Jack smiled. “Miss McBain. Can you add anything more to your father’s description of the stranger?”
She raised her head from toying with a piece of straw, her cheeks pink. “He had a tattoo on his neck here.” She pointed to just below her ear. “I’ve never seen one before. Papa thought he might have been in the navy.”
“Or a pirate, more like,” her father added.
“Can you describe the tattoo?” Jack asked.
“A rose with a dagger through it,” she said, her big, gray eyes wide. “I asked him what it meant, and he laughed. Said it was a sign of prowess, strength.” She pouted at her father. “Then Papa told me to go and help me mam.”
Taking his leave, Jack thanked her, making her blush again. She came out to watch him as he climbed into his curricle and took up the reins. Leaving the village behind, he drove along the road toward London, passing a packed stagecoach racing toward the city, thecustomers clinging perilously to their seats on the roof. He still knew frustratingly little about this man who, he was confident, had shot Lord Sedgewick. But he wasn’t ready to consider the trip a waste of time.
On impulse, he stopped again in Wandsworth to quench his thirst and water his horse. He questioned the tavern owner, who remembered having words with the man.
Jack came away with an interesting piece of information. Drinking his ale, the fellow had let slip how he lived within the shadow of the East End theater. He’d remarked on the new, fascinating gas-lit stage.
It was a large area to cover, but Jack didn’t give up easily. He was confident he would hunt him down. A man such as this would be sure to visit his favorite tavern. Jack just had to be there when he did.
Chapter Nine
Sir Eric Wallace’sreply to Prue’s letter came the next day, delivered by his footman. His lordship offered his sincere condolences and stated that he would be pleased to call on Lady Aldridge and Prue the following day at two o’clock.
Prue tossed about in bed that night, trying to think of the best way to put such a delicate question to Sir Eric. Every attempt she came up with failed to soften the brutality of her father’s death. And just thinking about it brought tears to her eyes.
Prue dragged herself from her bed the next morning. At the breakfast table, Gramma eyed her over her teacup and commented on Prue’s woebegone face.
“You shan’t beguile Sir Eric into confessing to any knowledge, while you look so wan. You’re as pale as porcelain, Prudence,” she said, surveying her. “I have just the thing to restore your fresh, youthful complexion. Come to my chamber after breakfast.”
“But Sir Eric won’t notice how I look,” Prue protested. “He’s older than Papa was.”
“‘Won’t notice’? My dear, all men take notice of a pretty girl, even when they are on their deathbed.”
Gramma had a remarkable array of lotions and creams, one deliciously perfumed, she applied to Prue’s face. Under Gramma’s light touch, the shadows beneath Prue’s eyes faded.
“It’s a good thing you have skin like smooth cream. Very much like your mama’s,” Gramma remarked, adding a touch of rouge to Prue’s pale cheeks. “Now I defy any gentleman to refuse to help you.”
Not very long after, the women freshly adorned and ready, Sir Eric entered the drawing room with a somber expression. Kissing their hands, he expressed his deep sorrow at the appalling news. He held himself like the soldier he once had been, his shoulders pushed back, his gray hair ordered, while no wrinkle dared mar his marine-blue tailcoat, fawn pantaloons, and highly polished Hessians.
He seated himself in an upholstered chair, pulled his cuffs down, and crossed his legs. “In your letter, you mentioned your father’s memorial, Lady Prudence.”
“You and my father were friends of such long standing. Gramma and I would be terribly grateful if you could say a few words at his memorial, Sir Eric.”
He smiled. “I valued your father’s friendship, my dear. I should be delighted.”
Under his compassionate, yet worldly-wise green gaze, Prue sat upright on the edge of the seat as if a poker had been attached to her spine. She considered again how best to broach the subject of her father’s murder. Might he be prepared to reveal more about the business partnership he and her father were involved in? She had little confidence he would. Women were excluded from such matters. “It’s my hope you can throw light on why my father was murdered,” she said, deciding to come right out with it. “Who could hate him so much that he wanted Papa dead.”
Sir Eric’s bushy, gray eyebrows snapped together, his expression wary. “I wish I had something to tell you that might ease your suffering, Lady Prudence. But I regret I am stunned that anyone would want to hurt as good a man as your father.”
“Perhaps you can make anything of this? Did my father mention this to you?” Prue handed Mr. Everton’s letter to him. He read it, thenglanced up. “I have no idea who would write this or even to what it refers.” He rubbed his brow. “I advise you to be patient. We must wait and see what the investigation turns up.”
Gramma stirred beside Prue. Earlier, she had mentioned the old proverb: you catch more flies with honey. Prue had never felt less like appeasing the gentleman; if he knew something, he wasn’t about to reveal it. This had been a waste of time. Would she face a brick wall when she tried to delve into the world men inhabited, which had never been available to her and certainly wouldn’t be now?
As the tea tray was brought in, Gramma adroitly drew the conversation in a different direction, discussing the unseasonable weather. “It was as if summer never arrived.” Gramma handed him a cup of tea she had poured and offered him the plates of tiny wedges of cress sandwiches and seed cake. “So cold and wet! We were all far too housebound and cast into the doldrums.”
“Indeed!” He stirred a lump of sugar in his tea with a spoon. “Ah, my favorite.” He placed a slice of cake on his plate. “I read about gales in Scotland playing havoc with ships.”
When he rose to take his leave, Prue delayed him with another question. “Could you tell me, then, sir, if there was a change in Papa’s demeanor when you saw him last?” Before he could deny it, she rushed on. “Did he tell you about the carriage accident, which was passed off as a rusty bolt on a wheel?”
His eyes were gentle and filled with sympathy. “He did tell me of it. And now that you mention it, he was a little distracted when we last dined together. But he did not mention any fear he might harbor for his life.”
