The Suspect's Daughter: Regency Romance (Rogue Hearts Book 4) (3 page)

By the time Grant reached the Bow Street Office, the dampness had sunk into his skin. Lamplight through the window guided him like a beacon to the door. Grant pushed it open, nodded to a few clerks who were cleaning off their desks for the evening, and strode to the magistrate’s private corner office.

Bow Street’s Magistrate, Richard Barnes, sat behind his desk surrounded by stacks of papers and stared into a dying fire. A lamp sputtered, casting shadows flitting like wraiths in the corners. The magistrate, man about ten years Grant’s senior, sat in a chair, his head bowed over paperwork, his cravat rumpled.

At Grant’s entrance, Barnes brightened and set down his pen. “Amesbury. What news?”

“Nothing,” Grant said in self-loathing. “I found nothing incriminating in Fairley’s study—although I had to cut off my search.”

Barnes waved off Grant’s failure. “No matter. I doubted Fairley would leave evidence lying around his London house, anyway. He’s probably too smart for that.”

Grant threw himself into a worn leather armchair, as disgusted with his failure as much as his means of escape. “I’ll try again another time.”

“My brother said Fairley made an impassioned speech today.” Barnes leaned back and folded his arms. “Won some supporters in the House of Commons. He’s certainly making himself 
memorable
.” He punched the final word with a dark frown.

“Does the prime minister see Fairley as a threat to his position?”

“Difficult to say. It would take a majority vote of no confidence to get Lord Liverpool removed, and for the majority of the House to suggest a replacement. So far, most don’t seem inclined to take such a strong stand against Liverpool, but if they did, Fairley seems to be their choice.”

This lead them right back to Fairley. But it didn’t make sense that someone of Fairley’s wealth and power would stoop to murder, not even to achieve the position of prime minister. However, people often had hidden motives, as Grant well knew.

If Richard Barnes thought Fairley was guilty, then he was. And the word of two separate informants at two separate times could not be ignored. The magistrate was one of the few people Grant trusted implicitly—and not just because Barnes defied his orders to rescue him, like an avenging angel, from the Corsican Monster’s best torturer. But more than that, Grant respected the man’s unwavering sense of right and wrong, as well as his instincts.

Barnes continued, “Fairley is ambitious and has shown ungentlemanly conduct in the past. And his wife’s death might have pushed him into a state of ruthlessness—enough to murder to achieve his goal.”

“We won’t let that happen.”

Leaning forward, Barnes laced his fingers together on his desk. “We have to handle this delicately. We can’t accuse a man with Fairley’s standing of plotting such a serious crime without irrefutable proof. And even if we find such proof, we must wait, watch, and learn who else is involved.”
Barnes picked up his pen and absently sharpened the tip.

“I understand.” Grant watched his long-time friend and visualized the gears turning in his head.

Barnes set down the pen and leaned forward. “I need you to go deeper—get invited to the conspirators’ secret meetings. The Secret Service is guarding the prime minister day and night, and working to learn exactly when the assassins plan to strike. But if we can discover all the conspirators, we can eradicate them and end the threat.”

Grant grimaced. He’d have to make some new ‘friends.’

Barnes chuckled softly. “What? You look like I’ve proposed something distasteful.”

“‘Going deeper’ means I must rub shoulders with a bunch of nobs and dress like a fop and act like I care about politics.”

Barnes cocked a brow. “Might I point out that you are the son of a nob?”

“Don’t remind me.” Grant slumped down in his chair.

Amusement twinkled in Barnes’s eyes. “Far be it from me to suggest you spend time with men who are literate and bathe once in a while.”

“That’s something in their favor. But if I suddenly show up at respectable establishments, everyone will view that as suspicious.”

“I’m confident you’ll think of something.” A smile hovered around his mouth.

Grant resisted the urge to let out a long-suffering sigh. Very well, he’d do the pretty with those who enjoyed worthless pastimes like parties and balls. Few outside his family knew of his involvement with Bow Street, so no one would suspect him of working on a case. If he played the game right, the conspirators would approach him with the suggestion that something ought to be done about the prime minister—something quick and incisive. And Grant would drag the conspirators to justice, one way or another. Those involved would feel the full force of the law.

He took a hackney home. With the aid of his street-urchin-turned-valet, Clark, Grant shaved and changed into something fashionably uncomfortable. That unpleasant task completed, Grant took another hackney to a gaming establishment respectable enough to attract wealthy customers. Grant strode in as if he frequented the place that attracted the idle, bored rich who sought pleasures away from balls, soirees, and the other inane social gatherings of the London Season.

Bright enough to appear honest, yet softly lit to create an ambiance of intimacy, the room hosted a number of tables filled with gamblers throwing away their money on everything from whist to faro. Dark paneling and woodwork from a bygone era adorned the walls, and scarlet velvet decorated the furniture. Grant reminded himself of his role tonight as the son of an earl and relaxed his expression into one of
savoir-faire
.

Out of habit, he noted the row of windows along the street-side wall, and the back door on the far side of the adjoining room, which probably led to an alley. A young man nearest Grant leaned against the wall, too drunk to be a threat. Two next to him shouted at each other and guffawed. Bully boys stood by to throw out any trouble makers. Seasoned players mingled with cocky innocents unaware of how badly they were getting fleeced.

Almost afraid to move his head lest he muss the awkward perfection of his cravat, Grant ambled to a
green baize table to observe a high stakes game of faro. Dice rolled to a stop, and cries of triumph and woe exploded as players won and lost money in a vain hope to tempt Lady Luck to smile on them.

Fools. Grant kept his money closely guarded. Even his investments sat with only the most trusted ventures. Lady Luck was unfaithful, and Grant would trust her no more than he’d trust a woman.

Moments later, he wandered to a group playing
vingt-et-un
. Gentlemen at the table sat with guarded expressions and rumpled neck cloths, most of them he recognized as younger sons of aristocracy or nobility, no doubt desperate to add to their allowance. The game ended amid groans. A victor crowed his triumph while one of the losers vacated his spot.

“Too much for me tonight,” the gentleman grumbled as he stood and abandoned the game.

Someone approached and Grant went on alert. Then he relaxed at the familiar face.

The face from the past grinned. “No, it can’t be...Grant Amesbury?”

Grant allowed himself enough of a smile to appear friendly. “James Ingle. I thought you’d have debauched enough maidens to have been chased out of the country by now—or put a period to the end of your life on a dueling field.”

James gave a start and drew his brows together, genuinely offended. “I’ve never debauched a maiden.”

“Oh, really?” Grant drawled.

“In truth. And I never touched your sister, I swear.”

“I know. I would have killed you if you had. But you broke her heart. For that I should have at least maimed you.”

Ingle gave a huff of laughter but sobered at what must have been a deadly gleam in Grant’s eye. Shifting from foot to foot, Ingle tugged at his collar and cleared his throat. “Any games catch your interest tonight?”

“I just got here.”

“Ah. I prefer Loo, myself.”

“I hear that’s Prinny’s choice of games these days as well.” Grant deliberately avoiding calling the former Prince Regent “King.” The new monarch title didn’t sit any better on the indolent womanizer than his previous one had. Besides, he hadn’t yet been coroneted.

Ingle tapped his chin thoughtfully. “I think you’re thinking of the prime minister; I hear he favors Loo.”

Grant shrugged. “Perhaps. They’re both a couple of wastrels, if you ask me. They gamble with the state of the country, as well.”

“I can’t say that I completely disagree.”

“I’d like to throw the lot of them into the sea and put a real leader in charge.”

“Maybe we should.” Ingle eyed him as if trying to decipher his meaning. “You don’t strike me as one of those calling for Parliamentary reform.”

“I’m not, really. Just disillusioned.” Grant glanced casually around but no one appeared to take any interest in their conversation.

Ingle peered at him. “A disillusioned war hero...”

Grant let out a scoff that went all the way to his toes. “I’m not a hero.”

“You served king and country.”

Images of war and death crowded Grant’s mind—black powder burning his nose, cries of agony echoing in his ears, and soldiers he shot crumpling to lie in their own blood. He sucked in his breath and raced past memories back to the smoke-filled gaming establishment. “I served.”

“That makes you a hero.” Compassion edged into Ingle’s expression and his gaze settled on the scar running down Grant’s face that forever branded him.

Grant scowled. “I need a drink.”

He moved away from Ingle’s pity. After securing a brandy, he sipped slowly, careful to keep his head clear. At the far side of the room, an argument broke out. Grant ambled toward them to be on hand if the argument turned violent. But the bully boys had already noticed and were taking up protective positions.

“How dare you, sirrah!” shouted a fair-haired escapee from college.

The towhead swung a fist at his red-faced companion but his movements were slowed by too much drink. The other youth dodged. The blond missed, but the swing threw him off balance.

Grant grabbed the tottering lad before he fell. “You’ve had enough merriment for tonight, boy. Time to leave.” Fisting his hands in the boy’s coat, Grant hustled him toward the door.

“M’ mothah wash a lady,” the boy slurred.

Grant held his breath at the stench of liquor emanating from the sot, and glanced back at the other youth. If Grant had known the altercation was over an insult to a mother, he would have helped the blond get in a few good blows. No one insulted mothers and got away with it, if Grant could help it. But now was not the time to start a brawl.

To the blond, Grant said, “Indeed, she was. A very fine lady. Come, I’ll call you a cab. Where do you live?”

“Mayfair.” Then he giggled. “Oxford. But Mayfair for a few daysh till I go back to shschool.”

Of course. Most indolent brats lived in Mayfair. Grant hailed a passing hansom cab.

“I’m not a shnot-nosed whelp, either.” The young man cast an accusing glare over his shoulder at the door of the building, but the motion threw him off balance. He staggered and fell against Grant.

He put a steadying hand on the boy’s shoulder and adopted a soothing, albeit condescending tone used for a stupid child. “No, indeed, and you hold your liquor just fine.”

His sarcasm was apparently lost on the boy who grinned at him. “Jush sho.” He stuck out a hand. “Jonathan Fairley, at your shervish.”

The son of the man Grant had been sent to investigate? Grant recovered his surprise enough to regain the role, however unfamiliar, of a gentleman. He replied without missing a beat, “Grant Amesbury, at yours.”

The boy tried to bow but lost his balance again. Grant grabbed the scruff of his neck and held the tottering drunk until the hansom drew up alongside.

Grant called up to the jarvey the address of the Fairleys’ residence. Young Mr. Fairley collapsed into a dead weight. Grant swore and considered his options. He could load the pup into the cab like so much baggage and leave it to the driver to deposit him into the care of his relatives. However, perhaps this situation could be used to Grant’s advantage. This may be the key to securing the notice, and perhaps even gratitude, of his prime suspect in the assassination plot. Such gratitude might bring him close enough inside the family circle to earn the confidence of the plotters, or at least give him more opportunities to investigate Fairley.

Grant gathered up the gangly lad, loaded him into the hansom, and swung into the seat. The drunk snored as they clattered over the cobbled streets. When they arrived in front of the Fairleys’ townhouse, Grant collected his drooling companion, got out with boy draped over his shoulders, and paid the jarvey. Glancing in every direction to ensure no one lay in wait, Grant carried his snoring burden toward the front of the house.

He paused in front of the steps. If the family were in the midst of hosting a soiree,
sans
one errant son, they might not appreciate a stranger showing up with said errant son senseless and slobbering for their guests to view. Grant smirked. It might be amusing to see stuffed shirts in an uproar over the public return of their wastrel son. However, such entertainment would not further his purposes.

Grant shifted his burden more comfortably on his shoulders and walked around to back to the servants’ entrance on the ground floor. A brief rap on the door brought the silhouette of a man holding a spoon in one hand. Grant blinked in the light behind the figure.

“Good evening, my good man,” Grant said politely, still immersed in his role. “I have a special delivery.” He turned enough to show the face of the lad draped over his shoulder.

The kitchen servant let out a gasp. “It’s the young master.” He called over his shoulder, “Elwood, fetch Mr. Owen at once, and inform Miss Fairley. Mae, show this gentleman the way to Master Jonathan’s chambers.” He waved Grant in.

A scullery maid dressed in a plain frock too short for her thin legs bobbed a curtsy. “This way, sir.”