Julius scratched out his letters to each, each with the same declaration. The singular difference between them was the location and the time.
He did not signhis name. This was a ploy to draw out the culprit. The guilty man, or one of his minions, ought to show at the unique location and time stated in the letter, desperate to discover who had written the note.
If none showed, then Julius had cleared them of suspicion. But if one did, Julius would know whom their culprit was and then they could limit their search for information to just one individual. It would help identify which deceased Peter had wed twenty years earlier and had a son by centralizing their search to fewer parishes which might contain the needed records.
Reckless, idiotic … but effective.
Donning a cape to mask his appearance, Julius set off to deliver the letters. By morning, he would narrow the field of suspects and end the frustrating slog of intelligence gathering. Anticipation made his steps buoyant as he contemplated the thrills the next day would bring.
CHAPTER 3
“I will begin with this confession: whatever I have done in the course of my life, whether it be good or evil, has been done freely; I am a free agent.”
Giacomo Casanova
AUGUST 27, 1821
The streets were still deserted except for the most intrepid of vendors, and a few citizens of London who were huddled in shop entryways while they contemplated the unrelenting rainfall. It was yet before opening time for most businesses, and with heavy showers, Julius expected the roads to remain deserted for a little while yet.
He stood in an alleyway, out of sight, to observe the coffeehouse where Stone thought to meet his mysteriousblackmailer—ifStone was guilty of the murder of, or had committed some other heinous act against, the late Lord Filminster. If Stone arrived, it would serve as confirmation that the vicar was involved.
Julius had been up since before dawn, and this was the third location he had observed in secret this morning. If Stone did not arrive, then Julius’s plan to draw the killer out had failed.
What that meant was unclear. Perhaps none of the three were involved in the murder?
Julius soughed in exasperation. The urge to whip off his glove and fiddle with his ring was stayed by the incessant drum of wet, wet rain. He kept his hands stuffed deep in his pockets where they remained—mostly—dry.
Water dripped onto Julius’s hat with no sign of a truce, a chilling rivulet stealing its way down the back of his head to dampen his stock. Julius pulled a face, shivering as he huddled in his overcoat. He had failed to anticipate the torrential precipitation when he had formed his plans the night before.
Julius was damp, cold, and irritable.
Pulling on his fob, he checked the time, wiping the spatter from its dial. So much for keeping his hands tucked away from the intrusion of the unending liquid assault.
Unfortunately for his new chum Abbott, all indications pointed to the guilt of his new father-in-law, Mr. Frederick Smythe, because Stone must be innocent. As were Scott and Montague.
Julius considered his options. He had not been home in several days, but the family home was a mere three or four blocks away, and he felt miserable. And hungry. Word was Lord Snarling was to have left for the Continent this morning, so Julius could return to the townhouse and take advantage of a hearty breakfast prepared by the fine kitchen staff employed in their household. Not to mention, change into dry clothing. Hiscurrent garments were decidedly limp after three or more hours in the downpour.
Julius checked the time again and shook his head in disappointment. His last suspect had failed to show. There was going to be hell to pay when Abbott eventually accused Smythe of murder. Despite Abbott’s refutals, his bride would never forgive him for tearing her family apart and sending her father to the gallows. Julius did not envy the other heir’s precarious position.
Spinning on his heel, Julius departed his hiding spot to head in the direction of his father’s townhouse. His boots were soaked through, and his damp stockings were uncomfortable. It was as if the gods themselves were playing a joke on him, knowing he was to be out and about this morning. His good spirits of the evening before had long since dissipated. Julius was weary of being worried on behalf of his friends. Weary of his tiresome family troubles. Weary of London. This situation needed to be resolved and then … then perhaps he would return to Italy. He had enjoyed himself in Italy, though it seemed like a hundred years had passed since his Grand Tour.
His stomach growled, reminding him of his plans to eat as he squelched through puddles. Mud tugged at his boots, and Julius reflected that his valet would be most put out when the condition of his Hessians was revealed.
Leaping over a daunting puddle, Julius landed on the other side and found himself ankle-deep in mud that gave way like custard beneath his foot. Julius tugged at his boot, pushing his cane down to gain leverage and yank himself free.
“Gadzooks, this is rubbish!” he muttered. Julius had brought the cane along for protection. He was attempting to reveal a murderer this morning, and it seemed wise to arm himself even if he was to remain out of sight. Thankfully, he had it, because he needed it just to make his way down the street.
Faith! Londoners are accustomed to rain, but this is ridiculous!
With great relief, he turned in to the street where his father’s home and the home of Aunty Gertrude sat across from each other. Straightening up with delight, Julius thought about the eggs and ham he would soon be offered. Picking up his pace, he strode toward his father’s front door.
As he took hold of the knocker, he caught a movement from the corner of his eye. Swinging around in haste, Julius discovered a tall, cloaked figure bearing down on him. Thunking back against the door in surprise, Julius raised his cane in defense as a glinting knife slashed through the air toward his heart.
Audrey saton her trunk in the lavish entry hall, surrounded by bronze sculptures and intricate displays of antique swords. Gray-green walls and white trim provided a backdrop of quiet elegance, while burnished wood banisters gleamed in the dim light, and ornate frescos upon wall panels provided an ambience of wealth and luxury.
She was battling a queasy feeling within her belly. Lord Stirling had left in his carriage at first light. She knew this because she had been sitting in the window of her room and had watched his departure in the pouring rain. Sleep had evaded her for most of the night because of her tension. Soon she would be collected by Lady Astley, a vile woman who personified the reasons that Audrey wearied of her time in London society.
She longed for long walks in the country, the whisper of gentle breezes rustling through the oak and maple trees near her home, chitchat with the villagers at the shops, the smell of freshbaked bread wafting from Mr. Rogers’s bakery. Not for stilted conversation and ladylike pursuits under the watchful eye of an embittered prig of the upper classes.
