“Her pocketbook.” Charles picked the lavender bag up from Cassie’s chair. “She’s forgotten it.”
“Your concern lasted all of two seconds.” Hurst put his hands on his hips and arched his back. “I feel so loved.”
Charles ignored him and went for his own coat. It wasn’t like Cassie to be forgetful. He’d need to catch up to her to return the satchel.
He headed out the door.
And perhaps, if he was very persuasive, he might get her to come around on the idea of postponing those errands.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Winning Mr. Theodore Beaumont’s hand in marriage would have made any society mama proud. The man was tall, elegant, and had inherited such a sum of money from his father’s mining operations that the lack of any title was but a mere nuisance.
With each stride he pressed his walking stick into the ground with a military precision that would have done Horatio Nelson proud. He tipped his hat to every lady of his acquaintance whom he passed. And in the twenty minutes that Cassie had been following him on his stroll, he had passed quite a few.
It had taken her a while to track Lydia’s other suitor down. She looked both ways before crossing the street behind Beaumont. And tracking him down gave herself too much credit. The information had rather fallen into her lap. At breakfast this morning, when Cassie had been blushing and fidgeting, sure Mrs. Farran and Mrs. Butters knew what she’d done the night before, Cook had up and dropped his name right into the conversation.
Mrs. Butters was sweet on Mr. Beaumont’s carriage driver.
And the carriage driver was in the habit of taking Mr. Beaumont to White’s most afternoons. It had been Cassie’s good fortune that upon the man exiting the establishment, Beaumont had waved off his driver and decided to make his way on foot. It gave her a better opportunity to approach him.
If she could ever gather up her courage to approach him, that was.
She couldn’t think of one thing to say to get him talking about her sister without him realizing she was investigating her death. Nothing but the truth. She found she wasn’t skilled at subterfuge. And perhaps she didn’t need it in this instance. Or at least, not much of it.
Beaumont turned into a corner coffeehouse, lifting his hand in greeting to a group at a table in front of the window before making his way over to them.
Cassie hesitated at the door. She wiped her damp palms on her skirts before grabbing the handle and pushing her way inside.
The rich scents of baking bread and coffee greeted her. Several men looked at her curiously. She was the only woman there. She wouldn’t be able to sit at a neighboring table unobserved and eavesdrop on the man’s conversation. Not that she expected he’d say something incriminating about a tragedy that happened five years’ past.
Setting her shoulders, she threaded her way through the tables and approached Beaumont. He sat with two other men. The one facing her watched her under bristly gray eyebrows. He murmured something to his companions, and Beaumont and the other gentleman turned in their seats with inquisitive looks.
Her footsteps faltered. The man next to Beaumont was none other than Lord Wiltshire. Would he remember her?
The trio rose to their feet. “Do you need assistance?” Beaumont asked, his face open and friendly.
“No.” She pressed her palms into her thighs. “Well, yes, actually. I was hoping I could have a few moments of your time to ask you some questions.”
“Some questions?” The third man, the one she didn’t recognize, barked out a laugh. “This slip of a skirt must work for a newspaper. Though how she knew you were standing for the Commons when it was only decided yesterday is beyond me.”
“Are you here to inquire about my campaign?” Beaumont asked. He pulled a chair out for her. “We were going to release a full presser to the papers next week, but I’m happy to get started now.”
Cassie took her seat before she deprived them of their false assumption. “No, you misunderstand. I’m not a reporter.” She waited until the rest of the men had resettled. “I’m looking into a death that occurred five years ago. I work for the Bond Agency for Discreet Inquiries, you see.”
“The Bond Agency?” Lord Wiltshire crossed one silk clad leg over the other. “That absurd investigative agency started by Montague and his friends? I can’t believe they remain open.”
“What does this have to do with me?” Beaumont asked, his eyebrows winging close.
“Well—”
“Wait one moment.” Wiltshire leaned close to examine her, the scent of his expensive cologne teasing her nose. “I know you, don’t I? From that dreadfully dull house party Rhodes put on. I spoke with your brother.”
Drat, he had recognized her. But perhaps she could work this to her favor. “Yes, I am Mrs. Alberto”—better to keep that name rather than use Moore—“but that man was not my brother.”
One edge of Wiltshire’s mouth slid up. “Truly? You little minx. You don’t look the type.”
The third man agreed. He pulled a pair of spectacles from his waistcoat pocket and peered at her through them. “Not at all the type.”
