“It’s been too long between drops.” Jackson gritted his teeth. He’d been careful. Meticulous. And yet... “I must have questioned the wrong person. Come on too strong.”
He wouldn’t allow himself to draw parallels between the investigation and his recent behavior. “Something must have shaken loose,” he finished.
Not a total loss in and of itself. Jackson could go back through his list of interviews and double-check his impressions with any movements his men had noted over the past two weeks. Simply because Mrs. Dove-Lyon didn’t appear to be the inside man didn’t mean someone lower on the totem pole hadn’t thought to earn a bit extra.
“Roberts—”
“You want me to look into those previously questioned for any connection to the gang.” Roberts sniffed as if offended Jackson needed to ask. “Doubt we’ll find anything useful. The counterfeiters obviously haven’t found you a great enough nuisance to act.”
Jackson frowned. “What makes you say that?”
He shrugged. “No one has tried to kill you yet.”
Jackson snorted. “Your insight into the criminal mind grows more concerning by the day.”
Unfortunately, the man’s instincts were usually the very thing.
Jackson moved on. What else could he do? “Where are you on the investigation into William Greene’s connection to the brothel?”
“’Bout where I started,” Roberts said.
Jackson frowned down at the dark grain of his desk. “Nothing?” Telling for a man of Roberts’s skills. The man could make a suit of armor give up its mettle.
“Lord Brixby’s debts to the Lyon’s Den were deep before his sister’s selfless sacrifice—”
Jackson rolled his eyes at the man’s jab.
“—but my contact at London Trust says with some creative shuffling, the viscount would’ve seen his vowels torn up. There was no need for the man to go into hiding.”
Jackson nodded. His preliminary inquiries into the Brixby estate had arrived at the same conclusion. “Have there been any shady characters coming around the Brixby townhome? Any suspicious letters?” Just because William could pay his debts to Mrs. Dove-Lyon didn’t mean the man hadn’t other vowels around the city, held by less forgiving hands.
“Ransom, ya thinkin’?” Roberts made a face. “Not smart if usurers want to get paid. A fool knows taking a lord’s sister would see a better payday than taking the man himself.”
The thought of Anna taken—a hostage for some lowlife’s scheme... Better Jackson not tread that particular road of thought if he planned to attend his wedding tomorrow with any hope of civility.
“There was some tension with an uncle on the father’s side,” Roberts said.
Jackson frowned. “Sir Daniel?” Yes, Anna had claimed as much.
Roberts nodded. “My man reported the baronet was making inquiries into the Brixby estate and grew red about the collar when Lord Brixby’s solicitor showed him the door.”
Jackson’s brows rose. Sounded like a man with a temper and an unhealthy curiosity over his nephew’s holdings. “What kind of inquiries?”
“The kind that end in shouting and adon’t come back.” Roberts lifted his chin. “What are you thinking, Your Grace?”
That your good breeding is showing. The case must have truly caught Roberts’s attention if he’d let his gutter slang drop.
Jackson kept that tidbit to himself. There were few things Humphrey Roberts, second son to the Earl of Barnes, hatedmore than being himself. “Seems William Brixby has found himself one hell of a solicitor,” he said instead.
“Here’s hoping yours is as well, seeing as that bricky intended of yours may burn the estates down one by one.”
Jackson didn’t ask how Roberts had come to define Anna’s nature so well. The man had a nose for people’s true intentions.
“She wouldn’t burn them,” he said, more hopeful than certain. “She’d simply change all the locks, with me on the other side of the door.”
Roberts grinned and mimed raising a glass. “Here’s to your last night of freedom.”
Jackson shook his head, less apprehensive about tomorrow than he’d thought he’d be. “Will you be attending the wedding?”
