Tempting a Devil (17 page)

“To Sir Hilary?” she asked, sitting up next to him. “I hardly think you need to do that. I only wanted you to see it so you could advise me on a course of action. I thought spending more time with you would discourage whoever is writing them.”

She sounded just a little too casual about the note. Roger pretended to mull over her suggestion and then shook his head. “No, I think I should bring it to Hil. He’s the expert. He’ll be able to glean some sort of clue from the note, I’m sure.” He watched her reaction out of the corner of his eyes.

She looked uneasy. Indecision and worry pinched her forehead for a moment. “I’ll come with you,” she said suddenly, rising from the sofa.

He stared at her in surprise. “To Hil’s? Why?”

“Well, they are my notes,” she said defensively. “I feel like I ought to take an interest in whatever it is he finds out, don’t you? I am the one at risk.”

She made a very good point, one he could find no argument with. “You’re right, of course,” he agreed. “I didn’t mean that you couldn’t, I was just surprised you wanted to go, that’s all.” He stood up with a smile. “Fetch the other notes and we can go now.”

She bit her lip apprehensively. “I haven’t got them.” She rushed to explain before he could ask any questions. “I burned them. They meant nothing to me. They were just an annoyance, really, and so I tossed them in the fire.”

Roger tried not to let his suspicions show. Something about her story didn’t ring true. But why would she hide the other notes? It made no sense. Unless she knew who was sending them. He grabbed his borrowed jacket from the chair and smiled tightly at her. “I understand,” he lied smoothly. “Don’t worry about it, darling. Shall we go?”

Chapter Fifteen

“A note, you say?” Hil asked absentmindedly as he sorted through some rubble laid out in a pattern on his desk.

“Yes,” Roger said, distracted by Hil’s attempts to piece the rubble together like a puzzle.

“Whatever are you doing?” Harry asked. She sounded reluctant to even address his odd behavior, almost as if she was compelled to do so against her will. Roger understood all too well. Many was the time that he’d wanted to walk on by but the same morbid curiosity had gotten the better of him, too.

“Oh, just trying to determine what caused the explosion,” Hil explained, dusting his hands off and coming around his desk with a polite smile.

“What explosion?” Harry asked, her voice full of dread.

“The same note you mentioned as we hied ourselves to Manchester Square this morning?” Hil asked Roger, now wiping the dust from his coat with a handkerchief. As usual, he’d avoided answering specific questions about his latest secret project.

“Yes,” Roger said. He held out his hand to Harry and she moved with him toward a seating area in the middle of the room. She looked damned fine in the day dress she wore, which was various shades of blue with lots of beads and ruffles. It was very sophisticated and cut to show off her exquisite curves while still remaining demure and perfectly respectable. He was terribly proud to show her off to Hil, which was ridiculous because she wasn’t his to show off, not really. But there was a certain pride he couldn’t
extinguish that a woman like her wanted him. He brought his thoughts back to the reason they were there. “I know that you’ve done some work with written evidence before, haven’t you?”

“Certainly,” Hil told them as they all sat down, with Hil facing the two of them. He held out his hand. “If I may?”

Roger pulled the folded note from the pocket of yet another borrowed coat. “Harry said she doesn’t recognize the handwriting, although it’s the same writing from previous notes.”

“Previous notes?” Hil immediately asked, his eyes sharp and assessing Harry.

Harry looked quite guilty as she blushed furiously. “Yes, about four or five, I think. I didn’t keep them. But they weren’t threatening like this one. They were simply warnings about the dangers of London, that sort of thing.”

“That many?” Roger asked, alarmed. “I assumed one or two others. What sort of dangers?”

“Yes, my dear,” Hil encouraged her. “It would help a great deal if you could remember exactly what they said.”

“Oh, I’m sure I don’t know,” she quickly claimed, not looking at him as she gazed around his impressive library. “I didn’t memorize them, of course. Simply tossed them on the fire as a nuisance.”

“You didn’t find it odd, or alarming, that an anonymous stranger was sending you these notes?” Hil asked curiously, not an ounce of suspicion or accusation in his tone.

Harry shrugged. “No, not really. I’d always been told London was full of odd people.”

Roger was so astounded, he could do no more than sit there blinking repeatedly as he tried to digest that clanker.

“I see,” Hil said blandly, without meeting Roger’s incredulous look. “Well, let’s have a look at this note.” He frowned as Roger held it out and then plucked it from his grasp delicately with two fingers. “Oh, dear,” Hil said, holding the rumpled paper up closely in front of his face, turning it slowly to assess both sides. “Rather ill-used, isn’t it?”

Roger coughed in embarrassment. “Harry didn’t realize the physical condition of the paper itself could be a clue,” Roger explained, leaving out his part in ravaging the note. He really ought to have thought twice before crumpling it in his fist. Twice.

“Hmm,” Hil said as he went back to his desk. He opened several drawers until he found what he was looking for and then went to a table directly in front of a window. Roger and Harry exchanged a look and then rose and joined Hil at the table.

He was bent over the paper, examining it with a magnifying glass. Roger leaned over his right shoulder while Harry leaned over his left. “What do you see?” Roger asked.

“Just a moment,” Hil murmured, turning the paper gently. He perused the blank side as carefully as he had the written one, humming in satisfaction several times as he did so.

Harry was fidgeting nervously, and as she wrung her hands and twisted her arms just so, she jostled Hil’s hand holding the magnifying glass. Hil turned and gave her a rather severe look. “If you don’t mind,” he said politely, and Harry quickly backed up with a muttered apology.

Hil took several more minutes to examine the note as Roger watched him and
Harry paced behind them. Roger grimaced when Hil picked up the paper and touched his tongue to one corner, tasting it. Hil shook his head and examined it again. Finally he straightened and picked up the paper without his previous care. “There is little to no evidence on the paper itself anymore, if there ever was. I can only assume the finger smudges could as likely be from one or both of you as from the writer. They taste like cake.”

“Oh, that is too bad,” Harry said, sounding as if she meant the opposite.

“Yes, too bad,” Roger agreed mildly. “But there must be something you can tell us about it.”

Harry fervently hoped that Roger had overestimated Sir Hilary’s abilities. Her hopes were dashed within moments.

“Well, the paper is from H&W Smith, recently relocated to Duke Street,” Sir Hilary said matter-of-factly.

Harry gasped. “How do you know that?” she said, awestruck.

He smiled and walked over to his desk. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper that looked identical to the notepaper. “Because I have the same set of stationery, though mine is embossed.”

Harry frowned at him, her emotions as wild as a pitching ship in a storm. One minute she was terrified and the next her relief made her giddy. “That wasn’t nice. I was quite willing to believe you were just that brilliant.”

“Well, I am,” Sir Hilary said with a shrug. “But in this particular case, I am simply being observant. However, there are some interesting things we can deduce from this information.”

“Deduce?” Harry asked with trepidation. There went her stomach again as she came crashing down from the height of relief.

“Hmm,” Sir Hilary said, rubbing the stationery between his thumb and forefinger. “In spite of its current condition, the paper appears to be relatively new. Purchased within the last few months, which means it was most likely obtained from the new premises on Duke Street. It would appear our writer either lives or works in Mayfair, a rather prestigious address.”

“Mayfair?” Harry said. “I find that hard to believe.” And that was no lie. Faircloth couldn’t afford lodgings in Mayfair, and he hadn’t worked a day in his life. But he was an excellent sycophant. Perhaps Lady Anne Maxwell lived in Mayfair? Harry wouldn’t be surprised to find out that Faircloth had been bedding her while trying to force Harry into marriage, the cad.

“Yes, it is hard to believe,” Roger agreed, frowning fiercely. “So whoever wrote this is someone Harry most likely sees regularly?”

“Most likely, yes,” Sir Hilary agreed. “Which makes quite a bit of sense, actually. After all, it’s clear they know her movements and what she’s up to, and with whom. It is only logical to assume then that it was written by someone of her acquaintance.”

“Logical, perhaps,” she agreed with a shudder she didn’t have to manufacture, “but disconcerting nonetheless. I hate to think that someone I’ve danced or dined with is writing me these rather disquieting notes.” Hated to think it, but knew it just the same.

“Well, you’ve hardly danced with anyone but Roger for weeks,” Sir Hilary pointed out. “Perhaps that’s what inspired the notes. When did the first one arrive?”

She debated whether or not to lie, but in the end could find no reason not to tell
the truth. “Right after the Crumley ball, about three weeks ago.”

“Did the note mention me?” Roger asked. “Or Dumphrees?”

“Dumphrees,” she told him honestly.

“That means they didn’t follow you into the garden,” Roger said with obvious relief. “But they must have attended the affair.”

“It also means they’ve been watching you for a while now,” Sir Hilary mused, clearly unhappy.

She wanted to reassure him, but it would ruin everything. How she wished Roger hadn’t dragged him into this! She was already having a difficult time deceiving darling Roger, and now to add Sir Hilary—who had become something of a friend—to her deceit was quite, quite unsettling. She took a deep breath and stiffened her spine. It was for Mercy. She had to protect him first, and then herself. There was no one else to do it, though Roger was trying in his own bumbling way.

It was that last thought that made her smile affectionately at both men, which prompted suspicious looks. “Honestly, what harm can they do with notes?” she asked. “It’s true I found this last note threatening, but that is only because it followed so closely on the heels of the attack on Mercy.” She winced, wishing she could swallow the words as soon as they were out, knowing it had been the wrong thing to say. She really was not good at this lying business.

“It is precisely for that reason we should worry,” Roger argued. “It is logical to assume that the person writing these notes is also the person behind the attempted kidnapping of your boy. Mercy is mentioned prominently in this note. You must be careful, Harry. To take the threat lightly is playing right into their hands.”

“I must agree with Roger,” Sir Hilary said. “Particularly his caution about taking this threat too lightly. These are not the words of a rational person. Their ‘plans’ concerning you sound ominous at the least. And the threat to take Mercy could mean harm to you or the boy.”

Harry nibbled on the tip of her finger as she warily eyed both men. It was true she’d begun to wonder about Faircloth’s stability. He seemed obsessed with her capitulation. Any sane man would have accepted her refusal at this point. A true villain would have simply revealed the information and ruined her by now. But Faircloth seemed quite certain she would eventually give in. As a result, she had set her own plan in motion, and so would see it through.

“Is there anything else you can decipher from the note?” she asked.

“Only that the writer was most likely a man,” Sir Hilary confirmed. “I confess this is more a feeling and an opinion than a fact ascertained through scientific means. There have been studies on handwriting, however, that show—”

“Just the point, Hil,” Roger interrupted, “not a scholarly lecture on the topic.”

Sir Hilary sniffed in annoyance. “You never did care for scientific scholarship,” he accused Roger. “It was all classical studies for you.”

“Not true,” Roger defended himself. “I enjoyed mathematics. Now, why a man?”

“Fine.” Sir Hilary sighed with martyred resignation. “See the aggressiveness of the pen marks? This was written with a heavy hand, causing deep indentations in the paper, and several messy ink spots. It could indicate a great deal of anger, of course, but coupled with the short, sharp strokes it makes me believe the writer was a man. Also”—he held up the paper and read from it—“
certain
actions,
this
behavior,
the
boy. The word
usage here indicates a man.” He put the paper down. “Women tend to personalize their correspondence. If a woman had written it, it would have read:
your
actions,
your
behavior,
your
boy. As I said, this is all conjecture, as there have been no definitive scientific studies done on the subject. Just my own amateur attempts to study the phenomena.”

Roger made a frustrated sound and began pacing the stretch of carpet that Harry had worn thin not long ago. “I’d already suspected most of this, so it doesn’t really shed much light on the situation.”

“Did you?” Sir Hilary said with obvious surprise. “How?”

Roger gave him a wry look. “Well, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that in order to know what Harry was up to, someone would actually have to see what she was up to. And since not just anyone can attend the parties that she does, well, there you go. Someone from our social set must be the writer. And something about the threat to Mercy, it seemed like a man to me.”

“You are developing excellent instincts,” Sir Hilary complimented him.

“Because I’m clearly not a genius?” Roger asked in a wry tone that matched his look.

“Ahem,” Sir Hilary said with a raised brow. “In your own way.”