They put their heads together and wracked their collective brains, but after fifteen minutes, none of them had advanced any other name for the role of possible villain.
Relaxing in the armchairs, the other ladies started to chat about this and that—the usual inconsequential matters that absorbed the ton. Stacie did her best to pay attention and contribute; she was well aware that all four ladies had remained to do their part in keeping her occupied and therefore safe—for no other reason than that they loved and cared for her as she loved and cared for them.
This, she told the tiny child growing inside her, is the stuff of which families are made.
Chapter 19
Frederick and Ryder returned to Albury House while the ladies were still at the luncheon table.
Frederick walked into his dining room to see Stacie seated in her usual place; she’d been avidly chatting with Mary and Emily and appeared reasonably calm—at least she wasn’t pacing.
On his and Ryder’s arrival, all five ladies ceased talking and fixed them with expectant looks.
As he and Ryder took their places at the table, Mary, imperious as always, demanded, “Well?”
“In a moment,” Frederick returned. He glanced at the two footmen who had been serving, then looked at Fortingale, who promptly directed the footmen to set down the water and wine jugs they were carrying and leave the room.
As the pair passed out of the door, Fortingale caught Frederick’s eye and faintly arched his brows—asking if he should depart as well.
Frederick shook his head. Better Fortingale remained and heard the story; if they were to pursue the idea he and Ryder had tossed around in the carriage on the way home, they would need the butler’s—indeed, the entire household’s—assistance.
Fortingale shut the door and, while Ryder and Frederick served themselves from the platters the ladies readily passed them, circled the table and filled Frederick’s and Ryder’s water and wine glasses. When Fortingale stepped back to take up his usual position beside the sideboard, Frederick, his fork in his hand, looked around at the ladies’ impatient faces and stated, “It seems entirely possible that Hadley Barkshaw is, in fact, behind the attacks on myself and Stacie.”
“Well!” The dowager sat back, a host of emotions crossing her face. “That is going to set the cat among the pigeons with the Barkshaws.”
Mary leaned forward. “What did you learn?”
Down the length of the table, Stacie met Frederick’s eyes. “Start from the beginning—what did Rand say?”
Ryder replied, giving Frederick the chance to eat a few mouthfuls. He’d been seriously impressed that, once Rand had understood what they needed to know, it had taken Stacie’s brother a matter of an hour before he handed them the name and address of a Mr. Mordaunt, a major moneylender in the East End, who, according to Rand’s sources, was the person they needed to speak with regarding Hadley Barkshaw.
“So,” Ryder concluded, “Frederick and I paid Mr. Mordaunt a visit.”
Ryder looked at Frederick, and he nodded and took up their tale, allowing Ryder to address his plate.
“Luckily,” Frederick said, “Mordaunt was at home and, once we sent in our cards, entirely willing to speak with us. Indeed, he was quite eager to meet me—to actually set eyes on me. It transpired that Mordaunt was laboring under a series of consecutive misapprehensions, on the basis of which he’d loaned Hadley Barkshaw far, far more than he otherwise would have.”
Eyes on his plate, Ryder snorted. “You really have to hand it to Barkshaw—Mordaunt is no one’s fool, but Hadley hadn’t just convinced him with his tale but had strung him along through setback after setback.”
“How?” Stacie stared at Frederick. “How on earth did Hadley lure an experienced moneylender—which is what I assume Mordaunt is—in?”
“And then continue to pull the wool over his eyes?” Mary added.
Frederick picked up his wineglass and took a sip while rapidly considering how frank he should be. Lowering the glass, he decided that, given what he knew of the ladies present, none of them were likely to have the vapors. “Initially,” he said, “Hadley borrowed on the grounds that, although by then I was in my late twenties, I remained unmarried, lived the life of a scholar, and eschewed the ton, and had shown no interest whatsoever in marriage—or, in fact, in females—at all.” Frederick met Stacie’s eyes and saw them widen in comprehension.
“And Mordaunt believed that?” she asked, as Mary, Frederick’s mother, and Emily all made inelegant sounds of disbelief.
Frederick inclined his head. “In that, Hadley neatly used the discretion I have always practiced, combined it with Mordaunt’s apparently somewhat jaundiced view of men who devote themselves to musical pursuits, and came up with a story that worked to Hadley’s advantage. Suffice it to say he convinced Mordaunt that there was every likelihood that I would never marry, and that at some point in the future, Carlisle or Carlisle’s son, Jonathon, would inherit the title and the estate—and most importantly, the estate’s coffers.”
“I still can’t see…” Frowning, Mary looked at the dowager and Emily. “Would Carlisle have repaid Hadley’s loans? Perhaps to placate his wife and his in-laws?”
The dowager considered, but eventually shook her head. “Carlisle is as generous as the next man, but he has sons and two daughters to establish… I really can’t see Carlisle, who, while not as
priggish at Aurelia, frowns on even the most innocent forms of gaming, being, as the term goes, an easy touch—not for Hadley.”
“That wasn’t Hadley’s pitch to Mordaunt.” Having taken the opportunity to clear his plate, Frederick lifted his wineglass, sat back, and sipped.
It was Stacie who guessed, “Aurelia. Hadley told Mordaunt he could bleed what money he needed from the estate through Aurelia. That way, it wouldn’t have mattered whether it was Carlisle or Jonathon who inherited. Regardless, Hadley could claim Aurelia would have access to the funds he needed.”