“What then?” Newberry’s gaze darted back and forth between them. “Have you come to warn me over the way I spoke to Miss Atwood?”
“Warn you?” Lucius snorted. “I want to kill you for frightening her with threats of kidnapping and asylums.”
Newberry gave a derisive snort. “So, you’ve taken Miss Atwood as your mistress. You say this isn’t about money, yet you had her appear at the auction to force men to up their bids.”
Lucius was losing patience. “Miss Atwood is not my mistress.” It was not a lie. She was the woman he loved. The woman he would marry once this dreadful business was over. Assuming she’d have him. “Her father was my friend. A man who trusted me with information he’d discovered about certain men in the ton.”
Newberry seemed to consider his reply carefully before saying, “So, you’ve come to blackmail me over an imagined misdemeanour. Is that it?”
Lucius sighed and decided to fire the trebuchet. “I received a letter this morning from the solicitor dealing with Mr Dobson’s estate.” He grinned. “You know Mr Dobson, of course. He’s your cousin and was one of the owners of a mine near Wigan. Along with Lord Talbot, you were a partner in the venture.”
Guilt turned Newberry’s face chalk-white. He drew his handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed his brow. “What the devil are you talking about, Daventry?” He gulped nervously in spite of his belligerent tone. “Wigan? Don’t be absurd. Do I look like a man who frequents northern towns?”
Lucius noted the lord’s visible anxiety. But how was he to extract the information without evidence? Most crimes stemmed from greed or family loyalty. Why would a man living in India invest in a mine thousands of miles from home? Unless he’d fled to India, having arranged the collapse.
“If you’re not here to sell the damn journals, I suggest you leave.” Newberry stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket.
“Don’t be so hasty. You can have the journals for our agreed sum of seven thousand pounds.” Lucius was aware of Sybil’s frantic gaze shooting in his direction. “There’s nothing in them but theories on magnetism, on electric circuits and isolating metals. You said you can settle today. Excellent. I can wait while you gather the funds and sign the notes.”
Newberry appeared confused.
The tension in the air was palpable.
The silence proved deafening.
“It baffles me why so many men are interested in mathematical equations and quantitative reasoning,” Lucius added. “I fail to appreciate their value myself.”
Newberry sat forward and gripped the desk. “What about my written statement of intention?” Unease coated every syllable.
“As you said, insignificant men need money.” He paused, let the silence stretch until the atmosphere proved suffocating. “And it’s Atticus Atwood’s notebooks that interest me, not his journals.”
“Notebooks?” Newberry developed an odd facial tic. “More theories?”
“Precisely. Theories on the devious deeds committed by privileged men. You might wish to bid for them, too, considering they make mention of your cousin Mr Dobson causing the col
lapse of a mine near Wigan. It’s said that’s the reason he fled to India.”
“Theories are not fact,” the lord countered.
“No, but there are fascinating accounts from witnesses. And Messrs. James & Sons were accommodating when I called at their office this morning. It seems poor Mr Dobson had a mountain of debts,” Lucius lied. “Desperate men do desperate things, Newberry.”
Sybil cleared her throat. “As I said, I have read my father’s books and know of the damning statements.”
After another clawing silence, Newberry said, “There is nothing to prove I had a share in the mine. Nothing to prove I had anything to do with the tragic accident.”
No, because all records had been mysteriously destroyed.
“I think we all know it wasn’t an accident,” Sybil said gravely.
Lucius tempered his anger. “That’s a matter for the authorities to decide. As well as the deaths of those who perished in the mine, there’s the question of Atticus Atwood’s murder to address.” Proving any of it would be an impossible feat. “The magistrate is interested to hear of anyone with a motive.”
“Murder!” Newberry shot out of the chair as if the pad were on fire. “Good God, Daventry. I swear, I knew nothing about Dobson’s plans in Wigan. The man was a bloody idiot. I packed him off as soon as he confessed to evicting the tenants and having a buyer for the land.”
“You were his partner in the venture.”
“I just lent him the damn money in exchange for a thirty percent share.” The lord dragged his hand through his hair, then reached into the desk drawer. He removed a silver flask and gulped the contents. “As for Atticus,” he said, throwing the flask back into the drawer, “yes, he asked me about Dobson owning the mine, but as God is my witness, I didn’t kill the man.”
“His death must have brought some relief,” Sybil countered, the pain of losing her father hiding in her voice. “Admit it was convenient timing.”