Changing the Earl's Mind (The Lords of Whitehall Book 3) Page 11

  The woman in black sitting beside Lady Saint Brides was noticeably older, with white hair, gray eyes, and a plethora of wrinkles about her eyes and mouth.

  Lady Umberton, he had called her.

  “Look at you.” Lady Umberton smiled, but there was a wistfulness lurking in its depths. “You have grown into such a fine-looking man. Just like your father.”

  She felt his arm tense under her hand, and small lines appeared around his eyes.

  “May I ask what the two of you are doing, following me here?” Saint Brides asked, pulling out a chair from the dining table and waiting until Sarah sat before seating himself beside her, across from his mother and Lady Umberton.

  “Are we not allowed to travel?” his mother asked, her gray brows lifted. “Perhaps we wish to visit the shops, or the theater. And this following business is ridiculous. We were here first, if I remember correctly. You must have been taking quite a roundabout route to London.”

  He raised a brow silently, and his mother returned the withering look, but only for a moment. Then she waved her hand impatiently.

  “Very well, we were following you. Francine has a confession.”

  “A confession? Apparently, you have mistaken me for a priest,” he returned coolly.

  “It’s terribly important, Drake,” Lady Saint Brides insisted. “You must hear her.”

  “I cannot think of anything I would rather do less.”

  Lady Saint Brides bristled. “You don’t even know what this is regarding.”

  “I suggest it remain so.” A muscle ticked in his jaw, and he turned his steely eyes to Lady Umberton. “Though I cannot imagine what trivial infraction you could possibly believe to be worth confessing, I am not interested to know. I am already aware of the ghastly crimes of half of Parliament, of which I can do absolutely nothing. In your case, Lady Umberton, I would much rather remain blissfully unaware.”

  “How dare you speak to our dearest friend in such a disrespectful manner?” Lady Saint Brides chided, her eyes wide with censure.

  Lady Umberton quieted the dowager with a wave of her frail hand. “He is right,” she said. “What is the point of my confession if no justice can be done?”

  “But justice can be done,” Lady Saint Brides argued, imploring the elderly woman with her hand on her arm. “Murderers can be punished. Stolen items returned. Besides, your conscience will destroy you if you remain silent.”

  “Good God,” Saint Brides muttered, his brows drawn tightly together as he scowled disbelievingly across the table. “Say nothing more, I beg you.”

  “No doubt those brigands are long gone now,” Lady Umberton said, ignoring Saint Brides.

  “Recall, if you would, that justice for the murderers was not our only motive for shedding light on this crime, Francine. We are to protect a certain lady’s reputation.”

  Lady Umberton blinked, and then her eyes fastened on Sarah. “You must be her.”

  “Of course she is,” Lady Saint Brides said hastily. “Francine, this is Sarah Tindall. Your grandson’s wife.”

  Drake knew the story of Lady Margaret, Lady Umberton’s daughter. Mrs. Tindall, it seemed, did not, as she sat staring blankly back at Lady Umberton, no doubt trying to devise a polite way to tell the woman she was utterly mad.

  Or, a not so polite way, considering her usual method of dealing with others included her fist and a soul-searing glare.

  To be fair, even knowing as much on the subject as he did, Drake had a hard time accepting Lady Umberton’s claim for fact. Though there were no facts that seemed to disprove it, the only fact supporting it was the similarity of the name.

  “I did not do right by my daughter, Margaret,” Lady Umberton was saying, tears welling in her eyes. “And I failed to do right by my grandson, Francis. But I shall do right by you, my dear. I promise.”

  “Your support will be appreciated,” he said. “An inquest is an unpleasant process, but with—”

  “But Sarah did not kill Francis,” his mother cut in impatiently. “The men Francine hired to retrieve her ring killed him.”

  He frowned. “Do you mean to say you know who the murderer is?”

  “Haven’t you been listening at all?” his mother asked with raised brows. “Tell him, Francine, but use small words so he understands.”

  He clenched his jaw but said nothing, turning instead to Lady Umberton.

  For the next half hour, he listened while Lady Umberton explained how she had been robbed by highwaymen and had her ring stolen—the only thing left of her daughter, it seemed. The local authorities had said the best they could do was wait until the ring resurfaced. No one took a ring like that without intentions to sell it, they had said, so sooner or later it would appear in a shop.

  Lady Umberton was not satisfied with what she called lackadaisical nincompoopery. Instead, she had sent her servant to hire two thugs who would actively hunt down the brigand who had robbed her and retrieve her precious ring. But when the thugs found the thief, he no longer had the ring, and in the process of coaxing its whereabouts from him, they had killed him. It wasn’t until his mother’s maid had found the handbill and showed her mistress that they had learned the brigand who had stolen the ring was Francis Tindall, Lady Umberton’s grandson, whom everyone thought still in America.

  “Indeed, I ought to have known had he not been masked when he took the ring,” Lady Umberton added. “He’s the exact image of Margaret.”

  So then, Mrs. Tindall could be proven innocent, after all, and with the testimony of such respected women as his mother and Lady Umberton, there ought to be no suspicions to the contrary.

  A weight he hadn’t realized he had been carrying lifted from his chest. She wasn’t going to hang. She was innocent, and he had a witness’s testimony to prove it.

  That did not mean she was free to go, however, considering the true murderers were still on the loose and would be anxious to tie up any loose ends, which was what she would be when it became known she was not taking the fall for the crime.

  “That would explain the fire,” he said, mentally merging information he already knew to Lady Umberton’s testimony. “If it is true they accidentally killed him during their interrogation, a fire would be a thorough way of destroying any evidence incriminating them. Not to mention, if he were to be found dead with massive bruises and missing bits, Mrs. Tindall would not have been believed guilty half so easily. Leaving him as an unrecognizable charred body secured their patsy.”

  Unless, of course, his death had been their intention. They could have waited until she had gone out, as she had said was her routine, then killed Tindall and set the fire. In that case, the question was, why did they want him dead?

  “Mrs. Tindall,” he said. “Did you happen to see this ring?”

  Her brow furrowed, and she shook her head. “No, he sold everything to cover his gambling. Even his wedding band.”

  “In desperate need of funds, then,” Drake mused. “Desperate enough to cut out his comrades and keep the reward for himself, I wonder.”

  “What a cad,” his mother sniffed.

  Drake ignored the comment and the urge to voice his agreement. Instead, he focused on the case.

  “How much were you offering the two men for retrieving the ring, Lady Umberton?”

  “Five hundred guineas,” she answered.

  “How much would you say the ring is worth?”

  The older woman blushed. “Fifty at most, I’m sure, but it was priceless to me. I would have paid anything to have it returned.”

  Drake nodded, the little bits and pieces beginning to slide together in his mind.

  “There is a very good chance they were in league with Francis Tindall, but he might have turned greedy, demanding a larger share. I would wager the two you hired saw that as a problem and handled it. They have the ring.”

  “But they assured me—”

  “And I have no doubt you paid them for their trouble.”

  Lady Umberton nodded.

&nb
sp; “And so, either they are planning to sell the ring to some unscrupulous shop owner—markedly stupid considering the high profile of the item and how little they would get for it. Or, they plan to sell it back to you later at a much higher price, confident you will pay quietly rather than risk exposure of your involvement in Francis Tindall’s murder, which will, of course, be a bluff. They would be implicating themselves were they to follow through with such a threat.”

  Lady Umberton’s eyes widened. “You believe they have my ring?”

  “It is only a theory.” Though one well worth investigation.

  It filled his thoughts the rest of the evening. Throughout dinner, he was only distantly aware of talk being made of Mrs. Tindall’s future and plans of presenting her to the queen. Had he not been in such a brown study at the time, he would have laughed himself witless at the very suggestion.

  No guard worth his salt would allow that punch-happy hellion anywhere near the queen.

  When it became clear his mother and Lady Umberton had no intentions of taking to bed early this evening, Drake escorted Mrs. Tindall to her room, having already arranged another for himself shortly after dinner.

  He opened the door for her and stepped back, allowing her enough space to enter, but she stood still, her large, hazel eyes fixed on him.

  “Who are you, then?” she asked. “I have no reason to try to escape, or fight you, so you might as well tell me.”

  He sighed inwardly. Ignoring it did not make it go away, and saying it aloud could not make it any worse.

  “I am Drake Peregrine Ramsey, Earl of Saint Brides, Baron Ramsey, Home Secretary, and Chief Operating Officer at the Home Office.”

  How desperately he wished he were merely Lord Drake Ramsey, Home Secretary, and younger son of the Earl of Saint Brides. That Richard would pick up the title after his father passed no sooner than thirty or forty years hence.

  “So, you are Mr. Ramsey,” she said with a smile that made him want to shift on his feet. “You sound important.”

  He smiled humorlessly. “That’s what they told me when they refused to find some other poor chap to fill in my previous office. Now I am my own superior. The entire arrangement is driving me demented.”

  “Then you were not simply playing at law?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “I do not play at anything,” he admitted. “Not even a game of cards. Ask anyone who knows me. I am called Steel Breeches behind my back.” He frowned. “Come to think of it, I am called that to my face by a few select individuals, as well, but I believe those gentlemen have a death wish.”

  She fought a smile; he could see it in the way her full mouth twitched. She soon lost the battle, though, and the smallest glimpse of straight, white teeth peeked from behind lips that couldn’t possibly be as soft as they appeared, yet he knew they were. He could still feel them pressed against his.

  “It’s time I bid you good evening,” he forced out. “Tomorrow, we shall reach London, where I can arrange for a proper detail to see to your protection.”

  Her brows knit. “How long will it take to find the murderers?”

  “That is difficult to say, but I promise, you will be made comfortable for the duration,” he said, taking a step back. “Lady Umberton seems to have adopted you.”

  “Yes, she is unduly kind to me, but I don’t want to be adopted.” Her frown deepened. “I don’t want a time, or season—whatever it was they were talking about.”

  “A Season?” Drake repeated dumbly. Then he remembered what he had vaguely heard over dinner. Meeting the queen. Gad, they were serious?

  She nodded.

  “You mean that fustian nonsense that goes on every year while Parliament is in session? Months of balls, routs, and soirees, where every hopeful mama thrusts her daughters into the arms of the most eligible gentlemen, hoping a speedy wedding will be wrung from him?”

  She blinked, wide-eyed.

  “Lady Umberton intends to put you through that?” he asked. “The woman has the most confounded way of showing affection.”

  “I had no idea it was so dreadful,” she muttered, looking appropriately worried. “But I am not intending to wed, and I was promised with Lord Umberton escorting me—”

  “Lord Umberton?” he echoed incredulously. He shook his head. “You are under my care. If I cannot talk them out of this ridiculous scheme, then I shall escort you myself.”

  Her expression turned guarded. “That isn’t necessary,” she said quickly. “Shouldn’t your time be spent finding the murderers?”

  “Contrary to the events of this past week,” he said, his eyes narrowed on the woman who had thrown his well-ordered life upside down, “I do not make it a habit of chasing villains. I analyze the data and give the orders. My men do the finding.”

  Her brows knit. “Well then, until tomorrow, my lord.”

  “Until tomorrow, Mrs. Tindall.”

  She disappeared into her room and shut the door.

  He didn’t stop to wonder at why he wanted to follow her through the doorway. Instead, he turned on his heel and headed for the safety of his own room.

  “Sam said she would see us,” William muttered as they walked back toward the groom holding their horses. He twisted as he went, taking in the giant house of one Lady Umberton. “He’s not going to be happy about this.”

  “Will you shut up?” George bit out. “And stop gaping. It’s just a damn building.”

  “It’s enormous.”

  “So is your mother.”

  William swung an indignant scowl at his partner. “Hey, you watch what you say about my mother.”

  “Eh.” George waved a hand at William dismissively. They said nothing more as they each mounted their horses and started down the long, manicured drive toward the nearby town of Barnsby.

  “What do we tell Sam?” William asked when they were a good distance from the estate.

  “We tell him the truth,” George replied. “We tell him she left for London.”

  “Do you think she will tell someone about us?”

  “Of course not. She’s just as guilty as we are.”

  William shook his head. “I’m not so sure.”

  “Look, the old baggage wants the ring,” George said. “And she thinks we couldn’t get it. I bet she is looking for someone who can.” He slapped his thigh in frustration. “I told Sam we should have demanded the five thousand pounds as soon as we got that stupid ring.”

  William did, too. He was anxious to get the bloody thing off his hands. It was cursed.

  Firstly, it had belonged to Lady Umberton’s mother, who died after tripping down four flights of stairs. Then to Lady Umberton’s daughter, who fell in love with a poor farmer and died young of an illness. Not long after Frank had taken it, he had died, too, though George did that to him. And if Lady Umberton found someone else to go looking for it, he and George would be in the same position Frank was in.

  “We had best hide it,” William said, “so when the fellow she hires comes looking for it, it won’t be found.” Not to mention, William won’t be in possession of it, so the curse might not get him.

  “You’re afraid of them?” George asked incredulously. “We don’t even know if she’s hiring anyone. Who you ought to be afraid of is Sam. He’s going to be furious.”

  William felt chills reverberate down his spine like icy claws. Few had seen Sam truly angry and lived. William had only witnessed it once, and he was not in a hurry to do so again.

  Drake had been in his room less than two minutes before he collapsed onto the bed, fully regretting his decision. If he were unable to persuade his mother and Lady Umberton to forget their insidious scheme, he would have no alternative but to honor his promise and escort Mrs. Tindall himself. In London society, with its stuffy ballrooms, insincere flattery, and dozens of poorly disguised requests for favors and offers of bribes. Ladies batting their lashes and flicking their fans, hoping to land the catch of the Season, which could very well be him, being young
, healthy, wealthy, powerful, and suddenly very present among them.

  He shuddered at the prospect.

  When he had been a younger son, serving as a clerk at the Home Office with no claim to wealth, nor intention of achieving it, no one had bothered to give him a second glance. Thank God. At the time, he might have been gullible enough to believe the duplicitous connivers and married one of them. He had seen enough of society now to know better.

  Society.

  He shuddered again.

  He really ought to speak with his mother. Now.

  He had just sprung from the mattress when a knock sounded upon the door. He straightened his jacket, then pulled open the door, fully expecting a servant on the other side.

  It was not a servant.

  “Mother.”

  “We need to speak,” she said, sailing past him and into the room.

  He nodded and shut the door behind her, deciding against pointing out the fact most people would request to enter before invading another person’s bedchamber.

  “Francine wants her son to escort Sarah about London.”

  “So I had heard.”

  “I do not want that to happen.”

  He blinked. “On that we agree.”

  Common ground was not what he had been expecting. This conversation might be easier than he had anticipated.

  “I want you to do it.”

  He should have known immediate agreement would be too easy. Inwardly, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion.

  “Why must anyone? She is not interested in marriage, and certainly not with some overstuffed pigeon she might meet in a London ballroom.”

  She moved closer, placing her hand on his arm. The pleading in her eyes struck him full in the chest. “Francine wants her to have a place in her world, a place that was taken from her own daughter. She wants her to be accepted. It will ease her conscience. You know this is her last chance. She won’t be with us much longer.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You want me to believe your only motive for doing this is for Lady Umberton’s conscience?”

  “Of course not. You know better than anyone England needs a villain to be at the bottom of this sensational scandal. That is why Sarah must build her reputation amongst the ton. If the real murderers are never caught, she will need allies.”