Alas, it seemed he was going to make a sincere effort to try, for Mr. Mayhew immediately pressed upon them his very great appreciation for their assistance in the matter. “But before we can devote ourselves fully to figuring out who performed this heinous deed, we must first assuage her grace’s concerns regarding the disposal of le peu guillotine, as they appear to have distracted her from the more pressing issue. Women,” he said with fond exasperation to Kesgrave, as if there was nothing to be done but humor their strange fits and starts. “To that end, I have taken the enterprising step of cataloguing every accident involving the device in the past two years. I trust that will appease her and allow us to return at last to my investigation into Monsieur Alphonse’s murder.”
Having identified Beatrice as the problem, he did not consider her a safe caretaker of his list and handed it to Kesgrave. Then he lifted the cup, and noting the very small amount of liquid it contained, scowled in annoyance at how inadequately Bea had performed the one task he had assigned her. A snappish look appeared in his eye, but he had the sense not to chastise a duchess for failing to serve him well enough and instead smiled sweetly before asking if she or Kesgrave had any objections to his plan.
Oh, yes, Bea had objections.
Chapter Nine
Bea’s first issue concerned his estimation of her and Kesgrave’s intelligence. Did he really think so little of their mental acuity that he believed they would fall in line with his amended version of history? Was it merely that he assumed everyone was cognitively impaired in comparison to his own brilliance or was he operating under the misapprehension that they had both suffered memory-reducing head injuries in the past ten minutes?
Her second objection related to the unearned confidence of entitled bankers, as did her third and fourth, for only someone accustomed to the habitual capitulation of his underlings would attempt such a blatantly fatuous tactic. Her fifth, however, was purely pragmatic, for she would not be induced to hand over the reins of her investigation to one of its chief suspects.
Surely, even someone with Mr. Mayhew’s limited faculties understood that.
He would have to be a complete dunderhead to think his ruse had any hope of prevailing, and he could not be thoroughly without wits, for, entitled heir or not, he ran a large financial institution with reasonable success.
That was right, Bea thought suddenly, he did run a large financial institution with reasonable success. His name was over the door, to be sure, but no business of that scope was run without oversight. Mr. Mayhew had to answer to a governing body of some sort, whether it was a group of family members or an assortment of business associates. He was clever enough to earn their esteem and trust while courting new clients and managing a large staff.
Simply put, he could not be a complete dunderhead.
Some part of his brain was clearly capable of concise, cogent thought. What was less discernable was the extent of his coherence.
Could he merely be half a dunderhead?
Bea considered his sycophancy, which was at once the most repellant and comical aspect of his character. His assiduousness in seeking the duke’s approval made him appear foolish, but his behavior did not exist in isolation. No, he was a banker, which meant his livelihood depended on his proximity to power and most of the power in England was held by affluent peers. His toadying was not only the logical conclusion of a mind properly perceiving the demands of its business but also a professional necessity. Securing Kesgrave’s favor was central to his success, and if he chose to sacrifice his own self-respect to obtain wealth and security for his family, then he was only making a sound business decision. No doubt he considered it a small price to pay.
If his fawning was the product of cool calculation, perhaps his other fatuous-seeming traits were as well.
Thoughtfully, she contemplated the blundering way he tried to coerce her agreement to benefit his social standing and the bank. The attempt, so mortifyingly graceless, had accomplished the very opposite of its aim: Rather than gain his assistance, she had resolved to forego it.
Had he been more subtle in his manipulations, a little less grasping and a little more pleasing, he might have achieved his devoutly wished goal of greater familiarity with the Duke of Kesgrave.
Ah, but what if his objective had actually been different from the stated one, she wondered now as she examined the situation from the opposite point of view. If his intention had actually been to thwart an investigation into Mr. Réjane’s murder, then his heavy-handed approach had had a much better chance of succeeding. She had dismissed his attempt to negotiate access to his staff as an act of impertinence and idiocy, but it had in fact put her in an untenable situation. She could not accede to his demands, particularly on behalf of her husband, but nor could she override his wishes. If she had been the woman he thought her—a mushroomy nonentity trying to style herself as a lady Runner to make herself appear interesting to the beau monde—she would have abandoned the field at once.
But she was not, of course, and had options that far exceeded his meager resources, and when she’d exerted her privilege, he had panicked and grabbed her arm.
In that moment he’d comprehended the meaning of her confidence: that the duke might in fact take some interest in his wife.
How awful it must have been for him when, only a moment later, Kesgrave appeared in the room. Now he had two inquisitive peers with which to contend!
His solution had been to apply social pressure to convince Kesgrave to prohibit her from continuing her inquiry.
It was, she conceded, a clever tactic, for she herself had been horrified by the picture he painted of a monstrously intrusive woman. The assumption was
