Chapter Thirteen

J oss leaned back against the cold bricks of the building and watched his quarry. The woman in question emerged from the pawnbroker's, patting her reticule as though she were inviting a robbery. When she was out of sight, he rose from his casual stance and fell in step behind her, at a distance, of course.

The young bride of a much older gentleman, she'd taken to selling off the gifts he lavished upon her. Two weeks earlier, she'd fired a bevy of household servants after accusing them of thievery—which might have gone without notice, had she not done the same thing months earlier. The gentleman might be aging, but he was hardly a fool. There had been little doubt in his mind that it was his wife who was pilfering her own jewels and bartering them. But he'd wanted to know why. And thus came the distasteful part of Joss' employment. Follow her, observe her. Report back that she was selling her jewels to either pay a blackmailer or support a lover. In his estimation, those were the only viable reasons for her surreptitious divestment of assets.

Near the end of the street, the woman climbed into a hack and made for her posh Brooke Street home. It was not difficult to follow on foot. Given the congestion of London's streets, it was more difficult not to get ahead of the carriage rather than to simply keep up. When the conveyance halted before the gates to Hyde Park, Joss took note. It was the wrong time of day for a lady to be in the park. The evening hours tended to cater to vices rather than promenades. If he intended to find out what she was about, he had to move quickly.

Crossing behind the carriage, he dodged traffic and the steaming evidence of horses' hearty diets. But he managed to catch up to her. And he was completely stunned by what he saw. It wasn't a lover she was meeting. It was a woman—very young, very pretty, and very heavily with child. He hadn't solved his mystery at all, but simply added another layer to it. He also had the sneaking suspicion that his client might not be the wronged party after all.

Not for the first time, Joss thought how much easier it had been to do his work when Vincent had been a more noticeable presence in town. The man had but to whisper and information flowed like a raging river. But then money and power had always had that effect.

Walking away from the woman and her secret meeting, he headed back the way he'd come. Perhaps the pawnbroker knew something. It was at least a place to start. He highly doubted that either his client or his client's wife would be in any way forthcoming.

He walked, lost in thought, as the crowd thickened around him. It was only then that he became aware of a commotion up ahead which had prompted the assembly of gawkers. In the distance, he could see a crowd gathered, watching from the sidewalks The wagon which held their rapt attention was one that he was all too familiar with. On the flat surface of the wagon's bed, a body was laid out and wrapped in sheeting. It wasn't as if the sight of a corpse being paraded through Mayfair truly shocked him. After all, murders happened every day in London. Most people just lived their lives blissfully unaware of the fact. It was the decided lack of outcry from those surveying the wagon which left him puzzled. There were no tears, no one appeared outraged. Half of them seemed somewhat bemused by it all.

When he neared the crowd, he saw a familiar face—a shop boy whom he had often paid well for information. "Thomas, who is under that shroud?"

"Lord Ernsdale, Inspector Ettinger, sir," the young man answered. "Cut down in cold blood on the street outside a gaming hell. Never seen so much blood!"

Joss felt as though his heart had fallen into his stomach with the same force as a rock falling from the top of a mountain. It left him reeling. "Ernsdale?"

"Aye, sir. Not been too long ago that there was another scandal... his lady wife abducted in broad daylight! Do you think they're connected?"

He sincerely hoped not. If they were, his efforts to avoid Hettie Dagliesh would be effectively at an end. Because regardless of what had passed between them, and what had not, he would not see her in danger.

"I don't know, Thomas. But I mean to find out. You hear anything and you let me know. Same arrangement as before."

The boy's eyebrows lifted. "But you're not with Bow Street no more!"

"No. But Lady Ernsdale's sister is now married to someone we both know... a certain Hound who would not want his sister-in-law to be in any sort of danger." Joss hedged around the real reason for his interest.

With his eyebrows now having climbed fully to his hairline, the boy nodded vigorously. "Oh, aye, Inspe—I mean, Mr. Ettinger, sir! I'll let you know the very minute I hear anything at all."

Joss watched the wagon roll on by, noting the blood that had seeped through the white linen. And a terrible thought occurred to him. Had she done it? Or hired someone to do so? If she had, he could hardly blame her, but others would not look so kindly on it. And if that terrible possibility had crossed his mind, others would begin to wonder, as well. Hettie faced more danger than just simply the potential threat of her husband's murderer. She might well be labeled a murderer herself. The law was unforgiving of any woman who dared rise up against a tyrannical man.

"Fuck," he muttered. "Bloody fucking hell."

*

Hettie stared at the man before her with a kind of shock that defied reason. "I'm sorry. But... what did you say?"

"Your husband, madame, Arthur Dagliesh, Lord Ernsdale, is dead," Inspector Maurice Bates answered coolly.

Hettie rose. She wasn't sure why or even where she intended to go, but in the face of such news, it hardly seemed like she should simply sit calmly. Immediately, she realized the error of her decision. The room began to swim alarmingly, and her vision began to dim. Just as suddenly, she found herself once more plunked into the chair she'd recently vacated.

"Do not faint, madame. We haven't the time if we are to catch those responsible for your husband's demise."

"Responsible?" She parroted the inspector's word. "Are you suggesting that my husband's death was... it was murder?"

"Stating, Lady Ernsdale, without question," the investigator said, his tone very firm and his expression grim. "He was stabbed and left to bleed out into the street."

Hettie couldn't speak. It wasn't grief. Shock, yes? Most assuredly. While she certainly hated that he'd met such a terrible and violent end, she did not feel any grief at the prospect of his loss. In truth, lurking beneath the shock, relief was flooding through her. Relief and the promise of freedom. "Footpads? Was it a robbery?"

The investigator stared at her for a moment, his gaze assessing. "No, madame. As a general rule, footpads in Mayfair are a rare occurrence... and footpads do not typically stab a man in the back with a needle-like blade. It was a high quality rapier, well forged."

"Then you think he was intentionally targeted," she surmised.

"Indeed. And I must ask, Lady Ernsdale, if you have any notion who might want your husband dead." He looked up then, his gaze leveled on her with distinct hostility. "Other than you, of course."

He wasn't there to inform her of her husband's death at all, Hettie realized. He was there to gauge whether or not she was already aware of it. "I did not want my husband dead, inspector. My husband and I were not a love match, most assuredly. We certainly had our disagreements at times, but I had made my peace with our marriage, however it came to pass."

"Until you were abducted by ruffians and he refused to pay the ransom to get you back... or did you think I was unaware?"

Hettie shook her head. "No, inspector. To my great humiliation, everyone is aware of Arthur's miserly response to my abduction. Luckily, I was not dependent solely on him for my safe rescue. But I'm certain you know that, just as you know who was ultimately responsible for my rescue. Does he have any notion that you are standing in my parlor and accusing me of murder?"

"He does not... but then I don't answer to him, just like he don't answer to me. Not every Runner is in the Hound's pocket, madame, nor are we all cowed by the behemoth who worked for him."

There was an animosity there, Hettie thought. The inspector harbored a grudge. Against Vincent Carrow or against Joss Ettinger? It ultimately didn't matter. He would use her as a tool to wage war against a man who had very few weaknesses. It was a complicated situation and becoming more so by the minute.

"If there is nothing else, Inspector, I should like you to leave. I am very tired, and the news has been quite upsetting. I'll bid you good day, sir," Hettie said, uttering each word with icy politeness. "I will expect, that if there are further questions, they will be asked by someone else who does not share your bias. Whatever your past interactions are with my sister's husband, or those in his employ, they have no place in your investigation into the untimely death of my own husband."

Hettie rose from her seat and tugged at the bell pull near the door. "Milford will show you out," she added as the butler entered the room. Without waiting for them to depart, she sailed out of the room and made for her chambers upstairs.

Once inside her room, she leaned back against the door and let out a shaky breath. She was in a great deal of trouble. And the only way to get out of that trouble was to determine who was actually responsible for Arthur's death. She needed an investigator. A private inquiry agent whom she could trust.

One name came to mind, and though she might want desperately to dismiss it, she could not. She would need to enlist the aid of Mr. Ettinger.