The Duke Identity (Game of Dukes #1)(85)
Emma and Polly murmured their greetings.
“Miss Smith, I don’t believe you’ve met my husband,” Gabby said with unmistakable pride.
Garrity’s onyx gaze trained on Tessa. He had the look of a fallen angel, with his slicked-back hair and pale ascetic features.
“A pleasure.” His eyes narrowed a fraction. “Have we met before?”
“No.” Beneath that stare, she felt like cornered prey. “I’m, um, sure I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“Will you join us, sir?” Gabby reclaimed her husband’s attention. Thank goodness.
“Alas, I have work. Do enjoy yourselves, ladies.” He bowed once more, pausing to say to Gabby, “I shall see you at supper?”
Gabby nodded, face glowing, looking for all the world like a besotted bride. Garrity, for his part, was not demonstrative, but his eyes were distinctly proprietary as he regarded his wife. On the surface, the pair appeared rather mismatched, yet deep, ineffable currents passed between them.
Tessa knew she wasn’t the only one to sense that energy, for Emma and Polly both looked bemused and not entirely at ease. As if they, too, found it difficult to trust Garrity with their friend’s happiness.
The only one who seemed untroubled was Gabby, who said brightly, “Who wants more cake?”
30
Due to a light rain, Lizzie rode with Tessa and Harry in the carriage on the return journey. Thus, Harry didn’t get to hear about the revelation concerning Garrity until they arrived home, and Tessa sent the maid off on a specious errand while she and Harry took tea in the drawing room.
Since the explosion, carpenters, builders, and other craftsmen had been working around the clock to restore the room. New furnishings filled the space. The windows had been replaced (and girded with wrought-iron bars that served the dual purposes of protection and decoration), and the walls had been rebuilt and repapered in forest green silk.
Even the portraits had been rehung. Althea Bourdelain Black watched on with serene green eyes as her granddaughter paced in front of her.
“This rules Garrity out as a culprit, doesn’t it?” Tessa concluded excitedly. “After all, why would he set fire to the place where someone important to him worked?”
Standing by the hearth, Harry had to agree. “At the least, this brings Garrity down several rungs on the list of most likely suspects. Well done.”
She beamed.
“We should tell your Grandfather,” he added.
Her smile faltered. “I know. He’s not going to be happy that I went to Garrity’s house, is he?”
“He’s going to be angry as hell at you for going and at me for taking you there,” Harry said bluntly. “Nonetheless, this is too critical a fact to keep secret.”
“You’re right.” Tessa hesitated. “Do you think we ought to take the bull by the horns and tell him everything, including what we know about the De Witts?”
A question that Harry had begun to ask himself. Five days had passed since Black had issued his ultimatum, giving the dukes a week to bring him the guilty party. In the next two days, anything could happen.
On the other hand, Harry had no proof of De Witt’s wrongdoing. And bringing up his past with Black would lead to dangerous questions…the kind that could get Harry ejected from Tessa’s life.
“Doolittle’s been on the watch for four days; let’s give him one more,” he said. “If he can’t get us evidence that De Witt is producing the hellfire, then I’ll take my suspicions to your grandfather.”
“That’s a plan—” Tessa was interrupted by a knock.
The butler entered with a note on a salver. “This just arrived for you, miss.”
“Thank you. By the by,” she said, “do you know when Grandpapa will be home?”
“I believe the master will be at Nightingale’s this evening.”
She waited until the butler departed before breaking the wax.
“It’s from Alfred.” She raised eyes sparkling with excitement. “He wants us to meet him.”
* * *
“We’re alike, you and I,” Doolittle said in conversational tones.
“How do you reckon that?”
Harry was only half-listening to his companion. They were in a tavern in Bluegate Fields, the notorious dockland slum, and they’d managed to secure a coveted table by the window. The bulk of Harry’s attention was aimed through the grimy glass, on the building across the street. In the descending darkness, the warehouse appeared dilapidated, paint peeling from its windowless walls, its roof sagging. A locked gate barred the narrow entrance.
“You’re certain you saw De Witt go in there last night?” Harry said under his breath.
“Certain as death.” Doolittle’s slurp from his tankard left a foam mustache, making him look like a drunken cherub. “For days, the bastard was giving me the slip. But I turned the tables on ’im yesterday.”
Earlier, Doolittle had given a summary of his rather extraordinary surveillance. On the first night, he’d tailed De Witt to Crockford’s; De Witt hadn’t emerged from the gambling club until nearly dawn. On the second night, Doolittle had decided to take matters into his own hands, slipping into the club and disguising himself as a member of the staff. He’d followed De Witt and made a startling discovery: there was an old tunnel in the basement of Crockford’s that connected it to the building next door.