Page 27 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
“Well,” he said breezily, standing with a stretch, “I do appreciate the visit, brother. Shall we call this lecture concluded?”
My hands curled into fists at my sides, but I forced myself to stay still. “Not nearly.” Without another word, I turned on my heel and strode out before fury overran reason.
I wasn’t done with Phillip—not by a long shot.
Outside his lodgings,I dismissed the carriage with a curt word to my coachman and turned up my collar against the sharp wind.
No sense broadcasting my next call.
I didn’t want the world—the press, the House of Lords, close acquaintances—knowing the Duke of Steele was about to hire a private enquiry agent. But I needed answers. If Phillip wouldn’t give them to me, I’d get them another way.
The man I had in mind kept offices just off Hatton Garden, on a narrow side street that still smelled of coal smoke and dampwool. The sort of place easily overlooked, which suited him perfectly.
Caleb Finch.
Some years back, we’d crossed paths. I’d come to admire the man’s keen instincts and refusal to be cowed by rank or wealth. He didn’t bow or scrape, but neither did he boast. In a world where too many men talked and too few listened, Finch had the rare good sense to observe before opening his mouth.
I hailed a hackney and gave the driver Finch’s address. Halfway there, my stomach growled—loud and insistent. A sharp reminder it hadn’t been fed. So it was not in the best of moods, I arrived at my destination.
The bell above Finch’s door gave a soft clang as I stepped inside.
He looked up from his desk, a half-eaten meat pie in one hand, a stack of what appeared to be case notes in the other. Chestnut hair, brushed back carelessly from a lined but intelligent face. Late forties, maybe. Sharp blue eyes, faintly amused.
“Well, well,” he drawled, setting down the pie. “Thought I felt the air shift. What’s brought his nibs, the Duke of Steele, into my disreputable establishment?”
I shut the door behind me. “A favor. A quiet one.”
Growing serious, he raised a brow. “Trouble?”
“Possibly.” I crossed to the chair opposite his desk and sat. “My brother Phillip.”
Finch leaned back, laced his fingers over his stomach. “You want me to keep an eye on him?”
“I want to know who he’s seeing. Where he’s going. Who’s lending him money. He’s in deep—and I need to know how deep before he drags the rest of the family and our good name under.”
Finch nodded slowly. “You think he’s being used?”
“I think he’s being reckless. And reckless men make excellent pawns.”
“I’ll need to be discreet.”
“You always are. That’s why I came to you.”
His lips twitched into something close to a smile. “And here I thought it was my charm.”
I gave a low chuckle despite myself. “That too.”
Finch turned serious. “Anyplace you want me to start?”
“He keeps bachelor quarters off Brook Street. I was just there. A woman left not long before I did—black hair, theatrical makeup, walked like she thought every man was watching. Might be something. Might be nothing.”
“I’ll find out.” Finch pushed a clean sheet of paper across the desk and jotted a few notes. “You’ll want daily reports?”
“Every other day will do, unless something urgent crops up.”
He nodded again. “Same terms as last time?”
I reached into my coat and handed over a sealed envelope. “A bit more than that. You’ll be earning it.”
