A Bride by Moonlight (4 page)

“No. I . . . I do not believe you,” he finally managed.

For what else was there to say?

Nicholas Napier had been known far and wide as the Crown’s most resolute, most ruthless man within the Metropolitan Police. And once his officers arrested a man, the chap was as good as hanged; only Lazonby had managed to slip the Newgate knot.

As a boy, Napier had idolized his father; had always imagined him flawless. Above reproach. And if, in later years, there had come the occasional question or inconsistency . . . well, he’d be damned before he’d admit it to the likes of a convicted killer.

If Lazonby was, in fact, a killer . . .

Napier dragged a hand down his face. The significance of it all sunk in on him again, forcing him to will his own breath.

Sir Wilfred—oh,
he
had always been too bloody clever for anyone’s good. No one would long mourn him once the shock was past.

And Lazonby, the arrogant bastard—he had suddenly stepped a little away—ever the gentleman!—as if to give Napier the time and space to collect himself.

Miss Ashton merely sighed. “Mr. Napier, you do not remember me, do you?” she said. “It was nearly two years ago. In your office.”

Napier could only stare at her. And suddenly, he knew why she was so familiar. Why he felt that strange connection that was so alluring yet so disturbing.

“Elizabeth Colburne!” he growled. “By God, this
cannot
be coincidence.”

“It actually is, rather,” she said quietly, her slender hands set almost prayerfully together.

It was her eyes, he realized. Those incredible eyes were the clue. And the only clue, too, for her hair was somehow darker, her figure fuller and far more shapely.

“And as to what Lord Lazonby has said,” the lady went on, her voice trembling a little, “I fear that you
will
come to believe it. Just as I have done. Though neither of us, I daresay, are going to enjoy having our comfortable, time-worn views so drastically altered.”

He held her eyes, waiting on the next shoe to drop. For this day had been so damnable, he knew without doubt there was one.

And then Elizabeth Colburne-Ashton, or whatever her damned name was, sighed again, her viridian gaze settling over him in a way that made his breath catch. She leaned into him, so near he could breathe in her perfume, that exotic combination of sun-warmed lilies and jasmine, unique as the lady herself.

“And now, Mr. Napier,” she whispered in her husky voice, “wouldn’t it be best for all of us if we just let this awful business drop?”

Napier looked at her blankly, his head swimming from her scent and her proximity. “What do you mean?”

But Lazonby broke the spell by setting a heavy hand on Napier’s shoulder. “She means let sleeping dogs lie,” he said, giving him a hearty pat. “Embrace it, old chap. Trust me, it will only ruin your father’s good name if you go churning up old muck. And Miss Ashton, you will kindly stop talking now.”

“The devil!” Napier swore.

But Lazonby, damn him, merely winked.

“Now listen closely, my old friend,” he murmured, slipping his arm fully about Napier’s shoulders and urging him down the path, away from the lady in gray. “For I am about to tell you a tale which, if I were you, I would not much question.”

“Oh, a
tale
, is it?” said Napier. “Coming from you, I oughtn’t be surprised.”

“Well, let us call it a legend,” Lazonby corrected. “The legend of a talented but radical young newspaperman named Jack Coldwater—he’s had a long and storied career on two continents, our Jack. And now he is going to save us a vast deal of unpleasantness, and spare your sainted father’s reputation in the bargain.”

“Is he indeed?” snapped Napier. “I wonder how?”

“Because he’s elusive as quicksilver,” said Lazonby with a huge grin, “and dashed hard to catch hold of. I tried like the devil to figure him out and failed miserably—as, I fear, will
you
.”

CHAPTER 2

A Quiet Coze in the Two Chairmen

S
ituated as it was in a quiet Westminster backstreet, the Two Chairmen had long been the turf of civil servants and undersecretaries, drawn there not by its particularly fine ale, but by its food swiftly served. Save perhaps for those rarified few who sat in the House of Lords, the government’s business waited for no man, be he hungry or not.

On this particular drizzly day, Sir George Grey fell upon a slab of gammon steak like a man with no time to spare.

Royden Napier, however, had suffered inappetence for days now, and merely rooted his food around on his plate, as if doing so might uncover some truffle of a clue about the mysteries that had so recently come to plague him.

And the conversation—well, that was looming, too, he did not doubt. The home secretary had not invited an underling to dine with him in a common public house just to discuss the weather.

“Wot, din’t yer like it?” asked the harried serving girl who snatched the dishes up.

Napier managed a tight smile. “I had a late breakfast.”

With a saucy shrug, she swept away, bearing their dirty plates aloft as she edged sideways through the crowd now streaming through the door. At the last moment, however, she spun around to smile at the home secretary.

“ ’Nother pint, Sir George?”

He held up two fingers, and tilted his head at Napier.

Once she was out of earshot, Sir George leaned back in his chair, his grand, graying mutton-chops seeming to sink as he drew a long-fingered hand down his face. He was not a happy man.

“I cannot like it, Royden,” he said, not for the first time. “It’s been well over a week now. How can this newspaper chap have simply vanished into thin air?”

“Not air, sir, but water.” Napier flashed a rueful smile. “Jack Coldwater’s name was found on a passenger log for a Boston-bound freighter. She sailed two days after Sir Wilfred’s death.”

Napier hated lying—though strictly speaking, it was exactly what he’d
seen
. But that name, he suspected, had been the work of Lord Lazonby, or someone in his service. How hard could it be to bribe a clerk to jot down the name of an imaginary passenger?

“Hmph!
” said Sir George. “Back to the States, eh? Well, we must find him there. We cannot have killers—even accidental ones—running from the Queen’s justice now, can we?”

“No, sir. Of course not.”

But this one,
he said inwardly,
we are never apt to catch.

Sir George shook his head. “I greatly respected your father, Royden,” he said. “You must know that. But my God, how did he manage to bungle this old murder case so badly?”

Napier was too proud to hang his head. “I do not know, sir,” he said again. “I am struggling to come to terms with it myself.”

Which was the understatement of the century.

“And now we have Rance Welham—or Lord Lazonby, I should say—exonerated after years of public humiliation and harassment by the newspapers,” Sir George complained. “And the real killer, Sir Wilfred Leeton, living a life of luxury—and being knighted for it! Really, it is too much to be borne.”

Napier didn’t know what to believe.

The case had begun years ago, when two young gentlemen had quarreled over a card game in Sir Wilfred’s home. Some had claimed the quarrel was more about a woman than cards, but however it had begun, it had ended with a duke’s son accusing Lazonby, then simply Mr. Welham, of cheating. The following day, the duke’s son had been found stabbed in his rooms.

But now, if Lazonby was to be believed, Sir Wilfred had been the killer—and he’d been paid a lot of money by some very dangerous men to get rid of Lazonby, whose luck at the card tables had been intolerably good.

The story held just enough credence to make Napier uneasy.

“Recall, sir, if you will, that there was a witness—a porter at the Albany—who identified Lord Lazonby as the killer all those years ago.”

“A witness, yes.” Sir George stared at him across the scarred wooden table. “One who recanted on his deathbed. One whom Lazonby has long claimed was bribed by someone. And I think we both now know who that someone was.”

“Sir Wilfred, it would appear.” Napier cleared his throat a little roughly. He felt as if something was caught in it—his integrity, perhaps. “Well,” he finally added, “we’ll have our friends across the pond on the lookout for Mr. Coldwater. And I have placated poor Lady Leeton as best I can. I think she still cannot grasp her husband’s perfidy.”

“Indeed, who can?”

“Indeed. So . . . what further would you have me do, sir?”

They both knew, however, it was a rhetorical question. The Crown’s original murder case was so old the files had damn near molded. One man stabbed and another dead by his own hand, and all of it over a card game turned ugly. And now, years later, Sir Wilfred had apparently confessed to the stabbing, and been accidentally shot.

Allegedly
accidentally shot.

But in any case, there was nothing further to be done; everyone save Lazonby—and now Sir Arthur’s disturbing daughter—was dead or had vanished. And Lazonby had cleverly stymied Napier’s further investigative efforts, as he had been doing for years.

But to be fair, had the Crown had left Lazonby with any choice?

Oh, Napier would forever loathe the arrogant devil. It stung to admit, even to himself, he might have been mistaken about the man.

Well, he hadn’t been mistaken, damn it. Not entirely.

And neither had his father. In his youth, Lazonby had been a cardsharper of the worst order. More than a few men had thought the scoundrel had got what he deserved.

“And this witness, this Elizabeth Ashton,” Sir George went on. “Went off to America and took her aunt’s name, eh?”

“It seems Sir Arthur’s sister married a Mr. Ashton, owner of a struggling newspaper—the
Boston Examiner,
I think it was—but the Ashtons were childless, so perhaps that’s why.”

Napier forbore pointing out the lady’s tendency to alter her name as it suited her purpose. So far he was up to three, he was fairly well certain, and still counting.

“Well, I pray she isn’t a troublemaker like her brother,” said Sir George. “Where did Jack Coldwater come from, by the way? I thought Sir Arthur Colburne had only daughters.”

Napier lifted one shoulder, and told another of his almost-lies. “A bastard, Lazonby alleges, by some actress whose name no one recalls,” he said. “Miss Ashton claims her father acknowledged the child amongst close family. She says she lost touch with Coldwater for a time, then he turned up in Boston and went to work in the Ashtons’ newspaper business.”

Claims. Alleges. Says.

Christ, he’d sunk all the way down to Lazonby’s level. Weasel-words, indeed!

“An illegitimate son,” Sir George murmured. “I cannot claim surprise. I knew Sir Arthur Colburne in passing—a charming rakehell, forever on the verge of financial ruin. What is the daughter like?”

Napier was inexplicably reluctant to answer. The truth was, he had tried not to remember, despite the fact it was his job to remember everything. But the lady was a conundrum wrapped in an enigma. Alas, Napier loved nothing better than a mystery.

Perhaps it was that dichotomy—her intelligent, almost ruthless eyes and stubborn mouth, contrasted with that luminous skin and alluring scent—which had so roused his attention. And his suspicion.

What
was
she like?
Ethereal
was the word that came most readily to mind. And yet
ethereal
implied
heavenly
, and there was nothing angelic about Elizabeth Ashton.

“She is a lady,” he said reluctantly, “and quite tall and striking in appearance.”

“Striking?” Sir George set his head to one side. “In what way?”

Frustrated, Napier shook his head. “Her eyes are a remarkable shade of green,” he said. “Or perhaps it’s blue. Like . . . a cat. And her face—it is almost luminous—like something out of a Romney portrait. And her hair is quite—”

He jerked to a halt, realizing that he wasn’t perfectly sure
what
color her hair was.

“Quite what?” urged Sir George.

“—
lovely
,” he finished awkwardly.

Sir George cocked an eyebrow. “My word, Royden. You sound smitten.”

Napier opened his mouth to snap out a retort, then remembering his place, shut it again. “Not in the least,” he finally managed. “I have my eye on her, that is all.”

“Yes?” said Sir George almost hopefully. “To what end?”

Napier’s shoulders fell. “To no end, sir, truth be told,” he finally answered. “This case is likely never to be resolved. And I think we both know it.”

Sir George sighed deeply. “Still, the Home Office must give every impression of taking this matter seriously,” he said. “Do . . .
something
, Royden.”

“Such as?”

His answering smile was wan. “Interview her again,” he said. “Handle it personally—but gently, of course. At least we’ll be seen banging on the lady’s door.”

“She lives out in Hackney,” said Napier dryly. “No one’s apt to recognize me.”

The girl came back with two tankards and set them down with heavy
clunk!
—a sound of true finality.

“So that’s it, then.” Sir George threw up his hands. “Sir Wilfred was guilty, Lord Lazonby wasn’t, our police have been humiliated, and Jack Coldwater has fled, never to be apprehended. Does that about sum up this bloody mess?”

Napier could not bear to answer. The clamor in the pub had risen now—but not loud enough to drown out his guilt.

Finally, Sir George gave him a thin smile. “Well, none of this is your fault.”

“It happened on my watch,” Napier returned. “And on my father’s.”

“Ah, yes. Your father. That brings me to another topic.” Sir George looked suddenly uncomfortable. “I’ve had another letter from your grandfather. From Lord Duncaster.”

Napier stiffened. His paternal grandfather, Henry Tarleton, sixth Earl of Duncaster, was a bitter old man, long estranged from Napier’s father. Indeed, Napier had never even laid eyes on his grandfather until last autumn, when Sir George had sent him to the vast family estate in Wiltshire to investigate a curious letter.

“Meddling again, is he?” Napier grumbled.

Sir George waved his hand as if it were no matter. “He presumes upon our old family friendship. Do you know, I believe I am to this day the only person connected to the Metropolitan Police who was entirely certain of your late father’s exalted family connections.”

“Which was just as my father wished,” said Napier tightly.

Sir George set both hands flat upon the tabletop and cleared his throat.

“Duncaster acknowledges, Royden, that you’re now his heir,” he finally said. “Lord Saint-Bryce, your father’s elder brother, has been dead two months, God rest him, so you’re all that’s left. And, simply put, Duncaster wishes you to come home.”

Napier stiffened. “The only home I have ever known, sir, is London.”

“And whose choice was that?” asked Sir George quietly. “I took a particular interest in your father, not because I was close to him, for I wasn’t. No one was. He took care to see to that. But our long-standing family friendship—ah, that was one thing your father could not alter. Nicholas might change his surname to Napier. But that Tarleton blood? Oh, blood is immutable—much as you might wish otherwise.”

“I’ve never given it much thought, one way or the other,” said Napier.

“I believe you have,” said Sir George softly. “You went home last year at Lord Hepplewood’s behest.”

“
Twice
,” said Napier tightly. “I went to
Wiltshire
twice. Once by your order to investigate that strange, rambling letter which he sent to
you
, not me. And yes, I went a few weeks later for his funeral. I . . . I still don’t know why I did.”

Sir George’s face tightened. “Royden, you are wasting yourself here in London. And now your life has a greater purpose.”

“Sir, how can you say that?” Napier shoved back his chair with a sharp scrape. “By God, I’ve given my life to this department and to this city. And how can any purpose be greater than truth and justice?”

But the question rang hollow, even to his own ears. Always Napier had aspired to follow in his father Nicholas’s footsteps. And now . . . and now he did not know even the meaning of truth. Or of justice.

Worse, he was beginning to wonder if he’d even known his father.

Napier had always believed that to accept anything Lord Duncaster might offer him would be rejecting all that his father had sacrificed for when he’d left the family and changed his name. Was there not honor in living by one’s own wits? Or in wishing to succeed without the support of a rich and powerful family?

But what, precisely, had Nicholas Napier sacrificed?

Surely not his own honor? Surely he had not wished merely to punish Lord Duncaster over a quarrel? Could a man be so prideful—so bent on retaliation—he might sacrifice his own morals for money? That he might take
bribery
and convict an innocent man?

Surely it was not possible.

“I shouldn’t have said a greater purpose,” Sir George amended, drawing Napier from his reverie. “Just an unexpected turn. Lord Hepplewood was Duncaster’s best friend. And now, within the space of six months, Duncaster has also lost the last of his three sons. To outlive one’s children—dear God! That sort of grief is incomprehensible to me. Now your grandfather has no one.”

Napier scowled. “He has his widowed sister, Lady Hepplewood, still happily ensconced beneath his very nose,” he said, “not that
she
has ever spared my lowly branch of the family a kind word.”

Sir George opened both hands expressively. “Look, as I said, I did not know your father Nicholas well.”

“No, you did not.” Napier’s words came out more harshly than he’d intended.

“I did not,” said Sir George more gently. “Nicholas Napier was a man who kept his own counsel and did his job with ruthless efficiency. He wanted nothing from his family. But really, was his father Duncaster the ogre he made out? And if he was, can a man not mellow with age?”