“A fee,” she corrected. “I was inspired by my aunt. Apparently she and Mr. March consider information a commodity like any other, and therefore they are on occasion willing to pay for it.”

“True.” Anthony paused to open the gate on the far side of the garden. “Tobias grumbles about the practice, but there is no doubt that it is effective. Was the gardener receptive to your offer?”

“I don’t know.”

“You mean he didn’t tell you anything?” Anthony drew her through the opening and turned back to close the gate. “I hope you didn’t give him money for nothing.”

“He was obviously too nervous to speak with me in a direct fashion. He was well aware that Mrs. Rushton was not far away. But I sensed he knew more than he had told us and I assured him that the offer I had made would stand for a full twenty-four hours.”

“I see.” Anthony took her arm again. He said nothing until they turned down a narrow street on the far side of the square.

“Not a bad scheme,” he finally allowed grudgingly.

“Thank you. I thought it was rather clever myself.”

“But was it absolutely necessary to sacrifice me to Mrs. Rushton just so that you could offer a bribe to the gardener?”

“I told you, it was a fee, not a bribe. And as for sacrificing you, I’m afraid I had little choice. I would remind you that I was forced to act swiftly.”

“That strikes me as an excuse.”

“Come now,” she said. “Tea with Mrs. Rushton wasn’t that bad, was it?”

“The worst twenty minutes of my life, if you must know. The woman tried to persuade me to pay another call on her at a later time. Alone, mind you.” Anthony gave a visible shudder. “She suggested an evening visit.”

“It must have been a somewhat harrowing experience. I vow, I have never seen you quite so shaken, sir.”

“When I asked Tobias to take me on as his assistant, he neglected to mention that there were clients such as Mrs. Rushton.”

“You must admit, we have embarked upon interesting careers.”

He cheered a little at that observation. “Yes, very interesting, indeed. Tobias is still not altogether pleased with my decision to follow in his footsteps, but I believe he has accepted it.”

“Aunt Lavinia shares similar reservations about me. But I think she understands.”

Anthony frowned slightly. “Speaking of Tobias and your aunt, there is something I wish to discuss with you.”

“You are concerned about their personal relationship, are you not?”

“I collect that you have similar concerns?”

“I have become a trifle worried of late,” she admitted.

“It is obvious that they have become quite, uh, close. And not just in the business sense, if you take my meaning.”

She fixed her attention on the far end of the street. “What you are trying to say is that you believe that they have become intimate.”

“Yes. Forgive me, I realize that this is certainly not the sort of topic one generally discusses with a lady of your years and station, but I feel I must talk to you about the situation.”

“Do not concern yourself with the proprieties,” she said gently. “You and I, Anthony, have not had traditional, sheltered upbringings. We have certainly had far more experience of the world than most people our age. You may speak freely with me.”

“If you must know, I am troubled by the fact that Tobias and Mrs. Lake seem to be growing more quarrelsome of late.”

“Yes, I know what you mean. The nature of their association appears to be quite nettlesome, to say the least.”

“I thought, following the success of their investigation into the affair of the waxwork murders, that they had both sailed into more harmonious waters. Indeed, I would have said that they were falling in love. If nothing else, it was clear that they had conceived a passion for each other.”

Emeline thought of Lavinia’s flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes on those occasions when she returned from one of her long walks in the park with Tobias. “Quite clear.”

“I have no doubt but that the problem stems from Tobias’s singular lack of interest in romantical matters. He simply does not know how to woo a lady. I have tried to give him some advice, but I fear the lessons are not taking.”

“I really don’t think that is the difficulty,” Emeline said thoughtfully. “It is true that my aunt loves romantical poetry, but I don’t believe that she expects Mr. March to conform to the standards of one of Byron’s heroes.”

“I am relieved to hear that, because I fear he lacks that sort of polish and has no intention of acquiring it. But if that is not the problem, what the devil is going on between those two?”

“Something Aunt Lavinia said recently leads me to believe that she thinks Mr. March is attempting to, uh, limit the competition, as it were.”

Anthony’s brows knotted. “Bloody hell. Why would she think that?”

“In part because Mr. March refuses to introduce her to some of his connections.”

“Yes, I know, but he has what he feels is a perfectly sound reason for refusing. Some of his connections have links to the criminal class. He does not think that it would be proper to introduce Mrs. Lake to that sort, and I must admit, I can see his point of view.”

“It is not just that Mr. March will not introduce her to some of his more useful associates,” Emeline continued. “I fear that lately he has begun issuing instructions almost daily and giving unwanted advice at every turn. She finds him quite overbearing. My aunt is not accustomed to taking orders from anyone, you know.”

Anthony contemplated that for a moment. “It is clear that we are dealing with two exceptionally independent, strong-minded people. What is more, they are both quite set in their ways, are they not? I wonder what-”

A child’s voice broke into his musings. It came from behind them.

“Sir. Ma’am. Please wait. My pa wants me to give ye a message.”

“What’s this?” Anthony halted and swung around.

Emeline stopped and glanced back over her shoulder. She saw a young boy of eight or nine years, clad in rumpled clothes and a cap, waving to them from the entrance to the narrow street. Excitement swept through her.

“That is the gardener’s son,” she said to Anthony. “I met him in the course of my tour. He assists his father at the Banks mansion.”

“What can he want with us?”

“I’ll wager his papa sent him after us with some news. He probably hopes to collect the fee I promised. I knew my scheme would work.”

The boy saw that he had their attention. He hurried toward them.

The sudden loud clatter of carriage wheels and horses’ hooves rumbled behind the lad. Emeline looked past the boy and saw a black hackney rounding the corner. The two-horse team was moving at a swift trot. When the vehicle turned into the street, the coachman cracked his whip loudly over the rumps of the horses. The beasts lunged forward at full gallop.

The gardener’s son was directly in their path.

Emeline realized that the boy was in danger of being trampled beneath the hooves and wheels.

“Look out,” she shouted.

She did not know if the lad heard her warning, but in that instant he seemed to become aware of the din behind him. He stopped and turned. For an instant he seemed to be paralyzed by the sight of the onrushing carriage.

“Move, boy, move” Anthony shouted. He started forward at a run.

“Dear heaven.” Emeline seized fistfuls of her skirts and went after him.

The boy finally became aware of his dire situation. With a sudden, convulsive jerk, he made to dash for safety.

The breeze caught his cap and sent it skittering back into the path of the horses.

“Me cap.” The lad whirled and raced back out into the middle of the street, obviously determined to rescue the cap.

“No,” Emeline called. “No, don’t go back.”

But the boy paid no attention.

The carriage never slowed. Obviously the coachman did not see the lad dash back into his path. Anguished, helpless terror swept through Emeline. She could never reach him in time.


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