“And wouldn’t you agree that the circumstances surrounding my father’s supposed accidents are strange? Deserving of further investigation?”
“His secretary—”
“Might very well be one of the culprits, but who paid him?” Juliana paced to the window and back. “If it was merely about his stealing from my father, then he wouldn’t have made attempts on my father’s life. Killing my father wouldn’t profit him. He’d lose his position and any access to my father’s funds.”
“But if your father suspected him of the thefts, killing him might keep Pickens out of prison.” Wilberforce looked at a longcase clock against the wall and frowned. “That’s a strong mot—”
She whirled on him. “But my father didn’t suspect! No one thought anything amiss but me. It makes no sense that Mr. Pickens would try to kill him, not if his only crime was robbery. But if someone paid him to hurt my father…” She raised her hands, palms up. “Then it all makes sense.”
Wilberforce exhaled noisily. “You and I have differing ideas on what makes sense. Have there— let me finish,” he said as she opened her mouth. “Have there been any recent attempts on his life, or accidents that threatened him?”
“No.” She chewed on her bottom lip. “But he is not at home now. He’s visiting a friend up north.”
“He just left this morning,” Brogan pointed out. When she glared at him, he rolled his eyes. “But it could make sense for the perpetrator to wait until all suspicions had died down.” He cocked his head. “With the fuss Lady Juliana has been kicking up about threats to her father, it would be irrational to strike against him so soon.”
She beamed at him gratefully. Finally, some support.
He pressed his lips tight and refocused on his whittling, looking for all the world like he regretted speaking.
But she wouldn’t let him take it back. “Exactly. This plot didn’t begin with Mr. Pickens. He was merely a tool. There is someone out there who still wishes harm on my father, and I intend to find out who.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “I hope you will assist me in discovering the truth.”
“What a pretty sentiment.” A man dressed all in black stepped from one of the back offices. His nutmeg hair was cropped fashionably close and his bearing was elegant. “Discovering the truth. Some truths, however, don’t want to be uncovered. Some truths are ugly and better left buried.”
Wilberforce glanced at the clock again. “Lady Juliana, this is the Earl of Rothchild, one of the owners of this agency. Rothchild, the Lady Juliana Wickham. She was the…object of one of our investigations.”
Juliana approved of the past tense in the manager’s statement. “Yes, and now that that case is over, I was hoping to employ your agency myself.”
“So I heard.” The earl’s gaze drifted to Brogan. “You think her claims merit investigation?”
He stood. “Perhaps.”
She gritted her teeth. “I don’t know if you’ve met my father, Lord Withington, but he needs your help,” she implored the earl. “I do have my own money. Well, I will have the money to pay you. I receive an inheritance when I turn twenty-five. It isn’t large, but it should be enough to pay your fees.”
“Payment isn’t this agency’s main concern.” The earl’s eyes flicked over her, then back to Brogan. “What do you think? Should we accept her case?”
Brogan shifted. “That’s not my decision.”
“Nevertheless,” the earl said, “I’m asking your opinion. Do you think her father is in danger?”
Juliana clenched her hand. The decision would be left up to this man? Brogan had shown a decided lack of imagination in her encounters with him thus far. Unless there was a handwritten note by the villain confessing his actions, Brogan would never—
“I don’t know.” Brogan pursed his lips. “But if I wanted the man dead, I’d wait before I struck. I’d wait until Pickens was rotting in prison for some time and everyone had forgotten before I went after him again. Just because there have been no further accidents is proof of nothing.”
She blew out a breath. Perhaps not a full-throated endorsement, but more than she’d expected.
Rothchild shared a look with Wilberforce, then shrugged. “Whatever you decide, I’ll stand by it. Now, I have somewhere to be.” He nodded at another investigator, who hurried over carrying a satchel. “The felt pads for my boots have been replaced?”
“Yes, milord.”
Wil frowned. “Wasn’t Lord Dunkeld working with you on this investigation?”
The edge of Rothchild’s lips quirked up. “His charming wife requested his company at a house party up north, and you know he can never deny her appeals.”
Both Brogan and the other investigator stiffened at the mention of Lord Dunkeld, then released matching breaths when Rothchild said he was away.
“Let’s go,” Rothchild said to the agent. “We have a job to do.” He dipped his head towards Juliana as he and the other man strode from the office.
“Please.” She clasped her hands together and turned her most desperate look on Wilberforce. “There is very little downside to you taking my case, but you could be saving a life.”
