nature; the contents of his desks, both in his office and his rooms, testified to his compulsive neatness. He’d even kept those old IOUs in chronological order.
The hackney halted in Bury Street; Tony swung down to the pavement, tossed a coin to the jarvey, and strode quickly up the steps of Number 23. This time, an old man let him in.
“I’m from Customs and Revenue—I have to check Mr. Ruskin’s rooms for something I might have missed when I checked yesterday.”
“Oh, aye.” The old man stood back. “You’ll know the way, then.”
“Indeed. I have his key. I’ll be a few minutes—I can see myself out.”
The old man merely nodded and shuffled back into the downstairs front room. Tony climbed the stairs.
Once in Ruskin’s rooms with the door shut and re-locked, he stood in the center of the rug and looked around. He imagined himself in Ruskin’s shoes; assuming he’d kept a record of his illicit dealings and had wanted to keep that record secret, where would he have hidden it?
The room was clean, neat, dusted; the furniture was polished and well cared for. Someone came in to clean. Whatever secret hole Ruskin had, it would be somewhere not likely to be found by a busy char woman.
Behind the solid skirting boards was unlikely; the cleared floor space, even under the rugs, would be too risky. Working as silently as he could, Tony shifted the heavy furniture and checked beneath and behind, but found only solid walls and solid floorboards, and dust.
Undeterred, he checked inside the small closet, shifting the items he’d searched before. He pressed, prodded, gently tapped, but there was no hint of any secret place. Next, he examined the door and window frames, searching for any crevice opening into a useful gap within the walls. There wasn’t one.
Which left the fireplaces and their chimneys.
There were two—one in the parlor and a smaller one in the bedroom. The mantelpieces and hearths were easily examined; no luck there. With a resigned sigh, Tony stripped off his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves before tackling the chimneys.
He saw the place as soon as he crouched down, ducked his head, and looked into the parlor chimney. Enough light seeped past his shoulders for him to discern the single brick, up on the side well above the flames’ reach, that was considerably less grimed than its fellows. Its edges were free of soot and the detritus of years. Reaching in, he pressed one corner; the brick edged out of place. It was easy to grip it and drag it free.
Setting the brick down, he dusted his fingers, then reached into the gaping hole. His fingertips encountered the smooth surface of leather. He felt around, then drew out a small, black leather-bound book.
Grinning, he laid the book on the floor and replaced the brick. That done, he cleaned his hands on his handkerchief, then rolled down his sleeves and shrugged on his coat. Picking up the book, he hefted it—then gave in to temptation and quickly leafed through it.
It was exactly what he’d hoped to find—a miniledger that many gamesters kept, noting their wins and losses. The book was almost full; the entries stretched back to1810. Each entry comprised a date, the initials of the opponent, and sometimes the name of the game—whist, piquet, hazard—and the sum involved; the latter was placed in one of two columns ruled at the right of the page—either a loss or a win.
In Ruskin’s little black book, the losses greatly outnumbered the wins. However, the tally of wins and losses, scrupulously noted at the end of each page, was readjusted every few months, being brought back into balance by an entry, repeated again and again, of a substantial sum, noted as a win.
Tony checked back through the book. The regular “wins” started in early 1812. Although always substantial, the sums varied; the initials noted for each payment did not.
Tony felt his face harden. He looked up. His mind in a whirl, he closed the book and slid it into his pocket. A moment later, he stirred, and headed for the door.
He was on his way down the stairs when the old man stuck his head out of the downstairs room. He squinted at Tony, then recognized him, nodded, and moved to retreat.
Tony reacted. “One moment, sir, if you would.”
The old man turned back.
Tony assumed a faintly harrassed expression. “Have there been any other visitors to Mr. Ruskin’s rooms since he died?”
The old man blinked, thought, then opined, “Well, not since you folk came by, but there was a gentl’man called here the night Mr. Ruskin met his end. It was late, so mayhap that was after he died.”
“This gentleman, was he one of Mr. Ruskin’s friends? A regular acquaintance?”
“Not that I ever saw. Never seen him before.”
“What happened on that night?”
The old man leaned on his cane; he peered up at Tony with eyes that retained a deal of shrewdness. “It was late, as I said. The man rapped politely, and as it wasn’t after midnight, I let him in. I was sure Ruskin was out, but the gentleman insisted he’d go up and check… didn’t seem any harm in that, so I let him. He went up the stairs, and a minute later I heard the door open, so I thought, then, that Ruskin must have slipped in, and I hadn’t noticed. I left them to it and went back to my fire.”
Tony stirred. “Ruskin hadn’t come home. He spent most of the evening at a soiree in Green Street. It was there, in the garden, that he was killed.”
“Aye. So we heard the next day. Howsoever, that night, the gentleman that called and went into Ruskin’s rooms stayed for more than an hour. I could hear him moving around; he wasn’t thumping about, but it’s quiet around here at night. One hears things.”
“Did you see him when he left?”
“No—I’d put the door on the latch and gone to bed. They can still let themselves out, but the door locks as it closes.”
“Can you describe this gentleman?”
Running his eye up Tony, the old man grimaced. “I can’t recall much—no reason to, then. But he was decently tall, not so tall as you though, but more heavily built. Well built. He was nicely kitted out, that I do remember—his coat had one of those fancy fur collars, like rippling curls.”
“And,” the old man continued, “he was a toff like you. Spoke well, and had that way about him, the way he walked and carried his cane.”
Tony nodded. “How old? What color hair? Was there anything notable about him—a squint, a big nose?”
“He’d be older than you—forties at least, but well kept. His hair was brownish, but as for his face, there was nothing you’d notice. Regular features”—the old man squinted again at Tony—“though not as regular as yours.” He shrugged. “He was a well-dressed gentl’man such as you’d find on any street about here.”
Tony thanked the man.
Once on the pavement, he paused, then set off for Upper Brook Street; the walk would do him good, perhaps clear his mind. An A. C. had paid Ruskin large sums for the last four years. Be that as it may, he was perfectly certain things were not as they seemed.
A few hours closeted in his library clarified matters, at least as far as identifying his immediate next steps.
Through Ruskin’s blackmail and fateful coincidence, Alicia Carrington was being drawn further and further into his investigation. Given his personal interest, he needed to regain lost ground rapidly—needed to regain her trust. Doing so would require an apology, and worse, explanations. All of which necessitated a certain amount of planning, which in turn required a certain amount of reconnoitering. His groom returned from the mews near Waverton Street with the necessary details, by which time he’d formulated his plan.
He began its implementation with a note to his godmother, then sent a different note around to Manningham House.
When the clocks struck nine, he and Geoffrey were propping the wall of Lady Herrington’s ballroom, keeping a careful eye on the arrivals.
“I would never have thought of sending around a groom.” Eyes on the throng, Geoffrey seemed to be relishing his role.
