Chapter Eighteen

S imon Dagliesh settled his cool gaze on the solicitor. It was false, of course. There was nothing cool about him. His palms were sweating, and he could feel his heart thumping in his chest. "What do you mean the title cannot be conferred yet? My uncle is dead, and I am his heir."

"Your uncle is dead, sir, but he has a young bride. Until such time as it is proven she is not with child—and your uncle's potential heir—we must simply wait."

Simon tapped his walking stick against the wooden floor of the man's dark, dim and cluttered office. "That is not an option. I cannot wait. I need the title. And I need the fortune. I need them immediately."

"That just simply isn't possible... well, it is possible, but unlikely."

He seized upon that one word. Possible. "How? How is it possible? What must occur for this to be resolved?"

The solicitor splayed his hands palm up as he explained, "If your aunt will consent to an examination by a doctor who will confirm that she is not with child, we may be able to expedite the process. The other way such a resolution might occur is if your aunt were to pass away. Though given her youth and state of health, that is unlikely."

It was becoming less unlikely by the minute. "Send her a letter at once. Demand an examination by a physician. This is urgent and cannot wait."

The solicitor shook his head. "It is not within my power to demand anything of Lady Ernsdale. I will certainly write to her and request that she consider that avenue to quickly settle her late husband's affairs, but you must understand that the bulk of your uncle's wealth is, in fact, hers. She brought it into the marriage, and it will go with her now that the marriage is done."

Simon felt his blood run cold. "How much is left?"

"Four thousand pounds, roughly. The ten thousand held in trust for your aunt will now be hers in its entirety as both your uncle and her father have now passed on. Now, had she preceded your uncle in death, the ten thousand would have been absorbed by the estate."

He'd killed the wrong one first, Simon thought bitterly. "What if something were to happen to my aunt now?"

"I'd have to look into the particulars of the trust and see who inherits it upon her death, but that is an unlikely outcome, sir," the solicitor insisted.

Simon rose, leaning across the little man's desk until they were nose to nose. "I do not need your opinions on the likelihood of her death. I simply need the facts of the inheritance of her fortune. You will send word to me at the Albany when you have it." He turned to go, but as he reached the door, he turned back. "And you'll not breathe a word to anyone about our conversation or the very pertinent questions I asked. Because if you do, you will not live long enough to regret it."

With that final warning ringing in the air behind him, Simon exited the solicitor's office. The door closed quietly behind him, and he exited the building. Outside, he hailed a hack and made for Piccadilly and his apartment at the Albany. It was a fashionable address, one that others recognized as a symbol of his place in society. That his rooms at the Albany were the least desirable the building had to offer—small, dark, cramped, and prone to dampness whenever it rained—was a fact he kept to himself. No one else needed to know that he was scraping by, eking out enough funds to maintain at least the appearance of wealth by cheating at cards. Why? Because all of his life, his uncle had been a skinflint.

When the old sot had married his not quite fashionable but very lovely young bride, he'd thought things might change. Perhaps, with more readily available funds, his uncle would be prompted to a new degree of generosity. But that had not come to pass. Instead, his uncle had grown even more tightfisted. Eventually, he'd cut him off entirely. With his stipend extinguished, Simon had truly only been left with one choice.

London was unforgiving of a man with empty pockets. Higher society was especially so. Without a fortune, he'd never be able to marry. If he could not marry, then he could not add to this fortune. It had been a conundrum to be sure.

There were only two ways a man might obtain a fortune that did not involve sullying one's self with something so crass as work. Money was to be married or inherited. And since marriage was not yet attainable for him, he'd felt inheritance was the more expedient choice.

Simon lifted his walking stick in the darkened interior of the hack and flicked the little latch on the handle. The blade, thin and sharp, sprang forth from the tip, and he smiled. He'd won it in a card game. At the time, it had just been a pretty piece. In the end, it had been eminently useful. But it would have to be retired. Killing his uncle with a blade outside a gaming hell was one thing. But if his aunt were to die by the same means, it would rouse suspicion. No. Aunt Hettie would have to be met by some terrible accident—something tragic and fatal.

*

Joss entered the gaming hell through a side entrance. It wasn't that he wouldn't be welcomed at the front door, but arriving there would raise questions that he didn't want anyone asking. If he meant to find out who murdered Ernsdale, he didn't need any potential suspects knowing of his suspicions.

Hettie was insistent that it was Simon, Ernsdale's nephew. He didn't necessarily disagree, but that didn't mean other possible suspects should be ignored. Once a Runner always a Runner, he thought. For his part, and most of the other men at Bow Street, that was the case. But there were always exceptions... like Maurice Bates. He only ever looked at evidence that aligned with his theories. Bates would happily send an innocent man—or woman—to the gallows rather than admit he had it wrong.

Knocking softly on the door of the small office that the club's boss occupied, he turned the knob and entered before being given leave to do so. But the man behind the desk merely raised one eyebrow at that. "Inspector Ettinger... or is it simply Mr. Ettinger now?"

"It's Joss, and you bloody well know it," he said, seating himself in a chair that threatened to give beneath his weight. "Jesus, Collinsworth, why can't you get some real furniture in here?"

The man, Jack Collinsworth, simply shrugged as he looked at him with amusement. Collinsworth wasn't much shorter than Joss, but he had a leaner frame. He might have come up from the gutter like the rest of them, but he hadn't been born to it. His speech had always been impeccable, and he gave the appearance and impression of elegance in every mannerism. Those traits were largely responsible for the position he found himself in currently: running and eventually owning a successful gaming hell. "Because that would encourage others to stay, and I'm busy. You're here about Ernsdale, but there's nothing to tell. The man hadn't set foot inside the club that night. No one saw anything."

"I am here about Ernsdale," Joss replied. "But not that Ernsdale. Simon Ernsdale."

Collinsworth frowned. "He's in here from time to time. Don't much care for him. Seems there's always trouble when he's about. Lots of accusations of cheating and of running a crooked establishment. Curiously, the accusations never come directly from him. He just whispers into the ears of others and lets them wreak the chaos on his behalf."

"Is he capable of murder?"

Collinsworth looked at him with an arched brow. "Every man, and woman for that matter, is capable of murder. Do I think he'd be far less conflicted than others to take a life? Yes. I'd say that is true."

"How often did the elder Ernsdale frequent this establishment?"

Collinsworth sighed and closed the ledger before him. "Is this business, Joss? I know you're not a Runner, and last I checked, you weren't working for the Hound anymore—or at least worked for him as little as possible."

Jack was a friend, as much as a man in Joss's position had friends. He would not confess such things to many people but he was certain that Jack would keep his confidence. "It's personal... I have a relationship with Lady Ernsdale. And Bates is trying to pin this murder on her."

"Did you kill him?"

Joss laughed. "If I'd done it, his body wouldn't have been left on the sidewalk to be discovered by others. He'd have just vanished in the night."

"Vanished. Right. If I hear anything, I will send word to you," Jack offered. "What does it mean when you say that you have a ‘relationship' with her?"

"It means just that. I won't say more," Joss said.

Jack nodded. "I see. So that's the way of it, then. Another mighty oak has been felled."

Joss ignored the teasing. Mostly because he wasn't hypocritical enough to deny the truth when it was spoken—even if he didn't like it. "Find out what you can. People talk to you."

"You mean I ply them with liquor and they confess their secrets because they presume I'm not a threat."

Joss shrugged, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Jack wasn't a violent man by choice, but that didn't mean he was incapable of it. In truth, he was one of the most dangerous men Joss had ever known—mostly because everyone around him thought him too refined to be a threat. But underestimating him was a mistake most people only made once. "Just pass any intel along."

"I will, but it'll put you in my debt," Jack warned. "And at some point or other, I will collect."

Joss considered it. Then gave a curt nod.

"Is she worth it?" Jack asked.

"Ten times over," Joss replied without hesitation before hoisting himself out of the miserably tiny chair and making for the door. By the time he had Ernsdale's murderer, he'd owe his very soul to someone. Assuming that Hettie hadn't claimed it already.