“Will, I’m sorry. It was truly not what you’re imagining. But Cee did put a bee in my bonnet, so to speak. I dug through Juliet’s father’s ledgers. It’s possible it was him, Westfield was certainly losing enough in every available venue. And I wouldn’t say he was above murder. But I am confident that he’s notmanaging anything now. He’s in the highlands with a distant cousin and no financial resources. I suppose there may be some with goodwill toward him in town, but I doubt it.”
I sighed, wishing I had accepted a third drink. “It’s probably not. Rycliffe called him Jaundiced Sagging Gooseberries, JSG as an abbreviation, because Gabriel was charming to a fault. There were multiple notes not to wager more than £10 with him.”
“That is a surprisingly apt description of my father-in-law. Still, the bet was likely through someone else. The horse’s owner may not be the killer, but someone who placed a wager based on the stud,” Wayland added.
“I assumed as much, but if we track down the horse, we can search the stud book and follow the trail from there.”
“It’s a good notion. I went through my documentation on that race. It’s limited because the club wasn’t open yet. Rycliffe placed an unusually large wager on Peppercorn Junction and a smaller wager on Storm’s Kiss. The odds favored Flashdance, but Peppercorn won. Rycliffe was smart. He certainly spread out his wagers. Unlike Westfield. That’s actually how I first caught on to the match he was making to fix.”
I ignored the insight into the man’s relation with his father-in-law. “Did anyone lose substantially on that race?”
Wayland dug through coat pockets, patting them before finding a piece of parchment. “A few, but I was certainly not the only option at that time. Lord Embery Wyatt lost £250, which was a substantial but not insurmountable sum for him. Wesley Parker lost £1,500 which was likely more than I should have allowed him to wager. Sir Wilhelm Jacobs lost £300, but he bet on Storm’s Kiss.”
“That the lot of them?”
He handed me the parchment. The intelligence was neatly organized in a tidy script.
“There were more, but those are the onlyW’s. I would start with the horses and see where they lead, personally.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m happy to help in whatever way I can. Or if you need to find Westfield—I’ll have to check with Jules, of course—but I can get you the direction.”
“I’m nearly certain it has nothing to do with him.”
“All the same.”
I nodded, starting for the door before thinking better of it. “How do you do it?” I asked without turning toward him.
“Do what?”
At last, I turned. “Watch these people behave like this?”
“Ah, the excesses of theton. I manage with the love of an incredible woman. Also scotch.” He lifted the referenced glass and emptied the dregs. “And I do enjoy relieving them of a great deal of their money.”
“Right. So I merely have to be blind drunk to tolerate them.”
“Tell me she’s not worth it.” He took my silence as confirmation. “I could abide far worse if it meant I retained the privilege of going home with Jules at the end of the evening. If you cannot say the same about Celine, then you do not deserve her, and I was wrong to encourage her your way.”
“You—”
“Yes, I did. Now, you are more than welcome to stay here if you wish. I have a rendezvous next door.” He pressed himself out of the chair before wandering over to the second door I hadn’t noticed. It opened into what seemed to be a library. That was all I could glimpse before he shut and locked the door.
Thirty-Three
GRAYSON HOUSE, LONDON - JUNE 17, 1816
CELINE
“Celine!”Mrs. Ainsley dragged me closer to her by the elbow.
“Yes?”
“I didn’t know Mr. Hart could look likethat.”
“Like what?”
“I believe she’s referring to the expression of adoration and lust on his face. It brightens the eyes,” Juliet added. “And they’re already distractingly lovely.”
