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A nod. “I’m certain. Is that significant?”
“I don’t pay you to ask questions, Larson. I pay you to answer them.” Tragmore walked around to the front of his desk. “How many times did the vicar call on my wife?”
“Twice.”
“And how long did he stay?”
Larson glanced at his notes. “A quarter hour the first time, a bit longer the second.”
“Let me see that.” Tragmore snatched the paper from Larson, scanning it with the greatest of interest.
“That copy is yours, my lord.”
“Excellent.” With a grand sweep, Tragmore placed the page on his desk. “Precisely what I’d hoped to see.” Reaching into his pocket, he extracted a hundred-pound note. “Here’s something for your diligence, Larson. Now keep up the fine work.”
The investigator blinked, accepting the note with as much bewilderment as pleasure. “Keep up…? I thought you’d no longer require my services. I mean, given that your wife hasn’t done anything indiscreet.”
“I beg to differ with you.” An ugly smile curved Tragmore’s lips. “I need your ser
vices now more than ever. So return to your post. I’ll expect your next report in a week.”
Larson shrugged. “Whatever you say, sir.”
“Good. We understand each other. Good night, Larson.”
“Good night, my lord.” Larson took his leave, greedily fingering the hundred-pound note before shoving it into his pocket. Harsh laughter exploded from Tragmore’s chest. Let the fool have his hundred pounds. If things continued as planned, the rewards would render that sum insignificant. Yes, in a very short time the Marquis of Tragmore would have money to burn.
17
IT WAS JUST AFTER midnight when Daphne opened her eyes.
She was greeted by Pierce’s brooding stare.
“Pierce?” She pushed herself to a sitting position, wondering with sleepy disorientation why her husband looked so angry. “What time is it?”
“Five after twelve. You’ve been asleep for nearly three hours.”
“Three hours? I must have been more exhausted than I realized.” She inclined her head quizzically. “Is something wrong?”
“Wrong? Yes.” Pierce bolted to his feet, snatching the journal from her nightstand and thrusting it at her. “This is wrong.”
Briefly, Daphne glanced at the journal. Then, her gaze lifted back to her husband. “It’s a collection of articles reporting the triumphs of the Tin Cup Bandit.”
“I know what it is,” he snapped. “What I don’t know is why you have it.”
Daphne gave him a baffled look. “I collected it.”
“Obviously. But why?”
She blinked. “Because I admire him more than I can say. Because he’s a hero. In my opinion, one of the greatest heroes of our time, despite his unorthodox methods.”
“How touching.” Pierce tossed the journal aside, struggling with a blistering resurgence of jealousy.
“I don’t understand why this angers you so.” Daphne rose from the bed, staring at Pierce with a thoroughly perplexed expression. “Surely you don’t condemn me for applauding someone who takes from the rich and greedy and bestows upon those in need?”
“For applauding him, no. But that,” Pierce gestured toward the journal, “is not acclaim, it’s preoccupation.”
Daphne looked torn between annoyance and laughter. “This conversation is ridiculous.”
