Wearing a curious frown, Mr D’Angelo considered her intently. “I, too, believe Babington is the culprit.” He gestured to the red velvet cushions lining the bench. “Though I am keen to hear how you came to that conclusion.”
Beatrice dried her eyes and returned the gentleman’s handkerchief. “You agreed to barter. One piece of information for another. It wouldn’t do to reveal all my secrets.”
“We were interrupted before I gave my consent.” He waited for her to sit and then settled beside her. “But we share a goal, both seek to catch the culprit, and so I accept your terms.”
Their shared goal amounted to more than identifying a swindler. She wanted to find the person who murdered his parents as much as he did.
“Excellent. Let us discuss the facts.” Beatrice managed a smile. “A gentleman professing to be a wealthy merchant purchased the widow’s rare ormolu clock for two hundred pounds. Naively, the widow took his cheque and gave him the heirloom.”
“And when presented, the cheque proved to be a forgery.” Mr D’Angelo was frugal with his information and gave nothing away.
“It occurred to me that this wasn’t his first crime,” she said. “According to Mrs Emery, he exuded an aristocratic confidence. Must be highly educated because he professed to hail from Lancashire, yet had no accent. As you know, criminals often tell some semblance of the truth when inventing a tale. Mr Babington’s parents hail from Rochdale, and while his father is a gentleman, his mother’s family are wealthy wool merchants.”
“Lancashire? The widow made no mention of it to me.”
Mrs Emery had commented on Mr D’Angelo’s dark, dangerous eyes, on the fact one should be wary of anyone of Italian heritage. “Mrs Emery found you intimidating. After her initial shock upon meeting me, she was grateful that Mr Daventry sent a female agent.”
“Did the widow tell you anything else important?”
Beatrice grinned but resisted the urge to tap him playfully on the arm. “It is your turn to reveal information, Mr D’Angelo.”
He inclined his head, conceding. “I believe Babington has committed many crimes. But where does one sell stolen items without leaving a trace? I discovered he uses numerous pawnbrokers, men willing to turn a blind eye to his misdeeds.”
Beatrice knew Mr Babington had various means of profiting from his ill-gotten gains. But she had focused on another line of enquiry.
“I gathered information about a gang known to work from the London docks. They smuggle stolen goods abroad, expensive items that are too identifiable to be sold locally. A gentleman of quality arranged to hide items amongst the cargo—a diamond brooch, a topaz and chrysoberyl bracelet, and a gold-mounted tortoiseshell snuffbox.”
Mr D’Angelo folded his arms across his broad chest and grinned. “You speak of Gilbert Stint’s gang?”
“Perhaps.”
His inquisitive gaze journeyed over her hair, her face, dipped to her breasts. “How did you gain that information when Stint refused to discuss the matter with me? Even after I delivered a swift upper-cut to the scoundrel’s jaw, he continued to play dumb.”
“I have many contacts in the rookeries, Mr D’Angelo.” During her first few days in London, she had been lucky enough to find work at a tavern run by Alice Crouch—a formidable woman with a fondness for waifs. Luckily, Mr Stint had a fondness for the buxom proprietor of the Bull in the Barn. “But while their information proves useful, I cannot present it as evidence.”
Beatrice would never betray Alice.
“Lady Giles lost her chrysoberyl bracelet at Mr Babington’s masquerade in August,” Beatrice continued. She had earned that priceless piece of information by befriending the lady’s maid. “And Mr Winston-Jones lost his snuffbox during a private party at the Blue Jade, a club known—”
“For opium-fuelled orgies.”
“You’ve been?”
“No, Miss Sands. I’ve never had the need to pay for pleasure.”
“Of course not.” A man oozing raw masculinity must have a host of willing bed partners. “Mr Babington is a regular patron of the Blue Jade. It cannot be a coincidence.” Beatrice paused. “It is your turn to divulge a secret, sir.”
Mischief glinted in his black eyes. “A reason I believe Babington is guilty, or do you wish to know something personal, Miss Sands?”
“While it’s important we know each other better, sir, we should focus on our current case.”
They had plenty of time
to become acquainted. The only way to prove Babington’s guilt was to catch him in the act. Once she had proven her worth, she would offer to help Mr D’Angelo find the man who murdered his parents. The man who murdered her father, too.
“The blackguard sold Mrs Emery’s ormolu clock to a pawnbroker in Holborn,” he said. “The owner’s description—a man an inch shy of six feet, with brown wavy hair and a pasty complexion—confirms it’s Babington.”
“Mrs Emery described the merchant as having chalk-white skin.” Beatrice had pressed the old woman, needing her to confirm what she had learnt from Mr Stint. “I believe Mr Babington uses a mix of wax and powder to cover the purple birthmark on his cheek.”