Page 30 of An Honorable Deception
“Yet Tori languishes on, and it was only his fists.”
A tingle washed up Yates’s spine, even as his stomach went tight and hard. Nothing about the first words indicated they were talking about Alethia, but that last bit certainly made it sound like they were. Or at least could be. Three times, three gunshots. And hanging about the church—James’s. Then the mention of Tori—Victoria, his wife. Linking the two attacks together.
Fire ate at Yates’s veins. To his ears, it sounded suspiciously as though Rheams knew exactly who his wife’s attacker was ... and that he deemed the thug’s action something to be “succeeded” at. He needed to figure out who this Courtney bloke was.
He also needed to check in with James. Yates had been a bit concerned about James’s safety, but his friend had assured him that he was in the best possible position. He was frequently gone from the church at that time of day, out calling on parishioners. No one could assume he’d been there.
They’d also discussed at the time what they ought to do about the fact that those men expected Alethia’s body to be found in the church, but they’d decided to simply focus on protectingher. Once they’d stemmed the initial flow and sheseemed well enough to be moved, James had cleaned up the blood while Yates carried her to his friend’s carriage.
What could the culprits really do, after all, if her body was simply never found and reported?
Yates had insisted on dropping one of his Imposters’ cards at the scene, next to the confessional, in case the men returned. If they paused to think how odd it was that she’d been in there, they might connect the dots and realize someone was on the other side of the booth. He wanted them to know who—more or less. At the very least, he wanted them to have a reasonable explanation for why she’d vanished.
No one knew who the Imposters were—but everyone, at this point, had heard stories of what they were capable of. Coming and going without being seen, discovering things that couldn’t be discovered, hearing things no one should hear. Why not disappear a girl? Or, it seemed, her body, which was what these men expected to be left.
He kept his face in a vague mask but willed the burst of laughter from the opposite corner to die down so he could listen more.
“I don’t like it. She should have been reported by now....” More infernal laughter. “...housekeeper, at least.”
Thatdefinitelysounded like Alethia.
Another duo passed behind his chair, muddling the conversation. When they’d gone, Dunne was the one speaking again. “...stumbling about?”
“I’ve checked. No reports from any neighborhoods nearby. And she’d be recognized.”
Beside him, Merritt drew in a long breath. “Ithasto be her,” he muttered so quietly that Yates doubted even Xavier heard him.
Yates absolutely agreed. But they would need more thanbits and pieces of one overheard conversation to prove anything. And they still didn’t have a clue what they were really trying to prove, other than the obvious. Yes, someone had shot Lady Alethia Barremore and beaten Mrs. Rheams.
But they had no motive beyond the usual one of monetary gain. And these current suspects could lift a brow and have any investigations based on that dismissed out of hand.
Yates stood, making a show of stretching and loosening his neck, as if he’d simply been too long in one position. Eyes focused on one of the paintings hanging on a nearby wall, he meandered a few steps away from his sofa.
The men didn’t even pause to see where he went—which proved, to his mind, that they were either amateurs at anything underhanded and didn’t know how to make certain no one was spying on them ... or they were old hands who had been lulled into a false sense of security thanks to successful conversations before. He couldn’t say which, not yet.
And then there was this Courtney character. Who beat one woman nearly to death and then shot another three times and didn’t verify their victim was dead before leaving? An amateur or a professional?
From his new vantage point, he could pick up on a few other details about the men. Vernon looked as though he’d come straight from Lords. Rheams still wore normal day attire, though it was a bit rumpled—perhaps hehadbeen at hospital all day. Dunne was in full evening dress, tuxedo and bow tie included, which surely meant that Brooks’s wasn’t his final destination for the evening. But he had his hand in his pocket and was jingling something. Coins? The faint sound he strained to pick out didn’t sound right.
Rheams sighed. “We still have two days before his lordship returns. I daresay I’ll be in mourning by then.” He didn’t sound broken up about it. “It should prove a distraction.”
“And I think Jackson is ready to be invited.” Dunne jingled the coins in his pocket again. “And perhaps Mason too.”
Vernon glanced at the man’s pocket. “You have them with you?”
Even from his off angle, Yates could see the smirk. “I grabbed a few. If you approve?”
“They will make good patrons. Better allies.”
Yates’s nerves snapped and sizzled. Invited to what? Had what with him? Something, it seemed, by which said invitation was extended.
He’d long ago learned to trust his instincts when they told him to follow what could well be a rabbit trail. And his instincts were screaming that this was far more than that. He turned back to his friends, nabbed a canapé from the tray of a passing waiter, and lobbed it at Merritt’s head. It ricocheted off and landed in Xavier’s lap, which was absolutely perfect. They both leapt to their feet, cries of outrage on their lips.
Xavier’s was probably real.
Merritt had been listening, too, though, so he’d know exactly what Yates was about. Still, he did a smashing imitation of outrage as he exclaimed in his best Coldstream Guard voice, “I swear, Fairfax, sometimes you are so juvenile it confounds me. When I was your age—”
Yates laughed, charged toward him, and knocked him into Xavier. “Lighten up, old man,” he said as he eased back into a sparring stance. “This place is as boring as a tomb. I told you we should have stuck to the Marlborough.”
