Irritation scraped at the back of his neck. Subtle and probing weren’t working. “Do you know what has become of Lord Brixby?”
A pause.
“You’ve grown quite forthright since your nuptials, Your Grace,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said.
Jackson grinned. “What can I say? My duchess is an excellent influence.”
“I was not responsible for his disappearance,” she said. Direct in kind.
Not direct enough.
He shot her another grin. “That isn’t what I asked, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
She offered a responding curve to those ruby lips through the veil. “No, it wasn’t.” She set down her teacup. Stalling, he imagined. But when she sat back in her chair, her voice was clear, unhesitant. “I have my suspicions of what became of Lord Brixby, but I have neither proof nor confirmation.”
Now wasn’t the time to hold back.
Jackson leaned forward. “I will pay handsomely for your suspicions.”
A laugh. Jackson imagined her brows hitting her hairline.
“Reckless last words if ever I heard any.” Her finger tapped the edge of the desk. Thinking? Calculating down to the pennies she could squeeze from him, no doubt.
But the next surprise was his as she continued, “Much as I would enjoy lightening your purse, Your Grace, this business over Lord Brixby’s disappearance has caused nothing but a headache for me. If it would see the young lord home and put an end to this parade of uninvited guests, I will depart with my thoughts without regret.” A flash of a smile. “Or receipt.”
“I’m listening.”
“Brixby’s cousin,” she said. “I hear Sir Daniel passed some weeks back and the son has inherited the title... and not much else.”
Jackson frowned. He’d heard nothing of the baronet’s death. “The man owed money?”
“Speculations gone wrong,” she clarified. “The baronet was all but penniless.” A knowing pause. “Left his son too poor to pay the butcher’s bill.”
Desperation was a powerful motive.
So was greed.
Inheriting a wealthy viscounty could go a long way in refilling a man’s coffers.
And thanks to Anna’s deal with Mrs. Dove-Lyon, William’s vowels had been shredded and burned.
Anna.
Jackson’s gut twisted. Anna was strong, loyal, but if her brother was the victim of foul play, the news would break her. She, who loved so fiercely.
Rap. Rap.
Both their heads turned toward the interior door.
“Enter,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said.
An attendant stepped inside, her expression composed, the turban around her head a muted lavender. “Mr. Bogart is here as you requested, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Helena,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “Show him in. The duke was just leaving.”
Jackson didn’t bother to linger. A quick bow to the woman in black, and his feet raced out the main door, across the hall, down the stairs, and into the back alley.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s suspicions may have been nothing. A fleeting bit of gossip and conjecture. Could be Mrs. Dove-Lyon thought to use this bit of news as a simple delay tactic to throw him off the scent of The Printer.
