Dark Angel (Gentlemen of the Order 4)

Babington coughed. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’ve told me a tale, sir. You strike me as a man who indulges in all manner of vices. Your eyes are cold and hard and carry a selfish streak that is evident in the arrogant curl of your lips, evident in the way you grip your walking stick as if you might beat anyone who questions your intentions.”

Walking stick? Dante had not witnessed Babington enter the house, and so this was Miss Sands’ way of informing him the fiend had a weapon. Damn the woman for putting herself at risk when she could have let Dante deal with the matter.

Babington’s rasping laugh was meant to intimidate. “A man must spin a tale to secure the best price. But the deed is done, Mrs Monroe. You have the cheque, and so I shall be on my way before you say something you may regret.”

“Is that a threat, sir?” she said, raising her veil.

“Take it however you please, madam.” He moved towards the door, blocking Dante’s view. “Suffice to say, I shall refrain from calling again.”

“When the magistrate discovers you’ve used fraudulent means to steal a sapphire ring, Mr Babington, you will struggle to make house calls from your cell in Newgate.”

Babington remained motionless for a time, every muscle frozen, though in his mind he was surely plotting how he might silence the woman. A swipe with his stick would do the trick.

He swung around and raised his stick aloft. “You interfering old—”

Dante was about to rush into the room when Miss Sands cried, “Take one step closer, and I’ll shoot.”

Shoot? Shoot! She’d made no mention of a pistol.

Silence ensued—a stalemate.

Dante had no option but to make himself known lest Babington knock the pistol from Miss Sands’ hand and bludgeon her to death.

“Lower your walking stick, Babington.” Dante shoved open the door and blocked the exit. “Do not make a bad situation worse.”

Babington took one look over his shoulder and cursed. “Dante D’Angelo. Should you not be catching villains instead of hounding innocent men? Are you so eager for work, you’ve taken to inventing crimes?”

“Inventing crimes? We’ve been collecting evidence against you for months. This little meeting is the culmination of our efforts.”

Babington glanced at the drawing room window as if contemplating his escape. “You have me at a loss, D’Angelo. I saw Mrs Monroe’s advertisement and wished to purchase her ring.”

“But you’ve paid with a cheque drawn on Sir James Esdaile’s bank,” Miss Sands said, keeping her pocket pistol aimed at the devious gentleman. “We know you do not have an account there. Therefore, you used fraudulent means to steal from Mrs Monroe. It’s a crime punishable by death.”

Looking somewhat like a snared rabbit, Babington’s beady eyes darted about in their sockets. There was only one way to save his neck, and so he charged at Dante, tried to knock him to the floor in a desperate attempt to flee.

Being used to brawling with much stronger men, Dante stood firm, looked for an opening and threw a punch that connected hard with Babington’s jaw. Babington flew back, landing on Mrs Monroe’s pink Aubusson rug.

Dante was at the writhing devil’s side in seconds. He snatched his mother’s brooch from his coat pocket, grabbed Babington by the throat and forced him to look at the decorative heirloom.

“You pawned this at McCarthy’s in Holborn along with Mrs Emery’s ormolu clock. You’ll tell me how you came by it, or by God, I shall beat you to death.”

Hatred surged in Dante’s veins. Hatred tainted his blood.

Babington tried to prise Dante’s vice-like fingers from his throat. “I’ve never seen it before.”

“I don’t care if you stole it, if you were given it in exchange for some other criminal deed. But you will tell me how you happened to pawn a brooch that was ripped from my mother’s dress moments before she was murdered!”

Miss Sands’ shocked gasp mirrored the surprise in Babington’s eyes. He clutched Dante’s hand in an attempt to catch his breath. “I—I cannot remember where I got the brooch.”

“Tell him!” Miss Sands cried, darting from the chair to the floor. She aimed her pistol an inch above Babington’s manhood. “Accidents happen during a scuffle. Tell him what he wants to know, else I shall pull the trigger. How will you service your mistresses then?”

The determination in her voice left Babington in no doubt she would follow through with her threat.

“Wait! Wait! I’ll tell you. I stole it from a house in Wilson Street off Finsbury Square.”

“Who lives there?” Dante’s heart pounded so fast he could barely focus. Despite numerous trips to Italy to dig into his father’s background, months of trawling through documents and estate ledgers, he had never found a motive for murder.