“Gentlemen.” Beaumont gripped the head of his walking stick. “This conversation is veering into inappropriate territory.”
Wiltshire sighed. “It’s a good thing I like how you’ll vote, Beaumont, as you can be an awful bore.”
“The man I was with is a fellow investigator at the Bond Agency,” she said a bit sharply. Their words had hit closer to home than she would have liked. She didn’t look like the type of woman a man would wish to dally with. Her sister had held all the beauty. That had never mattered to her before, but silly as it might seem, she did want Charles to find her pretty. He had made her feel beautiful the night before.
“We were at Mr. Rhodes’s estate to find a thief who had been targeting the ton,” she continued. “And we were successful.”
“The Sheltons will have their little pin returned, will they?” Lord Wiltshire oozed amusement.
“Shortly,” she gritted out. Turning to Beaumont, she put on her most professional face. “The agency is looking into a case that wasn’t solved five years ago. The murder of a girl at her first Season. Miss Lydia Moore. I understand you were acquainted with her?”
Beaumont jerked his head back. “Miss Moore? Good God. I thought she died from an accident.”
“That was what the family wanted to be known.” Her family, and the rest of society. Murder was too tawdry, too unrefined for their tastes. An accident was easier to forget about. “But she was killed at a ball given by Lady Stockton. Choked to death.”
Beaumont’s face paled. “Good God,” he whispered.
“Now see here,” the third man said. “If you’re looking to drag Beaumont’s name through the mud right before an election—”
“Sir—”
“Mister Jones.” The man inclined his head but kept a suspicious gaze on her.
“Mr. Jones, I can assure you I’m not looking to cause any scandal. Discreet is in my agency’s name.” She tried to lighten the mood with the joke, but it fell flat. She swallowed. “But a girl’s family needs answers. The person who took her life needs to be brought to justice.”
A chair scraped across the floor behind her. She jerked her head around to see Lord Wiltshire rising to his feet. He focused on his gloves as he tugged them on. “Well, as this doesn’t concern me, I’d best be heading to my next appointment. Beaumont. Jones. Mrs. Alberto.” He slapped his hat on his head. “Good day.” He strode from the coffeehouse without a backward glance.
“I’m most distressed to hear this news,” Beaumont said, “but again, why come to me? You cannot think—”
“You knew Miss Moore. You were one of her suitors.” Cassie leaned forwards, pressing her hands to her knees. “Can you remember her mentioning any trouble she was having? Was she receiving any attention that was unwelcome? Anything you can think of might help.”
He slumped back in his seat. “She might have considered my attention unwanted.”
“Beaumont,” Jones said in a warning tone.
Beaumont held up his hand. “A girl is dead. Of course, I’ll help if I’m able.” He looked to Cassie. “I proposed to her; she declined. I flatter myself that we parted on good terms. She had other offers, I believe. She was a lovely and charming girl.”
“Do you know who else proposed?”
“Mr. Shelton, I believe.” He scraped his palm across his jaw. “She was kind enough not to speak to me of the other men who attended on her. I wish….”
Her neck ached with how stiffly she held it. It was the same information she already had. This was getting her nowhere. “What do you wish?”
He huffed a laugh. “I wish she had been a little more sensible. Or me a little less so.” He lifted one shoulder. “She wanted to marry for love. Romantic love. I thought perhaps in time it might develop, but I was under the impression her affections were engaged elsewhere.”
“Do you know whom she loved?”
He shook his head, his gaze distant. “I would have treated her well. If she’d accepted my proposal, would she be alive now?”
The back of her throat burned. Most likely yes. If Lydia had married the sensible choice, she’d be in a stable marriage, a mother, and longing for the man she’d actually loved.
The man who had probably killed her.
She cleared her throat. “Did you attend Lady Stockton’s ball? See whom she spoke with?”
Beaumont blew out a breath. “No, I’ve never been to the Stockton house. I’d been planning on attending that year. I remember it was held the day after I proposed to Miss Moore. I’d hoped to dance the waltz with her if she’d said yes. But after she refused me, well, I had no appetite for balls.”
“Do you remember where you did go that night?” she asked.
