Lady Rogue Read online

  “He is, yes. He was the runt from a litter of my brother’s hunting dogs. Lord Martindale offered him to me rather than having him drowned.”

  “A fortunate little fellow too, then.”

  “Fortunate I,” replied Isabel. “There were days after Morrow’s death when Brinley was almost the only companion I had. So many people don’t know what to say to a widow, and so they write vague letters full of platitudes and keep their distance.” Even now, she had far fewer callers than before Andrew’s death.

  Perhaps the distance had been for the best, though. Isabel had been shocked to be widowed, but not truly sorry. One couldn’t allow even a hint of such disloyalty to get about.

  Which brought her back to the reason she’d sent for Jenks today. “Please forgive the interruption, Officer. You asked, I recall, why I summoned you if I had already found answers. You see . . . I need your help with something that’s not precisely legal. But it’s right, all the same.”

  * * *

  For too long after she spoke, Callum simply looked at her. At the shape of her mouth, the color of her eyes. He never forgot a face, and he remembered her eyes as brown. But today they had a mind to be hazel.

  She lifted her brows, waiting for his reply. But there was only one sort he could give, no matter how beautiful she looked when she smiled.

  “I am sorry to decline, my lady. My position as an Officer of the Police makes it impossible for me to take part in anything, as you put it, not precisely legal.”

  “Yes, I understand that. But this is one of those rare instances when legality and rightness aren’t the same at all.”

  Rare indeed. Though not nonexistent. As soon as he finished this interview, he’d be off to Newgate because of another such case.

  That decided it. “All right. Tell me everything.”

  “If I do, you have to either help me or forget any of this ever happened.” She was a little too thin, with dark hair and the sort of paleness wealthy women cultivated with parasols. Far from appearing frail in her slenderness, though, she sat straight as a column of stone in her gray gown.

  “I can’t promise that,” he said.

  “Then I’ll have to find someone else. I am sorry to have wasted your time—and pulled you away from the intrigue of a mock auction.” She started to rise.

  He held out a staying hand. “Lady Isabel, wait. Please. Are you in some trouble?”

  “No. At least, I don’t think so.” She sat back again, then smoothed back her already-smooth hair. “I would like not to be. But really, this whole matter is for Lucy’s sake.”

  “And who is Lucy?”

  With her thumb, Lady Isabel twisted the wedding band she still wore. “Lucy is the Miss Wallace I mentioned. My husband’s ward until his death; my ward now. Morrow had little family, so he left her to me, along with this house and all his belongings.”

  “He deeded you a person?” Callum had never met the man in life, but he’d formed an opinion of the late Andrew Morrow all the same. It didn’t bear speaking of.

  “He did, though I should have wanted her to stay with me even if he hadn’t. She came to live with us about a year before Morrow died. She’s a sort of sister to me. Or a daughter? A bit too young for the first, too old to be the second. Perhaps I’m like an aunt.”

  With a smile, she shook back the little ruffles about her wrists. “Do pardon me. I ought to have poured out the tea already. Do you take sugar?” She reached for the teapot.

  “Never mind the tea. Tell me about your ward.”

  “Oh. All right.” Abandoning the teapot, she considered. “Where to begin? I believe Andrew was a second cousin of hers, though the real reason she was given over to his guardianship was, of course, his money. Which was once my money, and now is again.”

  She spoke calmly, choosing her words with care. What would she say if she slipped the bonds of politeness and spoke her mind? Callum only hoped he’d be there if it happened.

  “And Miss Wallace,” he replied, “is involved in a potentially illegal yet morally right behavior in what way?”

  “In no way, and so it should remain. Lucy is just eighteen, and she made her come-out in society this year. I should like her to make a good marriage. If she is associated with any scandal, though . . .”

  “I understand. Scandal does not often go hand in hand with an advantageous match,” Callum said dryly.

  “You see my dilemma, then. This whole matter has all got to remain a secret, even from Lucy. I’ll pay you for your help.” She dangled the words before him like diamond earrings. “Please, Officer. I know Bow Street Runners—”

  “Officers of the Police.”

  “—Officers of the Police, right. I know they often take independent commissions. And I would much rather work with someone I know.”

  She was correct about this. Many officers made the bulk of their income through private consulting, though they received a small salary from the police force as well.

  But Callum had never taken a case only for money. He wanted to see justice done, always.

  He had wanted to call on Lady Isabel, too. He had wanted to see her again, and never mind the reason.

  The deep pools of her eyes pulled at him, returning suppressed memories to the forefront of his mind. Of burning lamps like stars fallen to earth, bright against an ink-black sky; of smooth skin, bared and stroked and pleasured.

  Not that any of that was relevant right now.

  Ultimately, it was the word work that he permitted himself to consider. He couldn’t help her for sentimental reasons. He couldn’t take part in anything immoral. But if it was moral, and it was merely a job, then perhaps it would be acceptable.

  “All right,” he said. “I will consider your case. Tell me everything, especially the moral bits and the illegal bits.”

  “Thank you.” She let her eyes fall closed, a long blink like a sigh of relief. “Shortly before his death, my husband sold a Botticelli painting to the Duke of Ardmore.”

  “A Botticelli painted by Botticelli? Or a Botticelli by Butler?”

  “The key question, and you asked it with remarkable facility. I am afraid, Officer Jenks, that it was the latter. And now the duke plans to trade it to Angelus to cover his gambling debts.”

  “Angelus?” Callum’s brows lifted. “Not the usual sort of company for a duke to keep.”

  He had not expected to hear the name of a notorious lord of the criminal underworld spoken in this elegant parlor. Yet was there a family in high society without a taste for gambling or horse-racing? Courtesans or pugilism? As powerful as Lord Liverpool was in Parliament and the Duke of Ardmore was in London society, Angelus was everywhere else. Lady Isabel might have learned of the crime lord’s existence at a younger age than Callum had.

  “If the exchange takes place,” she said, “and Angelus finds out he’s been given a worthless fake painting, then he’ll go after the duke for restitution. And the duke will trace the substitution to my late husband, and Morrow’s reputation will be . . .”

  When she trailed off, Callum said, “Known accurately.”

  People generally hated it when he completed sentences for them.

  “Yes,” Lady Isabel agreed, catching him by surprise. “It would be accurate. But his choices were not Lucy’s, and they would be the death of her prospects.”

  The marriage market of society was more competitive than the Epsom Derby, if one credited the satirical prints loathed yet coveted by the ton. A bit of scandal wasn’t always a bad thing, but it had to be connected to a large fortune and blood as blue as a jay’s wing. The ward of an art dealer was unlikely to possess either.

  “You’ve a particular scheme in mind to protect your ward, don’t you?” he asked.

  “I do, yes. I have not been able to borrow the painting from Ardmore, despite explaining my request with the most sentimental of reasons. So I can think of only one alternative.” She laced her fingers together, leaning forward to fix him with the full force of earnest hazel eye
s. “Before the duke can surrender the painting to Angelus, I need you to help me steal it.”

  Chapter Two

  Newgate Prison was not a pleasant substitute for Lady Isabel’s sumptuous home in Lombard Street. Nor was the incarcerated Sir Frederic Chapple as delightful a companion as Andrew Morrow’s beautiful widow.

  But as an Officer of the Police, Callum’s first duty was to prison and prisoner, not to noblewoman. Or defrauded duke. Or Botticelli.

  “I can’t help you,” he had explained to Lady Isabel before taking leave of her. “I must uphold the law. I cannot intrude into a duke’s household and steal one of his possessions.”

  “But to switch it for one of greater value!”

  “Lady Isabel. My career would be at an end.”

  She’d looked so disappointed that he’d added, “You don’t need me to work with you. You can sort out the problem yourself. Only think, what would an investigator do next?”

  She’d thought about this. “Collect clues. That is, information. If we’re going to switch the painting, we need to know where it is and how it is framed and mounted.”

  We. He’d liked the sound of it on her lips.

  “Don’t be so hasty with your use of the word ‘we,’” he’d made himself say. “But yes. Those are excellent steps to take.” He’d stood, preparing to depart. “And I’ll forget I heard anything about them or about your plan.”

  “What plan?” She’d blinked innocent eyes at him, then smiled. “Thank you for your time, Officer Jenks.”

  With that same polite farewell had their association ended eighteen months before, when the investigation of Andrew Morrow’s death had been abruptly shut. The case had troubled Callum from his first sight of the body. A bullet entered a man’s head in particular ways depending on who held the gun and who pulled the trigger. This bullet . . . he couldn’t tell without an autopsy. Had Morrow’s death been suicide? Had another person pulled the trigger, then placed the pistol in the hand of a murder victim?

  Though Callum had raised these questions, there had been no inquest. Lady Isabel’s influential relatives had arranged the silence of a coroner here, a magistrate there. The scandal of potential self-destruction had been averted, the unlikely possibility of murder quashed entirely. Andrew Morrow was buried in hallowed earth, with a stone over his head calling him a beloved husband.

  Callum did not believe Morrow had been anything of the sort, any more than he believed Lady Isabel was party to the subversion of justice. But once a case was closed, no one consulted Bow Street anymore.

  Even so, Callum had never stopped wondering about the truth.

  After bidding her ladyship farewell, not without a twinge of regret, he’d turned his steps toward Newgate Prison. It was not a long walk from the crisp wealth of Lombard Street—less than a mile if one followed the bustling length of Cheapside.

  Here was shop after shop selling cloth—dressmakers and haberdashers; milliners and dry-goods stores—all with windows full of neatly arranged products. Callum’s hat was unfashionable and his clothes plain, but the same stubbornness that kept him from hiring a hackney also kept him from eyeing the high-crowned hats of felted beaver and the boots that shone glossy. If he didn’t need something, he didn’t buy it. Or hire it. Or eat it. Life was made up of only his work, and saving his coin.

  For what he was saving, he hadn’t decided yet. But he knew there would be something, someday, that he’d want. Maybe something he’d want even more than he wanted to see justice done daily. And if he had frittered away his savings on shiny boots, he would have no chance to jump at an opportunity.

  Even so, he wondered about the shiny boots. The high-crowned hat. Or a many-caped greatcoat. If he looked more like the wealthy gentlemen with whom Lady Isabel associated in society, would she regard him differently? Would she call him something other, maybe, than Officer Jenks—that continual reminder that he was in her presence only by virtue of his employment?

  Callum’s mind ran constantly with questions of all types, and these were the fruitless sort. It was almost a relief to reach the forbidding stone block that was Newgate Prison.

  He was familiar to the guards, who motioned him through without requiring him to be escorted. Likely they knew why he was here. He ought to stay away, but he couldn’t seem to.

  Because Callum never, never stopped wondering about the truth. And tomorrow, Sir Frederic Chapple—barrister, baronet, and accused mastermind of a daring robbery from the Royal Mint—would stand trial in the Old Bailey.

  By God, it was good to know Freddie, as the baronet asked everyone to call him, would finally see justice served upon him.

  Within the prison’s stout walls, cells were stacked in story upon story. They flanked a central space, open from floor to the ceiling high above. The noise was like a wall in itself: prisoners’ voices calling and pleading and cursing, every syllable rebounding off the endless angles and planes of stone. Light spilled in from somewhere above, too much to hide the signs of dirt and neglect, but not enough to feel like true daylight.

  The air was heavy and humid despite its coolness, and by the time Callum reached the right corridor, clammy perspiration was creeping beneath his neckcloth. He pressed at it impatiently, knowing the baronet would notice any wilt in the starched cloth. Sir Frederic was attuned to appearances and impressions. He was a master of them.

  Sir Frederic had lived for months in Newgate awaiting trial, but this wasn’t the punishment it ought to have been. His cell was in the state area of the prison, with more comfortable lodgings. Jailers could be bribed to bring in just about everything, and as a result, the dirt and filth and lice stopped at the entrance of Sir Frederic’s space. His cell was a brick vault like all the others, with a window at the far end and a barred front. But instead of a bare floor, his was covered by a woven carpet, thin underfoot but pleasant to the eye. A privacy screen painted all over with flowers folded across a corner, and clothing in fine fabrics hung from hooks just visible above the top. The cell’s corner shelf held an assortment of bottles—doubtless full of expensive wines, knowing Sir Frederic’s tastes. The usual cot was made plush with fine linens and a thick coverlet.

  Sir Frederic was lounging on it at the moment, his feet in Chinese slippers and a book in his hands. When Callum’s shadow fell over the book, he snapped it shut.

  “Officer Jenks! I thought I’d be seeing you today. You’re later than I expected.”

  A point for the baronet. Callum frowned. “I had other business to attend to, Sir Frederic. You weren’t a priority.”

  “Ha! Oh, nonsense. I know how you are about this case.”

  Damn the man; another point for him.

  Sir Frederic sat up with a heave of his massive form. He had been a man of indulgent habits before his arrest, and prison had not changed him. “I must apologize for not offering you a chair, Officer, but I haven’t one.”

  “That’s why you’re apologizing to me. For not offering me a chair.” Callum glared at him through the cell bars, declining to take off his broad-brimmed hat. This was not a social call.

  “Yes, well, I am your host. I know we’ve had our differences in the past, but—”

  “You’re no one’s host. You’re a prisoner.” Callum rocked back on his heels, almost tempted to smile. “Which is why I came to visit you today. If you didn’t see me until we were in court tomorrow, you might be too flustered to give honest testimony.”

  A point for Callum? Maybe.

  “Thoughtful of you, but you could have spared yourself the trouble. We won’t be in court tomorrow.”

  “We . . . what?” Another point for the baronet. Even if he was lying, he’d got Callum’s jaw to drop open.

  “The fourth conspirator was found dead this afternoon—of drink, poor fellow, and right outside the prison walls. I heard of it from one of the guards.” Sir Frederic adopted a pious expression. “They couldn’t identify the body. Naturally, I felt it my duty to help, so I asked them to describe the man. I re
cognized his description at once.”

  “The day before your trial was to begin, you just happened to encounter new evidence in your case. How convenient.” This should have been a point for Callum, but the baronet seemed to have changed the rules.

  “Fortuitous timing.” With a supporting hand against the cell wall, the older man shoved himself to his feet. He crossed the cell to the corner shelf and took up a bottle, squinting at it. “Madeira? I think so, yes. A Madeira would be lovely.” He turned a mild look upon Callum. “I would offer you some, but as you informed me, I’m not your host.”

  He took up a glass, tutting at it not being the proper shape for this sort of spirits, then poured out a generous measure of the fortified wine.

  Taking a sip, he held it in his mouth, then swallowed it with a smack of fleshy lips. “Not as good as what I left behind in Northumberland—”

  “You mean, the Madeira in the barrel that held the stolen gold?”

  “—but it’s better than what you’re used to, I’ll warrant. And it’s good enough to celebrate getting out of prison. Which should be any hour now. My counsel is making the necessary arguments and arrangements.”

  Callum gritted his teeth. So many points to Sir Frederic. All of them, really. The baronet, wealthy and amoral, did not play the game fairly, and Callum could never match his stakes.

  They had first met the previous year, in the course of Callum’s investigation of a notorious robbery from the Royal Mint. Six trunks of then-unreleased gold sovereigns had been stolen by a quartet of thieves, and four guards killed.

  One of the guards had been Harold Jenks, Callum’s eldest brother.

  Callum had seen his brother buried. Had swallowed enough grief to choke him. And then, determined as a hound after a fox, he had taken up the order from King’s Bench to locate the coins wherever in England they might be. A substantial reward had been offered.

  Callum hadn’t given a damn about the reward, or about the stolen gold. He’d wanted to find the men who had killed Harry and the other guards. But it had made sense that the criminals would be with the gold, and gold was easier to trace than rumor.