Not so Wicked, page 17
“You’re certain she didn’t lie about the attack?”
Unsure if he had heard correctly, Devon said, “If you’re referring to Mina, I pray it was a slip of the tongue. She is not a bawdy house wench who invents fantasies for a living. Cursed saints! You’ve seen the marks on her neck.”
Bradbury raised his hands in mock surrender. “I merely meant some women invent stories to get male attention. Some have been known to inflict injuries upon themselves. Under the circumstances, she’s probably desperate to keep you at home.”
Devon turned on Bradbury, his anger barely contained. “Don’t dare insinuate my wife hurt herself,” he said, his voice a low growl. “And what circumstances are you referring to?”
Bradbury was quick to diffuse their argument. “I’m sorry. I mean, she might have heard about Belinda and sought a means to keep you from straying.”
God’s teeth!
He had invented the name when Bradbury persisted in asking questions. He hated that anyone thought him capable of betraying his wife. Yes, they’d not married for love, but he’d made vows, all the same. Despite the odds, he had developed a deep connection to the woman who bore his name.
“There is no Belinda,” he whispered.
Bradbury blinked in shock. “What? You gave your mistress of three years her congé to please the Stanford chit?”
Stanford chit!
What the hell was Bradbury’s problem?
As he could not betray Arabella, he said, “I don’t give a damn about her but I do care about my wife. Say one more word and Belinda won’t be the only person receiving their congé.”
Bradbury’s arrogant snort grated. “We’ve been friends for seventeen years. Surely you know I have your best interests at heart. The woman has you under a spell. How do you know she isn’t intent on ruining your life because she blames you for her brother’s death?”
Devon noticed Aaron Chance leaning against the door jamb, watching them, and so took a calming breath. “I suggest we sit down to play the next game before we’re thrown out for brawling with each other.”
Bradbury frowned.
But then Wenham strode into the card room with Lord Peterson, a fool who had invested in so many lame schemes he’d been close to bankruptcy three times or more.
The fop must have read something sinister in Devon’s expression because as soon as their gazes locked, Wenham backed slowly out of the room and bolted.
Devon marched through the card room and broke into a sprint as soon as he burst out onto Aldgate Street.
Bradbury was hot on his heels. “The bastard turned left,” Bradbury cried, pointing to a figure dodging people on the pavement.
They gave chase.
Devon came to an abrupt halt on the corner of Houndsditch. He stared down the dark street, listening for the clip of booted footsteps. He heard the grim moans of hungry children huddled in doorways. The wails of babes and their mothers’ desperate efforts to quieten them.
“Let’s try the churchyard.” Bradbury was already crossing the street, heading towards the looming shadow of St Ann’s. “Only guilty men run. Wenham clearly has something to hide.”
Unless Wenham feared he’d get a beating.
“When we find him, we need to question him,” Devon reiterated. “Once we gain a confession, I mean to take him to the Great Marlborough Street police office.”
The rickety wooden gate to the churchyard was open. They crept quietly along the grass verge, not the gravel path, peering around crooked headstones as they passed.
Black clouds filled the night sky. It was so dark one could barely see more than a foot or two in front. Devon pointed for Bradbury to inspect the east corner while he followed the wrought-iron fence to the west.
The eerie whisper of the wind breezing through the trees raised the hairs on Devon’s nape. Then he saw a black mound huddled behind a tombstone. He reached out and grabbed Wenham by the arm.
“Don’t think you can hide from me,” Devon snarled.
But then Bradbury’s loud curse rent the air.
A muffled argument ensued.
Devon looked down to find he’d dragged a vagabond from his makeshift bed, but the man was too drunk to notice.
Fearing what Bradbury might do to Wenham, Devon raced across the graveyard, almost tripping on broken stones.
“We know it was you!” Bradbury punched Wenham on the nose, the crack preceding the sudden spurt of blood. “Else, why run?”
Wenham took a hard thump to the stomach, and his legs buckled.
“Let him speak,” Devon demanded.
“Why don’t we just kill the bastard?” Bradbury yanked Wenham up by the scruff of his coat and shook him. “If a man hurt my wife, I’d bury him six feet under.”
Wenham struggled to catch his breath but cried, “Wait! If this is about the apology you want posted in The Times, I mean to do it tomorrow.”
“It’s about the attack on his wife,” Bradbury growled.
“Attack? I explained that when you found us.”
He was referring to the incident at Captain Howard’s ball.
Devon stepped into the fray. He gripped Bradbury’s arm, a silent instruction for him to release the gent. “Stanford knew the deed to the land you planned to mine was fake. When you found out he’d broken into your house and stolen it, you killed him.”
Wenham shook his head vehemently. “What? He only stole the deed to punish me for not marrying his sister.”
The thought of Mina marrying this fool turned Devon’s stomach.
“So you killed him,” Bradbury snapped.
“No! He had my damn deed. I needed it back.”
“Perhaps your temper got the better of you,” Devon said. One might mean to bargain or barter, only to stab a man in a sudden fit of rage. “Stanford hired a former runner from Bow Street to investigate your claim. He went to Staffordshire and spoke to the landowner.”
Wenham’s eyes widened in horror.
“I have your deed,” Devon said, though went on to lie. “I have proof it’s a forgery. The landowner has passed the matter to the local magistrate, and a warrant has been issued for your arrest. I’m to take you to Great Marlborough Street for questioning.”
“No!” Wenham dropped to his knees. “It’s all lies.”
“Then you won’t mind answering Sir Oswald’s questions.”
Bradbury yanked the fellow to his feet. “Admit you met with Stanford on Waterloo Bridge,” he cried, his nostrils flaring. He gripped Wenham by the throat and squeezed his jugular. “Admit you hurled him into the river when he refused to give you the deed.”
Devon let Bradbury apply a reasonable amount of pressure. “Answer him!”
“No! I—I arranged to meet him on the bridge,” Wenham croaked as Bradbury choked him, “but only because he wished to negotiate a price for the deed.” Panicked, he hit Bradbury’s hand. “I—I swear.”
Mother of all saints!
Bradbury was right.
Wenham was guilty.
Devon instructed Bradbury to release the villain before he crushed his windpipe. “Let him breathe. We need to hear his recount of the event.” He faced the pathetic creature. “So you stabbed Stanford when he refused to hand over the document, then threw him into the Thames.”
“No! He tried to blackmail me.” Wenham gasped for breath. He rubbed his throat as if it pained him. “He wanted money in exchange for the deed, else he threatened to tell everyone I don’t own the land.”
“Liar!” Bradbury cried.
“It’s the truth. Stanford gave me a day to think on the matter.”
“Yet he’s not here to verify your claim,” Devon said.
“Why would I kill him when I need the deed back?”
“Because you expected to break into his house and find it there.” Devon was tired of listening to the fop’s excuses. But he didn’t trust Sir Oswald to investigate the matter properly. “I’m taking you to Peel.” He grabbed Wenham by the scruff of his coat. “You can explain it all to him.”
“Wait! Mrs Fitzroy saw me.”
The comment stole the wind from Devon’s sails. “What?”
“I saw Mrs Fitzroy heading along Wellington Street. She wore a blue cloak like she’d been to the opera, but it was late.”
“How late?” Devon said.
“Three o’clock. Stanford wanted to meet after the game at Boodle’s. Maybe she followed him. I saw her outside the club earlier that evening.”
Bradbury gave a mocking snort. “You better hope she supports your claim. Though if she murdered Stanford, I doubt she’ll confirm she was there.”
“I’ll make a statement,” Wenham blurted.
Devon stared down his nose. “Damn right you will.”
Chapter Sixteen
Devon was quiet, subdued, lost in his thoughts.
Mina studied her husband as he sat in the dark confines of their carriage, his face and expression hidden in the shadows.
After escorting Mr Wenham to the Queen Street police office, he had returned to Fortune’s Den and hardly spoken since. Mr Chance sensed a problem and reassured them he knew the magistrate well and they could trust Sir James to uncover the truth.
“Is everything all right?” she said when the silence became unbearable. The pressure to solve the case had taken its toll.
“Yes.” His heavy tone confirmed a problem.
“You were quite abrupt with Mr Bradbury when we parted ways. And you barely said two words to Lillian when we took her home.”
“I have a lot on my mind.”
A lady did not question her husband. She did not make demands upon him, but theirs was not a marriage by usual standards, and he always sought her counsel.
“Don’t shut me out, Devon. Something is troubling you. I can sense when you’re worried.” He had acted in much the same way before leaving for Aylesbury. What was he hiding?
Did he have another secret?
“It’s been a long night. And you’re tired.”
She sat forward. “I’m never too tired to share your burden.”
After a brief pause he exhaled deeply, his demeanour relaxing. “I’ve known Bradbury for seventeen years, but I’ve never known him to be so irrational, so volatile. He would have murdered Wenham had I given my permission.”
In truth, she disliked Mr Bradbury. Tonight, she had caught him looking at her as if she were dirt on his shoe. During dinner, he had been amusing and quite affable. The man had stared at her with his angelic blue eyes, though she feared they masked a terrible darkness.
“He’s quite protective of you.”
“I’m one of the few people he respects.”
Yet she could not see what Devon gained from their friendship. “He seemed convinced Mr Wenham murdered my brother. Based on nothing but supposition, he condemned what might be an innocent man.”
Being insightful, he caught the distrust in her tone. “What are you saying? He wanted us to think Wenham was guilty?”
She thought for a moment. “The question we must ask ourselves is why Mr Bradbury was prepared to throttle a man before hearing a confession.” The hairs on her nape prickled to attention as she considered all possibilities. “Logic says there are only two, perhaps three reasons.”
It did not take Devon long to come to the same conclusion. Indeed, he quickly proved their thoughts were aligned.
“Bradbury may have prior knowledge of Wenham’s guilt,” he said, though did not sound convinced, “and for some reason unbeknown cannot reveal how or why.”
“Perhaps he was there that night.”
“Then why not say so? And what would he be doing near Waterloo Bridge at three o’clock in the morning?”
She shrugged. Who knew what the man did during the witching hour? “Perhaps it’s something scandalous and he doesn’t want you to think ill of him, which brings me to the second reason. Mr Bradbury thinks so highly of you, he would hurt anyone you despised.”
Devon gave an incredulous snort. “I’m quite capable of fighting my own battles, and Bradbury knows it. Yes, he looks upon me as a brother, but he wouldn’t risk his neck on a hunch.”
“Then logic suggests something quite terrifying.” Nerves fluttered in her chest, but she had sworn never to lie to him. “What if Mr Bradbury murdered my brother?”
She should dismiss the notion, yet a pang in her gut said there was some truth to the claim. Devon disagreed, of course.
“Bradbury didn’t kill your brother. He had no motive. No reason to commit such a heinous crime. And I doubt he would hide the truth from me. He’s a braggart.”
“Well, he must be involved in some capacity. Else why would he be desperate to hurt Mr Wenham?”
Tension crackled in the air. With it came the realisation that Mr Bradbury kept his own secrets.
“I study men closely,” Devon said, his tone more subdued. “I can read what they’re thinking by their expressions, by their actions and the way they move their bodies. I would know if Bradbury meant to deceive me.”
Would he?
Sometimes people missed the obvious.
“There is a difference.” She knew so from her experiences with Thomas and his endless lies. “When you trust someone, when you care about them and think those feelings are reciprocated, you’re blind to the fact they might deceive you.”
She had trusted Thomas’ word in the beginning, but like a dying rose come winter, her faith had withered and blown away with the wind.
A chilly silence descended.
Seconds passed, the clip of hooves on the road like the ticking of a clock. Then Devon rapped on the roof and instructed Simpkin to take a detour and stop outside Mrs Fitzroy’s abode in Golden Square.
“I need to question the widow tonight.” His tone rang with steely determination. “I’ll be damned if I’ll wait until morning. I need to know if she killed your brother, else I shall go out of my mind wondering if Bradbury has played me for a fool.”
“You’re not a fool, Devon.” Keen to calm his volatile temper, she reached across and gripped his hand. “You’re the most intelligent man I know. None of this is your fault.”
And yet he had not noticed the tender way she looked at him now. He had not considered she might be in lust and in love with him. Which only went to prove her point about Mr Bradbury.
“You’re biased,” he said, his tone lighter.
“Because I’m your wife?”
“Because we’ve been intimate.”
She laughed. “You think my need for you clouds my judgement?”
“No, but you might see the man who pleasures you in a more flattering light. You do like me pleasuring you, Mina?”
“You know I do.”
Even in the gloom, she could see the haze of desire in his eyes as he looked at her lips. She knew he sought a distraction from unwanted thoughts. He confirmed her theory when he pulled her across the carriage and into his lap.
He settled his hands on her waist. His mouth found her jaw, then her lips, and they fell into a passionate kiss that left her pushing her hands into his hair and writhing like a wanton.
I love you!
It was too soon to tell him.
But she could hint at the possibility.
“I love the way you kiss me,” she breathed when he moved to suck her earlobe. “I love everything you do to me, Devon. I could spend my life in your arms and die happy.”
I love you so much it hurts!
“Straddle me,” he growled.
She quickly unbuttoned her pelisse, hiked her skirts to her thighs and came to sit astride him—a mound of material swamping them both.
He gripped her hips, rocking her back and forth, simulating the act they were both desperate to perform. “I need to be inside you. I can’t wait until we get home. I need to own you, Mina. I need to possess you, to drive into you over and over, to think about nothing but you hugging my cock.”
“Do it then.” She could barely catch her breath. “Own me.”
Their gazes locked in the darkness.
It was a moment of pure magic.
He unbuttoned his trousers, and though she could not see his throbbing erection, she felt it slide into her seconds later.
“God, love, you were made for me.” Holding her, he pushed deeper into her body. “I love how good you feel.”
She could stay like this forever. “Don’t worry about my pleasure.” Hearing his lustful groans was enough. “Take what you need.”
While she sensed his desperation, while he’d made it clear in words, he confirmed he was determined to lose control.
“I’ll make it up to you later. Make you come so hard, love.”
And then he was thrusting into her, the rocking of the carriage helping him to drive in and out with frantic momentum.
Enchanted by the power in every plunge, she watched his face. Lillian might say this was a lewd act, but Devon Masters was making love to her. This was an act of intimacy, of dependency, of trust.
He told her what he needed.
He whispered words he meant.
He watched her, those dark eyes devouring hers as if she were his life force. He wasn’t owning her.
He was proving she owned him. And the rush of hope filling her heart was as satisfying as the deepest climax.
The church bells struck the midnight hour. Devon knocked on Mrs Fitzroy’s door for the fifth time. The four-storey townhouse was in darkness, though he persisted in trying to rouse someone from their bed.
Mina climbed down from the carriage and glanced up at the facade. “Devon, she is probably at a party or entertaining Captain Howard.”
Since learning Mrs Fitzroy was near Waterloo Bridge on the night Thomas died, Mina couldn’t help but wonder if the widow had acted at the captain’s behest.
Had the military man used tactics to persuade his lover to commit murder? Was she wracked with remorse? So much so, she had come to the churchyard to see Thomas’ grave?
Devon stepped away from the door. “I’m not leaving until I’ve spoken to her. We will wait in the carriage until dawn if necessary.”
His suspicions about Mr Bradbury were eating away at him like a slow-acting poison.
