An Unwilling Conquest (Regencies 7)

Stiff as a poker, Mr Mabberly inclined his head fractionally. “Mr Lester. I hope you’ll forgive this intrusion but this gentleman—” he glanced at Salter “—is most insistent that I provide answers to questions regarding Mrs Babbacombe’s affairs that I can only describe as highly confidential.” Decidedly prim, Mr Mabberly brought his gaze back to Harry’s face. “He tells me he’s working for you.”

“Indeed.” Harry waved Mr Mabberly back to his chair and took his own behind the desk. “I’m afraid we are in pressing need of the information Mr Salter has requested of you, in a matter pertaining to Mrs Babbacombe’s safety.” As Harry had expected, the mention of Lucinda’s safety stopped Mr Mabberly in his tracks. “That is,” Harry smoothly continued, “assuming you do, in fact, know the answers?”

Mr Mabberly shifted, eyeing Harry somewhat warily. “As it happens, I do—it’s necessary for one in my position, acting as the company’s representative, to be absolutely certain just whose interests I’m representing.” He shot a glance at Salter, then brought his gaze back to Harry. “But you mentioned Mrs Babbacombe’s safety. How can the information you requested be important?”

Succinctly, Harry told him, detailing no more than the bare bones of the presumptive plot; Mr Mabberly was businessman enough to readily follow their hypothesis. As the tale unfolded, his open features reflected shock, outrage—and, eventually, a dogged determination.

“The cads!” Slightly flushed, he glanced at Harry. “You say you intend taking out a warrant against them?”

Salter answered. “We’ve cause enough for a warrant provided we can find evidence on this guardianship business—without that, their motive’s uncertain.”

“So.” Harry fixed Mr Mabberly with a flat green gaze. “The question is will you help us?”

“I’ll do anything I can,” Mr Mabberly vowed, his voice ringing with fervour. Even he heard it. A trifle shocked, he hurried to excuse it. “Mrs Babbacombe’s been very good to me, you understand—there aren’t many who would appoint someone as relatively young as myself to such an important position.”

“Of course.” Harry smiled, endeavouring to make the gesture as unthreatening as he could at that hour of the morning. “And, as a loyal employee of Babbacombe and Company, you would naturally be anxious to assist in ensuring your principals’ personal safety.”

“Indeed.” Obviously more comfortable, Mr Mabberly sat back. “Mrs Babbacombe is indeed Miss Babbacombe’s sole legal guardian.” Again, a slight flush rose in his cheeks. “I’m perfectly sure because, when I first took up my position, I was uncertain as to the point—so I asked. Mrs Babbacombe’s always a model of business etiquette—she insisted I see the guardianship deed.”

Salter straightened, his expression lightening. “So—not only do you know she’s the sole guardian—you can swear to it?”

Mr Mabberly nodded, swivelling to look at Salter. “Certainly. I naturally felt obliged to read the document and verify the seal. It was unquestionably genuine.”

“Excellent!” Harry looked at Salter—the big man’s face was alight, his frame suddenly thrumming with harnessed energy. “So we can get that warrant without further delay?”

“If Mr Mabberly here will come with me to the magistrate and swear to Mrs Babbacombe’s status, I can’t see anything that’ll stop us. I’ve already got friends in the force standing by—they’ll do the actual arrest but I, for one, definitely want to be there when they take Joliffe into custody.”

“I’m prepared to come with you immediately, sir.” Mr Mabberly stood. “From the sounds of it, the sooner this Joliffe person is a guest of His Majesty’s government the better.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Harry stood and offered Mr Mabberly his hand. “And while you two are tying up Joliffe and his crew, I’ll keep Mrs Babbacombe under my eye.”

“Aye—that’d be wise.” Salter shook hands with Harry and they all turned to the door. “Joliffe’s got the makings of a fairly desperate character. It wouldn’t hurt to keep the lady close—just until we’ve got him safely stowed. I’ll send word the instant we’ve got the blackguards in custody, sir.”

“Send word to me at Hallows House,” Harry told him.

After seeing his guests to the hall, Harry returned to the study and quickly glanced through his letters. He looked up as Dawlish entered with a cup of coffee. “Here you are.” Dawlish set the cup down on the blotter. “So—what’s the sum of it, then?”

Harry told him.

“Hmm—so that clerk fellow’s not so useless after all?”

Harry took a sip of his coffee. “I never said he was useless. Gormless. And I’m willing to accept that I might have misjudged him.”

Dawlish nodded. “Good! Last day of this ramshackle business, then. Can’t say I’m sad.”

Harry snorted. “Nor I.”

“I’ll get breakfast on the table.” Dawlish glanced at the long-case clock in the corner. “We’ve still an hour to go before we’re due at Hallows House.”

Harry set down his cup. “We’d best use the time to get all tidy here—I expect to leave for Lester Hall later this evening.”

Dawlish looked back from the door, brows flying. “Ohho! Finally going to take the plunge, are you? ’Bout time, if you ask me. Mind—wouldn’t have thought you’d choose a family picnic to do it at—but it’s your funeral.”

Harry lifted his head and glared but the door had already closed.

LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Harry recalled Dawlish’s observation with grim resignation. Not in his wildest dreams had he imagined playing the most important scene of his life on such a stage.

They were seated on colourful coach rugs on a long grassy slope leading down to the gently rippling River Lea. Some miles north of Islington, not far from Stamford Hill, the woods and meadows close by the river provided a pleasant spot for young families and those seeking a draught of country peace. Although some way down the low escarpment, their position afforded them an uninterrupted view over the