“I don’t expect to.” That was unfair. A pain struck deep in Helen’s ribs, and she drew in a slow breath. “I don’t know how you can say…”
Mama patted her hand. “Because I know that life moves on and brings with it change. Be brave, my dear. Now go along. I have much to do.”
Helen made her way downstairs. Was she cowardly? She’d considered her decision to be an honorable one. She ran her hand down the smooth wooden banister, her plan still solidly in place. Once Diana married, Helen would refuse to come to London for another Season. She would remain at Cherrywood. She continued down with a sigh. To be there again in June when the wild roses and blackberry were in bloom and the pretty house martins with their short, feathered legs collected mud for their nests. To sit by the pond and watch the demoiselle dragonflies skim across the water. It was a balm to her wounded soul. She could be content there. The ancient house set in its lovely park required a keen hand to run it, even before it became Harry’s, and Mama with her charities and Papa with his explorations showed little interest.
Chapter Seven
At the sound of a trumpet, Jason looked out Parnell’s office window and was caught by the colorful display made by the mounted King’s Life Guard in their red tunics and white-plumed helmets and the Blues and Royals in their blue tunics and red-plumed helmets. Mounted on their immaculately groomed horses with breastplates shining in the sun, they assembled on the north side of the Horse Guards enclosure.
Parnell leaned back in his chair and formed a steeple with his fingers. “We still have the problem of this threat to the country’s security. We can leave the murder of the footman for Bow Street to deal with. The government cannot be seen to spend more time and waste resources on what might be the fanciful notions of a footman now deceased, but it appears that we must get to the bottom of Smythe’s letter in case there is any substance to the threat.
“I find it impossible to suspect Lord Kinsey of being involved. Smythe may have heard about the threat elsewhere.”
“I’d be happy to continue with the investigation, but outside of Kinsey House, I have nothing to go on.” Jason flicked a gaze at Parnell’s shrewd eyes. He saw no reason to explain that he owed it to Bart. Parnell was a hardnosed member of the War Office, where everyone was seen to be expendable for the right cause and, sometimes, the wrong one. He must always have his eye to the bigger picture, the security and protection of England.
“Then continue on.” The spymaster cocked an eyebrow. “No woman involved in this who you feel you should rescue is there?”
Jason tightened his jaw, as the heavy weight of responsibility settled over his shoulders. “Yes, several, as a matter of fact, and two young males. Lord Kinsey is away in the East.”
Parnell gave him a wry glance then picked up a sheath of papers. “Send Bartlett in on your way out. And keep me informed.”
Leaving Whitehall, Jason made his way to Mr. Belvedere’s home in Curzon Street. A solidly built man in his fifties, he was a member of the Royal College of Surgeons, who Jason considered to be a cut above the self-serving quacks and sawbones he’d dealt with in the past.
Belvedere pushed the tonic bottle across the desk to Jason. “I’ve tested this. Arsenic. There was enough to prostrate Smyth while slowly killing him. I might have suspected poisoning, but other symptoms masked it. The patient had not told me he was taking a tonic. I would certainly have advised him to stop. God knows what these unscrupulous, so-called herbalists add to their medicines they peddle to desperate people. I became suspicious at the amount of hair Smyth was losing, but it was too late then.”
Jason’s hand tensed around the bottle.
“It wouldn’t have helped the poor fellow much if he had stopped. I ordered an autopsy on Mr. Smyth. He had a cancerous tumor of the stomach and only a few months to live.”
“Thank you.” Jason drew in a breath to ease his tight chest. “I’ll take the bottle with me and pay this herbalist a visit.”
“You won’t stop these people, though. Once they’ve found a way to fleece the public they don’t let up.”
“Unless they’re placed behind bars,” Jason said bitterly as rage rampaged through him.
“Quite so, but there’s no law to enforce it, sadly. One day perhaps.”
Jason pocketed the bottle and walked home. Should the poisoning prove to be deliberate, it would have to be handed over to Bow Street for evidence. Tonight, he had other fish to fry in a certain gambling establishment. And he would go armed.
Entering the house, he was informed that Charlie was escorting Miss Groton and her aunt to a concert while Lizzie was dining with the baron. Events were moving forward without him. He buried a sense of disquiet and ran upstairs to change.
Some hours later, Jason walked into the inner sanctum of the gaming hell in a narrow lane in St. James’s. Men and a scattering of women, some ladies and some not, clustered around the tables where the dice game hazard, backgammon, and card games were in play. Two crystal chandeliers cast their heated light over the heads of the gamblers. The windowless rooms were designed to fleece the “pigeons”—those who lost fortunes in the smoky, stale atmosphere, disorientated, and cut off from the outside world. A roar went up as a young lord staggered away, declaring he would shoot himself, after losing his estate in a game ofvingt-et-un.
It took Jason little time to locate Fred Pomfret, roaming the tables, a cheroot in his hand. Charlie had described the big, hefty man perfectly, his mean face, broken nose, and mane of red hair. He saw Jason and ambled over to him, no doubt judging him to be a plump pigeon and keen to relieve him of his blunt.
“I should like a word with you, Pomfret, somewhere quiet.”
Pomfret’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe we’ve met, Mr.…?”
“Peyton.” Jason handed him his card.
Pomfret nodded. “Our best French champagne is on offer to those who fought for England, Captain. Require a stake? We can do that too.”
“Just lead the way to your office, Pomfret.”
With a cautious frown, Pomfret turned and led Jason to a small room. When Pomfret jerked his thumb at the cashier, the man rose and left.
“Now, Captain. What can I do for you?” he asked, adopting a conciliatory tone. “Some young relative of yours got himself into trouble? We aren’t nursemaids ’ere.”
