An Artless Demise Page 31

  “And I think they’ll find such methods don’t do much to convince those who believe the bill criminalizes being poor.”

  “Yes, but if they have the support of some of the Tories, then they don’t need those Radicals. And the Tories only need to be persuaded that the bill will stop the burkings and save lives, not cause civil unrest or the downfall of traditional social order.”

  Gage’s face registered astonishment. “You’re far more well-versed in politics than I realized.”

  I smirked. “I’m quoting Philip. Though I do trust he knows what he’s talking about.”

  He pushed away from the mantel. “That he does.” Settling back into his chair, he began to rub his index finger over his lips. I recognized it as a sign he was contemplating something and moved to lean against his desk next to him.

  “Lord Vickers was considered a Radical, wasn’t he?” He sounded indifferent, but I knew better. The less inflection in his voice, the more interested he was.

  “Mr. Poole’s former employer?”

  He nodded.

  “Yes. But I don’t know whether his son followed suit.” I scrutinized his features. “Why?”

  “Just . . . curious.”

  I narrowed my eyes, trying to deduce what he was thinking.

  He tapped his finger over a stack of papers on his desk. “I saw the list of heirs you created.”

  “Oh, yes. I didn’t realize I left it here.”

  His expression tightened. “Percy Acklen was on it.”

  I hadn’t forgotten.

  He smoothed his hand over the names on the first page. “If something doesn’t turn up soon, we might have to start looking through it to figure out who the next target is.”

  I rested my hand on his shoulder. “Something will turn up. You’ll see.”

  He exhaled a wary breath. “I hope you’re right.”

  Me, too, I thought. Me, too.

  * * *

  • • •

  When Wednesday morning came and still there was no word from Mr. Penrose or even an admission from the staff of his presence at Redditch House, Gage declared he was through being patient. I asked him what that meant, but he shook his head, refusing to explain. “Wait and see” was his maddeningly oblique answer. He jotted off a brief missive and then left the house for a short time.

  Not half an hour after his return, I glanced up in astonishment from my writing desk in the corner of the morning room when Jeffers announced that he’d shown a Mr. Penrose into the drawing room.

  “Thank you, Jeffers,” Gage replied, setting aside the newspaper he’d been perusing and rising to his feet.

  The butler bowed and departed.

  “How on earth did you manage that?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I’ve suspected where he was hiding all along. I simply wasn’t sure I was willing to take the gamble of writing to him there.”

  “Hiding where?”

  “Come.” He grasped my arm, ignoring my query. “Let’s hear what he has to say.”

  I frowned but did not argue.

  Our guest hovered by the bow window, staring out at the cold rain as it pattered against the pavement and a passing carriage. At first, he seemed to not realize we’d entered, his gaze was so fixed on the scene outside. But then he exhaled and swiveled to look at us with wide eyes. He stood that way so long without speaking, his face pale, that I began to feel concerned.

  “Mr. Penrose, are you unwell?” I asked, taking a few hesitant steps toward him.

  He blinked, seeming to recall himself. “Oh! No, no, I’m fine.” He cleared his throat. “My apologies. I . . . should have answered your summons days ago, but . . .” He glanced back toward the window. “There was something I wished to take care of first.”

  “I see.” Gage studied him as if he knew exactly what he’d meant, even though I knew he didn’t, and then gestured toward the furniture gathered around the hearth. “Shall we sit?”

  Penrose hesitated as if he was about to object, and then followed. He sat at the very edge of his chair, as if ready to leap up and flee at any moment. His eyes searched Gage’s face warily. “How did you know where to find me?”

  Gage sat back, lacing his fingers over his flat abdomen. “I already suspected who your particular friend was, and a few discreet queries seemed to substantiate it.”

  His face had gone pale again. “Who else knows?”

  “I can’t disclose that. But it confirmed for me that your friend most definitely had much to lose had your brother followed through with his threats.” Gage’s eyelids dropped to half-mast. “It also told me just how dangerous it would have been for him to be beholden to Feckenham’s whims. There’s no telling what your brother might have compelled him to do.”

  Penrose fidgeted in his seat. He plowed a hand through his hair before speaking. “Yes, yes, that’s all true. It’s why I confronted him that night. But I didn’t kill him!” His eyes were wild. “And neither did . . .” He almost said the name—it was on the tip of his tongue—but he bit it back at the last moment with a quivering breath. “My friend.”

  “What of Newbury and Acklen? Did you kill them?” Gage persisted.

  “Of course not! Are you mad? Why would I do such a thing?”

  “To divert suspicion,” I said.

  His gaze flicked to me in startlement.

  “With only your brother dead, all evidence and motive pointed to you. But if two unrelated gentlemen were killed, then suspicion would shift.”

  He shook his head. “That’s mad! No. No! There is no way I would do that.”

  Gage arched his eyebrows. “Then why were you collaborating with known bodysnatchers?”

  This query was met with silence, though the look in Penrose’s eyes communicated he knew he’d been found out. His shoulders slumped as he crumpled forward, pressing his hands to his forehead. “You know about that?”

  “Yes.”

  Penrose inhaled a shaky breath. “I was not collaborating with them. I was . . . trying to make them stop.”

  This time Gage and I were the ones who were speechless.

  “A few days after I returned to London from Silvercrest, I received a letter.” His lips curled derisively. “Well, Feckenham received a message, but Hotchkins assumed it was for me. It was to inform him that the first blackmail letter had been delivered and they expected the second part of their payment.”

  Gage and I glanced at each other in surprise, though he seemed less stunned than me.

  “Feckenham hired them to blackmail me?” I snapped.

  “From what I can gather, he proposed the idea to them and promised to pay them something for their trouble. Whatever they could gain from you in the process was theirs to keep.” He swallowed, plainly not wanting to relay the rest. “Except the proof they were to attain from you that the blackmail had been paid.”

  “So he could manipulate her later?” Gage guessed. “So he could extort her for something else.”

  I stared down at my lap, trying to comprehend what had just been revealed, but it just seemed to reverberate through my mind like the ripples on a pond.

  “As soon as I discovered what he’d done, I tried to convince them to stop,” Penrose explained. “I refused to pay their fee, but then they turned their scheme back on me, threatening to tell you and the newspapermen that the idea had all been mine.” His head flopped back on his neck. “So I stupidly paid. But they wanted more. I’ve been wrestling with this for weeks, trying to figure out how to make it end.” His eyes pleaded with us. “That’s why I’ve been avoiding you. I wanted to end it before I saw you again. And I didn’t want them to think I’d already told you.” He sighed. “But it’s too late for that.” He gestured toward the window. “I saw one of them outside on the street. He must have followed me here.”

  Gage leaped up from the sofa and cros
sed the room in a few quick strides. “Where?” he demanded, peering through the drapes. “Where did you see him?”

  Penrose moved to join him. “I saw him strolling down the street, hat pulled low. He wears a smock frock and a pair of shabby trousers. He’s a powerful-looking fellow with a red splotch on his check below his right eye.” He glanced left and right. “But he’s not there any longer.”

  “But you’re certain you saw him?”

  He nodded. “It was him.”

  What did it mean for us if they believed Penrose had told us everything? Would we receive another unpleasant gift? Or would they go straight to the reporters and tell them whatever lies about me they wished?

  My hands curled into fists as I struggled to contain my frustrated fury.

  “I’m sorry,” Penrose said. “I thought I was careful. But apparently, not careful enough.”

  “It’s as much my fault as yours,” Gage told him with a clap on his back, guiding him back toward where I sat. “I forced your hand and made you come here.”

  “It’s a rotten mess.” He dropped back into his chair.

  Gage sat across from him, idly rubbing his lip in thought before venturing another question. “Do you think your brother took anyone into his confidence about his blackmail schemes? A friend, maybe? Or his valet?”

  Penrose frowned. “I doubt it. He always was the type to hold his cards close to his vest.”

  “What of Mr. Poole?”

  The other man shook his head. “Definitely not Mr. Poole. Not after Feckenham botched the measure regarding the care of vagrant children he was working on with Father.”

  I struggled not to react. “What do you mean?”

  “Mr. Poole had worked hard on that measure, and worked hard on persuading my father to put it forth in the House of Lords.” His lips twisted. “But somehow my brother found out about it. He argued it would anger his Tory colleagues with its revolutionary ideals.” He pressed a hand to his stomach as if he felt ill. “He all but blackmailed him not to do it.”

  I recalled the look of dissatisfaction in the secretary’s eyes when he’d discussed why he’d taken the position with the Earl of Redditch. Whatever his hopes had initially been, they had definitely soured.

  Penrose pressed his hands together. “Now, what is to be done about these blackmailers?”

  Gage glanced up from where he had been contemplating the rug. “Nothing, for now.” His eyes narrowed. “But I think I may know of a way to handle them. Do you know where they live?”

  He shook his head. “I always met them at the Rockingham Arms in Southwark, near St. Thomas’s Hospital.”

  “Leave the matter in my hands. Don’t respond if they contact you again,” he stated firmly.

  Penrose’s face was pinched. “I feel I should argue. The problem was caused by my brother, and so I should be the one to clear it up.” His gaze slid to me. “But I suspect, in this, at least, you have more to lose.” He shrugged sheepishly. “And, I admit, I find myself relieved to pass it off to you, for I’ve exhausted all my options. So I’ll simply say thank you. If you should need my assistance, you need only ask.” He flushed. “I will not hide this time.”

  This time, I trusted he meant it. Not because of his integrity, but because he knew Gage would still find him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I knew within minutes we shouldn’t have come. All evening as I’d readied myself I’d felt a vague stirring of anxiety. The night’s soiree was not being held by family, or friends, or even close acquaintances, and it was certain to be a crush. I’d mentioned my wariness to Gage, but he insisted it would pass. That we still had questions to be answered, and we would not find those sitting at home. Acknowledging he was right, I’d set off with him across Mayfair.

  It didn’t take long to discover my apprehension had been justified.

  Our hostess all but brushed us aside when she received us, and I’d practically been singed by three glares as we ascended the broad staircase toward the ballroom above. At first, I feared the resurrectionists had spoken to the newspapermen about me, but then I reminded myself I hadn’t seen any such stories in the day’s papers.

  What I had seen was a report of George Pilcher’s testimony to Minshull at Bow Street. Pilcher was a lecturer and anatomist at Grainger’s private medical school, where it had been discovered the body of Fanny Pigburn—the woman whose clothes had been found in the privy and well at Nova Scotia Gardens—had been sold in early October. Though he’d stood before the magistrate voluntarily to dispel the rumors, in some ways he’d made the matter worse.

  Pilcher admitted that the body had seemed fresher than normal, but they’d assumed it had been stolen from a bone house or undertaker’s premises. He claimed there were no signs of violence, and the fact that Bishop had willingly accepted only half his payment for the corpse, and agreed to come back for the rest, seemed to confirm there was no cause for concern, as he assumed someone with a guilty conscience would want all their money at once. With reporters standing close, Pilcher even went so far as to make a general statement on behalf of the entire London medical profession, regretting the horrible disclosure that had taken place and apologizing for the fact they’d been driven to the necessity of dealing with such men.

  This only served to remind people of exactly who was purchasing the bodies and providing incentive for the killings. Which, in turn, prompted them to recall what my first husband’s profession had been, and the distasteful work he had undertaken and forced me to participate in. As if they needed it. As if this entire inquest into the Italian Boy and the Mayfair murders with their sticking plasters were not bright beacons of remembrance.

  At first, I remained close to Gage’s side, trying to disregard the scoffs and murmurs. But with each step we wove through the ballroom, sliding past dagger glares and ignoring harsh whispers, the angrier I became. With it, my shoulders went back, my chin lifted, and I soon found myself meeting their stares with glares of my own. I had not wanted to wear the amaranth gown Bree had laid out for me, thinking the purple-red color would draw too much attention, but I was glad of it now. It suited my mood perfectly.

  We paused at the edge of the dance floor so that Gage could speak to an old friend, and I turned to survey the assembly for anyone I thought might have useful information to provide. My search was interrupted by the snide commentary of a woman just beyond my shoulder. Her voice was loud enough that I could hear every word, even over the orchestra playing in the gallery above.

  “They say she lured them into the hands of the burkers herself, you know. So that her husband could dissect them on his cutting table. The sawbone’s siren. So fitting.”

  Before, I would have ignored her or walked away, but this time I swiveled to face her, an arch smile stretching my face. “Why Lady Lewis,” I declared, satisfied to have disconcerted her. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you in more than a year. You are looking flush and healthy. And your gown is exquisite.” I flicked my gaze up and down her figure before staring pointedly at her abdomen for a moment. “You must share the name of your modiste. Her tailoring is impeccable.”

  Lady Lewis’s face paled in recognition of the sharp gleam in my eyes. She might have believed she’d fooled everyone else, but I could tell she was expecting, and had been for some months. Her rounded belly hidden beneath the folds of her pistachio dress rivaled the size of my own. And yet Lord Lewis had not returned to England after an extended sojourn until four weeks prior. I might not be so cruel as to state the fact aloud, but I was not going to allow her to sharpen her tongue on me any longer without letting her know there could be repercussions.

  When she didn’t respond, I nodded to her and her frowning friend and turned back to face the dancers.

  “Why of all the rude . . .” the friend began, but Lady Lewis silenced her and towed her away.

  Gage glanced at me as I flicked open my fan and c
ooled my heated cheeks, feeling a thrill of exhilaration at having routed her. I didn’t think he had heard what I said, for his eyes held a look of bewilderment.

  I leaned toward him with a smile, waiting until he bowed his head closer to hear me. “Ask me to dance.”

  He straightened just enough to see into my eyes, and whatever he saw there made his own pale blue ones flicker with interest. Forgoing words, he laced my arm with his and pulled me out onto the polished wooden floor. I sensed people watching us, but for once, I did not care. If they wanted to watch Gage spin me around in the circle of his arms, then so be it. I had nothing to be ashamed of.

  Dancing with Gage was always an immersive experience. As if he’d swept me up onto our own little cloud, where it was just the two of us. Nothing else existed beyond his strong, steady arms or the grin on his lips. There was no need for words, for he communicated more than enough without them. When the waltz ended, and I glided back to the ground, I felt I could endure anything.

  Even Lady Felicity Spencer.

  Gage and I left the dance floor arm in arm, moving toward the hall and parlors, where one might better be able to carry on a conversation, when Lady Felicity’s crisp voice made me falter.

  “I hear there are journals, you know. Left by her late husband.”

  “Truly? How scandalous!” her companion remarked. “Does she feature in them?”

  I turned to find Lady Felicity watching me with spiteful glee.

  “How can she not? What she wouldn’t give, I imagine, to keep such a thing quiet.”

  She had never challenged me directly before. Had never dared to. But recent events had changed that. And now she knew about the journals. I felt my nerve begin to fail me.

  “But she won’t be able to do so much longer,” she continued even more loudly, garnering several more people’s interest. “I hear they’re going to be published.”

  The others gasped and whispered in speculation.

  Gage tugged at my arm, as if to move forward to shield me, but I held him back. I didn’t want him always fighting my battles for me. Gathering my courage, I straightened my spine and took a step toward her.