“Unless one was a gent with more blunt to spend,” came Scupper’s sensible reply. “Then he might have paid for the better horse.”
“Well, it’s something to think about.” Beatrice informed Scupper she would like the compote of pears and dessert biscuits. “I know you’re reluctant to visit the earl without proof Mr Coulter’s letters are genuine, but he may hold vital clues to the case.”
She meant the heir to the earldom might have hired a middle-class cutthroat eighteen years ago to destroy any evidence naming him as Summers’ bastard.
“Let’s see what my grandmother has to say when we visit tomorrow. I’m confident she is the one to blame.” Dante paused to inform Thomas he fancied a slice of nougat and almond cake. “On second thoughts, I’ll take the letters to Bow Street once we’ve seen the countess. I suspect we will need them as leverage, and there’s a chance Sir Malcolm will insist on keeping them.”
Beatrice licked compote from her spoon while lost in thought.
Dante watched her tongue slip over the silver metal, and while he imagined them flinging off their clothes and jumping into bed, he knew she was plagued by questions about the case.
“You said my father gave Alessandro his pistol. Did Alessandro not fire at the assailants?”
“He tried to fire, but the mechanism jammed. I believe there was a fault with the weapon.”
“A fault?” Her soft voice trembled. “A fault?”
Dante dismissed the servants, but Scupper lingered at the door. “I hope you catch ’em, sir, give ’em a right old punch on the muzzler.”
“He means mouth,” Beatrice said, swallowing rapidly as if she might cry.
“I’m familiar with the term.” The bare-knuckle boxers at the White Boar used it frequently. “I give you my word, I’ll do a damn sight more than that.” Dante smiled at the boy. “Run along and finish your duties, and then Cook will give you supper.”
The boy left them alone, though the tension in the room was palpable.
Dante thought he understood Beatrice’s dilemma. “I doubt your father knew there was a problem with the weapon.”
She winced as if she’d swallowed something foul. “Dante, I fear my loyalty to my father is misplaced. I fear the crime had nothing to do with the countess, and my father sought to plan a robbery and use the money to pay his debts. A robbery that went horribly wrong when his accomplices turned traitor.”
The first tear fell, then another, and she covered her face with her hands.
Dante stood. He threw his napkin down, rounded the table and drew her out of the chair. “Beatrice, please don’t cry.” The sight tore at his heart. “Lorenzo said my father was an excellent judge of character. Alessandro would not have hired a man without references.”
“There m-must be a way we can check with Mr M-Manning.” She choked on a sob. “Check to see if he lent my father money. Oh, Dante, why would my father want to hire a horse if not to ensure he wasn’t in the carriage when the villains stopped it on the road?”
Dante wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. “So he might return home to you.”
“What if that’s why he climbed down from the coach first?” She clutched the lapels of his coat, ignoring his reasoning. “Because he knew the men aiming the pistols. What if he paid the coachman to stop at the common?”
Yes, there was a slim possibility Henry Watson had betrayed his employers, but the evidence against the countess was insurmountable.
“If it’s true, Dante, I would have to resign my position. Mr Daventry won’t want a murderer’s daughter in his employ.” Through red-rimmed eyes, she met his gaze. “And you, you will come to despise me, come to see me as a physical reminder of your pain. I’d have no choice but to leave, leave London.”
Leave!
It seemed blind panic was contagious.
The mere thought of her abandoning him, of being alone again, had his heart pounding so hard it might burst from his chest. Then he started ruminating about how much
it would hurt to lose her, feeling the agonising ache as if he’d woken one morning to find her gone.
“Your father is innocent.” He felt the truth of it deep in his gut.
“I’m not so sure.” She cupped his cheek. “Whatever happens, being with you has made me happier than I’ve been in my entire life. You must go forward, Dante, with hope in your eyes and gratitude in your heart.”
Why the hell was she talking like she’d packed her valise, like she clutched a mail coach ticket destined for Plymouth? Like this was goodbye?
He wanted to tell her to stop being irrational, but he did the only thing he could to ease his sudden wave of insecurity.