Chapter Twenty-Two

T he funeral was held in the afternoon at St. Paul's. It was not well attended. Arthur Dagliesh had not been a well-liked man. Even members of his various clubs were scarce. The service was suitably abbreviated and subdued. Wearing a simple black gown and veil, the dry-eyed widow was the subject of much conjecture.

"Do you think she did it?" one mourner asked another.

"I think if she did, one could hardly blame her," the other quipped quietly. "He was a bounder."

There were shrugs of agreement from those in hearing distance. Other similar conversations were taking place throughout the small crowd of assembled mourners. But one person was not joining in.

Standing near the rear of the congregation, Joss observed the whole thing with a watchful eye and his ears attuned to every sound. Even then, most of his focus was trained solely on the gentleman who stood near the front: Lord Simon Dagliesh, the soon-to-be named Lord Ernsdale. The visit he'd received that afternoon from a small clerk from the solicitor's office had provided more damning, if circumstantial, evidence against Ernsdale's heir. The man was angling to seize control with undue haste, a sure sign of desperation. And desperate men were always dangerous men.

Movement beside him was Joss's only alert. But he didn't flinch. He knew who it was instantly. The Hound.

"It's a miserable affair for a miserable bastard," the other man murmured.

"So it is," Joss agreed.

"Let's speak outside. There's too much to relay in here."

Together, the men stepped out of the church and onto the busy street beyond. But they stayed close to the entrance. After all, Honoria and Hettie were both inside.

"You've found something?" Joss asked.

"Simon Dagliesh isn't just in dun territory... he's the proverbial king of it. The man has amassed more debts than he could ever hope to pay," Vincent explained. "Even with the whole of Arthur Dagliesh's estates and Hettie's marriage settlement, he would be hard pressed to cover even half of it. And he's in deep with the sort of people who do not like to wait for payment."

"Not just shopkeepers and merchants, then," Joss mused. "Moneylenders?"

"Several of them. He's been holding them at bay with promises of a windfall... and men like him only get windfall sums when relatives die. That's quite the impetus to hurry along their demise."

"So it all comes back to the money." Joss shook his head. "Not so different from the rookeries, is it? Everyone always trying to come out on top."

"Not so different, but not so simple either. This is more than just his reputation at stake. It's Ardmore," Vincent said the name in a low voice, the word coming out sharp between clenched teeth.

Joss cursed under his breath. Just uttering the name of London's most notorious moneylender was enough to strike fear in the hearts of many. The man was ruthless. He and the Hound had clashed from time to time, but generally gave one another a wide berth. No one wanted an outright war, after all, and between the two of them it could be nothing less.

"I'll speak to him," Vincent continued. "I doubt it will do much good. Like many others, he believes my stepping back from the direct running of my enterprises signals weakness."

"Can you really just walk away from it all? You've been building this empire for decades." It was a fair question. At one point in time, nothing had been more important to Vincent Carrow than his criminal enterprise.

"I can. I want to," Vincent admitted. "There are other things in life more important than simply amassing wealth and power."

"I never had the drive for those things that you did," Joss admitted.

"I'll focus on Ardmore. You keep your attention on Bates. The man is asking questions of all of Honoria's and Hettie's acquaintances. He's all but labeling her a murderer. He means to have her hanged in the court of public opinion whether it happens in actuality or not."

"I'll pay him a visit now. You've got the pair of them?"

Vincent nodded. "I do. I've got men stationed all around the church and along the route to the house. She'll be staying with us for the foreseeable future. You should, as well."

"I'm in no danger," Joss denied quickly.

"You're in danger of being a dunderheaded ass. That might be worse than death in this case," Vincent growled. "You can't very well resolve what's between you if you're never in the same blasted place, can you?"

Joss was silent for a moment. Then he cursed. "Fine. I'll stay. But she and I will come to things in our own way. We don't need the pair of you interfering."

Vincent held up his hands in surrender. "Fine. You do it your way. But there is one thing you need to remember... if she's not married to you when the child is born, then legally that child is a Dagliesh. Is that what you want?"

No. It was the last thing he wanted. Bloody hell.

*

As the service came to a close, Hettie was very aware of all the stares and whispers. Everyone was looking at her. Not that many were gathered, but that hardly signified. Tales would be carried. Simon glowered at her with barely concealed hostility and suspicion, casting himself in the light of grieving relation rather than the person with potentially the most to gain from Arthur's death. He was painting a picture, all too clearly, for others present. A picture that would be discussed, directed, and given prime placement in every gossip rag in the city.

"It certainly feels as though you've already been convicted, doesn't it?" Honoria asked softly, her voice little more than a whisper.

"No doubt that has been Simon's plan all along," Hettie replied softly. "In the wake of my abduction, he likely worried that I would be too sympathetic a figure. I have to imagine that he waited until a suitable amount of time had passed for everyone to forget that I too had been a victim of violence. He's a wastrel, but that is clearly a choice and not an indication of any lack of intelligence on his part."

"The scheming is exhausting," Honoria noted as she took Hettie's hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. "Being a pariah is shockingly restful."

Hettie felt her lips quirk beneath her veil but resisted the urge, somehow, to smile or laugh. Neither would make her look less guilty of either murdering or conspiring to murder her husband. "Do not make me laugh. It's not a good look on a supposedly grieving widow. Regardless, I imagine I shall find out soon enough."

Honoria's lips pursed as she too struggled to maintain her composure. "Let's get you home. You can rest, put your feet up, have a nice cup of tea, and try to put the unpleasantness of today behind you."

Hettie was fairly certain it would not be even remotely that easy. But escaping the speculative stares of those around her was an appealing option nonetheless.

As they neared the rear door of the church, Simon abruptly stepped in front of them.

"You may have fooled everyone else here," he said, a sneer on his face. His scathing voice was pitched just loudly enough to be overheard by anyone nearby. "But I know the truth. You never held any affection at all for my uncle, much less love. Now he lies dead, and you play the grieving widow."

"Watch what you say, Lord Simon," Honoria warned. "My sister has been a good and dutiful wife to a man who was an absolute failure as a husband. Or did you forget that when my sister was abducted, he meant to let her languish with her kidnappers rather than pay the demanded ransom?"

Simon started to say something in response, but Honoria was not done with him. Not by a long shot. "You, sir, have far more to gain from your uncle's passing than my dear sister does. Perhaps you only cast such aspersions against her to allay any suspicion of yourself. I have found that what men protest so loudly is often not at all reflective of what is in their minds, hearts, or deeds."

Simon drew back in such a fashion that it almost appeared he might strike out at Honoria. But before that could happen, a grim voice spoke from behind him.

"Raise your hand to her, my lord, and it'll be the last time it's raised for anything. I'll bloody well cut it off and make you eat it."

The threat, issued with complete sincerity and no small degree of menace, from Vincent had the desired effect. Simon simply stepped aside and let them pass.

"Gutterborn bastard," Simon whispered.

Vincent nodded. "Aye. I am. Which means I don't give two shites what anyone here thinks of me. I'll beat you till you're bloody and walk away without a backward glance. Do not look at my wife or her sister. Never again. Do not speak to them. Do not even acknowledge them. If you see them out, you will simply turn and walk the other way so that they will not have to suffer your presence."

They had walked only a few short steps from where Simon stood glowering at them when Vincent abruptly stopped. He turned only his head, just enough to see Simon from the corner of his eye and uttered something that made the other man blanch. "Gutterborn as I am, we have friends in common... give Ardmore my regards when next you see him."

Hettie had no notion who Ardmore was, but it was apparent from the way Simon reacted that the name was very familiar to him.

Too many secrets. Too many intrigues. Was a simple life really too much to ask for?