Chapter 18

18

P eter Kendrick returned to his office after his latest meeting with the chief magistrate and poured himself a large glass of brandy. Sir Nigel's displeasure with him had been felt in every punctuated word the man had uttered.

He was most unhappy with Peter's continued failure to catch the killer and with the time it was taking Miss Carmichael to get nice and comfortable with Mr. Croft. Since Sir Nigel had put Peter in charge of that assignment as well, he not only had to explain his own inability to provide answers now but Miss Carmichael's too.

Made him look like a bloody amateur.

He tossed back the drink he'd poured and hissed in response to the welcome burn the liquid produced as it slid down his throat. The smoke from the cheroot he'd lit wafted toward him. He picked it up and took a few drags before reaching for a piece of paper. It was time for him to check in with his agent and, if need be, to press her for some much-needed results.

The tip of his quill scratched the paper with long sloping letters as he penned the note her errand boy would deliver to her. The lad always showed up near the back entrance a couple of times a day, just in case a message such as this needed relaying.

He wrote his initials at the bottom of the note, folded the paper, and sealed it shut with a shiny blob of red wax. Snatching it up between his fingers, he then pushed his chair back and stood.

The boy was exactly where he'd expected to find him, lurking in a doorway, a grey cap pulled down across his brow to conceal his face. Peter approached at a clipped pace, the missive carefully concealed where he held it, flush against his thigh.

As he approached, he whistled the first few notes from "Greensleeves," allowing the song to fade when the boy slowly straightened, stepped out of the doorway, and walked toward Peter. His gait was almost lazy – a scamp on the prowl for the next pocket to pick. When he drew flush with Peter, his hand caught the missive, snatching it away with such skill, Peter failed to notice the action, even when he knew it was happening.

Without looking back, Peter continued to the bakery just around the corner, from which he purchased a steaming hot minced meat pie. If anyone from Mr. Croft's network happened to see, they'd hopefully remain unaware of the secret correspondence taking place beneath their noses.

Two hours later, he read the response Miss Carmichael had written.

Tell your friend to be patient. As it is, instinct compels me to withdraw for a number of days to avoid detection. Unless, of course, you want me to fail, in which case I am more than happy to press ahead without caution.

Brief and blunt.

Peter lit a flint, held the paper to the flame, and watched it burn. Her reasoning was likely correct. An infiltration of this kind was delicate. She had to instill in Mr. Croft a desire to spend more time with her, to get to know her, and to invite her into his lair.

Sir Nigel was being unreasonable to presume such a task could be undertaken in under two weeks. With this in mind, he wrote a one-page report explaining as much to his superior and prayed the man would be willing to show some patience.

Once this was done, Kendrick gave his attention to the four files he'd placed on his desk that morning, before his meeting with Sir Nigel distracted him from his investigations.

The unsolved murder cases plagued him, keeping him from his sleep most nights. It bothered him to no end that he'd not yet captured the scoundrel responsible. Worse was the fact that his leads continued to fall apart. It felt as though he were reaching into a fog, hoping to come up with answers.

Disheartened, he grabbed for Miss Fairchild's file and flipped it open. Without a substantial trail to follow it seemed foolhardy to keeping pushing ahead. Instead, it might be wiser to start again, at the beginning.

So he read the detailed notes he'd made of the crime scene, only to realize the information invariably led to the same conclusions he'd arrived at before. And until that changed, there was a very good chance additional murders would follow.

* * *

The upper-class gentleman stared out of his bedchamber window, his gaze on the recently planted apple tree in the garden below. As distasteful as it was, encouraging a murderer to target a lovely young woman, it had been necessary in determining Mr. Croft's future.

He'd wanted to wash himself clean of his forefathers' sins, turn his back on the influence they'd acquired, in order to what? Live an ordinary life without impact?

That would not do.

Balance had to be maintained.

Without the Crofts around to punish those who stepped out of line, vermin would rise. It had happened before, in 1753 when Mr. Croft's great-grandfather died while his son was abroad. Heinous crimes had occurred until he returned home, took up the reins, and unleashed his wrath.

That could not happen again.

People might not realize it, but the safety of every London citizen depended on the Croft family's existence. They were the top predators in the criminal world and far more capable of keeping other criminals in check than any constable, magistrate, or judge. Only fools failed to recognize Mr. Croft's importance.

But at least now, with Mr. Croft set on catching the man who'd murdered four women, there was finally a glimmer of hope that justice would soon be served. Not in a court of law, but in the manner in which such a vile person deserved.

* * *

Dorian stood a few steps behind Samantha and watched as she raised her right arm, took aim, and fired. The small square board she'd hung from a tree fifty yards away danced side to side as the shot made impact.

"Dead center," Dorian said, checking the result through his spyglass. He lowered the instrument and handed it to her.

She nodded with satisfaction, reloaded the pistol, and held it toward him. "I want you to host a ball here at Clearview. An event on our terms where we're in control of every detail."

"You want to manage Mr. Croft's experience with you." A clever notion.

"I'll invite him for a private tour of the house, allow him to feel like I'm letting him into my private domain – a place reserved for the closest of friends."

"An excellent plan. I'll see to it that invitations are sent out." He made his attempt, not the least bit surprised by his inferior skill. Samantha had started exceeding his capability years ago, and had since taken care to maintain her high standard. He huffed a breath when he saw that he'd struck the target some inches above the center.

A few more rounds followed, his pride increasing with each successful attempt Samantha made. Although he'd seen her do this a thousand times, her constant accuracy never ceased to amaze him.

"I've been meaning to ask a favor of you as well," he said while they packed up ten minutes later.

She straightened, hands on hips, and gave him a serious, no nonsense look. "Name it. Lord knows I could never repay you for all you have done for me even if I were given a lifetime."

"It was never my intention for you to feel indebted." He took her hand and gave it a squeeze – a rare gesture of fondness. "Whatever reason I had for initially taking you in, I want you to know that I always thought of you and the other girls as my daughters."

A faint smile pulled at her lips and for a brief second her eyes seemed to glisten. She quickly buried the emotion behind an inscrutable expression, leaving Dorian to wonder if he might have trained her too well.

"Promise me you'll let me know if you're ever out of your depth. This mission you're on is far from simple, so if there are elements you wish to discuss, any doubts you may have or concerns, I want you to come to me for support."

Samantha grabbed the case containing the pistols and held it firmly in her hand. "You needn't worry. While I will admit to Mr. Croft being a far more challenging target than I had expected, I'll gain his confidence eventually. It's just a matter of time."

Turning, she headed toward the house. As usual, her pace was quick and decisive. Dorian fell into step beside her, then lengthened his stride so he could keep up.

"What makes him more challenging?" he asked while they walked, the meadow's tall grass brushing his boots until they reached the footpath.

"He's not easily deceived," she said, then sent him a quick sideways glance. "I can see it in his eyes – a question filled with distrust, like he's expecting a trap. Consequently, I must bide my time. As it is, I already fear I may have overplayed my hand slightly."

Concern tightened Dorian's expression. "How do you mean?"

"I found out what he was reading, purchased a copy of the same book, and allowed it to spill from my bag when last we met. Despite the interest he showed, I think he believed it too much a coincidence given that I also happened to show up at Reed's. My being there before he arrived ought to confirm that he wasn't followed. Still, I deliberately chose to pull back for a bit – allow his suspicions to ease."

"A wise decision," Dorian agreed, though none of what she'd said addressed what he believed to be the most pressing issue of all. Namely Mr. Croft, the man.

He was strikingly handsome, and with his sister now dead, Samantha would have to target him more directly. It didn't take much imagination to figure out where that might lead. The real test, he supposed, would be whether she'd be able to keep her end goal in sight while seducing her way into his heart.

She couldn't afford to develop feelings.

It would undoubtedly be a challenge. She'd have to throw herself head-first into it, or risk all her hard work going to waste. Dorian could only hope she'd have the good sense to keep her heart out of harm's way.

"Don't forget what he stands for," he told her as they returned through a gate that separated the property's wilderness from the more manicured garden.

"Devious manipulation capable of destroying lives," she muttered, the words hard and concise, as though she firmly believed them.

He nodded, confident in the knowledge that she remained true to the cause.

* * *

A gentleman impeccably dressed according to the latest style was what everyone saw when they looked at the man who rode along Rotten Row. Murderer would never occur to any of them.

They were his peers. Friends and acquaintances. Some were even relations.

He tipped his hat and smiled at Viscount Ottersburg and his wife as they passed him in their open barouche. A leisurely ride in the park was an excellent way for him to lose himself for the afternoon. Out here, amid the fresh air and picturesque scenery, the visions that crept in when he closed his eyes were easily buried.

"Fancy a race?" asked Gregory St. Croix, the Duke of Eldridge's youngest son. Seated upon his Arabian thoroughbred with his black hair neatly tied in a queue, he glanced at his two companions with mischief in his bright eyes.

"On your mark," said the man.

"Shall we say until the edge of the Serpentine?" asked Nigel Lawrence, the Marquess of Avernail's fifth youngest son. His brother's horse-riding accident and the paralysis this had led to did not deter him from wanting to race.

"As the crow flies, on the count of three." Gregory swung his mount around and waited for his friends to line up beside him. "One, two… Go!"

The horses snorted and angled their necks, creating a straight line from nose to tail as they leapt into motion. The man leaned into his saddle and clicked his tongue, urging his mount into a gallop.

Air rushed across his face. His hands tightened around the reins, squeezing them so tightly his fingers began to burn. The drum of hooves against the ground kept pace with his heart, drowning out his ever increasing need to rid the world of whores.

In this moment, he was at peace, at one with the beast, his only focus on getting to the finish line first. He gauged it to be no more than a hundred yards away now. The water beyond it gleamed in response to the morning sun, creating an orb of light that gave the illusion of liquid fire.

Shoulders tight, he kept his breaths even while jamming his heels against his horse's flanks. "Come on."

No sooner were the words spoken than the air shifted around him, a sort of invisible push and release as Gregory flew past with Nigel in swift pursuit.

With a muttered curse, he made one final attempt at claiming victory over his friends. He slapped his mount's rump and whipped the reins.

It was to no avail. The Duke of Eldridge's son reached the finish line first, narrowly avoiding two ladies who strolled along the edge of the lake.

They glared at him as he gave a victorious cheer. Nigel, ever the rogue, sent the pair a wide smile. "Take pity on him, I beg you. He's not accustomed to winning."

"Don't believe a word he says," Gregory told the two women while circling around and drawing nearer to where they stood. He removed his hat and winked at the pair before dropping his voice and telling them smoothly, "My friend is a terrible liar."

"And you, sir?" One of the women asked boldly, her deep brown eyes falling upon the one man she ought to avoid. "If your friends are liars and losers, then what are you?"

Her friend tittered, a coquettish sound that grated his nerves. Both ladies blushed in response to all the attention they'd gained, the harm that had nearly come to them moments ago completely forgotten.

"A devil in disguise," he murmured.

The lady who'd posed the question, a pretty red-head with a flirtatious smile, fixed her eyes upon him for one second longer than what was deemed proper.

His muscles twitched as he slid his gaze over her supple body, allowing it to come to rest at the base of her throat. The sudden desire to find out whether or not she deserved to live quickened his pulse.

Although he'd embarked on his mission with purpose and took no pleasure in taking Miss Fairchild's life, each subsequent killing had helped him acknowledge the thrill he was able to find in wielding such power. Not to mention the pure excitement that came from hunting his victim and luring them into his trap.

It was intoxicating – a feeling he longed to know again soon.

* * *

Sitting at his desk, Adrian returned his seal to its case and blew out the candle he'd used to melt the red wax. There was nothing pleasant about destroying somebody's source of income, but Mrs. Thackery ought to have known better when she decided to write about Evie.

Adrian couldn't allow such dangerous behavior to slide and had, therefore, gone back to The Morning Post after meeting with Mrs. Riley, to demand the woman's immediate termination.

He'd since written letters to all other newspaper companies in the City, explaining the situation and warning them against hiring her if she came to them in search of employment. His signature would hopefully add enough weight for them to follow through so he could return to the more important matter of tracking down Evie's killer.

Having the Croft files available would have been useful. He regretted the decision he'd made to order their destruction. The meticulous notes were part of a collection that detailed every piece of information gathered on members of Society, all Croft family associates, and anyone else they needed to know about, including their enemies.

Filled with dirty secrets and illegal endeavors, it was the key to obtaining favors. In his haste to put that life behind him, he'd foolishly had the entire thing burned – centuries worth of intelligence gathered by six generations.

Those files would have been helpful now, considering the answers he might have found between the pages. Unlike Debrett's, which only contained the basic facts about peers, the Croft files might have provided information about Mr. Harlowe, perhaps even on Miss Samantha Carmichael too.

Worst of all was the awful awareness that they would have given him valuable data on the Fairchilds, the Earl of Hightower and his family, as well as the Irvines. Not to mention what he might have learned about everyone else he and his sister had interacted with in the days leading up to her death.

Furious with himself for being so bloody shortsighted and foolishly impulsive, he waited impatiently in his study for Cummings to arrive. The man, who'd been employed by his father, had his own residence and came to the Croft home on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at nine o'clock in the morning, departing once more at noon.

Adrian stood as soon as he heard the front door open and close. A muted exchange between Elks and Cummings ensued. The soft tread of footsteps upon the hallway runner followed. Cummings appeared in the doorway. In his mid-forties with dark blonde hair and light brown eyes, he was smartly dressed as usual and with that fresh look about him that always suggested he'd gotten a good night's rest.

"Good morning, Mr. Croft." The secretary crossed to one of the armchairs and set the satchel he always brought with him upon the vacant seat. "Is there any urgent correspondence you'd like me to see to before I proceed with the ledgers?"

Adrian glanced at the pile of condolence letters still sitting on the corner of his desk. He'd handle those himself once he had a minute to spare. "No. There is however a matter I'd like to address."

Cummings gave him a curious look. "Yes?"

"The files I asked you to burn…" Adrian scratched the back of his neck, not quite able to meet the other man's eyes. "I don't suppose you might have ignored that order."

The edge of Cummings's mouth twitched, almost with humor, despite every other part of his expression conveying regret. "I wouldn't dare to defy you."

"So then…they're truly gone, not just boxed away somewhere in the attic."

"I'm afraid so."

"Shit." Adrian paced toward the bookcase where several gaping shelves seemed to mock him for his stupidity.

"Of course," Cummings said, "the files kept here were merely duplicates."

Adrian spun on his heels, almost tripping himself in the process. He caught his balance and stared at Cummings. "Duplicates?"

"Something so precious would not exist without safeguards." A slow smile pulled at Cummings's thin lips. "Another copy – the original – is located at Deerhaven Manor."

An incredible sense of relief poured through Adrian at those words. All was not quite lost then. He could still obtain whatever information the files contained. "You kept them up to date?"

Cummings snorted and raised an eyebrow. "Of course."

"In that case, I think you deserve a bonus of say…twenty pounds? Make a note of it in the ledger and have a cheque from Barclay and Tritton prepared for me to sign."

The secretary thanked him and Adrian went to find Murry. Arrangements would have to be made now. The Moorlands' ball would be held in five days – a social function that promised to lure every high-ranking member of Society to it. So Adrian planned on ignoring the state of mourning he ought to be observing, in favor of attending.

After all, the murderer would likely be there, which meant he'd be keeping a keen eye on every guest. If Miss Samantha Carmichael showed up as well, then that would just make for a far more interesting evening.

With no time to spare, he instructed Murry to start packing. They'd have to leave at once if they were to make it back in time for the ball.