waiting for Shrewton to acknowledge each of them. Then he sat back. “I’m here because there’s been another murder related to this business. I’ve brought another body I believe you’ll want to see.” Shrewton opened his mouth to bluster. Royce calmly continued before he could, “This man was a known associate of your son’s in Bombay. Has Roderick ever written to you of a friend by the name of Daniel Thurgood?”
“What?” The earl’s shock was writ plainly on his face. He looked staggered. “Thurgood?”
Royce nodded. “Were you acquainted with Daniel Thurgood?”
The earl looked down at his blotter.
When his father said nothing, Kilworth, who had moved to stand behind and to the left of his father’s chair, cleared his throat. When Royce glanced at him, he rather carefully asked, “Are you saying that the dead body you’ve brought here today is that of Daniel Thurgood?”
Royce looked back at the earl. “Yes.”
Still the earl refused to look up.
The silence stretched.
Somewhat to Royce’s surprise, it was Kilworth who broke it. Looking down at his father, he asked, his tone even, “Are you going to tell them? Or shall I?”
The earl slowly shook his head from side to side. From what little Royce could see of his expression, his face had set in mulish lines-lines of denial. The earl grumbled, “The man was nothing to me.”
Kilworth sighed, straightened, and looked Royce in the eye. “Thurgood was my father’s natural son.”
Royce nodded. “So both Roderick and Daniel Thurgood were your father’s sons.” He made the comment a statement. While visiting the sins of the fathers on the sons was commonplace enough, the reverse operated just as well. Just as damagingly.
Neither Kilworth nor the earl responded.
After a moment, Royce continued, “We gave the body we believe to be that of Daniel Thurgood into the keeping of your servants. They should have laid the body out by now. I would ask you to view it, now, in our presence, and confirm that it is indeed the body of your natural son, Daniel Thurgood.”
The earl glanced up briefly, met Royce’s eyes, then reluctantly nodded. “Very well.”
He rose and led the way out. Kilworth stood back and waved the others ahead of him, bringing up the rear as the earl led Royce to the old stone laundry. Roderick’s body, now shrouded and wrapped for burial, lay on one bench; in the dimness behind lay the body of Larkins, likewise prepared, but less expensively wrapped.
The earl’s steward had had Daniel Thurgood’s body laid out on the bench at right angles to Roderick’s. As per Royce’s instructions, the dagger had been left in place, and the small room well lit with multiple candelabra.
The earl stood alongside the bench looking down at a face that, Royce had to admit, looked more like the earl’s than even Roderick’s had. A moment ticked by, then the earl dragged in a not entirely steady breath. “Yes.” He nodded. “This is the body of my natural son, Daniel Thurgood.”
Standing a little back from the bench, Royce asked, “Have you any idea what it was your sons were engaged in in India?”
“No. I told you. I had no idea.”
“Have you any recollection of Roderick ever mentioning anyone he was particularly close to, here or in India, other than Thurgood?”
“He never mentioned Thurgood!” The earl’s lips compressed; his color heightened. “Damn it-I had no notion they even knew each other. And if I didn’t know that… clearly, I would know nothing else of consequence.”
“Do you have any other sons of whom I would be unaware?”
“No.” The earl waved at the two bodies. “My sons are dead.” He paused, then tipped his head toward Kilworth, standing a pace away on his other side. “Well, except for him, and I’ve never thought he’s mine.”
Kilworth rolled his eyes, but didn’t otherwise react to the implied insult; from what Minerva, Clarice, and Letitia had told him, Royce gathered it was an old refrain to which no one in the ton paid the slightest heed. What the earl meant was that Kilworth took after his mother in both looks and disposition, and therefore lacked the viciousness that otherwise ran in the family.
Ignoring the comment as beneath his notice, Royce drew out his copy of the letter. “Oblige me, if you will, and cast your eyes over this.” He held out the letter.
The earl hesitated, but curiosity won out and he took the sheet, angled it so the candlelight fell on the page. Kilworth shifted so he could read over his father’s shoulder.
Royce gave them a minute, then asked, “Is there any name you recognize? Anyone you know, or have heard Roderick mention as a friend?”
The earl continued to read. Royce watched his face harden as his eyes perused the lower paragraphs, those detailing the Black Cobra’s dealings with Govind Holkar.
When he reached the end, the earl drew a deep breath. The hand holding the letter shook, although from what emotion-fury, fear, or shock-Royce couldn’t tell. Then the earl met his eyes. “Is this what Roderick was doing? Why he died?”
“Indirectly, yes. It was about the money, but even more about the power.”
The earl held out the letter, and he now looked truly ill. Not just shocked, but as if something inside him had broken.
Royce took the letter. “The names?”
Slowly, his gaze distant, the earl shook his head. “I didn’t recognize any of the men named.”
His eyes on his father’s face, Kilworth looked concerned.
Refolding the letter, Royce tucked it back into his pocket, nodded to the earl, then Kilworth. “Thank you. That’s all I need to know at this point.”
Turning, Royce led the way out. Grooms were walking their horses in the forecourt. They reclaimed them, mounted, and rode away, leaving the earl to bury his illegitimate, as well as his legitimate, son.
Eighteen
At Minerva’s suggestion, Linnet and Logan took advantage of the hours waiting for Royce and the others to return from Wymondham to refresh themselves and catch up on some sleep.
Retiring to the bedchamber she’d been assigned, Linnet discovered a steaming bath waiting, with a little maid laying out towels and scented soaps, and mentally blessed Minerva.
“Thank you.” Her tone was so heartfelt the maid grinned.
“I’m Ginger, ma’am.” The little maid bobbed. “Her Grace said as for sure you’d need this. Let me help you with that gown, and then I’ll unpack your bag, shall I?”
“Her Grace is a mind reader. If you’ll help with the laces, and then by all means unpack what there is-I’m afraid I wasn’t expecting the journey, so have had to borrow much of what’s there from Lady Penelope.”
“Never you mind, miss-we’re used to strange happenings in this household. Anything you need, just ask.”
Linnet hid a grin as Ginger bustled about, helping her off with her gown, then flitting about the room.
“Now you just settle in there-the hot water will do you good-and then you can rest.” Ginger flitted off to fetch Linnet’s bag from where it had been deposited by the door.
“I take it our coach and driver-David-arrived in good order?” Relaxing back against the tub’s edge, Linnet nearly groaned with pleasure.
“Aye, ma’am. All’s well there.”
Linnet closed her eyes. Scented steam rose and wreathed around her. For the first time in more hours than she could count, it felt as if warmth was reaching her bones.
Ginger remained, but was quiet. The respite was just what Linnet needed. She roused herself eventually, and made good use of the soap and flannel. Ginger helped her wash her hair, roughly dry it, then wind it in one of the waiting towels. By the time the water had cooled, and Linnet reluctantly rose and stepped out, and toweled her body dry, she was warm and clean and truly relaxed.
“I’ll just leave the bath until later, miss.” Ginger waved at the bed, turned down and inviting. “You go on and have a nice little nap. His Grace isn’t expected back until nearly dinnertime, and Her Grace said as that’s to be at seven o’clock tonight, seeing as how you all had an early luncheon. Now”-Ginger paused for breath-“is there
