Chapter Thirteen
“So—do you have it clear?” Seated behind the desk in his library, Harry drew an unnibbed pen back and forth between his fingers, his gaze, very green, trained on the individual in the chair before him.
Plain brown eyes regarded him from an unremarkable countenance; the man’s attire proclaimed him not of the ton but his occupation could not be discerned from the drab garments. Phineas Salter could have been anything—almost anyone—which was precisely what made him so successful at his trade.
The ex-Bow Street Runner nodded. “Aye, sir. I’m to check up on the gentlemen—Mr Earle Joliffe and Mr Mortimer Babbacombe—with a view to uncovering any reason they might have to wish a Mrs Lucinda Babbacombe—the said Mortimer’s aunt-by-marriage—ill.”
“And you’re to do it without raising a dust.” Harry’s gaze became acute.
Salter inclined his head. “Naturally, sir. If the gentlemen are up to anything, we wouldn’t want to tip them the wink. Not before we’re ready.”
Harry grimaced. “Quite. But I should also stress that we do not wish, at any time, for Mrs Babbacombe herself to become aware of our suspicions. Or, indeed, that there might be any reason for investigation at all.”
Salter frowned. “Without disrespect, sir, do you think that’s wise? From what you’ve told me, these villains aren’t above drastic action. Wouldn’t it be better if the lady’s forewarned?”
“If it were any other lady, one who would be predictably shocked and content thereafter to leave the matter in our hands, I’d unhesitatingly agree. However, Mrs Babbacombe is not one such.” Harry studied his newest employee; when he spoke his tone was instructive. “I’d be willing to wager that, if she were to learn of Babbacombe’s apparent involvement with her recent adventures, Mrs Babbacombe would order her carriage around and have herself driven to his lodgings, intent on demanding an explanation. Alone.”
Salter’s expression blanked. “Ah.” He blinked. “A bit naïve, is she?”
“No.” Harry’s tone hardened. “Not particularly. She’s merely incapable of recognising her own vulnerability but, conversely, has infinite confidence in her ability to prevail.” The planes of his face shifted, his expression now mirroring his tone. “In this case, I would rather not have her put it to the test.”
“No, indeed.” Salter nodded. “From what little I’ve heard tell, this Joliffe’s not the sort for a lady to tangle with.”
“Precisely.” Harry rose; Salter rose, too. The ex-Runner was a stocky man, broad and heavy. Harry nodded. “Report back to me as soon as you have any word.”
“I will that, sir. You may depend on me.”
Harry shook Salter’s hand. Dawlish, who, at Harry’s intimation, had silently witnessed the interview, straightened from his position by the door and showed Salter out. Turning to the windows, Harry stood idly flicking the pen between his fingers, gazing unseeing at the courtyard beyond.
Salter was well-known to the intimates of Jackson’s saloon and Cribb’s parlour. A boxer of some skill, he was one of the few not of the ton with a ready entrée to those tonnish precincts. But it was his other skills that had led Harry to call him in. Salter’s fame as a Runner had been considerable but clouded; the magistrates had not approved of his habit of, quite literally, using thieves to catch thieves. His successes had not ameliorated their disapproval and he had parted company from the London constabulary by mutual accord. Since then, however, he had established a reputation among certain of the ton’s gentlemen as a reliable man whenever matters of questionable, possibly illegal, behaviour needed to be investigated with absolute discretion.
Such a matter, in Harry’s opinion, was Mortimer Babbacombe’s apparent interest in Lucinda’s well-being.
He would have handled the matter himself but was at a loss to understand Mortimer’s motives. He could hardly let the matter rest and, given his conviction that it was linked with the incident on the Newmarket road, he had opted for caution, to whit, the discretion and skill for which Salter was renown.
“Well, then!” Dawlish returned and shut the door. “A fine broiling, altogether.” He slanted a glance at Harry. “You want me to keep an eye on her?”
Slowly, Harry raised his brows. “It’s an idea.” He paused, then asked, “How do you think her coachman—Joshua, isn’t it?—would take the news?”
“Right concerned, he’d be.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “And her maid, the redoubtable Agatha?”
“Even more so, unless I miss my guess. Right protective, she is—after you took them away from Asterley and organised to cover the lady’s tracks, she’s revised her opinion of you.”
Harry’s lips twitched. “Good. Then recruit her as well. I have a feeling we should keep as many eyes on Mrs Babbacombe as possible—just in case.”
“Aye—no sense in taking any risks.” Dawlish headed for the door. “Not after all your hard work.”
Harry’s brows flew up. He turned—but Dawlish had escaped.
Hard work? Harry’s lips firmed into a line. His expression resigned, he turned back to the greenery outside. The truly hard part was yet to come but he had charted his course and was determined to stick to it.
When next he proposed to his siren, he wanted no arguments about love.
“Oh!” Dawlish’s head popped back around the door. “Just remembered—it’s Lady Mickleham’s tonight. Want me to organise the carriages and all when I see Joshua?”
Harry nodded. The skies outside were a beautiful blue. “Before you go, have the greys put to.”