Cris watched the exchange between Tamsyn and Chelford, then crossed the card room to intercept the man just as Gabriel reached his side. As he passed he took a glass from the tray a footman was holding, stumbled and spilled the contents down Chelford’s waistcoat.
‘My dear fellow! So clumsy of me, here, let me help.’ He dabbed heavily at the stain, took the furious viscount by the arm and marched him towards a door leading to the corridor. ‘Retiring room through here, we’ll have that sponged off in no time.’
Cris was conscious of Gabriel on the other side, exclaiming about his carelessness, taking Chelford’s arm, despite the man’s attempts to bat him away. Then they were out and into the corridor without anyone noticing anything amiss beyond a tipsy encounter and an accident.
Gabriel took Chelford’s wrist, wrenched his arm up his back at a painful angle and, as Cris held the door, pushed him into the room where Jem Clarke sat stolidly at a table, Goode next to him. A screen stood across one corner. There was silence, broken only by the click of the key in the lock and Chelford’s heavy breathing.
‘What is this?’ he demanded.
The Runner introduced himself. ‘And I believe you know this man, Goode, or Gooding, my lord.’
‘Never seen him before. This is an outrage. I’ll have the lot of you for kidnapping.’
‘Do you recognise him?’ Clarke asked Gooding.
‘Aye, I do that. Paid me fifty guineas to injure that Revenue man down in Devon, then swear in court I saw some female do it.’
‘That’s a lie,’ Chelford spat.
‘And that’s on top of the money he gave me to fire a rick and some other things like that.’
‘That’ll be the Revenue man you killed. Conspiracy to murder, that is, my lord.’
‘This is outrageous. I never—’
‘Him dying was an accident,’ Gooding said hastily.
‘You can’t take any notice of the things a criminal like that says. With his record, he’s…’ His voice trailed off as he realised what he had just betrayed.
‘So you admit you know him?’ The Runner made a note in his Occurrences book. ‘So what was it? A set-up that went wrong, or murder?’
‘Neither, I have nothing to do with this.’
‘Met me at the Waterman’s Tavern, down near Tower Steps,’ Gooding said. ‘I gave you the dates and times. The landlord will remember him.’
‘Nonsense,’ Chelford blustered. ‘How could he, in a crowded place like that and weeks ago?’
‘You really aren’t very good at this lying business, are you, Chelford?’ Cris moved away from the wall and came to stand beside the man. ‘Or is it just because your nerves are shot to pieces with wondering what Dapper Geordie’s enforcers are going to do with you when they track you down? Oh, yes, we found out about your debts. The last man I know of who welshed on Dapper Geordie had both thumbs cut off. Devilishly difficult to hold a hand of cards when you’ve no thumbs.’
Chelford moaned and sagged at the knees. Gabriel caught him and pushed him unceremoniously into a chair. ‘Gooding has turned King’s Evidence. We’ve got witnesses, we’ve got hard evidence and circumstantial evidence. We know about the Rubens oils. You might as well make a clean breast of it.’
At the mention of the paintings Chelford’s head came up and his sagging features hardened into fury. ‘It’s Tamsyn behind this, isn’t it? She’s influenced Aunt Isobel to stay down there, squatting on all those things that ought to be mine to do what I want to with. I offered them a home, the unnatural coven that they are. Those two old women—disgusting, living together like that—and she’s as bad. I offered her marriage, honoured her with my attention and what does she do? Turned me down and married that criminal Jory Perowne!’
‘So you tried to get your hands on what’s yours by rights,’ the Runner said, sympathetically. ‘I mean, seems unfair they turned their noses up at a perfectly good home you’d offered them. No wonder you tried to shake them up a bit, show them some real life.’
‘That’s it exactly.’ Chelford leaned forward, apparently thankful to find someone who understood. ‘Tamsyn trying to run an estate, a farm, as if she was a man. Turning me down. Like I said, it’s unnatural.’
‘Still, getting her blamed for smuggling, that attack on the Revenue man—that’s going a bit far.’
The Runner was playing him like a master, Cris thought, gesturing to Gabriel to keep back, out of Chelford’s line of sight.
‘Of course she’s mixed up in the smuggling. Where do you think Perowne’s ill-gotten gains have gone? There’s some hidey-hole she knows about. If the Revenue man had got any closer, she’d have dealt with him, mind my words.’
‘That’s what you said to me when you paid me to have a go at him,’ Gooding said suddenly. ‘“Make it look like that fool woman’s done it,” you said.’
‘Almost worked, too,’ Chelford said. ‘Still don’t understand how she got out of it.’
‘By being innocent, no doubt.’ The dry voice came from behind the screen. Chelford jumped to his feet as it was moved back to reveal an elderly gentleman in an old-fashioned bagwig. ‘I’ve no doubt of your implication in this matter, Lord Chelford. I am Sir Peter Hughes of the Bow Street magistrates’ court. The question remains of the exact charges to be brought, which cannot be settled here.’