Most Eagerly Yours (40 page)

They had just left Abbey Green, where she had changed her clothes, washed her hands and face, and restored her hair to order. But even Micklebee had agreed that she should not be left alone at her lodging house, not until everyone involved in the Summit Pavilion fraud had been apprehended. And especially not until they learned how Roger Babcock had died. If it hadn’t been an accident—and Aidan was certain it had not—then his murderer could be anyone. Anyone at all.

Dear God, even Melinda might bear some responsibility for the MP’s death. Aidan refused to believe his godmother could be capable of taking a life, but until he learned the entire truth, even she remained a focus of his suspicions.

“Somewhere you won’t be alone,” he said. “Not Melinda’s.”

Under ordinary circumstances, Fenwick House would have been his first choice. Given their situation, he hadn’t yet decided where she would be safest. He had merely told Phelps to head north.

“I see no reason why I should not remain with you and see this through.” Laurel tilted her chin in a show of stubbornness.

He gripped the hand strap with undue force as the cabriolet turned a corner. “Yes, well, I can cite several reasons. And I don’t care whose authority you invoke—from now on we’ll do this my way.”

“I should be present when you confront Melinda.”

He gritted his teeth and said nothing.

“Aidan, don’t believe for one moment that she has done anything illegal or immoral. If she purchased that warehouse, it is because she was duped into doing so.”

“As she was duped into donating her land to the Bath Corporation for the pavilion?”

Shock turned Laurel’s eyes to saucers. “What?”

“It’s true.” He sighed and angled a gaze out the window. His insides churned with misery and frustration.

“That hillside used to belong to the Fenwick estate. So you see, Melinda is waist deep in the mire.”

Her hand closed around his chin; she turned his face to hers. “There is an explanation.”

He shrugged.

“Aidan, stop it.” She framed his face between her palms and set her lips to his, a light, sweet touch that triggered an almost crushing need to pull her into his arms and bury his face in her hair, her neck, her bosom. He kissed her back but resisted the rest.

He drew back and said, “I’m not going to see Melinda. Not yet. It’s time for me to end a friendship first.”

“Lord Munster?”

“I’m going to get the truth out of Fitz if I have to beat it out of him.”

Her cheeks blanched. “You can’t go there alone,” she whispered. “You said he might have murdered that man.”

He leaned back against the squabs and gathered her to his chest despite his resolve to begin distancing himself from her. “The thought may have crossed my mind, but I don’t believe it. I’ve been shadowing George Fitzclarence for over three years now.”

Somehow his fingertips found their way to her hair. He stroked reassurances while being careful not to dislodge the newly arranged curls from their pins. “He has trusted me, and I probably know him better than most of his siblings. He may be an unprincipled scoundrel, but he simply isn’t the murdering kind.”

She slid her arms around him and pressed her cheek to his shirtfront. “Promise me you’ll be safe with him.”

“I promise.” Outside, he recognized the manicured approach to Queen Square. “Turn in,” he called to Phelps. To Laurel he said, “I’m bringing to you Beatrice. You’ll be safe there.”

“What about her husband? He left the Guildhall, too, that night.”

“They’re estranged, so he won’t be at home. Besides, he proceeded on to Stoddard’s that night, not to the bridge with Fitz and Rousseau. The only thing I believe Devonlea is guilty of is risking Beatrice’s financial well-being with gambling and foolish investments.”

“Very well, but what shall we tell her about why I am intruding uninvited upon her morning?”

Aidan hesitated. Beatrice would likely see through any lie they concocted. Could he trust her with the truth? He had always found her to be honest and straightforward, and not once had he ever doubted the sincerity of her concerns for her eldest brother.

“Say nothing about the Home Office or the queen, nor mention Rousseau’s elixir. Tell her only that having detected a discrepancy in the pavilion records, I suspect fraud and have set my solicitor on the trail. We’ll tell her Fitz may be involved with dangerous men, and that I am resolved to help him if I can.”

“Are you?” Laurel gazed up at him with solemn eyes. “Will you give him a chance to redeem himself?”

It was a question he couldn’t yet answer.

D
espite the early hour, Fitz’s butler hardly blinked at Aidan’s arrival. The main staff, which followed Fitz from residence to residence, had grown accustomed to Aidan’s coming and going freely, and at any time of the day or night.

Surprised to learn that Fitz was already out of bed and breakfasting in his library, Aidan saw himself up to the second floor. He would have thought Fitz too hungover to stir before noon, but he discovered him hunched in a wing chair placed close to the fireplace. Like Micklebee’s, his hair stood raggedly on end, and though he had donned breeches and boots as if intending a morning ride, he remained coatless and wore neither collar nor cravat.

Chin in hand, Fitz stared vacantly into the coal- fed flames. A platter of poached eggs and a slab of ham lay untouched on the table beside him. Next to his plate, a crystal decanter reflected the firelight. Apparently, breakfast this morning consisted of brandy, and plenty of it, from the way Fitz’s head lolled in his hand.

“A bit early for that, isn’t it?” Aidan said as he entered the room.

Fitz lifted his face from his palm. “Aidan? What’re you d-doing here, old b-boy?”

Reaching into his waistcoat, Aidan withdrew the documents he and Laurel had discovered last night. He slapped the leather-bound bundle against Fitz’s chest.

The flap opened, but Fitz caught the papers before they scattered to the floor. The moment stretched, and he raised a red-rimmed gaze weighted by a liquor-induced languor. “So you’ve f-found me out, have you? C-clever of you. How did you ever m-manage it?”

“
How
doesn’t matter, you sodding bastard. Whatever possessed you, Fitz? Why would you do such a vile thing to people who are your friends?”

Fitz’s hand came up in a gesture of supplication, then slapped palm down on the documents resting in his lap. “I s-suppose you’re right. I’ve b-been a wretched shshithouse, n-not including you.”

“Not including me?” Grabbing handfuls of Fitz’s shirt, Aidan hauled him from the settee, sending the king’s documents fluttering. “You believe I am here for my
cut
?”

Fitz merely blinked and frowned and swayed on his feet. He might have fallen if Aidan hadn’t held tight to his sleeves. With a disgusted thrust he returned Fitz to his chair and fisted his hands in the air.

“Haven’t I taken care of you? Seen to it you won at the gaming tables? Kept you out of scrapes and supplied you with more than ample pocket change?”

“What
are
you g-going on about?”

“Damn it, Fitz.” A current of rage sizzled beneath Aidan’s skin. Again he gripped Fitz by the shoulders and heaved him to his feet, venting his fury in a shove that sent the heavier man stumbling backward until he struck the desk positioned before the window. The mahogany piece shuddered on its legs. Fitz collapsed onto the leather-padded surface, his arms flailing. Ledger books, inkpots, and a silver box of quills clattered to the floor.

In his oddly inverted position, Fitz gaped up at the ceiling. “Have you l-lost your mind? C-could have k-killed me.”

The commotion having drained a measure of his anger, Aidan poured more brandy into the snifter and carried it to the desk. He offered his friend a hand to help him up. “Here, drink. It will help.”

Perched on the edge of the desk, Fitz used both hands to bring the snifter to his lips. When he’d drained half the contents, Aidan took the glass and set it aside.

“You’re up to your ears in hot water, my friend, and this time I might not be able to supply the lifeline to keep you afloat.”

Fitz looked thoroughly confused, which might merely have been due to the continuation of his drunken state from last night into this morning. “I d-don’t understand. Rousseau and I have m- merely taken up where our f-fathers left off. It’s exciting, old b-boy, the p-potential in this elixir. W-we will add y-years to people’s lives.”

Was he serious? Looking him up and down and finding no sign of artifice in his manner, Aidan very nearly believed so. Could Fitz have been duped by Rousseau? Perhaps, but there was too much at stake for carelessness . . . or for misplaced pity.

“If you and Rousseau meant no harm, why have you denied having anything more than a casual association with the man?”

“That was R- Rousseau’s idea. He s-said the f- formula should appear n-new, and not s-something dug up from d-decades ago. He said p-people nowadays want m-modern, fresh ideas, especially in the sc-sciences.”

“The elixir is a fake. A fraud,” Aidan said bluntly, narrowing his eyes to observe Fitz’s reaction.

He gave an adamant shake of his head. “No, no. We f-followed the recipe exactly, except to m-make improvements. The h-herbs, Aidan. The herbs have m- made all the d-difference.”

“It was not the herbs, damn it.” Frustration again curled Aidan’s hands into fists. He began pacing back and forth to spend the energy rather than vent his anger on the other man again—at least for now. He couldn’t promise himself he wouldn’t throttle Fitz soundly before he handed him over to the authorities.

He halted near the hearth, temptingly close to the iron poker. “It’s the absinthe Rousseau has been mixing into his elixir that has people convinced their ailments have been cured. It’s the absinthe that has persuaded them to invest their fortunes.”

“Absinthe? N-no, that’s im-p-possible. . . .”

Aidan felt himself losing the battle with his rising temper. “You have been bringing the supplies in through the warehouse you swindled Melinda into purchasing—”

“No one has s-swindled Lady F- Fairmont. You h-have this all wr-wrong.”

“Oh? And I suppose you’d have me believe she handed over the land for the Summit Pavilion without the mind-altering persuasion of absinthe.”

Fitz didn’t so much as blink as he replied, “She donated the p-property before the first b-batch of elixir had even been m-mixed.”

“Don’t lie to me, Fitz. So help me—”

“I s-swear it’s true, Aidan.”

“Why would a levelheaded woman like Melinda do something so foolhardy and pointless?”

“It isn’t p-pointless. The elixir is w- working. Lady Fairmont was m-much more ill before she began t-taking it.”

Aidan’s insides ran cold. “What are you saying?”

“The elixir is k-keeping her alive.”

“Don’t, my friend.” His steely whisper quivered with fresh rage, this time threatening to erupt beyond his control. “Do not dare use my godmother’s name to lie your way out of this.”

“She’s d-dying, Aidan.”

Propelled by a firestorm of indignant fury and stubborn denial, Aidan rushed his friend. A right hook caught Fitz beneath his flaccid chin. Aidan heard the crack and felt the sting in his knuckles. He saw shock and then pain register in Fitz’s bloodshot eyes. The man blinked and toppled, taking the desk lamp with him as he crumpled to the floor. The glass shattered, spilling oil onto the parquet floor and soaking Fitz’s sleeve.

The ensuing silence filled Aidan with a chilling and undeniable truth.

She has been poorly several times since the New Year. And once or twice before that, sir.
Mrs. Prewitt, Melinda’s housekeeper, had told him this the last time Melinda fell ill.

“She’s dying?”

Blinking away the stupor caused by Aidan’s punch, Fitz slowly sat up. With a groan he cupped a palm to his chin. “A d-disease of the blood, according to D-Dr. Bailey.”

With his other hand Fitz held the edge of the desk and struggled to his feet, and Aidan realized his friend would not have weathered the blow so well if he hadn’t been deep in his cups. That, and the fact that, at the last minute, something had caused Aidan to restrain the force of the blow.

“She didn’t w-want you to know, old boy. D-didn’t want anyone to know and gave Bailey s-strictest orders to k-keep it hush-hush.”

“Good God. Melinda . . .” A sinking helplessness seeped through Aidan. He wanted to shout at the injustice of it, smash things, and destroy the room . . . yet the knowledge that he was powerless to change the situation wrapped around him like shackles and held him immobile.

“That’s l-like her, though, isn’t it? Plucky old d-duck, Lady Fairmont is. She b-believes the elixir is helping her, and s-so do I.” Fitz actually smiled despite the swelling on his chin. “Th- think of it, old man. A miracle cure. B-bottled longevity. What m- might men achieve with the extra y-years we provide them?”

“Bloody hell, Fitz . . .” Aidan’s bellowed response shook with the emotion he couldn’t contain. Bone-crushing weariness dragging at his limbs, he circled the desk and sank into the studded leather chair. His head fell into his hands. Swallowing, he continued more quietly, “The elixir is an illusion. So is the Summit Pavilion. The financial records, the initial shareholders, the investment firm—it’s all a sham.”

When several moments passed and Fitz didn’t speak, Aidan glanced up at him. The change in the man took him aback. Staring openmouthed into thin air, Fitz looked crestfallen, beaten . . . crushed.

“That c-can’t be . . . ,” he whispered. “The p-pavilion is m-my dream. My l-legacy.”

His head sagging between his shoulders, Fitz made his way back to the wing chair and fell into it. “All we w-wanted . . . all
I
wanted . . . was to c-continue my father’s dream. To b-build a legacy for when I am g-gone.”