Dark Angel (Gentlemen of the Order 4)

“Perhaps you need to reconsider your social calendar.”

His gaze dipped to her lips

. “Perhaps I do.”

Mr Craddock’s return brought an end to their banter. “Here we have a diamond and topaz parure, sir.” The stunning necklace and earrings sparkled in the black velvet box. “The necklace can be worn as two bracelets. The pendant removed and worn as a brooch. The rose-cut diamonds are of superb quality and together amount to twelve carats.”

Beatrice gasped. “It’s beautiful, Mr Craddock. But how can we be assured they are real diamonds and not paste imitations?”

Flabbergasted, Mr Craddock made an odd popping sound with his mouth. “Madam, I assure you, everything sold is of the highest quality, appraised by experts in the field. You’ll find nothing finer.”

“That is reassuring, sir, though one wonders why your appraisal of Mrs Emery’s ormolu clock proved unfavourable. Or why you informed Mr Walters that the diamonds in his wife’s ring were poorly cut, shallow, mere slivers.”

Mr Craddock almost choked on his own spittle. “I beg your pardon?”

Beatrice glanced over her shoulder before leaning closer. “You lied, sir. You lied and informed them they should sell the items privately, encouraged them to place an advertisement in a certain periodical. You kept a record of the items, a record you sent to a gentleman whose face is marred by a purple birthmark.”

Shock widened the man’s eyes until they practically bulged from their sockets. “You must have me mistaken with some—”

“Do not test my patience, else I shall call the proprietor and discuss it with him.” Beatrice firmed her jaw, imagining it was her aunt’s odious husband standing behind the oak counter. Filthy scoundrel. “I stole evidence of your involvement from the gentleman’s study last night. You made the mistake of signing your name on a document.”

Mr Craddock’s beady eyes flitted about as he scoured the shop for a means of escape.

“You cannot run. Not when you need funds to settle your debts. Run, and we’re likely to find your bloated corpse bobbing in the Thames. I’m afraid your only option is to persuade us to turn a blind eye to your misdeeds.”

Beatrice faced Mr D’Angelo, seeking his support.

“Should you doubt the lady’s word, let me offer proof.” Mr D’Angelo removed the trade card from his coat pocket. “This was attached to your correspondence. That is your name scribbled on the back?”

The man’s ballooning cheeks flamed. “If it’s money you want, you’re out of luck. I haven’t a penny to—”

“We want to know of your most recent correspondence.” Mr D’Angelo straightened to his full, intimidating height. “I want the name and address of the last person you deceived, the person you advised to sell their heirloom privately.”

Mr Craddock’s bulbous lips quivered.

“Tell us now,” Beatrice pressed, “else we shall be forced to call a constable. Both Mrs Emery and Mr Walker are willing to testify to your treachery.”

After a few seconds deliberation where he scratched his head and mumbled like a madman, Mr Craddock took a pencil and piece of paper from a drawer beneath the counter and with shaky hands scribbled the details. He slipped it to Mr D’Angelo.

“Should the information prove false, I shall return after dark, drag you into an alley,” Mr D’Angelo threatened. He snatched the note and scanned the man’s scribblings before capturing Beatrice’s elbow. “Come, let us leave Mr Craddock to contemplate his future.”

“But what about the d-diamond and topaz parure?” Mr Craddock stammered as they made to leave. “The stones would complement the lady’s eyes perfectly.”

Mr D’Angelo cast Beatrice a sidelong glance. “Some women require men to give a little more thought to their gifts.”

Beatrice smiled, though her stomach lurched when they stepped out onto Cornhill and Mr D’Angelo mentioned a coffeehouse close by. He approached the carriage and informed Mr Bower of their intention before escorting Beatrice to a rowdy establishment further along the street.

Upon entering, he pointed to a particular booth occupied by four gentlemen, then slipped the waiter a few coins and waited while he ushered the men on their way.

“Do you always get what you want, sir?” Beatrice whispered as she settled into the booth. “Do people always do your bidding?”

“Usually,” was all he said before ordering port wine, not coffee.

While a glass of port would calm her nerves, she ordered a cup of chocolate to settle her roiling stomach.

Amid the loud chatter of conversation and the bursts of laughter filling the crowded room, they remained silent. Beatrice thought to discuss what they had learned from Mr Craddock but knew the brooding gentleman opposite had but one topic on his mind.

When their drinks came, he downed his port and ordered another.