His spine went stiff, apprehension curdling the pleasant glow which had been suffusing him ever since Virtue had told him she loved him. “Oh?”
“We were waiting until we had sufficient evidence to prove our theory,” Tierney added. “Our interview with Mrs. Woodward this morning confirmed everything we’ve learned and begun to suspect about the person who hired John Davenham.”
“The actor,” Trevor said, recalling the name. “You’re certain now that he and the dead man are the same?”
Sutton nodded. “His brother has finally claimed him. Apparently, he was warned against speaking and paid handsomely for his silence.”
Tierney smiled grimly. “A visit from a few of my men altered his opinion on the matter.”
“You had the brother beaten?” he asked, knowing from the time he had spent in the Guild that the man could be capable of anything, particularly when he was determined to right a wrong.
“Eh, beaten is a strong word,” Tierney said, strumming his fingers idly on the polished surface of the table. “I prefer to think of it aspersuasion.”
The man’s heart was dark as Hades.
“And after thispersuasionof yours, the brother admitted the dead man was Mr. Davenham?” he guessed, frowning as his sluggish mind whirled to understand.
The life of a duke had made him soft; Christ, and to think he had once been as cunning and hard as Tierney.
“He did,” Sutton answered. “Just yesterday. We searched Davenham’s rooms and discovered a calling card for the Countess of Carr. His brother admitted that Davenham had been sharing the lady’s bed. He told us that Lady Carr had paid his brother a handsome sum to attack the Duke of Ridgely. When that initial attack failed at killing you, she forced him to make a second attempt.”
Saint’s teeth.Trevor felt as if all the air had been knocked from his lungs.
“John Davenham was never seen again,” Tierney added. “The sketch Bow Street created of your dead housebreaker matches. The brother confirmed it, and also admitted he had been paid a visit by Lady Carr herself following John Davenham’s death, and that she had both threatened him with repercussions and paid him for his silence.”
“We needed to be certain John Davenham’s brother’s word is reliable, however,” Sutton said. “That is why we aimed to meet Mrs. Woodward here. She confirmed that Lady Carr and a man matching John Davenham’s description have been guests at the establishment, though not recently, and they were in each other’s presence. Although Lady Carr was masked, Mrs. Woodward recognized the countess from her days as your mistress.”
“God.” Trevor bit out the lone word, bile scrabbling up his throat. “Are you telling me that the Countess of Carr paid John Davenham to murder me?”
“We are,” Tierney confirmed. “All the evidence leads to only one conclusion.”
Suddenly, her angry tirade when he had broken off their arrangement returned, words he had mistaken for fury rather than true threats.If I cannot have you, then no one can.
He stood, reeling, all the pieces falling together in his head and making sense. In his time with the Guild, not one of the villains he had faced, fought, or captured had ever been a woman. It was so obvious now that he could scarcely credit the possibility had never occurred to him.
His ugly confrontation with Adelina the evening before rose, and a fresh wave of sickness hit him with the force of a fist. His legs were moving, striding, steps ahead of his mind.
“Where the devil are you going, Ridgely?” Sutton demanded.
“To Hunt House,” he said, lips numb. “Lady Carr confronted my wife last night, and I defended her. I’m afraid I may have unintentionally made Virtue the target of her vitriol. My God, if she is that unhinged…”
He allowed his words to trail off, refusing to complete the thought. To comprehend it. There was no telling what the Countess of Carr was capable of. Already, she had paid a man to murder him, twice over.
Sutton and Tierney were on their feet, as grim as he’d ever seen them.
“We need to get to Hunt House at once,” Tierney agreed.
* * *
Virtue was readingin the drawing room, enjoying the pleasant languor of the day and the memories of making love with Trevor the night before when the butler appeared at the threshold, looking uncertain.
“Forgive the interruption, Your Grace,” Ames said. “There is a lady caller who refuses to be turned away. What would you have me do?”
A caller who refused to be turned away? Her brow furrowed.
“Has she left a card?” she asked, snapping her book closed and belatedly straightening herself on the settee she had been draped across, engrossed in yet another letter inThe Tale of Love.
The butler entered with a bow and proffered the silver salver in his gloved hands. “She did, Your Grace.”
