But the need for vengeance lived inside Dante. Wild and feral. He might have charged after her uncle for the pleasure of hunting a predator, had it not been for Mr Ashwood’s timely arrival.
The coachman pulled the team of four to a halt outside the Falstaff inn. The carriage door swung open, and Mr Ashwood vaulted to the ground. Spotting them instantly, and sensing something was amiss, he broke into a jog.
Beatrice quickly explained what had occurred. “My concern is not for my uncle, sir. Beating the man will not ease Mr D’Angelo’s suffering.”
“No,” Mr Ashwood agreed.
“You speak as if I cannot hear you,” Dante countered, practically snarling as he scanned the road, waiting to catch sight of his prey.
“We must focus on the case,” she said, eager to leave the inn before the serving wench came to remind them they had drinks waiting. “We must discuss what I’ve learnt tonight and how we might proceed with the investigation.”
Mr Ashwood nodded. “Pursuing Mr Sands may rid you of this pent-up anger, D’Angelo, but Miss Sands has suffered enough and wishes to be away from here, free of the devil.”
Dante glanced at her, his black eyes softening.
“Please, Dante. Let us leave now.”
He glanced once more at the open road and sighed. “Very well.”
A brief conversation ensued where Mr Ashwood informed them he’d found nothing of interest in her uncle’s house. Dante muttered his frustration as he climbed into Mr Ashwood’s coach. Beatrice hurried to the inn, paid for their drinks, and explained that the family’s coachman had arrived to take her to Chatham.
A shudder of relief passed through her when she settled into her seat and Mr Ashwood’s carriage pulled away from the Falstaff inn. But a few minutes spent amid the heavy silence had tension coiling its way around every muscle.
Dante sat rigid, staring out at the sprawling darkness, at the never-ending void, the vast emptiness that daylight merely masked. He had heard every word spoken in the inn and knew to add at least one member of his family to the suspect list. Yet she had so much more to tell him, but didn’t know where to begin.
Mr Ashwood watched his friend intently, his frown softening when he glanced at Beatrice.
At this time of night, it would take the best part of four hours to reach London. Amid the bleak silence, it would feel more like a day.
Dante must have found the atmosphere unbearable, too, must have seen the lanterns lighting the entrance to the hostelry yards ahead, for he suddenly thumped the carriage roof and called for the coachman to stop at the inn.
“I shall spend the night here.” Dante fixed his gaze on Mr Ashwood. “See Miss Sands safely home and we will reconvene in Hart Street tomorrow afternoon to discuss the investigation. Send word to Sharp, have him come for me in the morning.”
Beatrice knew what troubled him. He didn’t want to return home, not to an empty house, not to sit alone and relive past events. But if he stayed here, a mere five miles from the Falstaff inn, would he visit her uncle in the dead of night, take his vengeance too far.
She shuffled to the edge of the seat. “If they’ve rooms available, I shall stay too. We can dine together, discuss the things you wish to avoid.”
He looked at her. “I doubt I shall be good company.”
“You were dreadful company when I arrived at Fitzroy Square the other night. Look how quickly your mood changed.” It was unwise to allude to their passionate exchange, but she knew of no other way to drag him from the doldrums.
“Then I shall stay, too,” Mr Ashwood said, taking her by surprise. “D’Angelo, if we’re to catch the villain who killed your parents, you need to stop running. You need to hear the facts, deal with them, and then give Miss Sands your statement.”
“I have done everything you’ve asked of me, Dante.” Indeed, she had pushed all fears of her uncle aside, and was just as worried how she might react once she closed her bedchamber door and found herself alone with her memories.
Dante nodded. “What’s the odds we’ll find three vacant rooms?”
“Based on your winning streak at the White Boar,” Mr Ashwood began with some amusement, “I’d say they’re favourable.”
Chapter 12
Dante splashed cold water over his face, grabbed the linen towel from the washstand and dried the rivulets running down his neck and chest. He glanced at the poster bed he’d have to share with Noah Ashwood and decided he’d sleep in the wingback chair instead.
Beatrice and Ashwood had remained downstairs in the private parlour, discussing everything she had learnt this evening. No doubt it was a sensible conversation, two intelligent people plotting, making wise assumptions, not two people so attracted to one another they often used the case as a means to grow close.
That wasn’t why Dante suggested he sit in Beatrice’s chamber to give his statement. But something happened when they were alone. She chased away the ghosts, unlocked the chains shackling him to the past, made him feel unburdened. Free.
Having spent a third of his life surrounded by love and being too young to appreciate the majesty, a third living in a mire of hatred and distrust, he’d struggled to make sense of the world. Had latched on to the hope that solving the crime would bring absolution. Now he was another step closer to finding the villain, yet something else, someone else, held his attention.