Regency Pleasures and Sins Part 1. Louise Allen
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filed upon the ships’ landing in London?” Beau asked after a moment.
“Yes, my lord, and as you expected, the cargo amounts on the bills of lading from the ships’ port of origin are less than those in the landing ledger by several hundred pounds per commodity. They do match exactly the amounts in the ledgers actually forwarded to the customs office. But do we have any positive proof Lord Wolverton was involved?”
“Nothing that would stand in a court of law. Fortunately we don’t need to prove a case, and in any event, the government prefers not to have such messy affairs dragged into the public forum.”
“But if the payoffs were made in cash, such that his involvement cannot be proven, how can you force his resignation?”
“By applying the weight of some telling, if circumstantial, evidence. We know he’s been sustaining heavy gambling losses for years, got himself entangled with the cent-per-centers. Suddenly he paid off the loans, even though we’ve ascertained that his estates generated no more income. Threatened with transportation or the noose, I don’t doubt the couriers who carried him the purloined funds will be only too happy to confirm whatever details we wish. Once Lord Riverton acquaints Wolverton with the evidence, I expect he will see the wisdom of resigning quietly.”
James frowned. “It seems somehow unfair that the others will go to the dock while Lord Wolverton escapes prosecution.”
Beau shrugged. “The ton knows how these things work. To be stripped of his office and his income will ruin him as effectively as imprisonment. And the corruption will stop, which is perhaps the most important point.”
“When will you present the information to Lord Riverton?”
“He’s out of London at present. When he returns.” “Will you continue to observe Lord Wolverton?” Beau smiled grimly. “I’ve half a mind to invite him to the Puzzlebreaker’s Club, then propose to the membership that we unravel an embezzlement scheme such as he’s been running, just for the pleasure of watching him squirm. But Lord Riverton prefers I keep my involvement in these investigations covert.” He sighed. “Usually the personal satisfaction of decoding the mystery is more than enough compensation. Now, have you any more information on the … other matter?”
Without doubt James knew full well why the solution of this present case had engendered in Beau so little enthusiasm. With commendable tact, he’d refrained from commenting on the shadowed eyes and grim weariness his employer had worn this past week like a cloak.
“As you requested, I’ve gone back and rechecked the records of all the nobility and gentry.” His secretary gave him a wry smile. “Who could have guessed there would be so many dead or absent wives among them the past two years? I’m still awaiting confirmation that Lady Worth did indeed depart with her father on a trip to collect data on indigenous peoples of the East Indies, and that Mrs. Dominick is truly visiting her cousin in Italy, but those two are the last. The other missing wives have turned up and the deaths of all the dearly departed have been confirmed by family members not directly related to the husband.” He eyes Beau with concern.
“I’m sorry, my lord. Shall I begin to check among the wealthy merchant class?”
It couldn’t be. He must have missed some clue, somewhere. Beau clenched his hands, tightened his jaw to prevent the raging frustration from escaping in some violent profanity. James was doing everything he could; Beau would not vent his anger on his hapless secretary.
“Oh, I did collect one memento,” James said into the tense silence. “That epidemic of influenza two winters ago claimed the lives of several wives on my list. Thought I’d get out and do a bit of sleuthing on my own—”
“I’ve been that difficult to work with?” Beau interrupted with an attempt at a smile.
After raising a suggestive eyebrow, James continued, “Since several of the families are in London for the Season, I decided to call on them.” He held up a hand to forestall Beau’s protest. “In quite an unexceptional manner. Told them the government was collecting information on the influenza outbreak for a report.”
“A sort of updated Doomsday Book?”
James grinned. “Something like.”
Beau sighed, amused despite himself. “James, I begin to worry about you.”
“At any rate, the deaths were confirmed unconditionally. Including that of the lady whose husband was previously my prime suspect—a thoroughly nasty individual whom reports suggest may have been capable of violence. However, in the interests of furthering research, the lady’s father, a rather scholarly gentleman, lent me a miniature of his daughter. I thought perhaps you’d like to see it.”
You ‘re quite a scholar. No, but my father was. As the words echoed out of memory, Beau’s heart skipped a beat and his mouth went dry. With a hand that suddenly trembled he reached for the small oval portrait his secretary was extracting from his waistcoat pocket.
“Apparently Lady Charle ton contracted the influenza before she’d fully recovered from losing a babe in childbirth …”
The rest of his secretary’s sentence faded out as Beau brought the figured gold case close enough to distinguish the features of the shyly smiling lady portrayed within. A young lady with Laura Martin’s glossy auburn locks, Laura Martin’s piercingly blue eyes.
For an instant he couldn’t draw breath. He shut his eyes tightly, clutching the portrait in his fist, nearly dizzy as relief, euphoria and aching need rocked him in successive waves.
He opened his eyes to find James staring at him. “That … is the lady?”
“Yes. Find me everything you turn up on Lady Charleton’s death, everything you can uncover about her husband. Send operatives to both families, if they’re now in London—use as many men as you need. And report back to me at three o’clock with whatever you’ve found.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And, James—”
His secretary, already at the door, halted to look back at him. “My lord?”
“Thank you.”
Later that afternoon Beau returned to his study. In the intervening hours he’d conducted some research of his own. He knew little of Lord Charleton personally, the viscount being more than a decade his senior, but casual inquiries at his club elicited several intriguing tidbits.
Lord Charleton was regarded with respect but not warmth by his contemporaries. Accounted a good shot, a fair sportsman, a punctilious landlord ruthlessly precise in his duties, he drove a hard bargain in any transaction. A cold, proud man obsessed with his lineage, after being twice widowed he still had no heir, his first wife having produced only daughters and his second, the youngest child of Lord Arthur Farrington, having died two years ago of influenza after complications from a stillbirth.
In three days’ time Charleton was to marry again, a Miss Cynthia Powell, daughter of ancient Devon gentry.
Soon I’ll be safe, Laura had told him. And so, in a certain sense, her husband’s remarriage would make her.
That his Laura Martin was the supposedly dead Lady Charleton he had no doubt—the evidence of the miniature was too compelling. And the few details he’d yet gleaned of Lady Charleton fit what he knew of Laura Martin’s arrival in Merriville.
She had been gravely ill. She’d lost a babe. Whether Charleton had invented the notion of her death to derail speculation about her disappearance or whether Laura herself had somehow engineered it, Beau would soon uncover. Now that he had her name, the rest would be easy.
A thoroughly nasty individual, James had described Laura’s husband. Did Charleton in fact believe her dead? Or was he still watching, waiting, as Laura believed?
Regardless of what further information would reveal, one indisputable fact had seized Beau the moment he learned her husband was about to remarry. If Charleton did not discover Laura’s