Darling Beast (Maiden Lane #7)(29)

The other man’s face went blank. “I am no longer a dragoon.”

Apollo stared at that. Even in his unrelieved black, Trevillion looked every inch the dragoon captain. He glanced at the leg and wondered when the injury had happened. In his hazy memory of that awful morning, he didn’t recollect the other man’s being so badly lamed. He had a feeling, though, that any questions would not be welcome.

Instead he wrote, My point remains: how do you expect to find the murderer after so long?

The former soldier looked at him. “You must have some idea, some suspicion, about who could’ve killed your friends?”

Apollo’s eyes narrowed. He had, in fact, spent hours—days—meditating on this very subject. He wrote cautiously, Our purses were taken.

“A large amount?”

Apollo twisted his mouth. Not on my part—I’d already paid for the room and wine. I doubt the others had more than a guinea or two between them. Tate had a rather fine gold watch, though—his late father’s. That was stolen.

“Not a large haul for three men dead,” Trevillion said softly.

Men have been killed for less.

“True,” the soldier replied, “but not usually so methodically.” He stared for a moment at nothing, absently rubbing his calf. Then his gaze sharpened. “Who were they, the men who were killed? I was told at the time, but I’ve forgotten since.”

Apollo listed the names.

Trevillion pursed his lips over the notebook. “How well did you know them?”

They were men I liked, men I drank with, but I was not especially close to any of them. Smithers I had only met that night.

And yet his boyish face was now imprinted on Apollo’s mind forever.

“Were they rich? Had they enemies?”

Apollo shrugged. Maubry was the third son of a baron and doomed to the church. Tate was his uncle’s heir, I believe, and would’ve come into a comfortable sum—or so the rumors went at school. Whether they were correct or not, I cannot say. Smithers seemed to have no blunt at all, but he was dressed well enough, certainly. As to enemies, I do not know.

Trevillion read carefully before looking up, his eyes intent. “Had you enemies?”

He wrote with a wry twist to his mouth, Until that night I would have said no.

Trevillion glanced at his words and nodded sharply. “Very well, then. I shall investigate the matter and return when I can to consult with you.”

The man got laboriously to his feet. Apollo moved to help him once and was met with a furious scowl.

He didn’t again.

When Trevillion was at last upright, his face was reddened and shone with sweat.

“Be careful, my lord,” the former soldier said, for the first time giving him the courtesy of his title. “If I could find you, others might do so as well.”

Apollo glared at him. How did you find me?

“I followed your sister,” Trevillion said drily. “Her Grace is very discreet, very circumspect, but I noticed that she made regular errands. None at Wakefield House knew—or at least would admit to knowing—where she was going. I decided to follow her secretly, though it was some time before my employment would allow the opportunity. Today is my day off.”

Apollo raised his eyebrows. The former dragoon knew an awful lot about Wakefield House and its inhabitants. He wrote hastily, How are you employed?

“I guard Lady Phoebe,” the other man said simply.

He bent and, one at a time, picked up his pistols and placed them once more in the holsters on his chest. If his bearing weren’t so military, he’d look like a pirate, Apollo thought in some amusement.

“Good day, my lord.” Trevillion nodded his head. “Please do heed my warning. Should the King’s men find you before I can prove your innocence, I think you know well what would happen.”

He did: death. Or worse, Bedlam.

Apollo nodded stiffly in return.

He watched Trevillion make his way slowly down the path toward the Thames and then picked up his satchel, stowed his notebook, and turned in the opposite direction.

He was feeling light-headed now with an unpleasant tinge of nausea, no doubt the result of his head wound, but he simply couldn’t wait to discover if Miss Stump was all right.

Apollo picked up his pace, breaking into a jog along the path, trying to ignore how his movements worsened his headache. She’d looked at him with such wonder before, as if he might be something special, almost lovely. No one had ever looked at him in such a way, especially no woman.

When he burst into the theater at last, the first thing he saw was Miss Stump and the maid, Maude, bent over Indio. The boy was eating a biscuit smeared liberally with jam and seemed quite all right.

The second thing he saw was Miss Stump’s look as she straightened and turned to him.

Stark fear.

CALIBAN CAME CRASHING through the theater door and Lily thought, Thank God—for he was at least alive—followed very quickly by Dear God, for his face was streaked with gore and his head was wrapped in a bloody rag. Also, and this was of course not nearly as important as the fact that he was hurt, he’d somehow lost his shirt again, and his bare, muscled chest was rather distracting.

“Remember Kitty,” Maude hissed like some dolorous chorus at her shoulder, and Lily felt a very strong urge to slap her beloved nurse.

“Heat some water,” she snapped instead to the older woman.