“A man I met at the Blue Jade. He hosts wild parties, keeps company with the scoundrels in the demi-monde.”
“What’s his name?” Miss Sands snapped before Dante could ask.
“Mr Coulter. Benjamin Coulter.”
Dante committed the name to memory. “Tell me where you found it. Were there any other items of value? What made you steal this one? And why the hell has a man in your position taken to robbing trinkets?”
Again, Babington tugged at Dante’s hand. “You’re choking me.” When Dante relaxed his grip, the rogue gasped a few deep breaths. “I found it in his desk, in a locked drawer. I stole the first things I found of any value, the brooch and a cheroot case.”
Dante’s blood ran cold. “Describe the case.”
“I cannot recall—”
Miss Sands cocked the pistol.
“Wait! Wait! Black case. Gold trim. Lacquered papier mâché. A scene of a man on horseback surrounded by a pack of hunting dogs.”
The description brought a vision of domestic bliss flashing into Dante’s mind. He sat with his parents around the dining table, knowing his mother was about to present his father with a gift.
“I had it made in your likeness, my love.” His mother’s sweet voice filled his head, sending a warm glow to every cold corner of his heart. “And I know how you cherish those dogs.”
His father captured her hand and brought her delicate fingers to his lips. “Not as much as I cherish you, il mio amore.” He’d looked at Dante and smiled. “Cherish you and our beloved boy.”
The heat in Dante’s chest turned to gut-wrenching nausea. A sensation soon replaced by rage’s red mist. “What the hell did you do with the case?”
Panic flashed in Babington’s soulless eyes. “It was of little value. I sold it to the owner of a trinket shop in Bermondsey.”
“Of little value?” Dante snarled. “Of little value!”
Lashing out was the only way to temper the devil’s wrath burning in Dante’s chest. His fist connected with Babington’s nose, breaking the bone. Blood trickled from his nostril, the colour of claret, dark and dirty, not as clean and pure as Dante’s mother’s blood.
While Babington writhed and groaned, Dante pulled back his fist to throw a second punch, but Miss Sands grabbed his arm, tugged on his coat sleeve.
“No! Let Mr Daventry and the magistrate deal with the matter. Hitting him won’t help you find the cheroot case.”
She did not wait for a reply, but shot to her feet and hurried to the hall. Daventry, Sir Malcolm Langley—Chief Magistrate at Bow Street—and two constables were waiting in a carriage parked across the street. All four men followed Miss Sands into the house where she explained Babington’s attempt to defraud Mrs Monroe.
“Mr Babington used the alias Mr Greaves, though he doesn’t have an account at Sir James Esdaile’s bank. Not only that, he admitted he stole items from a Mr Coulter who lives near Finsbury Square.”
Damnation! Dante wished to keep that matter secret, at least until he’d visited Coulter and discovered how he’d come by the brooch and cheroot case.
“I shall have all the evidence we’ve gathered sent to Bow Street.” Daventry addressed Sir Malcolm while the constables dragged the surprisingly quiet Babington to his feet and hauled him from the room. “Miss Sands and Mr D’Angelo will write a report and deliver it to your office this afternoon.”
Miss Sands listened intently while Dante expressed concerns over Mr Babington’s motive. The man had no gambling debts, no wife or mistress, could afford to host lavish parties yet seemed desperate for funds. It made no sense.
“The question we should ask is why Babington risked his neck to steal items worth paltry amounts.” Blackmail was the only motive to spring to Dante’s mind. “Babington must have spent a thousand pounds on champagne last week. So why risk the noose for a hundred and sixty pounds?”
Dante might have asked Miss Sands for her opinion were it not for the sudden shouts and screams in the street. His heart shot to his throat—every instinct warning they had underestimated Babington’s cunning.
Dante raced to the window. “What the devil?” A crowd had gathered on Newman Street, a circle of people all staring at the same spot on the pavement. Men gawped. Women turned their heads, one gripping her companion’s arm and pressing her horrified face to the sleeve of his coat. “I fear there’s been an accident.”
The thud of booted footsteps rang through the hall. A constable appeared, blood dripping from his nose, his lip split. “Come quickly, Sir Malcolm,” he panted, supporting his arm as if it were broken at the elbow. “It’s the felon, sir.”
Sir Malcolm took one look at the state of his man and cried, “You let the bounder escape?”
“No,
sir. Well, yes, sir, but he—”