Page 30 of The Rogue's Last Scandal
“No.” The scandal sheet in front of him said that a wealthy young heiress had disappeared; an heiress whose guardian was beating her, embezzling her funds, and forcing her into a marriage with a man of ill-repute. The implication was foul play. No name that would make the libel actionable had been given, but thetonwould put their finger on him.
“He wouldn’t kill her. He must marry her before she may disappear.” And to do that, Carvelle needed her guardian’s permission, unless he took her to Scotland. But he, and his principle henchman, had both been in the house the previous night, fuming. He didn’t think Carvelle was a good enough actor to fake the anger he’d shown last night. “So only the housekeeper saw this?”
“Yes.”
And the housekeeper would now be speculating on why he’d given the entire staff a special outing the night before.
“Shall I send for Carvelle?” Lady Kingsley asked.
The man had a ghastly wound from the chit. He could go to the inn where Carvelle said he was staying. And yet, he was waiting on his own man who was making inquiries in the neighborhood to return.
“No. Have the carriage readied. I shall pay a call on Carvelle, and then meet with Watelford. She’ll go to him first.” She’d want to check on the fortune the solicitor had under guard. She’d not know that Watelford was his man. There would be no drafts for her to take to McCollum’s Bank.
“If she’s alive after walking this neighborhood at night,” Blanche said.
“She’s armed and as ruthless as her father.” He should have known. He should have paid closer attention.
“But who is helping her, Kingsley?” A fist came down on the table, plump, but surprisingly powerful. His jaw had encountered it more than once, in one of her tirades. “I searched all her things, read all her papers and books, and found nothing. I was present for all of her callers. She didn’t ride with beaus or go shopping with other girls. She had no friends.”
“She had the two darkling servants. They planned this. They ran away first, and then her. Find them and we find her.”
“They’ve taken her to some squalid rooms somewhere. She had no money.”
He glared at her. “Yes, and she had no weapons either, wife.”
She blinked, and quickly recovered her bully stance, always her first approach to a dispute.
She’d been tasked with insuring the obstinate girl’s room had no writing paper, no money, no weapons. She’d failed miserably.
Her own day of reckoning would come if they did not find the girl.
“I shall pay calls,” she said. “I shall say the chit is still ill.” She drew herself higher and balled her fists. “We’ll need to put a good face on this. We have done nothing wrong. Once we find the girl, we’ll have the wedding here and arrange for a public appearance before Carvelle takes her away.” She paused and her plump cheeks, for once, washed pale. “We must make sure her father is truly lost.”
He looked down at the scandal sheet. If Tristan Kingsley walked through the door of Kingsley House, he could count out the rest of his life in minutes. He must resolve this. Must resolve his business with Carvelle. Must get the girl married to the man. And then Captain Kingsley—should he miraculously return—could spend his revenge on another man.
“Yes. I’ve been assured we have nothing to worry about from that quarter.”
Charleyand his companion sat back in their hackney, trailing at a distance behind the unmarked coach. A boy strode into the street with his broom, halting their progress for the well-dressed pedestrian following him. Charley’s driver flung a colorful curse at the street sweeper, and the boy shouted some indecipherable cant in reply.
The heavy black coach stopped in front of a discreetly marked building.Watelford and Grinley, the sign would say. He couldn’t see it from their station so far down the street, but they had driven by earlier.
A couple exited the vehicle, a handsome strapping gentleman and a lady, Graciela’s size, all veiled in black. Juan jumped down from his perch on the coach and came to stand next to them.
The couple looked around, like country folk come to town early for the coronation festivities, making a jaunt to their new solicitor’s office, uncertain of their surroundings. The man bent to speak into her ear.
As they approached the door, two men jumped from nowhere and attacked, one large, the other small and swarthy as a Moor, both dressed in wide-legged sailors’ slops.
“They’re good,” Charley said.
“Aye, but we’re better,” Kincaid muttered from his perch in the driver’s box.
Indeed. Before the big man could rip the woman’s veils, she’d landed a hard one in his kidneys and Juan was atop him. Other men poured from inside the coach, and the sweeper and his pedestrian joined the fray. In mere moments, they wrestled both men into the carriage. The gentleman and lady retreated down a side street where another coach would be waiting. The sweeper abandoned his broom and shovel, and he and his walker disappeared into the London traffic.
With the street clear, the horse stepped out and Charley leaned back against the squab.
“I see now.” Graciela’s voice shook. She smoothed an ungloved hand along the rough fabric of her breeches.
The coats she’d acquired from young Roddy stretched tight across her bosom. “Lean back, my dear.” He adjusted her hat, and took her hand. She was trembling.
“Will Carvelle and Kingsley be here also?” she asked.
Charley squeezed her hand. “Kingsley is not here now, but our man spotted him returning from some early errand. Carvelle will likely be about though. Ah, there, perhaps.”
A coach had stopped around the corner, blocked by a cart that had tangled with another hackney.
His heart raced like a green recruit’s. It had been a mad frantic morning, and he hoped this plan would work. He didn’t wish to lead either villain to his destination.
“Don’t worry,” Kincaid said. “We won’t be followed.”
