Chapter 29

29

R ain tumbled over the roof behind the Fox's Burrow Tavern and spilled onto Peter Kendrick's head. The hat he'd elected to wear did little to keep him dry, the water that dripped from the brim splashing the tip of his nose.

He muttered a curse and prayed Mrs. Croft would soon arrive. It was stupid of him to head out in this weather. He should have delayed their meeting as soon as the first sounds of thunder had rumbled through the chilly night air.

Pressing closer to the building, he adjusted his greatcoat collar, then retrieved the silver cheroot case he carried, along with a flint. It took numerous attempts to create a spark, the wind and rain a constant hindrance, before he was able to savor the taste of freshly rolled tobacco.

Smoke mingled with his ghostly breath as he exhaled through his nose, his attention already shifting to the sound of approaching footsteps, of leather-soled shoes splattering water. A cloaked figure rounded the corner, and Peter took a quick final drag as he straightened then tossed the cheroot into the murky street.

"I have what you asked for." Mrs. Croft's voice was low, measured. Instead of pushing her hood back, she remained wrapped in shadows, like an unearthly creature without a face.

She raised her arm and Peter saw that she held a satchel toward him. He took it, a little surprised it wasn't stuffed to the brim, full of material. "Is this all?"

"I was unable to pilfer more without drawing attention, but you needn't worry. The satchel contains the most damning information I was able to find."

As long as it was enough to bring Croft to justice.

An unexpected degree of concern for Mrs. Croft gripped him. He stared at her, fully aware of the danger she faced if caught. "Does Croft know you took these?"

"What do you think?" No hint of friendliness in her voice. It was clear she wanted nothing more than for him to bugger off. "I trust this concludes our arrangement?"

Reminding himself that she was an agent, trained to suppress all emotion and kill if need be, he cursed himself for worrying over what happened to her. "As long as it contains what I need."

A quick nod and then she was striding away, her long cloak swirling around her legs as the rain closed around her. Peter chose to head in the opposite direction, toward High Holborn, from which he was able to hail a hackney.

It was already late afternoon and the files Mrs. Croft delivered last night had still offered nothing useful. Peter had been reviewing them since seven o'clock in the morning, and it was now approaching late afternoon.

So far, the most damning thing he'd found was the mention of crates containing various bottles of cognac, wine, and champagne being smuggled into the country through Deerhaven Park.

The enterprise had been titled Fishing Profits and the details of it were hardly surprising. It was one of the many ways he and Sir Nigel suspected the Crofts earned their fortune. And while it could theoretically lead to transportation or even death for those involved, the vague details contained within the file would make a conviction near impossible to obtain. A capable barrister would have the means to ensure all charges were dropped the same day.

Peter slumped against his chair with a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. His head was starting to hurt. Probably because of the difficulty he was having in deciphering the penmanship used to keep all the records. It was the messiest scrawl he'd ever encountered.

He rubbed his eyes, straightened his spine, and rolled his shoulders. Eating would probably help since he'd not had more than the bread roll he'd purchased nine hours ago on his way to work.

His stomach grumbled and he pushed himself out of his chair. A couple of minced-meat pies would likely work wonders. That and a large cup of coffee.

A quick trip to the nearest bakery took care of the pies. They weren't fresh, unfortunately, but that didn't matter at this point as long as they eased his hunger. He returned to his Bow Street office, grabbed his cup and went to refill it, only to find the coffee urn empty.

"Everything all right?" Constable Lewis poked his head through the doorway. He must have heard Peter's curse.

Peter glanced at the younger man in surprise. He hadn't realized he was still here. His shift should have ended an hour ago. "Looks like I'll have to boil more water."

Lewis knew better than to suggest Peter have some tea instead since Peter hated the stuff. It tasted like swill.

"I can do that for you, if you like."

"Shouldn't you be on your way home?"

A small shrug and then Lewis stepped into the room. "The fellow I share my lodgings with has invited a few mates to visit. They're all right, I suppose, but it does mean the space is too cramped for my liking. I'm in no hurry to return there."

"In that case, I'll take you up on your offer. Thank you." Peter prepared to leave him to it but stopped to add, "If you like, you're welcome to help me review some files I've received. It's not any fun, but it'll help pass the time."

"I'm happy to assist in whatever way I can," Lewis said. He was already filling a pot with water. "I'll bring the coffee as soon as it's ready."

The pies helped soothe the ache in Peter's stomach. His headache also vanished soon after he was done eating. And the hot coffee, brewed to perfection, was precisely what he needed to chase away his exhaustion. Lewis's company was also welcome. It made for a more tolerable work environment since Peter now had someone with whom to share his opinions. It expedited the process too.

"That's the last of it," Lewis said after several more hours.

It was past ten o'clock in the evening, and all Peter had gained was the sinking feeling that he'd wasted an entire day. "None of what we have here is damning enough to see that man hang for the crimes he's committed."

What the hell would he tell Lord Carver and the Prince Regent?

"Could you be wrong about him?" Lewis asked.

"I suppose…" Peter thought back on everything he knew about Croft. The clues that suggested his father had run a criminal empire, with Croft most likely employed in a prominent role.

The only thing that made sense was for him to continue this legacy. Having dealt with the man himself, Peter had no doubt he was more than capable of such a task. So he shook his head. "I don't believe we're wrong about him in the least. If anything, I'm starting to fear we may have been duped."

Concern settled heavily across Dorian's broad shoulders when Kendrick came to call upon him, the early hour suggesting he'd come as soon as it was deemed appropriate for him to stop by. It was only nine-thirty. Dorian had just returned from his morning walk and was getting ready to tutor Tara and Holly in French. Luncheon would follow and then some vigorous afternoon training.

This schedule would now have to be altered. He asked Branton to tell the young women to read the next chapter from Charles Perault's Contes de ma mère l'Oye, when he brought a tea tray. The butler departed immediately after, allowing Dorian to give his full attention to Kendrick.

"You look as though you've come from a funeral. I'm guessing there's a problem you wish to discuss." He indicated the tray. "Tea?"

"No thank you." Kendrick waited while Dorian filled his own cup then told him, "Mrs. Croft delivered the requested files to me Tuesday evening. Took me the better part of yesterday to sift through them."

Dorian stilled. This ought to be progress. "And?"

"She assured me they would contain the proof required to take Croft down. Unfortunately, this isn't the case."

A sliver of unease snaked its way along Dorian's spine. He'd developed his own concerns regarding Samantha – suspicions he hadn't wished to address. He still didn't. So he watched Kendrick in slow contemplation before suggesting, "You probably missed something."

"I can assure you, I have not."

"Croft probably didn't put anything damning in writing then."

"Or your agent is protecting him for some reason."

The words shivered through Dorian's mind. It was exactly what he had feared might happen. Her insistence he prove that she still had to follow through on her mission was further evidence. Had she been anyone else, he'd have cast her aside already, considered her a lost cause.

But this was Samantha – the best damn agent he'd trained. Better than anyone he'd ever worked with during his years in the Foreign Service. He believed in her loyalty. At the very least, he would not let the likes of Kendrick call her a traitor.

"You're wrong." Dorian reclined in his chair, his teacup cradled between his hands while affecting a casual ease he did not feel. "If the information was there, Samantha would have produced it. Let's be honest, Kendrick. Your mission was flawed from the start when you made it dependent on the acquisition of information you believe to exist when in fact it may not."

The darkening of Kendrick's gaze proved he'd taken offense. Still, he managed to keep his voice level while saying, "Men who've collaborated with Croft in the past have gone missing, Harlowe. Some have turned up dead while others have lied about their criminal actions, insisting they were guilty of murder, choosing the noose over Croft's wrath."

"I'm not disputing the man's ruthlessness, Kendrick. All I'm saying is that there's probably nothing to link him to any of it." The more Dorian thought on the matter, the more obvious this became. So much so, he couldn't quite fathom how stupid they'd been to ignore the obvious. "If you killed someone, would you keep a record for law enforcement to use against you?"

"Of course not."

"Then why the hell would you suppose Croft would do so?" It was a theory that had been labelled as fact. As such, it had never been questioned. But the time had clearly come for this to change.

"We know he keeps records of people – information that can be used against them if needed. One individual has come forward regarding this matter, claiming attempts were made to blackmail him. He was told he'd have to do as asked if he wanted the file the Crofts had on him returned."

"Forgive me, but gathering information on people is hardly illegal. And if the information in question threatens to ruin their reputations, it says more about who they are as people than Croft. Or his father. Let's not forget him since I'm sure most of what you will find was carried out at his request."

"If Croft was involved, he'd still be charged." Arms crossed, Kendrick stared at Dorian, who took another sip of his tea. "Stanton is convinced Croft killed his son."

Dorian snorted. "You and I both know that scoundrel ended up exactly where he belonged, whether by his own hand or Croft's. Makes no difference to me as long as the nasty business he was involved in has come to an end."

"No man should have the sole power to decide who lives or who dies. He has no right to play judge and executioner. That is what this is truly about. Croft's constant disregard for the law has to end." A raised eyebrow preceded the following words. "What if he makes a mistake?"

"There's always that risk, I suppose. The problem is without any proof, you don't have the means to stop him."

"You think not?"

Dorian tensed. He leaned forward, carefully setting his cup aside. "What are you planning to do, Kendrick?"

"It's not so much me as it is Lord Carver. He wants results. So does the Prince Regent, who's voiced his displeasure with the extent of Croft's power. If Mrs. Croft can't provide that, other means will be applied."

"I hope you know what you're getting involved in. Since neither Prinny nor Lord Carver have the power to issue an order of termination, it would behoove you to consider your place in all this. You're not a peer. In fact, you have no significant rank to speak of. Certainly not with regard to avoiding persecution. And without concrete evidence showing that Croft is a danger to Society, killing him would be a grave mistake, even if it were made to look like an act of self-defense. It's not something I'd want to be linked to if I were you."

Kendrick said nothing in response to Dorian's words of warning. A few seconds ticked by and then he pushed back his chair in order to stand. "Thank you for the advice. I'll be sure to take it into consideration."

He turned and strode for the door but paused when Dorian asked, "Where does this leave Samantha?"

"My dealings with her are over," Kendrick informed him crisply. "I'll advise my superiors of her compromised state."

Dorian shot to his feet, his fist landing hard against his desk. "You have no right. Not when she has done everything possible to meet your every demand."

"If that were true, I'd be hauling Croft off to prison right now instead of chatting with you. There's no getting around the truth of it, Harlowe. Your agent failed in her mission, and there's no question in my mind that it wasn't because of incompetence."

Grabbing his teacup, Dorian hurled it after Kendrick's retreating form, the projectile smashing against the doorframe instead of hitting its true target. He gnashed his teeth in frustration, his fisted hands shaking with the sort of rage he'd always managed to keep under steady control.

Not this time.

For the first time in decades, he'd snapped. Not so much because of what Kendrick had said about Samantha, but rather because he feared the man might be right.