But now he couldn’t help but wonder whether he had, in fact, been barking up the wrong tree.
CHAPTER 24
Spotting the tray of food, Sheffield helped himself to a slab of bread and topped it with ham and cheese. “Sleuthing works up a devil of an appetite,” he said through a mouthful of cheddar.
Cordelia watched him with ill-concealed impatience. “Ye heavens, sir. The hound has better table manners than you do.”
“May Harper have another slice of ham?” asked Hawk, choosing his moment well.
“Sheffield . . . ,” murmured Charlotte, knowing Cordelia was on edge and not wanting his penchant for drawing out a dramatic moment to spark a quarrel between them.
“Yes, yes.” He wolfed down the last bite of his bread. “I couldn’t help but be curious about a few small details mentioned by Sir Bentley at this morning’s meeting. So, I decided to do a little digging.” A glance at Charlotte. “I’ve learned from you that a seemingly insignificant thing can be the key to unlocking a conundrum.”
“And?” snapped Cordelia.
“And I’ll have you know it’s cursedly unpleasant to sit for hours reading through old newspapers,” he replied. “Not to speak of dealing with John Debrett, the very prickly and officious editor ofDebrett’s Correct Peerage of England, Scotland, and Ireland.”
The Computing Engine’s gears began to whirr, stirring a symphony of low-pitched metallic clicks.
“Nonetheless, the ordeal proved enlightening,” he went on. “I checked through every edition of theWeekly Aristocratfrom the relevant time—as you know, they are sticklers for reporting the births and deaths of the ton—and there’s no mention of Fenwick Alston’s demise. Nor doesDebrett’shave any record of it.”
Charlotte took a moment to consider the news. “Wrexford mentioned that Sir Bentley wished to bury the whole sordid affair. It’s understandable that he might have wished for his brother to be forgotten. After all, he hadn’t been in England for years, and as the youngest son, there are no inheritance issues.”
“ButDebrett’sis the bible of the aristocracy,” countered Sheffield. “It’s simply not done to omit informing them of a death.”
“That’s true,” mused Cordelia.
“Still, I wouldn’t be so sure that their information is accurate,” argued Charlotte. “We were just speaking earlier of human error. Even those who possess an expertise in a subject are prone to making mistakes.”
Sheffield smiled. “Which is why I spent the evening making inquiries in several gaming hells that cater to rascals and rogues, in order to follow up on my suspicions. A few of the regular patrons are fellows who’ve spent time recently in the West Indies.”
He shifted and flicked another morsel of ham to Harper, who caught it with one quick snap of his jaws. “As you know, Jamaica is a field in which the black sheep of the beau monde are wont to graze. And from what I’ve uncovered, Fenwick Alston is as black as they come. His family took pains to hush it up, but he left Oxford on account of cheating at cards and then thrashing his accuser to within an inch of his life.”
A thoroughly dirty dish, thought Charlotte.Andyet . . .
“Be that as it may, according to my friends,” continued Sheffield, “Fenwick Alston didn’t perish in a quarrel with his business associates. On the contrary, they say he’s far too clever and ruthless to have given up the ghost that way, and if anyone had been killed, it would have been the others. Word is, he absconded to Martinique with French smugglers to avoid arrest.”
Rumors and conjectures, Charlotte reminded herself. “Even if Fenwick Alston is alive,” she pointed out, “there’s nothing to connect him to our current conundrum save for the fact that he was in India.”
And our own wishful thinking.
“Lady Charlotte is right,” said Cordelia. “Without evidence, we’re just spitting into the wind.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that, which is why I didn’t come straight here after leaving the gaming hells. As luck would have it, I was able to track down an old friend. Whenever he’s in Town, which isn’t often, I might add, he always stays at the Sun and Sextant Club.”
Cordelia appeared about to interrupt, but he continued on in a rush. “According to Sir Darius Roy, Fenwick Alston was involved in opium smuggling while based in Calcutta.”
“That still doesn’t prove—” began Cordelia.
“And,” announced Sheffield, “he happens to know that Alston is currently here in London.”
* * *
Wrexford halted in the doorway. Despite his marrow-deep worries, the sight of his friends warmed some of the dread from his bones.
Perhaps Tyler is right and I’m becoming a sentimental fool in my old age.
In the past, the thought would have horrified him. He shifted, bracing his shoulder against the molding, and took a moment to observe the scene. What with the clatter of the Engine and the apparently fraught gathering around the refreshment table, his presence was still unremarked.
