The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(50)

Fallon raised a brow at Hardaway’s claim that he could ever be quiet about anything but didn’t contradict him. He needed his friend’s expertise just now. “It’s Grapling.”

“Right you are. It doesn’t sit well with me that such a weasel of a man is still evading our men. If we don’t find him soon—”

“He resurfaced yesterday during your—” Fallon broke off, searching for less painful words than the obvious ones.

“Go ahead, then. Say it. During my blasted wedding.”

Fallon worked to choose his words, eyeing his friend as he considered the consequences of every line of conversation from this point forward. “He stole a roomful of art from the British Museum. There was a lady involved,” he finally said.

“A lady?” Hardaway asked in alarm. “Was it as it was before? Did she live? St. James, how are we to cover up the murder of a lady? We can’t. We shouldn’t, at any rate. And with the authorities involved…there goes the secrecy of the entire Spare Heirs Society. A title, a public laughingstock, and now my club? My work? Damn, I need a drink.” He rose from his chair and stalked across the room to the decanter Fallon kept filled for his men.

“Calm yourself. The Spares hasn’t seen its last day yet. She’s alive, and we’re avoiding the mess of authorities. For the moment, anyway.”

“Who is she?” Hardaway asked, returning with a glass in his hand. “How the hell are we supposed to keep a—I’m assuming—horribly injured lady quiet? Not to mention hiding a heist at the blasted British Museum? Ladies talk, St. James. They aren’t like you with your secrets and glares.”

“I need you to retrieve copies of a letter. I put Haperly on inquiring at the Post, but—”

“But I’m better at document retrieval?” Hardaway asked, the recent fire clearly still on his mind.

“You’re the best we have. Check with the usual publications first to stem that issue, then question everyone involved with daily activities at the museum. Remind Mr. Jasper of our continued patronage and convince him in any way you can to keep the theft quiet. He’s the head librarian—it’s his reputation at stake as well.”

“That should be an interesting conversation, seeing as how you had that brawl there only last week,” Hardaway cut in.

Fallon ignored the reminder of his moment of impulsive behavior and continued. “The copies of the letter we’re searching for…they’ll be forgeries. How many skilled forgers do we know?”

“Five, counting Sims and Gordon.”

“There are three copies of this letter that are unaccounted for at the moment. We need all of them and to keep more from being written.”

“What’s this letter about? Something like that hardly seems important in light of the circumstances. Grapling, an injured lady, and a theft—and you want me to spend the day finding copies of a letter?”

There were things Fallon could hide from everyone, and then there was what Fallon could hide from everyone but Hardaway. He should have known that from the beginning. Simply because he couldn’t tell Isabelle or her father about Grapling didn’t mean he needed to keep silent with Hardaway. He had to tell someone the full story, and Hardaway should know it. If Fallon sent his friend in search of the evidence against Isabelle, Hardaway would discover the truth anyway. “These are Grapling’s words, not Lady Isabelle’s,” he said passing the letter over the desk to his friend.

“Grapling’s words… Lady Isabelle? My former intended’s sister?” Hardaway grabbed the note and unfolded it. A mixture of emotions crossed his face as he read the words, but the last expression matched Fallon’s own: determination. He tossed the note back onto the desktop with a low whistle. “Enjoy the outcome of your selfish concerns…those were the last words the authorities said to him at his sentencing before he was imprisoned. That conniving bastard. We have to find him. Art theft is bad enough. This?” He nodded toward the note on the desk. “This is personal.”

“Indeed.” It was more personal now for Fallon than it had been just a few days before, though he would never admit it.

“She was almost my family, St. James. And her father… I’m certain he isn’t pleased.”

“He doesn’t know that Grapling is responsible, and we must keep it that way. Word is being spread that Lady Isabelle left town yesterday. The family is blaming her absence on a visit to an ill aunt. But we need to find the other copies of that letter, wherever they may be.”

“No one will be suspicious of her sudden disappearance as long as they’re all still talking about the giant blunder that was my damned wedding,” Hardaway grumbled.

“Good.”

“Good? Have a heart, man.”

“It’s good if the gossip stays focused on her sick aunt and your wedding as opposed to getting closer to the truth.” The truth would end in either Isabelle’s imprisonment or her marriage to Fallon, and neither were good options.

“She isn’t consoling her sister somewhere, then, is she? Is she terribly injured? Don’t say near death. Grapling is a right nasty piece of work. She could still be in danger if he can get his hands on her, not to mention the potential of being hauled off to prison for theft.”

“Lady Isabelle is safe.”