Darling Beast (Maiden Lane #7)(42)

“I agree,” Kilbourne replied, sounding a little absentminded.

Miss Goodfellow was at that moment licking her lips of some tartlet crumbs.

Trevillion cleared his throat. “As for Smithers, the last man, there I did find something of interest.”

Kilbourne looked at him sharply. “How… so?”

“Unlike the rest of you,” Trevillion said, “he was in debt—and for quite a large amount, to a rather nasty sort—men running a gambling den in the stews of Whitechapel.”

“Then that was… it?” Kilbourne’s face was stoically blank.

“I don’t think so,” Trevillion said reluctantly. “His creditors didn’t recoup their money on his death, nor was it widely known that he owed them.” He shrugged. “Murdering Smithers along with two other gentlemen would’ve been a poor business decision, and these villains are, if nothing else, quite sharp men of business.”

A muscle in Kilbourne’s jaw flexed and he glanced away—for the first time not at Miss Goodfellow. “Then… you have nothing.”

“Not quite, my lord,” Trevillion replied softly.

Kilbourne merely stared at him stonily, as if he’d let hope seize his emotions too many times in the past to permit it free rein again.

Trevillion met his gaze and said bluntly, “Your uncle is in debt, my lord, to your grandfather, the earl’s, estate—and has been for at least a decade. If you inherit the title, I suspect he would find himself in a very awkward position, for he doesn’t have the monies to repay the estate. Had you died that night, he would’ve inherited the title—and the money that goes with it upon your grandfather’s death. He would never have to repay the debt and wouldn’t fear the courts or debtor’s prison.”

Kilbourne’s expression didn’t even flicker—proving that he was as intelligent as Trevillion had suspected. “But I… didn’t die. Instead… apparently I… was drugged.”

“Think,” Kilbourne murmured low, for if what he suspected was true, they had a powerful man as an enemy. “Had you been murdered then, had not a common thief or some such been apprehended, your uncle, as the next heir to the earldom, would’ve been the natural suspect. But if you were drugged and your friends killed instead, you are made the murderer, and must perforce be brought to justice—and the hangman. A scandal, surely, but in no way your uncle’s fault—and with the same result as if he’d murdered you himself: your death. It was,” he added thoughtfully, “a rather elegant scheme, you must admit, my lord.”

“You’ll… forgive me if… I don’t,” Kilbourne replied drily. “I would’ve… been dead these four years… had not my distant… cousin, the Earl of… Brightmore not been so horrified… at the thought of a relation… of his being tried for… murder that he bundled… me away in Bedlam instead.” He paused, swallowing, after such a long speech. “Scant… comfort though… that was at the time. I think… I might’ve preferred… the noose.”

Trevillion reflected sardonically that he must be grateful, then, to Brightmore, for he’d saved Trevillion from indirectly sending an innocent man to his death.

“Why…” Kilbourne started, and then had to cough and clear his throat. “If your… theory is true, why… wouldn’t my… uncle have had me killed in Bedlam?”

“Perhaps he thought you would die there, my lord.” Trevillion shrugged. “Many do.”

Kilbourne nodded, contemplating that for a moment, or perhaps letting his throat rest. He said abruptly, “My grandfather… is dying… or so my sister informs me.”

“Then your uncle will want you dead as well,” Trevillion replied. “He made some very unwise investments in the last year and his debt has doubled just in the last five months.”

Kilbourne stared at him, frowning.

“His need has become acute, I think.” Trevillion met his gaze and once again noticed the scratches on the other man’s cheek. “Where did you get those scratches, my lord? You’re looking much the worse for wear since I saw you last.”

“Yesterday…” Kilbourne coughed, raising a hand to finger the scratches. “I nearly died… from a falling tree… that was to… be planted. There… was a new… gardener… he is… missing today.”

Trevillion pivoted to face the other man fully, leaning on his stick urgently. “You’ve been discovered, my lord. If I could follow your sister, so, too, could your uncle’s men.”

Kilbourne shook his head violently, coughing. “Accident,” he gasped.

“You don’t think that yourself or you wouldn’t have told me,” Trevillion said impatiently.

At the same time a voice called, “Hullo! Hullo! I say, can anyone tell me where Mr. Smith is?”

They both pivoted to see a red-haired young man, not more than five and twenty, blinking in the sunlight far too close to the ladies, and already being assaulted by the little dog.

“Damnation,” Trevillion muttered. It seemed their tête-à-tête was over. “Listen to me, my lord. You must leave the garden. Find some other place of hiding until we can devise a plan to find evidence against your uncle.”