Page 23 of A Proposition for the Comte
The jeweller Whitely was a part of the ring of silence regarding the gold, as was the murdered Harland Addington.
Aurelian had found reference to them both in a letter that he’d come across in the armoire of George Taylor when he had broken into his London premises. In the letter the amounts of gold leached from the largesse sent from France was set out in plain black and white.
He had only found the sheet of paper because it had fallen down the back of one of the drawers in the desk. A fact which attested to the care those involved had taken in leaving no trail of their activities whatsoever.
The question now was had Violet Addington known either about the gold coming in from France or the hidden thievery of her husband? What could have been gained in such an endeavour, for surely it was only a matter of time before the ruse was discovered. He wondered how many ornaments had been made even as Harland Addington’s gambling addiction came to mind.
From what he had discerned, nothing had ever been put in place to stir up the hornets’ nest of resistance in Britain that had been promised and paid for. It had been pure greed that had motivated those here receiving the gold right from the start.
Nothing quite added up, though, for neither Whitely nor Violet Addington had left London in the past week. So had George Taylor been killed by another?
Was the string of murders a culling of people who knew the pathway of the French gold perhaps? Until there was only one left to claim it in silence and without recrimination?
Where did Lady Addington sit on such a ladder?
He swore softly and hailed a hackney cab that happened to be passing. Once home he would write down the patterns and find the thread. It was only a matter of time before it would form into the truth.
Violet stood in her room that night and went over every second, every word, every inference of her meeting with Aurelian de la Tomber. A lump rose in her throat and she swallowed it back, gritting her teeth against such weakness.
Desolation was always just a heartbeat away, the loss of self and life and love. How often had she stood on the edge of a precipice looking down, a long way down, the crumbling edge of the cliff under each foot. Closing her eyes, she could feel herself falling and opened them up again quickly.
She did not know which way to turn. George Taylor was dead and she had seen that the jeweller Whitely had known of it, too. Who would be next?
Aurelian de la Tomber was here to recover the French gold, for there were shadows of knowledge in his amber eyes and his words about the gold content in the statue sent to France were telling. Was he one of the senders or was he someone far more menacing?
Where did he stay here in London? How could she find out without raising suspicion? When she had sent back his ring she had left it to her butler to find the address. She could not now ask him of it without inciting question.
De Beaumont had warned her in the carriage today with a fierce and honest anger.You should not have come here. It was foolish.
But he did not know the half of it and she would never tell him. To protect herself she needed to maintain an innocence.
Grimacing, she knew that was also a lie. She was not an innocent. Not by a very long shot.
Her sister-in-law Amaryllis had gone to bed with a headache tonight and her two children looked haggard and drawn after returning from a small holiday with their aunt in Bath. Michael and Simon worried for their mother and at ten and thirteen she could see their sense of uncertainty and sadness.
Pray to God her sister-in-law remained strong enough to cope. If she did not, then all this would be so much more difficult.
Amara was falling apart before Violet’s very eyes, duplicity leaking out in ill health. Well, Harland would not ruin what was left of his family, Violet decided, as she crossed to the armoire in the alcove and removed a small key from its bed of green baize.
Folding out a corner of her rug, she pushed down on a loose section of timber and then lifted up an ornate wooden chest in the space between and inserted the key.
The copy of her note written to the French Embassy when she had sent the statue was there on top, standing as a protection for her part in trying to end the duplicity if she needed it in the end. Harland’s threat of killing her lay folded in ribbon, as well, his black writing clearly indicating his anger. She did not even glance at this, but dug deeper.
Here. The necklace was wrapped in tissue and when she opened it the broken gold and sapphire circle spilled out. Her fingers gripped it and pressed down, the jagged gold hurting her skin. She had found this on the floor of Harland’s study at Addington after a small group of people had come up unexpectedly to see him. There had been an argument and they had left with the slam of doors and a distinctly heard threat of dying for the gold.
These would be the clues that de Beaumont must be trying to find. All the ruin and lies and the pointers as to whom was involved.
She heard Amaryllis cough in the adjoining chamber, her malady from the autumn still hanging on with a fervour. She heard the bells, too, ringing out midnight over a sleeping London town.
‘You will not win, I swear it,’ she whispered and hated the anger that was building inside her. It was to Harland she spoke and to his soul lost in the depths of the hell he had put them all through.
She needed to see that no one would come after them. She also needed to understand just exactly who Aurelian de la Tomber, Comte de Beaumont, really was.
Then she would make her next move.
She met the French Count three days later at a small soirée her godfather, Charles Mountford, had invited her to. She saw Aurelian de la Tomber the moment she arrived, standing on the other side of the room, head and shoulders above every other man present. She was pleased she had worn her ugly cap and a gown that covered every bit of her.
‘I have been wondering how you fared, my dear.’ Charles smiled at her in the way he always did, a sort of wistful memory of her mother present.
