Mayhap Roland needed to call for replacement whisky after all.
“A brandy instead?” he suggested wryly. “A glass of wine?”
“Or I will leave the subject of Mrs. Shaw alone for the moment so that you can tell me why I have been lured from my offices for the second time this week.”
“Am I meant to feel guilt over luring you?” he asked his friend.
Ever since the Fenian bombing of ’84 on Scotland Yard’s offices, Roland had not particularly cared to visit them. There was something about dynamite and the prospect of being blown to gory little bits that was damned unsettling. He made no apologies for his requests that Stone meet him in the comforts of his townhome instead. Besides, he trusted the Chief Inspector did not mind an occasion to sip whisky or venture to the London Fencing Club to engage in a bout. An estimable opponent, Stone.
“No.” Stone sighed, looking suddenly, uncharacteristically weary. “I do not mind the opportunity to escape my lair for a reason other than a brutal crime which I have been charged to investigate.”
“Brutal crimes?”
The occasion seemed suddenly ripe for some Sauternes in lieu of the whisky. Fortunately, Roland had a bottle at the ready, which he uncorked and poured into two goblets. He offered one to his friend.
Stone accepted, then took a lengthy draught before responding. “Fine stuff as always, Northwich. Murders, beatings, poisonings. The devil always has work to do.”
The casual manner in which Stone spoke of the crimes suggested he had become inured to them. The fatigued sigh and the brief slipping of his ordinarily impeccable mask suggested he was not entirely hardened just yet.
They sat on overstuffed chairs by the unlit hearth. The day was warm; summer would arrive soon. With it, a return to the countryside. Roland had an itch to visit Yorkshire. He had not been at Wylde Park in some months. Where better to go? Hell, anywhere that was far away from Pippa would be an excellent location. There, he could not be tempted to see her again.
Or touch her.
He took a lengthy sip of his own wine before turning his mind back to the discussion at hand. “Speaking of the devil, I have the letters the Duke of Longleigh had secreted. Within, you will find a number of epistles from George Shaw, who it appears was being paid to bribe officers, jailers, and Christ knows who else before his death.”
“I am not surprised Shaw was involved in bribery as well.”
“As well? You believe he was involved in other crimes?” Roland asked, perhaps more sharply than he had intended.
This was the first reference Stone had made to the possibility. He could not deny he had suspected Shaw of far worse. However, he’d had no proof, and he had oft wondered if he had not allowed his extreme dislike of the bastard to influence him. Previously, Stone had mentioned the potential for danger, the likelihood Shaw had possessed a partner. But not additional crimes.
Stone nodded. “The evidence is mounting to suggest so. I am investigating a ring of criminals which appears to be involved in child prostitution here in London.”
A violent wave of illness swept over Roland. “Christ.”
He had long known George Shaw was a calculating, manipulative liar who would swindle his own mother for a pound. But he had known nothing of his dealings with innocents.
“Precisely.” Stone was grim as he drained the rest of his wine. “None of the crimes ceased with Shaw’s death, though it has become apparent he was directly involved with the ring, profiting off it in despicable fashion. There is far more evil at play than we had originally supposed. I am grateful for the letters from Longleigh.”
“I will fetch them for you now. I have pored over them, but I did not find a reference to anyone other than Shaw and Longleigh, unfortunately, aside from the occasional mention of men Shaw must have bribed. No names are provided, however.”
Roland rose, his stomach pitching as if he had been aboard a vessel on a storm-tossed sea. The urge to retch was strong. To think of Shaw profiting off the pain of children, in addition to the countless others he had hurt…
He needed to move. To exercise. To wipe all thoughts of George Shaw and Pippa from his mind. But first, the letters. He stalked to his desk and retrieved the packet before crossing the Axminster back to Stone, who had finished his wine and risen.
He accepted the packet. “Thank you, Northwich. If you are able to discover from Mrs. Shaw whether or not she is in possession of any correspondence from her husband, it would be much appreciated.”
The notion of Pippa cheerfully surrendering any of George Shaw’s letters, all the better to incriminate him, was damned unlikely.Hell, the idea that Pippa would even deign tospeakto Roland again at all was laughable at the moment. She had left without word yesterday after reading her husband’s letters in this same room.
He had been in his exercise chamber, attempting to distract himself with some new stretches and other activities he had recently read about, when his butler arrived to inform him that Mrs. Shaw had requested her carriage and wished to depart. Sweating like a beast but not giving a damn, Roland had rushed down the staircase and all but run to his study to find that his efficient servants had already seen to her wish.
The only lingering trace of her had been her intoxicating scent, hovering on the air like a taunting caress. She had been gone. He had told himself it was for the best, that he had done his duty in warning her about the shadowy dealings of her husband’s past. But he could not deny he had found himself yearning to see her again. Pippa was a fire in his blood, and she always would be.
“I strongly doubt Mrs. Shaw will be pleased to provide her husband’s correspondence,” he drawled grimly. “Least of all to me.”
“Hmm.” Stone eyed him, a dark brow quirked. “What manner ofold friendare you, Northwich?”
“Not the sort the lady would entrust her prized possessions to.” And he could not lie—the very thought of Pippa holding anything which had belonged to George Shaw dear to her heart still stung.
