He’s meeting with Anne Grimes this morning to question her about her mistress’ symptoms. And Lady MacTavish said your mother owned numerous bottles of perfume, though couldn’t recall which ones.”
Callan reached for Lillian’s hand. “One was lily of the valley.” No wonder the scent made his stomach roil. “In a temper, my father threatened to empty the bottle. My mother smothered herself in it the morning she died, and he threw the rest away.”
The missing parts of the story were easy to piece together.
“Afterwards, he took to his bed for a few days. Part guilt. Part grief. Perhaps part poison. Though the devil soon regained his vigour.”
A rare glimpse of compassion passed across Daventry’s features. By all accounts, his father had been a blackguard, too. “I shall do everything in my power to punish those responsible. I know you’re keen to return to the Highlands, and so we’ll work night and day to get the desired result.”
“We’rekeen to return,” Callan corrected, glancing fondly at Lillian. “We’ve decided to marry here and have another ceremony north of the border.”
Daventry nodded, unsurprised at the news. “Then let me be the first to express my felicitations on your good fortune. Indeed, based on Miss Ware’s reluctance to wed, one might think the mystic is a magician.”
“Or a matchmaking enquiry agent,” Lillian said, grinning. “I should tell Ailsa to refrain from attending auctions in case she encounters a man with a book of spells.”
The slightest smile touched Daventry’s lips. “If the mystic is a magician, it won’t matter. She’ll not be able to avoid her fate.”
“Then who could the mystery man be?”
Daventry arched a brow. “Perhaps it’s not such a mystery. It’s likely someone who shares her passion for old books.”
The carriage stopped outside a terraced house on Printer Lane, south of the docks and yards from the old Bermondsey Spa. Despite the early hour, the chemist was working in his basement laboratory when they called.
His maid-of-all-work opened the door.
Daventry gave his usual speech about it being a police matter and did not give the confused lass time to refuse them entrance.
“Mr O’Malley, sir.” The woman stood at the top of the basement stairs, wringing her hands, terrified out of her wits. “You’d better come up here and speak to this gentleman.”
“Glenda, I’m busy,” the man cried, his accent bearing no trace of Irish roots. “Close the door. You know how the light affects the chemical reactions.”
Callan stepped forward. “Do ye want me to drag ye up the stairs? Be warned. I’m of a mind to break something, and it might be yer rotten neck.”
They heard sighs, the clinking of glass, the sound of footfall on the wooden steps. A studious-looking man appeared, wearing spectacles and a black apron, his wiry grey hair sticking this way and that like he’d not combed it in weeks.
“Who are you?” he said nervously, removing his eyeglasses and polishing them on his apron. “What is this about?”
Daventry explained the reason for their call. “Madame Delafont confirmed you received the list the maid stole from Mrs Rowlands. Baudelaire asked you to make a new version of his For Lily perfume based on his rival’s recipe.”
The man blinked rapidly. “What? No. He said he’d invented a new blend because he was desperate to restock his shelves. I’d have refused if I’d known of his nefarious methods.”
Callan introduced himself, and the fellow nearly toppled down the stairs in shock. “Your Grace. I assure you, I’m the innocent party in this mess. I merely work for Monsieur Baudelaire so I can afford to conduct other scientific research.” He motioned to his maid. “Tell them, Glenda.”
