“A silly mistake,” murmured the earl. “But I imagine hubris eventually convinces a criminal that he’s too clever to ever get caught.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “Be that as it may, it occurred to me that you, as a director of the Company, have a vested interested in ensuring that your august institution is above reproach. So, I’m wondering whether you have any thoughts on how such corruption could have taken root within the many legitimate businesses you run. And more importantly, how it can be cut away before it does irreparable damage.”
Copley reached for his wine with a tremoring hand and raised it to wet his lips. “Let me answer your tale of conjectures with one of my own.”
He put the glass down. “Here is how I imagine such a thing could have happened. A young and able administrator is asked to bend the rules for someone he felt obliged to help, only to find that the fellow had deliberately kept proof of the indiscretion, and used it to force him to continue aiding an illicit scheme for several years. The blackmail then stopped, and over the years, the administrator earned a reputation for skill, savvy, and integrity. He rises in position, the company thrives, and he takes pride in all that he has accomplished.”
Wrexford tapped his fingertips together. “And then?”
“And then the blackmailer returns, forcing the administrator to make a decision. He can lose everything because of a mistake in the distant past. Or he can continue his good work . . .”
“All he has to do is sell his soul to the devil,” interjected the earl.
“It’s not quite so black and white, Wrexford. A bit of embezzlement balanced against all the innovations that contribute to the country’s economic strength? The Company doesn’t miss the money, and the administrator is now a wealthy man who doesn’t need the money. He uses his share of the illicit profits to support socially progressive programs. He gives to orphans and war widows.” Copley paused for breath. “What real harm is it doing?”
“What harm?” Wrexford felt a spurt of fury rise in his gorge. “What about the smuggled opium, which destroys countless lives?”
“China has a very different attitude toward life than we Westerners,” responded the baron. “They don’t value—”
“And what about Henry Peabody? Does he, too, count for nothing?”
A tiny muscle jumped in Copley’s jaw.
“I think Mr. Peabody deserves that justice be done,” said the earl. “The question is how to rip out this evil from the East India Company.”
“As to that . . .” The baron twisted at his ring. “I have a suggestion.”
“I’m listening.”
“Let us assume the administrator is willing to help identify the culprits who are guilty of putting the venture into motion, in return for having his name not dragged through the mud. Wouldn’t justice be served?”
The earl said nothing.
“My guess is,” said Copley in a rush, “the administrator abhors violence and never condoned murder. The other men went too far.”
“So you’re saying the administrator claims that his hands aren’t dirty, because he left it to his partners to slit Henry Peabody’s throat?” The sarcasm in Wrexford’s voice made the baron flinch. “Ah yes. ‘It wasn’t my fault’—the refuge of sanctimonious cowards throughout the ages. And yet he still took the money. So don’t you dare try to tell me he’s a victim in this.” A pause. “If you are asking that he escape with no punishment whatsoever, the answer is no.”
Copley straightened and somehow regained his composure. “Business, as well as life, is all about compromises, Wrexford. You’ve told a riveting story, but where are the facts to back it up? You think the authorities will take the word of Woodbridge? As for his sister, a lady’s testimony would be dismissed as unreliable, even if she weren’t an eccentric Bluestocking. If I were you, I’d make a deal.”
“Unlike your saintly administrator, I don’t do deals with the devil and his minions.”
“Then you’ll never catch the Satan you’re after,” replied Copley. “He and his cohorts will ruin your friends and quite likely hurt other people in the process.”
Wrexford flattened his palms on the table and leaned in closer to the candlelight. “I’m a bit of a devil myself. Bet against me in a match with your Satan and, trust me, you’ll regret it.”
He rose and kicked back his chair. “Think on what I’ve said and pass on my offer to the administrator. Assuming, of course, that you know who he is. If he decides to cooperate, he can come to me anytime. What I will promise is that I’ll inform Bow Street that he’s been instrumental in helping to catch the culprits. That will likely soften his punishment—but he will be punished.”
Wrexford took two quick steps and stopped abruptly, his fluttering coat brushing up against the baron’s thigh. “One last thing . . .” Would a bluff work? He decided there was no harm in trying. “If you think I have no proof of the misdeeds, you may wish to think again.”
A whoosh of wool stirred the air as the earl turned for the door without waiting for a reply. Still, he caught Copley’s parting whisper.
“Threaten all you wish, Wrexford. But I’m telling you—you’re not quite as clever as you think, for you’re hounding the wrong man.”
Taking the stairs two at a time, the earl hurried down to the main corridor and quit the club. A fine mist was falling, and skeins of silvery fog were flitting through the light and shadows of St. James’s Street. It wasn’t until he had crossed Piccadilly Street that he slowed his pace. The cobbles were slippery beneath his boots, making the footing a bit treacherous.
It was quiet, the darkness muffling the sounds of the city, as he walked deeper into the gloom. So quiet that the voice of his own misgivings was thrumming in his ears. Skidding to a sudden stop beneath the entrance portico of a slumbering townhouse, Wrexford blew out his breath and watched the vapor dissolve into nothingness.
Frustration welled up in his throat. He fisted his hand, then hit the marble column. Again, and again, willing the pain to overpower his uncertainty.
“Damn. I was so bloody sure I was right about him being the dastard behind all this.” Was Copley lying about his culpability? Something in the baron’s eyes had told him no. But now . . .
