Dark Angel (Gentlemen of the Order 4)

“No, grandma,” came the mouse-like whisper.

Mrs Crockett snatched the receipt found in Babington’s study and thrust it at her granddaughter. “Check this against the ledger for June, and then July if you’ve no luck there.”

The young woman took the note with her shaky hand and opened the first book.

Beatrice glanced at Dante and arched a brow. He appeared equally suspicious. Why would a woman who’d spent the morning tonging her hair, whose dress clung to her hips, a woman who clearly adored attention, struggle to look at them?

“We’ve reason to believe he stole the diamond ring.” Dante watched the woman intently as she flipped through the pages. “We apprehended Babington in the process of stealing a ring from an elderly widow.”

“Yes,” Beatrice said, “he confessed just before he escaped custody and some devil stabbed him in the street. Mr Babington had stolen many items of sentimental value, and we assume one of his victims sought revenge.”

The faint pat, pat was that of teardrops hitting the page.

“Jane?” Mrs Crockett touched her granddaughter’s arm. “Are you cryin’? What the devil’s wrong with you? You’re not havin’ a fit of the vapours again?”

Jane’s shoulders shook. The distressed woman looked up from the ledger, tears streaming down her face. “Please, Mr D’Angelo. I—I don’t know anything about the stolen rings.”

This attractive woman knew Dante?

“Ah—I see.” Dante considered Jane’s fine features. “Everything is a little clearer now.”

“It ain’t so clear to me,” Mrs Crockett grumbled.

The muscles in Jane’s throat worked tirelessly as she tried to speak. “You remember the gentleman I told you about, Grandma.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “The one who agreed to set me up as his m-mistress, give me an allowance, enough so you could close the shop, and—”

“I told you. I don’t want to close the shop.”

“But it’s too much for you, and—”

“I’ve seen you at Babington’s parties,” Dante interjected.

The dark-haired beauty nodded. “My friend is mistress to Lord Stanwick.”

“Stanwick?” Dante raised a brow. “The man keeps a harem.”

Jane shrugged. “That’s how I met George.”

Mrs Crockett suddenly cursed like a drunken sailor. “You bottle-headed fool! These stiff-rumped gents are all the same, rotten to the core. They’d steal your dying breath given half a chance.” She grinned at Dante. “No offence, sir.”

Jane dashed away her tears. “George loves me!”

Beatrice felt a stab of sympathy and didn’t have the heart to correct her use of present tense. Poor Jane wished to escape her lowly station and the clutches of her controlling grandmother. What option did she have other than to use her God-given gifts?

The old woman raised her hand as if to slap sense into her granddaughter’s head, but glanced at Dante and thought twice. “Oh, it’s all fancy talk, sir. The girl has been seduced by a scoundrel and cannot be blamed for the mistake.”

“Babington has never kept a mistress, never wished to be financially responsible for any woman. He played games, toyed with people, discarded them like pawns, and would never have made a commitment to your granddaughter, madam.”

“You’re wrong!” Jane slammed her hand on the ledger to object. “He gave me the diamond ring as proof of his loyalty.”

“Diamond ring?” Mrs Crockett snapped. “What diamond ring?”

“It’s likely stolen,” Beatrice said, saddened by the woman’s naiveté. Stolen from another one of Babington’s victims. “And if it was a gift, why give him a receipt from your grandmother’s shop?”

Jane’s cheeks flamed. Tears filled her eyes.

“Tell us,” Dante said in a remarkably cool tone. “Babington is dead. If you wish to dissociate yourself from his criminal deeds, you must tell us what you know.”

Jane glanced at her grandmother, fear marring her porcelain complexion. “I gave George twenty pounds for the ring. It was a token gesture. A joke between us. But I made him take the receipt because I had to write it in the ledger.”