A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(42)

But that reminded him of possible interference from that particular quarter. I’ll have to think of a way to hide a cart, horse and stabling in my accounts, he realized, and frowned sourly. Damn that man. Now there is some “opposition” I would love to see removed.



The next morning, Alexandre was scribbling down some notes on places where he had noticed girls and young women out alone and unsupervised when someone rang the bell and startled him so much that he thought his heart was going to stop. It was such an unusual sound at this time of the morning that he actually froze, trying to work out who it could be, or if it had somehow been a mistake, when the bell rang again—this time as if someone had pulled the chain with a bit more force.

Why hasn’t Alf answered that?

“Alf!” he called—then realized that Alf was out on his transportation errand and, with a grimace, got up to answer the damned door himself. Probably some wretched urchin wanting to sweep the snow from my step for a penny, or some damned impertinent salesman, or worse, some religious fanatic wanting to save my soul. . . .

The man standing on the front step was not any of these. There was a carriage waiting for him out in the road, a modest, sober-looking affair that Alexandre glanced at with concealed envy, because a carriage like that would have been ever so much more convenient than a cart. In fact, his thoughts raced with how easy it would be to pull alongside a girl, entice her in or snatch her, hold a sponge full of chloroform to her nose, and be off with no one the wiser.

He quickly snatched his wandering thoughts back to the present and this unexpected visitor. The man himself was dressed in an excellent dark overcoat and wearing a handsome derby hat; he was perhaps ten years older than Alexandre, with hair and moustache suitable for a professional of some sort. This was distinctly . . . odd. People who looked like that generally sent notes around, asking if the person they wished to see would be at home at such-and-such a time. Could this be a mistake? Could this man be looking for someone else?

But who in this neighborhood would someone who looked like a prosperous man of business be looking for?

“Is—ah. Excuse me, am I addressing Master Alexandre Harcourt?” the man asked, with punctilious politeness. The sort of politeness Alexandre was accustomed to hearing only from doctors and solicitors.

“You are,” Alexandre replied. “I beg your pardon for leaving you on the step so long. My man is out. How can I help you?”

“I have come—please, may we conduct our business inside, sir? It is not the sort of thing to be bandied about in public.” The man appeared . . . anxious, as if there really was something that was of a delicate nature to be discussed. This was not the sort of anxiety that came when someone was about to deliver a paternity suit on behalf of a strumpet, and in any case, a strumpet would not be able to afford someone dressed like this. This was more like the anxiety of someone about to deliver bad news. Alexandre’s heart sank.

“Yes, yes, of course, certainly.” Alexandre moved aside and waved the man in, then conducted him to the sitting room. “Please, have a seat, Mister—”

“Abernathy. Of Abernathy, Abernathy, and Owen, your solicitors and the administrators of your trust.”

The man took a seat as Alexandre suddenly felt faint. He sat down himself, and clutched at the arms of his chair. There was only one reason why Abernathy would be here. Oh god. The trust’s gone bust. I’m penniless. I’m—

“Master Harcourt, there is no easy way to say this,” Abernathy said, taking off his hat and holding it in his lap, gloved hands resting on the brim, his face a mask of polite concern, with just a touch of professional sympathy. “Mrs. Emily Harcourt, your mother, passed to her reward last night. She was found this morning in her bed. We are deeply sorry for your loss. You have our every sympathy.”

Alexandre had been so braced for the horrible news that he was dead broke that the words did not at first register with him. And when they did, he stared at Abernathy in open-mouthed astonishment. “My—mother?” he stammered. “She’s dead?” The words made no sense. No sense at all.

“If it is of any consolation to you, it appears she departed from this mortal world in her sleep,” Harcourt said . . . with the air of someone who is withholding information, if Alexandre was reading him correctly. “The doctor has been called, and there is no need for an inquest. There is no foul play suspected, nor does it appear that she somehow, accidentally poisoned herself with her medicine. Of late, her maid has kept that locked up and administered measured, safe doses herself. No, the death is certainly . . . er . . . natural.”

There is something he is certainly not telling me. Oh dear, I should present some sort of semblance grief . . .

He buried his face in his hands. “Oh mother . . . poor mother. . . .” he forced his voice to break as if he was sobbing. He imagined himself if he had lost the trust fund, penniless, and in the street, and managed to produce real tears of self-pity. “I would have come at Christmas, but the doctor said not to . . . I should have gone, and I didn’t, and now I shall never see her again.” This ended in a real sob, as he pictured himself huddling for warmth against the chimney of his own house, hoping no one chased him away.

“Now, Master Harcourt,” Abernathy said uncomfortably. “You must brace up. This was not unexpected. We both know she has not been well for a very long time, and has been pining for your late father since he died.”