Page 67 of A Proposition for the Comte
‘Comte de Beaumont? You are a friend of Douglas’s? I am afraid he is not here today though I imagine I will see him tomorrow.’
‘I am not surefriendis the right word, Mrs Cummings. I am here in a more official capacity.’
‘Then he is in trouble. I told him all this would lead to no good, all his help and worry, but he felt it was his duty and so...’ She petered off, dabbing at her eyes.
‘Duty?’
‘His sister. My daughter. This house. The servants. He has a good heart, but our well-being has taken up his whole life.’
‘Is your daughter ill?’
‘No, she is worse than that. She is simple and requires good attention so we have to hire two maids to see to her needs for she is too strong for me to manage any more. If my son has one failing it is that he is too concerned for others. I have told him that again and again but he will not listen and I wonder sometimes where he gets the sort of money needed to pay for it all.’
‘Do you know the names Stephen Miller and George Taylor? Were they friends of your son’s?’
Her eyes widened. ‘He does not have many friends but I do remember him speaking of those two. I think they were jewellers, if memory serves me well.’
‘It does and thank you.’
The fire was low and he crossed the room to add more wood, making certain the fire guard was in place as he finished.
Douglas Cummings’s mother was old, his sister was sick and he had a property that was in need of urgent attention.
If Cummings had some of the gold, then there would be an element of blackmail in the mix, as well, for it would be easy to discover that he worked for the Home Office.
Antoinette Herbert had visited Stephen Miller in custody but had left before he had died. Had she administered some slow-releasing poison? The froth at his mouth could be explained by that. Perhaps she had administered it to stop him from confessing some fact that might implicate her?
Violet’s voice brought him back from his thoughts.
‘If anyone traces us to the inn and what happened there, will there not be questions?’
‘I will protect you.’
‘From the law of England?’
He smiled. ‘Yes, even from that.’
She had worked out the implications so very quickly. He did not know at that second if that was a good thing or a bad one but what he did know is that he needed to get her away from everyone.
Cummings had probably taken the gold as a way out of debt and hardship but all instincts told Aurelian that he was not the killer. However, if he was wrong then Mountford could well be in on it, too. What had the Minister replied when he had asked him once if he trusted Cummings? With his life, he had said. Aurelian frowned. Well, it might indeed come to just that if he was not careful.
He’d seen the fear in Violet’s eyes as she had looked at him after dealing with her kidnappers but he had got so used to allowing his enemies no leeway that he could no longer change himself.
He was who he was, the softness in him long since disappeared after years of being enmeshed in political intrigue. He was the end point of violence, the final adjudicator.
Shay had said that to him once in France as he’d helped him escape. He had also offered a warning.
‘I did not care if I lived or died, Lian. When you reach that point there is a danger.’
Well, he could have said the same to Violet on the night she rescued him from the freezing street in Chelsea. He’d just killed again under the guise of politics, but he had held no true heart in the business.
Now he did, and protecting Violet from harm was as different as night and day to all that had come before. He could see the bruises on her face and arms in the light and he knew what the three men’s intent had been for the note he had taken from the pocket of the man who had run confirmed everything.
‘Rough her up if she becomes difficult. Kill her only as a last resort.’
He swallowed down bile and tried to contain the fury, but he was shaking with it and Violet’s face did nothing to help that. Why would they not want her dead? Because she knew something or at least they perceived that she did. Her cheek was swelling and the mark under her left eye was darkening. He did not want to ask her of it, either, not now, not when he knew he still had not caught the main perpetrator and that the culprit was out there somewhere.
‘It is my fault this has happened...’
