She was wholly unknown.
Mr. Mayhew continued. “Specifically, here is what I expect in exchange for my cooperation, all commencing one week from today and extending over a six-month period: two invitations to dine at Kesgrave House, two outings to the duke’s box at Covent Garden for plays of Mrs. Mayhew’s selection, one dinner at my London house, one weekend stay at Helston Park, one invitation to a house party at the duke’s ancestral estate. And, of course, he will move a portion of his deposits from Coutts to Mayhew and Co. As for the actual percentage of his account, I will leave that to his grace to decide.”
“How very gracious,” she said satirically.
Perceiving a compliment, he dipped his head and fluttered his left hand through the air.
Calmly, as if she did not find him repellent in every way, Bea reviewed the terms of the agreement in order to make sure she understood them correctly. “To be clear, you will allow me to investigate the brutal murder of a member of your own staff if I agree to confer my and the duke’s friendship to increase your status among the beau monde? Is my understanding of the compact accurate?”
“Yes, your grace,” he said, smiling widely. “Entirely correct.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Are the terms of the agreement set or may I negotiate the specifics?”
The glow in his eyes changed, from avarice to anticipation, as he leaned forward in his chair and rubbed his hands together. “Oh, yes, you may indeed. Tell me, your grace, what you have in mind.”
What she actually had in mind was some version of a grand exit, with her unceremoniously dumping the pot of tea on his head, calling him a repugnant mushroom with more hair than wit and marching forcefully out of the room.
’Twould be an utter delight, to see him gasping in indignation as Bohea dripped from his ridiculous whiskers onto his absurd silk-clad thighs, his hands flying haphazardly through the air, as if seeking purchase.
But she was not there to satisfy her temper or give leave to her outrage; she was there to find justice for Auguste Alphonse Réjane.
Firmly and fully, she believed that no man, not even the most intemperate monster, deserved decapitation, to have his head in one spot and his body in another. And yet it still seemed worse that it was this man, this rare genius of sugar, flour and butter, who suffered such a horrific fate.
“I would like to propose a few amendments,” she said with deceptive smoothness. “Some minor alterations, if you will.”
Mr. Mayhew nodded eagerly. “Of course, of course. You wouldn’t be the woman you are if you blithely accepted my offer.”
“We forego your six-point plan for social advancement and instead call the constable to the house so that we may have a fruitful discussion about Monsieur Alphonse’s murder,” she said. “I have already gathered information that will be useful to him in his investigation.”
A broad grin spread across his face as he lauded her strong opening position and launched into a lecture on the uselessness of her discovery of the murder weapon, for the constable already believed the death to be a tragic accident. “And he is not likely to change his mind.”
Bea knew well the incompetence of constables, for the one in the Lake District had been persuaded that Mr. Otley had struck the back of his own head with a candlestick, but she found it inconceivable one would be so apathetic as to hold to the explanation of inadvertent decapitation when convincing evidence of murder was produced.
“I think he will,” she said firmly.
“In 1667, my great-grandfather George Richard Mayhew established himself as a goldsmith,” he said, beginning his litany of familiar achievements all over again. “The business thrived, and in 1673 he was appointed jeweler in ordinary to King William III.”
Exasperated by his buffoonery, she asked testily, “What are you doing?”
“Explaining my importance, as you seem to have forgotten it,” he replied. “I assure you, the constable has not.”
Ah, so that was how he had got the ruling he had desired, by exerting either his money or his influence. She was just as capable of playing that game as well—indeed, she had the advantage.
“In 1381,” she said, “John Matlock helped King Richard quell the Peasants Revolt when he crushed the rebels led by Litster in East Anglia, earning a knighthood.”
Anger flashed in the banker’s eyes as he sat forward in his chair. “I will not be mocked!”
Well, she thought, someone was not quite as secure in his position as he claimed.
“Mock you?” Bea said, twisting her lips sardonically. “I would never mock a man of your high status and inveterate morality. No, my good sir, I am doing the very opposite of mocking you by paying you the respect of abiding by your rules. Are we not trying to cow each other with our impressive lineages? I thought influence and consequence were the currency with which this agreement would be negotiated, and I feel confident mine trumps yours.”
Bea expected him to respond with more anger, for her tone was openly derisive, but he leaned back into his chair, mollified by either her words or her attitude. Lightly, his fingers tapped the arms of the bergère. “You must forgive me, your grace, for forgetting what kind of woman you are. Of course you understand the play. I am merely doing what you yourself did so expertly in pursuit of the duke.”
As he spoke, Bea noted the light in his eyes had changed yet again, this time flashing with respect, and although she told herself it was better to be seen as an equal than an object to be manipulated, she felt only repugnance at his esteem.
It was no achievement to earn his admiration.
Indeed, it was more like a failure.
Abhorrent man, she thought, reminding herself that his repulsiveness did not make him guilty of
