“Hawkins referred him to me with his questions,” Quincy explained. “I told him I knew nothing about any Miss Ingleby. He said he would wait and speak with you, then. When I told him he might have to wait a week before you found a moment to spare for him, he said he would wait a week. He is in the kitchen, your grace, and shows no sign of going away.”
“With questions about Miss Ingleby.” Jocelyn’s eyes narrowed. “You had better show him up, Michael.”
MICKBODEN WAS FEELINGuncomfortable. Only very rarely did his work bring him to any of the grand mansions of Mayfair. Truth to tell he was rather in awe of the aristocracy. And the owner of Dudley House was the Duke of Tresham, reputedly the sort of man even his peers feared to tangle with.
But he knew he was close. The servants were all lying their heads off, every last one of them. None of them knew any Miss Jane Ingleby, including his grace’s secretary, whom, to his shame, Mick Boden had taken for the duke himself at first, so grand a nob was he.
Mick knew when people were lying. And he knew why these people were lying. It was not that they were protecting her or hiding her but that they were servants who valued their employment. And clearly one rule of that employment was that one did not open one’s mouth to strangers about any inhabitant of the house, even fellow servants. He could respect that.
And then the butler, a man who had the habit of sniffing the air as if to catch the dirty odor of lesser mortals, appeared in the kitchen and fixed his disdainful eye upon Mick.
“Follow me,” he said.
Mick followed him, out of the kitchen, up the steep stairs, and through the baize door that led into the back of the hall. The sudden splendor of the main part of the house fairly took his breath away, though he concentrated upon not showing that he was impressed. The secretary was waiting there.
“His grace will give you five minutes,” he said. “I will show you into the library. I shall wait outside to show you off the premises when you have been dismissed.”
“Thank you, sir,” Mick Boden said.
He was a little nervous, but he strode purposefully enough into the library after the butler had opened the door. He came to a halt six steps inside the door and planted his feet wide on the carpet. He held his hat with both hands and bobbed his head civilly. He would not bow.
The duke—he supposed it must be the duke this time—was standing in front of an ornate marble fireplace, his hands clasped at his back. He was wearing riding clothes, but they were so well tailored and fit so perfectly that Mick immediately felt conscious of the cheapness of his own clothes, on whose nattiness he prided himself. He was being regarded steadily from eyes so dark Mick would swear they were black.
“You have a few questions for me,” the duke informed Mick. “You are a Bow Street Runner?”
“Yes, sir. Mick Boden, sir.” Mick resisted the urge to bob his head again. “I have been informed, sir, that you have a Miss Jane Ingleby in your service.”
“Have you?” His grace raised his eyebrows and looked very forbidding indeed. “And who, may I ask, did the informing?”
“Madame de Laurent, sir,” Mick Boden said. “A milliner. She employed Miss Ingleby until a month or so ago, when the young lady gave her notice and explained she was coming here to work for you.”
“Indeed?” The duke’s eyes narrowed. “And what is your interest in Miss Ingleby?”
Mick hesitated, but only for a moment. “She is wanted, sir,” he said, “for dastardly crimes.”
His grace’s fingers found and curled about the handle of his quizzing glass, though he did not raise it to his eye.
“Dastardly crimes?” he repeated softly.
“Theft, sir,” Mick explained. “And murder.”
“Fascinating,” the duke commented just as softly, and Mick, a good judge of character, knew without any doubt that this could be a very dangerous man indeed. “And a Banbury tale?”
“Oh, no, sir,” Mick said briskly. “It is quite true. The name is an alias. In reality she is Lady Sara Illingsworth, who murdered Mr. Sidney Jardine, son and heir of the Earl of Durbury, and then ran off with the earl’s money and jewels. You might have heard about the incident, sir. She is a desperate fugitive, sir, and it is my belief she is here in this house.”
“Dear me,” his grace said after a short silence. “I perceive that I am fortunate indeed not to have woken one morning during the past month to find my throat slit from ear to ear.”
Mick felt intense satisfaction. At last! The Duke of Tresham had as good as admitted that she was at Dudley House.
“She is here, sir?” he asked.
The duke raised his quizzing glass halfway to his eye. “Was here,” he said. “Miss Ingleby was employed for three weeks as my nurse after I was shot in the leg. She left a couple of weeks ago. You must pursue your search elsewhere. I believe Mr. Quincy is waiting in the hall to show you out.”
But Mick Boden was not ready to be dismissed just yet.
“Can you tell me where she went, sir?” he asked. “It is very important. The Earl of Durbury is beside himself with grief and will not know a moment’s peace until his son’s murderess has been brought to justice.”
“And his jewels returned to his safe at Candleford,” the duke added. “Miss Ingleby was a servant here. Am I to know whereservantsgo after they leave my employ?” His eyebrows rose haughtily again.
