Busick wasn’t about to allow Patience to be in danger.
A practiced strategist would cede a battle but not the war. He’d agree to allow her to leave, but she wasn’t the only one who could employ secretive tactics.
CHAPTER 22
WATCHING ANDWAITING
Isat next to Jemina in Daniel Thackery’s carriage, an elegant conveyance of polished ebony exterior with brass side lanterns and four riders atop. I’d ridden in it before, wearing rags, with Jemina glued to my side, like now.
Today, at least, she looked good, a nice clean dress of light gray. She held my gloved hands. “It will be well.”
Thackery shook his head, maybe even rolled his eyes.
Lady Shrewsbury’s nephew was a nice-looking man bearing the tanned skin of a Corinthian. He’d freed us from Bedlam, and I was grateful for his efforts shepherding us to Town, so I’d forgive his staring at Jemina and me as if we were witless.
I released my friend’s hands and clutched my knees. “Out with it, sir.”
Thumbing his waistcoat buttons, he slouched on the seat, his coal-black eyes lifting. “I do many things for my aunt. She’s the dearest—but traipsing about London with a woman dressed as a man is lunacy. We should turn back.”
Jemina waggled her finger at him. “It will work. Mrs. Jordan has been playing a man for a month. She does it quite well.”
He leaned forward, caught her finger, and lowered it. “Spirited little creature, aren’t you? Don’t take this the wrong way, but didn’t I collect you two from Bedlam? All three of us should be headed there now.”
I glared at him as if I were the duke, tough and assured. “I can do this. And this is your fault.”
“Mine? Hardly, madam . . . sir . . . Hmmm.”
“You saunter into Hamlin and tell us that A. Sullivan, the man who canceled over two thousand pounds of my husband’s debt, could be the name of an inspector working at a gaming hell. Today, you say it could be a reverend who gambled with Jordan.”
“My apologies. I don’t saunter. My stride has been said to be confident. I don’t spend time gambling, so I have no way of knowing who A. Sullivan is.”
“I do. That’s why I’m in this getup.” I tugged on my jet waistcoat with silver stripes. “If the man I saw arguing with my late husband is the Sullivan the inspector and not the fallen priest—”
“Minister, ma’am. Though gambling during the week and proffering Communion on Sunday isn’t quite a paragon of virtue.”
“Well, if it’s the inspector, then we know this diary holds entries of a conspiracy. We know that Markham wants this back. This is why he wants me gone. I can identify Sullivan. I’m a witness to the conspiracy.”
The barrister’s expression sharpened. “If this Sullivan is the inspector, the man responsible for collecting and settling credit at Piccadilly’s gaming hell, this book denotes a treacherous conspiracy. It still doesn’t prove the other two things.”
“It’s a start to answering questions.”
He folded his arms and leaned his head back. “I’m hoping for the gospel of the dice. Then there will be no encumbrances on Hamlin, and your son’s legacy will be clear.”
That was a good possibility, but not the reason I donned menswear. I was desperate. This Sullivan caused my husband’s suicide. Not my note to Collin, not my failure at being an understanding wife or turning the other cheek.
I tugged on my crisp white cravat, then slipped my perspiring hands again to my pantaloons. “If he’d borrowed money or won from this minister, wouldn’t that be in the diary, too? Like my dear friend, my husband was precise about numbers.”
“His records are detailed, but are they complete? Is anything missing?”
My letter was missing. I’d stashed it in a drawer in my room. I should’ve burned it. Set it to flames.
That would take away my frustrated words but not my pain.
“Mrs. Jordan, do you truly understand what this means if Sullivan is an inspector?”
Jemina flipped through the diary again. “Extortion. No one would cancel IOUs because of choice words.”
“Does that matter, Mr. Thackery?”
