The thought of Howard Dunn’s demise prompted him to say, “On the subject of your brother’s recklessness with money, I must convey the full extent of his debts.” But how did he tell her about Manning without scaring her half to death? “He’s in the mire. Deeper than you suspect.”
“How deep?” Mild panic pervaded her tone.
“He owes twelve thousand pounds to various creditors.”
“Twelve thousand?” Her mouth fell open. “The fool.”
“He borrowed from a notorious moneylender.” Noah paused, overcome with the sudden suspicion the cad was already buried in a shallow grave. “And from men who will most likely beat him to death if he fails to pay.”
“He deserves nothing less,” she said, though her face grew pale, and she covered her mouth with her hand.
“Know that I will … that the Order will do everything in their power to see this matter right.”
She nodded. “I have a lot to thank you for, Mr Ashwood. And while we’re discussing money, I hope you understand why I must repay my debt in instalments.”
“Your debt?”
Her shoulders sagged. “The hundred pounds you gave to Mr Hemming.”
“It was not a loan, Miss Dunn. We are permitted to claim expenses when dealing with a case.” Noah briefly explained Lucius Daventry’s role as master of the Order. He could hardly say that he’d paid the publisher from his personal funds.
She seemed disappointed that he was not solely responsible for the generous gesture. Hell, Daventry would never have parted with such an extortionate sum. Not when Hemming was guilty of nothing but having wandering hands and amorous intentions.
“I cannot accept Mr Daventry’s charity.” She shook her head numerous times to make her point. “I assume some people who seek your help are penniless. My circumstances are far better than most. No. Please explain to Mr Daventry that I will repay the debt as soon as reasonably possible.”
Noah nodded and smiled while fighting the urge to kiss the sadness from her downturned lips.
“My publisher is out of town for a few days though he has agreed to see you upon his return. Based on previous sales, I’m sure your current work in progress will be of interest to him.”
Her pained smile said something was amiss. “Thank you, Mr Ashwood. You have been most helpful. Inspiration is a little slow at the moment, but I’m confident things will improve. And I can always take work at the hospital in the interim.”
The structured speech hid a wealth of torment. He would lay odds she had not written a word since the shameful situation with Miss Swales. And yet to survive, she would place herself in a hospital full of tragic stories and crying infants—a constant reminder of her brother’s failings.
Damn the devil.
Noah rubbed his jaw and unleashed another silent curse. He should be solving the mystery of her missing brother, not worrying about healing Miss Dunn’s wounded heart.
“I wonder, might I have the blackmail note to examine?” he said, attempting to focus. “Do you have a sample of Mr Hemming’s writing and that of your brother’s?”
“Yes, I have both. But if you’re trying to identify the sender, I have already concluded neither man wrote the note. Of course, that doesn’t mean someone else didn’t write it on their behalf.”
Based on his last case, he believed the villain would rather work to disguise his penmanship than take a partner in crime. “Still, I would like to be sure before moving to other lines of enquiry.”
“Then I shall find anything pertinent to the case and have my footman deliver it to you in Hart Street.”
It occurred to him there was another suspect not yet named. “And who is the friend who knows you write under a pseudonym?”
A veil of sadness fell over her features, and he knew the person’s identity before she said, “Clara Swales.”
“Of course. Lord Benham’s sister.”
“Though Clara is not a suspect.”
“No.” Not unless she was looking for funds to escape her Northumberland prison. Not unless Howard Dunn had put her up to the task.
“Either way, we should add another name to the list—Lord Benham’s. He may have inadvertently stumbled upon your secret.” Perhaps the viscount sent the note to prevent Miss Dunn from visiting Northumberland. Perhaps he sent it to frighten her as a means of revenge.
A heavy silence descended.
It was time to depart, though he found it impossible to leave.
He recalled the fantasy she had created to appease the publisher. An afternoon spent stretched on a blanket in the park while he read poems. An afternoon relaxing in the sunshine, picnicking, drinking wine, more passionate kissing.
The image spoke to him deeply.
So deeply, he feared he was losing his grasp on reality.
“Now you have dealt with the matter of my stolen undergarments and released me from Mr Hemming’s clutches,” Miss Dunn said, her sweet voice drawing him from his reverie, “what do you propose we do now?”
Oh, he had plenty of ideas as to how they might fill their time.
“I suggest you think carefully about the night of the attack. Did the thug say anything? Is there a reason your boots might hold some particular value to him?”
One reason sprang to mind, and he would give the matter his consideration upon his return to Hart Street.
Miss Dunn swallowed deeply. “So, you don’t need me to accompany you on another outing?”
“Not at present.” Though he wished he could invent another appointment, wished to banish the loneliness from her voice. “But while I wait for your publisher to pounce, I intend to question Lord Benham. After all, the man has a motive for murder.”
She clutched her throat as if she were Benham’s next target. “Howard deserves to pay for his crimes, but I pray Lord Benham has not gone too far. Vengeance will not heal the heartache. And how can a man reform if he’s dead?”
Reform?
“Men like your brother are beyond redemption,” he said, attempting to keep his contempt for Howard Dunn from his voice.
“Of course they are, but one must not give up hope.”
“No. Hope is all we have.”
After another brief
