Chapter 28

28

The shop’s polished brass bell gave a light tinkle as Julian stepped across the threshold, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft thud. His sharp gaze swept the interior, taking in the velvet-lined cases and shelves laden with glittering wares that beckoned beneath the late morning sun streaming through the front windows. An ostentatious display of wealth, each piece exquisitely wrought.

The proprietor glanced up from an account book, eyes blinking wide behind spectacles perched on a hawk-like nose.

“Your Grace. To what do I owe the honour?” The jeweller executed a quick bow.

“Mr Van Derlyn.” Julian inclined his head in polite acknowledgement. Beside him, Wentworth offered no greeting.

Julian’s smile held all the warmth of a dagger point. “I’ve come about a piece my wife’s late father owned. A ring you crafted some years ago. It bears a motif on which I’d like some information.”

The proprietor swallowed, but his tone remained pleasant. “Of course, Your Grace. Happy to be of service regarding any of my creations.” His shrewd gaze flickered from Julian to Wentworth, no doubt noting the latter’s ill-concealed impatience. When his gaze cut back to Julian, they held a glint of wariness. “How might I assist you gentlemen today?”

Julian withdrew the hastily sketched crest from his pocket and unfolded it on the gleaming counter. One finger tapped the small motif Caroline had identified as the jeweller’s signature.

“Have you sold any pieces bearing this addition to the design?” Still polite, still mild. As if they spoke only of the weather or the day’s newspaper headlines.

As if Julian’s heart wasn’t pounding out a demand for retribution.

Van Derlyn adjusted his spectacles with a trembling hand before visibly gathering himself. “I create bespoke pieces, Your Grace. My work is quite exclusive, as I’m sure you and the duchess appreciate. Client confidentiality—”

Julian didn’t let him finish. He braced his hands flat on the counter and leaned in. “I admire discretion as much as any patron of your fine establishment, Mr Van Derlyn,” Julian said, still polite. “However, a matter of some urgency has arisen, you see. My wife’s health, as it happens.”

Something shifted behind the jeweller’s eyes. His thin lips flattened.

“She took a bullet meant for my heart. Do you know what that does to a man, Mr Van Derlyn?” Julian’s voice dropped to a lethal purr. “It fills his thoughts with visceral and imaginative ways to dismantle those responsible. Piece by piece.”

Van Derlyn’s throat worked. “I… see. You have my deepest sympathies, Your Grace. Forgive my hesitation, but you understand, matters of discretion—”

A muscle ticked in Wentworth’s rigid jaw. His fingers drummed a staccato on the display case. The sound rang in the tense hush. Sharp. Impatient.

“Let me be frank, Mr Van Derlyn,” Wentworth said in clipped tones. “A wanted criminal remains free, courtesy of your silence. If you refuse to help, I’ll find any means in my power to ruin you. If the next bullet finds its mark in the duke’s heart, I’ll hold you accountable, and I will bury you.” He braced his hands on either side of the open ledger. “Now. The crest.”

With a last helpless glance at Julian, Van Derlyn capitulated. “It belonged to the members of the Scarlet League,” he admitted. “The Earl of Wyndham was a member.”

Wentworth’s threatening posture relaxed into geniality once more. “There. That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

Wyndham. The name tugged at a memory. The earl had faced treason charges over military intelligence leaked during the Crimean War, if memory served correctly. His family was stripped of honours and sentenced to disgrace. Rather than accept the harsh verdict, the earl had fled into exile with his young son.

The son.

Theodore Warrington.

The aristocrats targeted had all been involved in the Wyndham investigation – all part of the same group as Caroline’s father. This was personal, not profit. A vendetta decades in the making, with Warrington hunting down the men he held responsible for his family’s destruction, leaving the Wyndham heir penniless.

Julian wrenched his thoughts back to the present. “Thank you for your help, Mr Van Derlyn,” he said, folding the paper and tucking it inside his coat. “I apologise for disrupting your morning, but as you can understand, time is of the essence.”

The proprietor tugged at his cravat. “Of course, Your Grace.” He hesitated before adding, “Do pass along my regards to the duchess for a swift recovery.”

With a final brusque nod, Julian turned on his heel and left the shop, Wentworth falling into step beside him. The humid air closed over them as they emerged onto bustling Albemarle Street.

“The name is familiar from old case files before my time at the Home Office,” Wentworth said. “Wyndham went into exile with his son well over twenty years ago.”

“It explains why Kellerman emerged in society a year ago with genteel manners that belied his upbringing,” Julian murmured. “I imagine he’s been plotting for years.”

“I’ll go into the old records, find out who gave up their silence on Wyndham.”

Despite Wentworth’s assurances, frustration nagged Julian. Every minute wasted was another in which Kellerman might use to disappear into some fetid bolt-hole and plot fresh attacks.

No. Julian refused to squander another moment.

Instinct shrieked at him to tear apart London stone by stone. But the logical part of his mind understood he would make little progress without proper intelligence. He lacked Wentworth’s shadowy networks of informers and spies.

“Keep me informed of any developments,” Julian said as they halted at the street corner where their paths diverged. “I want to be included when your men locate him.”

Wentworth gave a grim nod. “You know I will. I owe the duchess a personal debt.”

With a final terse nod, Julian left Wentworth and took his carriage home. Soon, Stafford House rose before him, all pale stone and imposing columns. He took the marble steps swiftly, boots rapping out a crisp staccato.

He opened the bedroom door only to find it empty, the rumpled bedsheets glaring back at him. Stifling a spark of panic, he moved to the adjoining room, her art studio. Relief coursed through him at the sight of Caroline seated at her easel, lost in concentration as her charcoal danced over the page. Late afternoon sun bathed the room in warm golden light, catching on the pearl combs pinning back her unbound hair. She looked fragile sitting there.

“Any developments?” She spoke without turning, still wholly absorbed in her sketch.

“You’re meant to be resting,” he growled, torn between sweeping her up bodily to deposit her back in bed or kneeling at her feet to worship her.

“And you’re supposed to be telling me what you learned.” She didn’t even turn, the minx. Just kept dashing charcoal over paper. “Honestly, drawing in an armchair hardly qualifies as a strain.”

“Need I remind you that you took a bullet less than a fortnight ago? Most people lack the fortitude to brave a gunshot wound with such nonchalance.”

No, she was entirely singular. And the most troublesome creature he’d ever had the misfortune to love with his entire damn heart.

“Need I remind you that we have an assassin to catch?” She gave him a pointed look. “So, if you’ve finished clucking over my health, tell me what you discovered.”

Julian moved to stand beside her, resting a hand on her shoulder. Such delicate bones beneath his palm. Deceptive, like the steel in her spine.

“Your father was part of a group called the Scarlet League – along with the Earl of Wyndham.”

She paused her sketching. “I recall now. Wyndham gave intelligence to the Russians during the Crimean War. The earl was stripped of title and fortune and exiled in disgrace. Forced to drag his small son into impoverished obscurity.”

She took a bracing breath before continuing. “Some believed my father was part of the plot, though nothing could be proven. We left for the country to escape the scrutiny. Our limited means could not withstand the relentless gossip.”

“Wentworth will quietly investigate which aristocrats informed on Wyndham and see how many targets there are. His son, Theodore Warrington, was my age when they were exiled. Kellerman must be his alias.”

Caroline’s chin lifted, eyes flashing. “But who took the earl’s son under their wing when he returned to London to orchestrate his vengeance? Someone must have aided him, may even stand to profit from his swindles. I wonder…” She trailed off, clearly following the thread of an idea. “The landlord for Mr Kellerman’s offices must have a record of any business partners. We’ll question him.”

Julian froze. “We?” he repeated.

“Of course, we. I’m injured, not useless.”

“You’re reckless, disobedient, a danger to my sanity, soon to tear open your slowly mending wound…” He ticked the points off on his fingers.

She drew herself up. “I’m more charming than you and apt to get answers. I can ask Richard what he knows about the landlord.”

Julian ground his teeth. He was relieved Grey and Caroline had never been intimate, but that didn’t mean he liked the man. “We’re not involving Grey. And we’re not involving you.”

“Richard collects blackmail material like some people collect debts, and he’s still in town. All I have to do is ask him for the name and details of the landlord for the offices on Threadneedle Street.” She examined her fingernails. “And I could give you this information if you let me come along.”

His jaw went hard, knowing she was right. “Fine.”

“Good.” She tapped her charcoal against the canvas. “And we won’t go as the Duke and Duchess of Hastings. Kellerman ran off once because he was alerted to Wentworth’s men closing in.”

She was too clever. “No risks, Caroline.”

He clenched his jaw so hard it was a wonder his teeth didn’t crack. She was the most maddening, stubborn, vexing—

“While you stand there fuming, be a darling and disrobe for me, will you?” She gave him a look over her shoulder. “I’ve gone much too long without sketching your form properly. You’re utterly glorious when you brood.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Julian began unbuttoning his shirt. “You’re impossible.”

“Mmhm, yes, I know.” She made a motion with her hand. “Trousers off.”

“You’re going to pay for this later, once you’ve fully recovered,” he warned.

Her lips curved. “I certainly hope so.” Caroline turned back to her easel. “Do try to look imposing. I’m drawing you as Hades.”

He bit back a smile, settling onto the divan.