Page 61 of A Murder in Mayfair
“But why would Walsh go along with it?”
“Money. His estate was a leaking ship. He needed funds—desperately.”
“Charles inherited the leaking ship.” A chill crept up my spine. “I wonder if Walsh funneled his ill-gotten gains into an account his son could quietly inherit.”
“Perhaps. But Charles inherited a sizable fortune from his mother, so he wouldn’t be desperate for money. If managed wisely, he could live comfortably without a penny from hisfather—though I’m sure he wouldn’t have turned it down.” He shrugged. “In any case, we’ll have to find out.”
“And Bellamy?” I asked. “Any chance he had the means? He certainly had a motive.”
“Bellamy’s a dead end,” Steele said. “He’s penniless. No way to pay a killer. And he seems genuinely devoted to his mother. The last thing he’d do is risk prison and leave her destitute.”
“He must have expenses, though. How does he plan to pay for them?”
“I spoke to his uncle, Osborne. He’s taking the boy in hand—hopes to redeem the family name. There’s also talk of an understanding with a young lady of means. Substantial dowry.”
“So he can squander that as well?”
“I believe he’s learned his lesson.”
“One can only hope.” Although I doubted it.
The mantel clock ticked. Once. Twice. He glanced at his pocket watch. Did it keep better time than our timepiece?
“I must go,” he said. “A meeting of the Legislation Committee.”
“How’s our petition faring?”
“The vote is today,” he replied, tucking the watch away. “Don’t get your hopes up, Lady Rosalynd. I doubt it will make it out of committee.”
“Thank you for supporting it.”
“You can try again next year.”
“We will.Ifit fails.”
He offered a sympathetic smile but offered no further words.
“Regarding the investigation,” I said, “we need more than suspicion. We need motive. Proof. And a way to draw Mrs. Greystone out.”
He met my eyes—dark, knowing. “Then you’d best invite her to tea.”
Chapter
Twenty-Six
SCHEMES AND SALONS
After the duke departed, I sent Claire a note asking her to come round the next morning for a strategy session. Given her level of curiosity, I knew she’d take the bait. Her reply was delightfully predictable and unmistakably Claire:
In the morning, darling? Why, I’m barely conscious before ten. But for you, yes—I’ll be round at eleven. That’s the earliest I can manage to make myself presentable.
The following day, Claire swept into the morning room in a rustle of rose-colored skirts, her cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes alight with mischief. The subtle scent of her perfume—something scandalously expensive and vaguely reminiscent of hothouse orchids—trailed behind her as she sank into the settee opposite me with all the theatrical flair of a society actress taking the stage.
“Darling, you look as though you’ve been pacing all night. How deliciously dramatic. Do say it’s something scandalous.”
“Only if plotting an ambush counts,” I replied. “Though I rather imagine you’ll approve. It involves an American widow, suspect investments, and no shortage of guile. Tea?”
Claire’s eyes gleamed as she perched delicately on the edge of the settee. “Coffee, if you want me awake. I didn’t crawl into bed until four.”
