“Who canthey be talking about, milady?” the maid asked, wringing her hands.
“I do not know for sure. Could they be referring to Lord Hertford . . . I mean, His Grace?” Bella constantly found herself getting tongue-tied over Slade’s titles. The sadness of it all was cruel, and the confusion of his titles added to it.
“That is what I thought, milady,” her maid said. “We should tell your father and brother.”
“Yes, although I do not want a big thing made of this,” Bella said, unease flooding her stomach.
“Big thing made of what, my dear?” Papa asked, sticking his head into the room.
“Papa, someone handed Mary this cryptic note in the market this morning. I cannot think we can make much of it,” she said, handing it to her father and hoping he would agree.
Her father’s face became a mottled shade of red. “Can you describe the woman, Mary?”
“Not really, my lord. She was the same height as me, but a brown scarf covered her face and kept it shadowed. She walked hunched a little and carried a cane,” Mary said.
“What do you mean, carried a cane?” he persisted.
“My lord, she walked off not using it, but carrying it, as if it was not needed,” Mary said wanly.
“I cannot imagine the intent of such a horrible note, but I will discuss it with His Grace, as he is the only man courting you,” the earl blustered. “I cannot imagine why my daughter is being threatened. We shall sort this out.”
Bella groaned inwardly as her father sent a footman to Slade’s townhouse to alert him. An involuntary shiver shook her. She had been looking forward to tomorrow’s ride through Hyde Park.
Twelve
Slade and Latham arrived at the townhouse on Henrietta Street to find his brother up and eating supper. Slade determined that two guards were discreetly monitoring the outside of the place and felt better, knowing his brother’s life was being safeguarded. He met two more men in the townhouse, posing as the butler and footman. “I am his brother, the Marquess of Hertford, he said to the one that answered the door.”
The man looked at Latham. “This is my best friend, Viscount Thomas Latham,” Slade added.
The man nodded. “I will announce you both, my lords,” he said. “Wait here.”
Slade could hear his brother’s laughter and smiled. Graham was taking amusement where he could find it.
“You may follow me,” the brawny, balding one said. They went upstairs to a private dining room. They maintained well the place as a safe-house. While the outside looked rather nondescript, the interior looked especially nice.
“Slade, Latham, come in. Join me,” Graham said, pointing to two chairs. “We have plenty, as you can see.” He waved his hand over a large buffet of food.
“How are you feeling?” Slade asked, pulling up a chair. “You have enough here to feed many. Who were you expecting?” He held up his cup but realized the footman was not planning to serve. He was here to secure. Shrugging, Slade stood and poured his wine from the buffet. “Can I get anyone else wine?” he asked.
“I would like some more,” Graham and Latham said at the same time, both holding up their cups.
Slade smiled. “Happy to oblige.” He glanced at the footman whose face never changed expression and poured the wine. It was good to see his brother healthy and in good humor. He would gladly serve wine to see that.
The three of them focused on their plates, eating in silence.
“I was hungry,” Graham said, finally pushing back.
“I can believe it,” Slade said, smiling. “Nothing like coming back to life on an empty stomach.” He laughed, realizing it was the relief he was reacting to.
“I know you have been investigating this. I have my suspicions, mostly based on intuition, but I need to hear evidence. What have you gleaned?” Graham asked, leaning toward Slade and Latham.
“As you know, we are being harassed by the East India Company. We have had contact with the agent who we suspect has besieged our shipments. We have an important shipment coming up. Until now, it has been peripheral stuff—spices, cloth, whiskey shipments. Nothing that challenges the East India Company. But our latest contract could upset them. The thing about it is none of this existed when Father was murdered,” Slade said. “It does not fit. There must be something . . . one thing that can provide clarity. That is what I need.”
“What are your thoughts, Your Grace?” Latham inserted, filling his wineglass again. “Hertford mentioned some hints you had written. But we could not use them.”
“I apologize. I have an opinion based on hunches.” He looked away. “I do not even want to point this finger without evidence, which I had prayed would emerge . . . pointing toward innocence or guilt.”
“Who?” Slade demanded.
