3. Tuesday, November 7, 1826

3

TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 1826

CHEAPSIDE, LONDON

L ady Camilla hadn’t been to Cheapside for so long, she was amazed at how the area had changed. She hadn’t had to shop on her own amongst drapers’ shops and warehouses since she was, um, between husbands and in a bit of a minor financial kerfuffle.

She hadn’t done any shopping beyond Bond Street in at least twenty years. More recently, she was likely to send a footman to an establishment with a note requesting service at her home on St. James Square.

“Over there, I think.” She poked CB in the side while pointing out the window of her elaborate carriage.

Barrister Stephen Forsythe, who was sitting next to CB on the opposite seat, craned his neck to see where they were going.

“When did the ‘privilege’ of being your nephew turn into torturous journeys outside Mayfair in search of God knows what?” Although he affected the tone of a put-upon poor relative, there was still a touch of good-natured humor in his voice. He rapped obediently on the roof of the carriage, and John Coachman brought her precious set of grays up to a rolling stop.

Once the massive conveyance had lumbered and creaked to a halt, he turned sideways, a question on his handsome face. “Why are we in Cheapside, and who could you possibly know here?”

“Come to that, why did you require my presence as well? I hope this doesn’t take too long.” The barrister’s voice actually took on the tone of a whining toddler.

She turned an icy look on both men and cryptically explained, “Friends of the Duchess of Chelmsford.”

CB shook his head slowly and climbed down once Dickie Jones nipped off the high bench at the rear of the carriage, opened the door, and pulled down the steps. He frowned and gave the young man a searing look. “Why are you here? Did I not tell you to desist bobbing and intriguing about the worst parts of town?”

“Cor…her ladyship asked especially for me.”

CB turned to his aunt, who gave him an innocent look. “We’re here for an audience with a pair of men of business with whom we might have, um, mutual interests.”

“Please tell me this is not another favor for the Earl of Framlingwood. That damnable man is on my last nerve. Why can’t he keep his intrigues from constantly spilling over into our household?”

“He doesn’t know anything about these men…yet.” She carefully avoided giving him, or Sythe, a direct look but grudgingly gave them a bit more of an explanation. “We have one mistress left who needs a bodyguard, and these two are very busy men. I thought it made more sense to present ourselves at their place of business.”

“Why does the last mistress need two bodyguards?” The barrister’s tone was cautiously curious.

Camilla turned her best fluttering eyelash look on her beloved nephew and his old school chum. “It’s complicated.”

“Why have you dragged Sythe and me along on this expedition? You usually keep us all in the dark until the last minute in these calamitous episodes concerning Framlingwood’s households.”

“Because I trust your judgment, and I need someone like you to give me a good character read on these fellows.”

“Someone like me? Why not Col, or one of his Bow Street cohorts? It’s their business to read character.” He paused and gave her a calculating look. “This sounds ominous. Why are we really here?” His aunt shot him a coy smile.

Once he’d helped her down to the wide pavement skirting the front of a huge building housing a draper’s storefront and warehouse, she pulled a scented handkerchief from her reticule and delicately held it to her nose. “If anyone asks why we’re here, we’re re-decorating.”

CB threw his hands wide in a gesture of surrender. “Lead on.” Sythe shook his head but fell in behind them.

Tuesday, November 7, 1826

Housekeeper’s Parlour, Grosvenor St.

Under the pretext of a sick headache, Derek had been resting his head on a dainty, ruffled pillow which in turn rested on the warm, luscious lap of the ever-so-solicitous housekeeper of his Grosvenor Street abodes.

He was running out of excuses for seeking her counsel over endless cups of tea, in the course of countless months, but he was damned if he could make himself stop. He knew in his heart that no other titled gentleman would spend that much time in the company of his housekeeper. But she was the only one who really understood him. The only one who could soothe him when his frustrations over the mysterious blackmailer boiled over.

He was grateful for the homey quilt she gave him to cover himself whilst he napped away his cares on her well-worn sofa. Did she suspect his true feelings? Had he managed to hide the evidence of the effect she had on him beneath the quilt all these months?

He heard a distant call bell clang in the adjoining kitchen and was acutely aware that the woman at the other end of the bell might possibly be in danger. It would be his fault because he still hadn’t been able to ferret out the blackmailer responsible for all the threats and attacks in the unknown man’s search for a murderess.

He knew all of his mistresses, past and present…intimately. None of them was remotely capable of taking another person’s life. Between the investigator and Bow Street Runner, Archer Colwyn, and Barrister Stephen Forsythe, surely one of them would have discovered something in the women’s backgrounds by now that would have revealed if one of them was guilty of murder.

He was so deep in thought with his eyes closed that he was taken by surprise when Cassandra, er Mrs. Collins, tried to ease from beneath where his head rested. He made a quick move to jerk back onto the sofa before falling to the floor and instead took both of them down.

“Lord Framlingwood…I’m so sorry…”

He’d fallen flat on his back, and she’d tumbled atop him. He sucked in a sharp breath. He’d never realized before that moment how well their bodies fit together. Nor had he been this acutely aware of the tantalizing scent of her hair - lavender soap and lemon. Suddenly, the lie he’d been telling himself for months came crashing down on him.

He’d told himself he needed someone with whom he could share his deepest fears, he’d told himself Mrs. Collins was merely a neutral listening post. Reality pushed in so hard from all sides, he feared he might suffocate.

He’d been taking advantage of a servant in his employ, something his father had done on a regular basis before the accident. Something he’d hated his father for even before he was old enough to fully understand the implications for the man’s helpless victims.