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“I know that Father was murdered,” he said gently. “I’ve known since the morning you found him. I was there, hiding in the conservatory.”
Her eyes sprang open in shock, the same light blue as his own. He laid his free hand over hers, squeezing gently.
“When did you come back?” he asked. “Does Sir George know?”
She shook her head blindly. “I—three days ago. I told him I wanted to be in London for the marriage of a friend. He will come back himself in a month; he made no objection.”
“He will probably have objections, should he come back to find you dead or arrested.”
He breathed, feeling his heart begin to slow.
“You should have told us,” he said. “Hal and me.”
“No.” She shook her head, closing her eyes again. “No! He would never have let it rest. You know what Hal is like.”
“Yes, I do,” Grey said, smiling despite himself. “He’s just like you, Mother. And me.”
Trembling, she bent her head, and buried her face in her hands. A constant fine tremor was ru
“I have lost a husband,” she said softly, to her feet. “I would not lose my sons.” Lifting her head, she gave him a quick, desperate glance.
“Do you think I know nothing about men? About you and your brother in particular? Or about the general?”
“What do you mean?”
She made a small sound that might have been a laugh or a sob.
“Do you mean to tell me that I might have told you this—any of you—and expected you notto go straight out in pursuit of the matter, regardless of the threat?”
“Well, of course not.” He stared at her in incomprehension. “What else could we do?”
She drew a trembling hand down her face, and turned to the wall, where an ornamental looking glass hung.
“Would it be better if I’d had daughters?” she asked the mirror, in apparent earnestness.
“No,” she answered herself. “They’d only marry men, and there you are.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, plainly collecting herself, then opened them and turned to him, composed.
“If I’d known who it was,” she said firmly, “I would have told Hal. At least,” she amended, “I would have told him once I’d decided how best to deal with the matter. But I didn’t know. And for him—or later, you—to go charging into danger, with no clear notion where the danger lay, nor how widespread the threat might be? No. No, I wasn’t having that.”
“You may have a point,” he admitted reluctantly, and she gave a small snort.
“But you did find out.” It occurred to him, with a sense of awe, that she had never been reconciled to the duke’s death—that she had been waiting, patiently watching, all this time, for an opportunity to discover and destroy the man who had killed him. “How did you discover Mr. Adams’s name?”
“I blackmailed Gilbert Rigby.”
Grey felt his mouth fall open, and swiftly closed it.
“What? How?”
The ghost of a smile crossed her lips.
“Captain Rigby—I suppose I must call him ‘Dr. Rigby’ now—gambles. He always did, and I kept an eye upon him. I knew he had run through most of his family’s fortune, when he sold the town house his father left him, last year. He’s using some of the funds donated for the Foundling Hospital now. And so I asked Harry Quarry to make inquiries, very quietly—and to buy up his debts.” She reached toward a leather case that lay on the table beside the sofa, and flipped open the cover, to show a sheaf of papers. “I showed him them, and told him I would expose him if he did not tell me who had killed Gerard.”
What had he told Dr. Longstreet? Had she known which man it was, she would have killed him, I assure you.
Grey felt shock, but no particular surprise.
“And he did.”
“I think it was a relief to him,” she said, sounding faintly surprised. “Gilbert is not a bad man, you know—only weak. He could not bring himself to tell the truth at the time; that would have cost him everything. But he was sincerely appalled at what had happened—he said that he did not know for certain that Bernard Adams had killed Gerry, and had managed to keep his conscience dormant all this time by telling himself that Gerry must have committed self-murder. But faced with the truth—and with those—” she cast a sardonic eye toward the leather case, “he admitted it. He still has something to be lost, after all.”
“And you don’t?” Grey asked, piqued at the thought of her pla
She eyed him, one brow raised.
“A great deal to lose,” she said evenly. “But I am a gambler, too—and I have a great deal of patience.”
He picked the pistol up, and carefully uncocked it.
“Did you calculate the odds of being caught?” he asked. “Even if you could prove that Adams killed Father—and Gilbert Rigby’s admission is far from proof—you’d very likely be hanged for murder. And what would Sir George think of that?”
She looked surprised.
“What? What do you think I am?”
“You don’t want me to answer that, Mother. What do you mean?”
“I mean I didn’t intend to kill him,” she said indignantly. “What good would that do? Beyond the minor gratification of revenge, what would I want with his miserable little life?” she added bitterly.
“No. I meant to make him confess the crime”—she nodded toward the table, and Grey saw that besides the leather case containing Rigby’s debts, there was a portable writing desk, as well—“and then let him go. He could leave the country if he liked; he would be exposed, he would lose everything that mattered to him—and I could give Gerry back his honor.”
Her voice trembled on the last word, and Grey brought her hand on impulse to his lips.
“I’ll see it done,” he whispered. “I swear it.”
Tears were ru
“Where is he? Adams?”
“Ru
She read it in silence, then turned back to the first page and read it again.
“So he’s gone,” she said flatly, laying the papers on her knee. “Taken the money and fled to France. I frightened him, and he’s gone.”
“He hasn’t left the country yet,” Grey said, trying to sound encouraging. “And even if he should escape—plainly he haslost his position, his reputation. And you did say you don’t want his life.”
“I don’t,” she said, between clenched teeth. “But this”—she smacked the papers with the back of her hand, sending them to the floor—“is useless to me. I don’t care that the world knows Bernard Adams for a criminal and traitor—I want him to be known as my husband’s murderer; I want your father’s honor back!”
Grey bent to pick up the papers from the floor, and rising, tucked them back into his pocket.
“All right,” he said, and took a deep breath. “I’ll find him.”
He hesitated for a moment, looking at his mother. She sat upright, straight as a musket barrel—but she looked very small, and suddenly her age showed in her face.
“Will I see you…home?” he asked, not sure where her home might be. The house in Jermyn Street had been closed; should he take her to Mi
“No,” she said, obviously having thought the same thing. “I have a carriage; I’ll go to the general’s house. You go.”
“Yes.” But he didn’t go, not at once. Thoughts, fears, suppositions, half-baked plans were whirling through his head. “If you should need…help…if I am not nearby—”
“I’ll call on Harry Quarry,” his mother said firmly. “Go, John.”
“Yes. Yes, that—” A sudden thought struck him. “Does Quarry know? Everything?”