“You summoned us,” Nicholas interjected, throwing daggers of disdain across the table. “If it’s to ask when we’re leaving, be assured we’ll be gone within the hour.”
Gone!
Nicholas had made no mention of them leaving today.
Aaron Chance folded his newspaper and dropped it onto the floor. He relaxed back in the seat and stared at Nicholas over steepled fingers. “We’ve discussed your situation and must admit, Miss Langley’s arrival changes matters somewhat.”
“We cannot have Denton breaking down our door,” the bookish brother said firmly. “We cannot afford to have the magistrate visit. It’s bad for business. We can’t risk losing what we’ve built here.”
Aaron Chance raised his hand, more a gesture of reassurance than to silence his kin. “Equally, we do not turn our backs on our friends.” He cast his dark gaze around the table. “Hence why we have agreed to help prove your innocence, St Clair. You may remain here for a day or two, but I urge you to make the trip to Bedford posthaste.”
“That was always my plan.” Nicholas met Helen’s gaze, and she knew he would take her home before making the sixty-mile journey. “The stage to Bedford leaves the Bell and Crown in Holborn at noon tomorrow.”
Helen gasped. He had not thought the matter through at all. “You can’t take the stage. They may have posted men at every coaching inn in town. It’s too great a risk.”
Mr Chance agreed. “She’s right. I can give you a horse.”
“Only one?” she said. Clearly, he expected Nicholas to make the journey alone, too. Tired of being treated as a burden, she decided to reveal her secret. “I mean to go to Bedford with or without Mr St Clair. I’ve been hired to find a murderer and cannot afford to disappoint my client.”
Nicholas frowned. “Hired? By whom?”
“Lady Brompton.”
“Lady Brompton? Now I know you speak in jest.”
“She despises injustice. And I have promised to give her a full account of how I caught the murderer. Doubtless, it’s a tale she will regale to every dinner guest—without mentioning my name, of course.”
Mr Chance snorted. “One must give the lady credit, St Clair. I pray a woman will walk on hot coals for me if I’m ever facing the noose.”
“Is there a lady who values your life as much as her own, Mr Chance?” She noticed a darkness pass over his chiselled features. “Does someone care for you like I care for Mr St Clair?”
With an arrogance that suited him, he gestured to the men around the table. “I would always turn to kin in my hour of need. Sadly, the same cannot be said for you, Miss Langley.”
Guilt crept into her heart. She loved Sebastian. Abandoning him had hurt her, too, but he would have stopped her coming to London. He would have locked her in an ivory tower and rode roughshod over her plans.
“There’s a vast difference,” she said, keen to defend Sebastian and prepare this man for the worst. “You may have suffered from hunger. You may have worked to the bone to build an empire, shed blood, sweat and tears, but your beloved brother hasn’t died. When you’re faced with such a loss, Mr Chance, perhaps you may stop judging other people’s actions and show some compassion.”
A heavy silence ensued.
The tension in the air was palpable.
It was as if she had her head on the block, waiting for the guillotine to fall.
She almost sagged in relief when the heartbreaker clapped. “Bravo, Miss Langley. It’s been a long time since anyone bested my brother. For once, he is left speechless.”
Indeed, all the men laughed, even the imposing gentleman seated at the head of the table. He turned to Nicholas. “If anyone can prove your innocence, it is Miss Langley. Come. Explain what you would have us do, and we shall attempt it with the same gusto.”
Most men would have dug in their heels, desperate to prove a woman could not outsmart them. Without the slightest hint of mockery, Nicholas motioned to her and said, “As Miss Langley is my enquiry agent, she will tell you how we mean to proceed.”
She would have rewarded his generosity with a passionate kiss if they’d been alone. Instead, she raised her chin and told the Chance brothers about their accident on the road to Haslemere.
“I have a sketch of the ring.” Having torn it from her notebook before leaving Grayswood, she removed the drawing from her coat pocket and handed it to the angel beside her.
Theo Chance scanned the image. “It reminds me of a ring worn by those who follow Masonic traditions. But I shall do my best to locate its origin.”
“Thank you, Mr Chance.” She gave him her drawing of the crazed coachman. “This may help with your enquiries.” Suppressing all nerves, she turned to the scholarly man, who wore an impressive diamond cravat pin. “Sir, I need to know more about a woman named Florence Lavern. Twenty years ago, she was an opera singer and the mistress of Robert Holland.” Lady Brompton had been an excellent source of information, but then the best gossips always were.
Aaron Chance cleared his throat. “Believe it or not, I know Miss Lavern. She used to give me food at the stage door of the Adelphi. But that was sixteen years ago. I’m not sure where she is now.”