“I have no choice,” Hawes said. “Once you are indebted to him …” He shrugged weakly.
“I understand.” At one time I had been indebted to Denis, who’d trapped me with the one bit of knowledge I’d been seeking for years.
The errand I’d sent Bartholomew on was to fetch a pen and paper, and he now entered with those. Mr. Gibbons came behind him, carrying a lap desk fashioned so a man might scribble letters in bed.
Bartholomew helped Hawes to a half sitting position, propped on pillows, and Gibbons set the desk on his lap, not gently. Bartholomew arranged a blank paper on the desk, and I dipped the pen in the ink and handed it to Hawes.
Gibbons hovered while Hawes scratched out words I dictated. Hawes signed the note, then I blotted the paper for him and folded it when the ink was dry. I passed the missive to Bartholomew, telling him where to deliver it.
Bartholomew’s eyes widened, but he nodded. “Will you be going home right off, sir?” he asked me.
“After I visit Finsbury Square,” I said. “I’ll have Brewster with me this time, never fear.”
Bartholomew did not appear pleased with the arrangement, but he did not argue. I told him to deliver one more message for me, this one in person, and he departed as I instructed.
“Thank you, Mr. Hawes.” I rose stiffly, wondering how many bruises would decorate my body from the thorough beating. “You rest and recover. I will inform those at the Arlington that you’ll be laid up for a time.”
Hawes didn’t answer. He dropped back to the pillows and closed his eyes, as though penning the letter had exhausted him.
Gibbons retrieved the ink, pen, and paper, tucked all inside the desk, and carried it out without a word. Brewster and I came behind him. My inquiry as to where Denis had gone only resulted in Gibbons turning disdainful eyes to me and bathing me in silence.
Denis’s coach was no longer present when we stepped out of the house, so Brewster found a hackney to take us to Finsbury Square.
“How do you know this bloke will rise to the bait?” Brewster asked as we bumped across the city. I’d related the tale of what I’d discovered on my adventure, which Brewster had taken in with a scowl. “He could sit on this betting token for weeks until he thinks it safe enough to hand in.”
“Which is why I told Hawes to write that the Runners were close to the correct solution, and that Hawes expected payment from him to keep quiet. I believe that will jolt him to act.”
“I’ve heard of this Christie gent,” Brewster said. “He’ll do anything to get around paying off a wager. Claim the token is forged, or if Pickett is dead, it’s null unless a legitimate heir, with his solicitor, is there to claim it.”
“That scarcely matters,” I said. “I only want the man to make the attempt. Christie will not have to part with any of his hoarded guineas this day.”
Brewster regarded me doubtfully but said no more. Nor, surprisingly, did he give me a long lecture about putting myself into a perilous situation through my own impetuousness. I had the feeling he was saving that for later.
I asked the hackney driver to let us down in Wilson Street, the road just outside Finsbury Square. From there, we walked to the square, keeping a cautious eye out for our quarry.
Lackington’s Library provided a prime place to wait. We entered it as though we were any other gentleman and his servant coming to shop. Benches had been set before the wide windows, so a person could peruse a book while basking in the view of the square.
My swollen and bruised face gained startled looks, but the clerks there recognized me and kept their questions to themselves.
I found another tome on ballooning and leafed through it, glancing up at the street from time to time. Brewster only folded his arms, leaned against a wall near me, and waited.
An hour after our arrival, a carriage pulled up in front of Christie’s shop, but not one I’d expected to see.
I set the book hastily aside and rose, joining Brewster at the window. We both stared in astonishment as Lucius Grenville descended the coach and approached Christie’s place of business. He paused on the doorstep, waiting for another man to descend, before he rapped smartly on the portal with his walking stick.
Chapter 26
Brewster and I departed the bookshop, both of us moving quietly but swiftly toward Christie’s. Jackson, Grenville’s coachman, recognized me and opened his mouth to call out, but I signaled him to silence.
One of Christie’s clerks answered the door and admitted Grenville and his guest. I caught the door before it could close behind them and strode inside past the startled clerk, Brewster at my heels.
Christie rose from behind his large desk, brows lifting in inquiry as Brewster and I entered the clerk’s room. “I do not believe any of you have an appointment,” he said in his silken tones. “Do you, Captain Lacey?”
Grenville swung around at Christie’s question, lips parting when he saw me. The other man also started, though whether because of my presence or the state of my face, I could not decide.
“Mr. Langley,” I greeted him. “Good afternoon. Have you come to retrieve the winnings you murdered Mr. Pickett for?”
Langley gaped at me, color rising in his face. He spluttered. “I beg your pardon? What a thing to say, Captain Lacey. What do you mean by it?”
