“True. Nevertheless—”
“Thanks to Emma I find myself in a unique position,” she continued. “I am able to circulate in some of the best social circles without calling attention to myself.”
He glanced at Emma.
Emma poured more tea. “It has been interesting, I must say.”
“I wish to make it plain that I pride myself on accuracy,” Louisa said firmly. “I always investigate quite thoroughly before I write my reports. The last thing I want to do is cause pain or humiliation to an innocent person.”
“Enough.” Anthony raised a hand, palm out. “I do not doubt your zeal or your intentions, Mrs. Bryce.”
She dared to relax slightly.
“I have been wondering how you came by your information,” he continued. “Can I assume that, as a member of the press, you have informants?”
“Yes,” she said, cautious again.
“I would like to know the name of the person who put you onto Hastings’s trail.”
She pondered that for a moment. Miranda Fawcett enjoyed her role as a behind-the-scenes source of secrets for a newspaper correspondent. She could no doubt be persuaded to aid Anthony in his investigation, provided she could be convinced to trust him.
“My informant might agree to assist you,” she said, “but I make no guarantees.”
Veiled anticipation leaped in Anthony’s eyes. “I understand.”
Louisa clasped her hands. “Let me make myself very clear, sir,” she said coolly. “This conversation will end here and now if you do not agree to make me a full partner in this affair.”
His eyes tightened dangerously at the corners. “I do not think that would be wise, Mrs. Bryce.”
“I do not think that you have any choice, Mr. Stalbridge.”
10
Ten minutes later he went down the steps of Number Twelve, crossed the street, and started through the small park in the center of the square. He was not in what anyone would term a pleasant mood.
Louisa was a correspondent for the Flying Intelligencer. That piece of information had come out of nowhere, blindsiding him. He had never heard of a female reporter, let alone one who did her work from inside exclusive circles.
Astounding as her career was, it did explain much of what had made him curious in recent days, including her secretive forays in the Wellsworth and Hammond households and her interest in Hastings. It also explained the unfashionable gowns, the spectacles, and the boring conversation at every social event she attended. Louisa had gone to great lengths to make certain that people did not take any notice of her. Like it or not, however, she was going to lose some of her precious anonymity now that her name was linked with his. He wondered how she would deal with that.
He walked through a stand of trees and found himself in a small clearing in the middle of the park. He passed two green wrought-iron benches and a statue of a nymph. On the far side of the greenery he crossed another street, turned a corner, and entered a narrow lane. When he emerged onto a busy street, he briefly considered and then discarded the notion of whistling for a hansom cab. He needed to work off some of the frustration Louisa’s bargain had sparked.
He did not want her to be involved in this affair, but it seemed there was no other choice. She had made it clear that she would pursue the investigation of Hastings with or without his assistance. The only thing he could do now was keep an eye on her. That would probably not be easy, he decided.
11
“I know that it is highly unlikely that I can talk you out of this venture,” Emma said. “Nevertheless, I feel I must try. There are so many risks involved.”
Louisa got to her feet and went to the garden window. “I have taken risks before.”
“Not like this. You have never investigated a murder.”
“That is precisely why I cannot pass up this opportunity. A story about the shocking murders of two women in Society that can be tied to Elwin Hastings is simply too important to ignore. Men like Hastings rarely pay for their crimes. This is a chance to drag one to justice.”
“Keep in mind that you do not know for certain that Hastings murdered anyone. You have only Mr. Stalbridge’s opinion of the facts to go on at this point. I told you, he may have his own reasons for wanting to fix blame on someone.”
Louisa looked out into the garden. “I do not think that he is pursuing this investigation solely to clear his own name, Emma. Frankly, I do not believe that he gives a fig for Society’s opinion of him. My intuition tells me that he is genuinely convinced that Hastings murdered Fiona. He is determined to obtain justice for her.”
“Perhaps you want to attribute such noble motives to him because you would like to believe that the two of you have something in common,” Emma said gently. “Both of you seeking justice, et cetera, et cetera.”
“I suppose you may be right.” Louisa turned around. “But either way, I am determined to see this through.”
“Do not mistake me, dear, I have nothing but admiration for your work as a correspondent, but I fear that you are becoming reckless in your pursuit of justice in the Polite World.”
“I appreciate your concern, and I promise you I will be careful.”
Emma sighed. “It is your old anger and fear of Lord Gavin that drives you. The man is dead, but he haunts you still.”
“I will not quarrel with you on that account. What happened last year is a nightmare that will be with me to the end of my days. Perhaps I have allowed it to push me into a risky business. At the same time, I cannot help feeling that I am doing what I was meant to do. My work as I. M. Phantom satisfies something in me that nothing else can equal.”
“You are determined to go forward with this arrangement you have made with Anthony Stalbridge, aren’t you?”
“I have no choice.” Louisa gripped the edge of the windowsill. She fell silent for a moment. “He must have loved her very much, Emma.”
12
Anthony went up the steps of the large house on Brackton Street. Dreading what lay ahead, he banged the gleaming brass knocker. Footsteps sounded in the hall. The door opened to reveal a tall, cadaverously thin, gray-haired man in a butler’s suit.
“Mr. Stalbridge, sir. Do come in.”
“Good afternoon, Shuttle.” Anthony moved into the hall and tossed his hat onto the marble-topped side table. “All is well with you, I trust?”
“I am in excellent health, thank you, sir.” Shuttle closed the door. “Your mother and sister are in the library. Your father, of course, is in his workshop.”
“Thank you.”
Anthony went along the hall and paused in the open doorway of the library, steeling himself for the assault. There was a large desk and an easel in the room, both positioned to catch the best light from the tall windows overlooking the extensive gardens. His mother, Georgiana, was at the easel, paintbrush in hand. The sun highlighted the silver in her dark hair. She was in her late fifties, tall and gracefully made. A paint-stained apron covered her gown. Clarice sat at the desk, poring over a stack of papers covered with her handwriting. Her latest script for the Olympia, no doubt. A cloud of red curls framed her elfin face and blue eyes.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” he said from the door. “You both appear to be busy. I will not intrude.” He took a step back. “I just stopped by to have a word with Father.”
“Tony.” Clarice looked up suddenly. “Come back here. Don’t you dare try to leave without explaining yourself.”
“Sorry,” Anthony said, edging farther out into the hall. “I’m in somewhat of a hurry at the moment. Later, perhaps.”