Page 19 of My Deceitful Duchess
“I haven’t decided yet,” Jenny said primly, tilting her nose into the air. But she suspected that if he asked—if heaskedher for it in the morning, she would lay it into his hands.
Chapter Eight
Nathaniel Beckett had come to call, and at an appallingly early hour. Sebastian had snatched but a few hours of sleep betwixt the deepest hours of midnight and dawn, only to find himself jarred unwillingly into alertness by the pounding upon his door.
“Have youanyidea of what time it is?” he snarled as he let the man in, and to his credit, the coroner very much looked as if he didn’t wish to be there at all.
“I do, in fact.” Mr. Beckett jammed his hands into his pockets. “Believe me, I’d not be here if the situation did not merit it.”
Sebastian stuffed his arms into a coat, neglecting his waistcoat entirely. His hair was certain to be a mess, but he hadn’t the wherewithal to do much about it at such an hour. “And what, then, is thesituation?”
“I suppose you know already about a certain series of thefts?” Mr. Beckett grumbled, his jaw clenched in irritation, as if his very presence within Sebastian’s home was anathema to him. And Sebastian supposed it was; Beckett had been brought quite low indeed if he had been reduced to seeking Sebastian out instead of merely tolerating his presence.
There were always thefts in London, and this did not interest him greatly. Greed was not a particularly interesting motivation, but if Mr. Beckett had brought himself here, then it was no simple burglary of a storefront that had done it, nor any petty cutpurse. There was only one string of thefts that could have accounted for such pressure upon Mr. Beckett, and only one circumstance that could have brought the man to his door at this hour of the night.
“The thief has escalated to murder, then,” he said. “I assume an aristocrat?”
A tight nod. The muscles in Mr. Beckett’s jaw worked, as if he were biting back words he wished to say.
Sebastian cast his mind back, sorting through the details he knew already in his mind—things he doubted even the authorities had connected. These particular thefts had all occurred during well-attended society events. Jewels stolen right beneath their owners’ noses.Hehad known it, even if the offended parties had not. But then, the victims had all been obscenely wealthy, and the thefts had not swiftly been uncovered. But abody—a body tended to attract notice much more quickly than a missing necklace, however precious, when it was rarely worn. There were three society events that he could think of this evening, and two he dismissed right off, since the hosts were noble but not nearly flush enough in the pocketbook to merit the attention of the thief.
“Who was it?” he asked. “Lord Pendleton or Lady Pendleton?”
Mr. Beckett swiped at his face with one hand. “Lady Pendleton,” he said gruffly. “We assume she must have surprised the thief at his work. It’s clear there was a struggle, but—”
But Lady Pendleton’s home was large and sprawling, and could accommodate hundreds of guests. Over the noise of the party, it was unlikely that anyone would have heard a scream. The poor woman had been killed amidst the revelry of her own party. And all over a collection of baubles.
Expensive baubles. But baubles nonetheless.
“Will you come?” Mr. Beckett asked, though it clearly galled him to do so. “Lord Pendleton naturally wishes to have this matter resolved as soon as possible.”
“Well, he certainly won’t if your men keep mucking about as they have been,” Sebastian said waspishly. And then, on a terse sigh, he said, “Yes, I’ll come. But I must leave before dawn.”
“Dawn? That’s little more than an hour from now.”
“I have plans of my own that do not wait upon anyone else’s convenience,” Sebastian said, working the buttons of his coat.
“Of a certainty I shall convey to the murderer—once he is apprehended—how he ought to have chosen a more convenient time for you,” Mr. Beckett said sourly.
“Do,” Sebastian said as he snatched for his hat and headed for the door. “And while you’re about it, I should like a list of everyone who attended Lady Pendleton’s party.”
∞∞∞
The book was tucked into Jenny’s pocket, and like a burning brand it pressed to her thigh. She couldfeelthem there, those pages of collected sin. No one else could possibly know what she carried with her, butshedid, and that, it seemed, was enough to make her anxious.
Her fingers trembled around the coins she exchanged for her profiteroles, and she very nearly dropped them somewhat shy of the baker’s outstretched hand.
“I’ll have one, as well.” The rough, deep voice from just beyond her left shoulder sent a frisson of alarm careening through her nerves, but somehow she managed to turn her head slowly, keep the surprise from sliding over her face.
Mr. Knight—Sebastian—had come into the shop. And now he was purchasing his own profiterole, retrieving a couple of coins from his pocket to give to the baker. He had never entered the bakery before, to her knowledge, and yet—here he was, calmly collecting his profiterole as if it were a routine he indulged in frequently.
“It can’t have been a surprise to find me here,” he murmured to her as he held open the door for her to exit the shop at last.
“But in theshop,” she said, and there was almost a plaintive sound to it—as if he had encroached upon territory that was solely her own. An invasion, however minor, of her space.
“What? I have discovered that I enjoy profiteroles,” he said, and licked a bit of the pastry cream from his thumb. “And I missed breakfast, besides.”
He had fallen into step beside her—small ones, slow ones, as they proceeded back down the street toward Ambrosia. She flicked a glance toward him, noting the slight shadows beneath his eyes, the hair that hadn’t likely seen a brush before he had left his house. “Oh?”
