She considered the situation for a moment. “But few people suspect that an elderly dowager can be a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Let us find Alison. She will be able to get close to Mademoiselle Benoit and under the guise of making polite conversation can tell her that for the next three days at noon we will be waiting by the Piccadilly entrance to Green Park for a rendezvous. Perhaps she’s getting cold feet about her involvement in such sordid skullduggery and will come and confide in us.”
As they turned and surveyed the reception room, Charlotte suddenly spotted a gentleman wearing a distinctive striped sash over his formal diplomatic dress coat. “You go on and arrange things with Alison. I will join you shortly.” Another glance. “I need to have a quick word with someone.”
* * *
Wrexford and Sheffield turned the corner of Duke Street and entered Mason’s Yard, a discreet enclave tucked in between Jermyn Street and St. James’s Square that housed one of London’s most exclusive purveyors of rare books. An auction was taking place the following day, and the shop had remained open for the evening, allowing collectors to make a private appointment to examine the items up for sale.
They took up a position near the gated entrance of the adjoining building. Tyler had paid an earlier visit to the store and confirmed the time of Garfield’s scheduled visit.
“We shouldn’t have long to wait,” said the earl after clicking his pocket watch shut.
Sheffield cracked his knuckles. “I’m not a violent sort of fellow, but anyone who would murder a friend to possess a few bibliographic treasures, no matter how special, deserves to be beaten to a pulp.”
“I don’t disagree.” Though Cordelia was doing her best to put on a brave face, Wrexford knew that the murder of her childhood friend—perhaps by the hand of someone she knew and trusted—had left her badly shaken. “But let us leave it to the proper authorities to mete out punishment.”
“Hanging is too good for the varlet,” muttered Sheffield. “What sort of monster kills a close friend for personal gain?”
Alas, human nature is such that it happens far more often than one would like to think, reflected Wrexford.
The well-oiled whisper of a door opening and shutting alerted them that their wait was over. A shadow skittered over the cobblestones as a lone figure moved through the lamplight and into deepening twilight.
“Mr. Garfield, might we have a word?” Wrexford stepped out to block the man’s way, while Sheffield took up a position behind him, making it clear that the question was not really a request.
Garfield stopped short, his eyes widening in surprise. “I’m sorry, but I am in a bit of a hurry.”
“Whatever it is, it can wait,” said the earl.
A nervous laugh. “Come, come, auctions are meant to be civilized competitions between gentlemen. It’s rather unsporting to stoop to intimidating another player in the game.”
“We don’t give a rat’s arse about books,” snarled Sheffield.
Garfield flinched and turned to face him. “Then w-who are you?”
“Lady Cordelia’s husband.”
The fluttery lamplight caught the sheen of sweat beginning to bead on the man’s forehead.
“And my companion is Lord Wrexford.”
“I—I don’t understand,” stammered Garfield. “W-What could you possibly want from me?”
“The truth—and without having to ask for it again,” retorted Sheffield. He flexed a fist. “I dislike the idea of having to bruise my knuckles in beating it out of the likes of you.”
Garfield edged away in panic, as if seeking to flee back to the book emporium, but Sheffield shoved him back a step.
“I don’t know what you mean!” bleated Garfield.
“Then allow me to explain.” Wrexford gave a flash of teeth that only a lackwit would mistake for a smile. “To begin with, you have been conspiring to sell the innovation of your good friend Jasper Milton before his corpse has grown cold in the grave.”
“I—”
“Which begs the question—did you murder Milton?” continued the earl. “Or did you keep your lily-white hands clean and hire someone else to wield the blade?”
Eyes widening, Garfield began to sputter in shock. “M-MMe? Good Lord, no! I—I didn’t kill Jasper!”
“And yet he is dead, and you were overheard making a deal to sell his calculations to members of the French scientific delegation, who are here in London to attend the transportation conference,” said Wrexford.
“It’snotwhat you think! I—I can explain.”
