“He’s the convict clerk who knows Dickie?” Grey asked, in no hurry to speak to a banker.
Rafe nodded and lowered his voice. “I’ve learned it was Dick’s father who got sent to New South Wales. Dick was born there. If we believe the story, he’s a Bradford and would be an heir to that property, if the bank hadn’t foreclosed on it. It really could be his house.”
“Charming.” Grey followed his companions into the pub. Arnaud and the curate were already pouring pints from a pitcher at the bar, while one of the kitchen staff took their orders.
Bosworth had taken a seat by the window, presumably so he knew when they arrived.
The banker rose as Grey approached. “Lord Greybourne,” he said, bowing stiffly. “I appreciate your swift arrival. Comfrey’s family is understandably distraught and wish to understand what happened.”
“Wish I had answers.” Grey took a seat at the table, leaving the curate and Arnaud at the bar, listening. “Have you met a man called Dick who also claims Bradford House belongs to him?”
Bosworth made a moue of distaste. “People may claim it all they like, but unless they can produce a deed saying all debts against it are clear, they’ll have no success in court.”
“Did the Comfreys tell you their family once owned the property? We should introduce them to Dick, see if they know each other.” Grey had no compunction about stirring a pot if it produced answers.
The banker shrugged. “Our records show no one has paid on the mortgage in nearly forty years. With interest, that debt is well beyond anyone’s ability to pay. We cannot help the choices of their parents.”
A thirty-ish woman and a graying couple entered, approaching their table. Not given to London style, they conveyed modest wealth in the quality of their clothing. Bosworth introduced the younger as Comfrey’s wife and the elder as his parents.
Rafe appeared, bearing one of his meat pies, followed by servants with tableware. While Bosworth made introductions, luncheon was arranged.
The Comfreys appeared shy of speaking once the banker had introduced him as a lord. Grey generally avoided using his worthless title for that reason.
Paul Upton, the curate, intervened with polite phrases for a grieving family. Grey wished he’d brought Eleanor. She would be better at this than he.
“May we see the place where our George died?” the mother asked. “He said it was a lovely home, the kind where he’d like to raise his children.”
Ah, a way to take them to his perspicacious assistant.
The arrangements were made. Leaving the Comfreys to their meal, Grey led the banker over to the bar. “We have had two more attempts at murder, sir. I would like to introduce your guests to the rude fellow who believes the house belongs to him. Perhaps they can identify him.”
“And accuse him of murder?” Bosworth asked dryly. “Too convenient to be likely.”
“True, but unless you want that property to go empty, the mystery must be solved. I cannot endanger my staff much longer.”
Before the banker could reply, Andrew and his customers burst into the lobby in a clatter of boots and voices. Rather than turn in the direction of the clothing shop, the artists aimed straight for the pub.
The bedamned Percival, as usual, led the pack. Grey would lay wagers Percy had seen him come this direction.
“His royal Iordship and Mr. Moneybags, how fortuitous. Do you negotiate a deal to buy this pestilent?—”
“Percy!” Comfrey’s widow cried. “What do you here? We thought you to be in London. Did you come for the funeral? You should have made yourself known.”
The annoying journalist reddened and swung to face the Comfreys, who were rising to greet him as if he were a long-lost relation.
Which, apparently, he was.
Twenty-seven
Eleanor
Dipping her pen in ink, El gazed out the window overlooking the backyard and blinked in disbelief. Did she dream? She pinched herself but the nightmare didn’t dissolve.
That was Grey’s untamed mane under his tall black hat, leading a motley collection of strangers through the broken gate and down the weed-infested gravel path. From up here, El recognized the banker’s portly form—Bosworth, walking—as if he owned the world, even without his expensive rig.
He was followed by an older couple, the lady in an old-fashioned bonnet and the gentleman in a low-crowned beaver, accompanied by a younger woman in a rather rakish straw hat, who looked nothing like them. And at the rear—Percival? The mean-spirited journalist? And. . . El stared in incredulity, shook herself, set down her pen, and ran for the stairs.
That had to be black-bearded Dick with them, the vagrant who had threatened her! Greybourne had to be out of his aristocratic attic. The man was a menace to society, himself, and to everyone around him.
