A Talent for Trickery Read online

  “Vaguely,” she replied. “He gave you the letters?”

  “They’re copies. Tidier than the originals. But identical in every other way,” he was quick to add. “Down to the length, width, and slant of every letter.”

  “Hmm. And does Inspector Jeffries know you’ve brought them here?”

  “No.” As far as most of Scotland Yard was concerned, the Walker children had emigrated to Boston immediately following the death of their father. Only Owen, his men, and the Crown knew the truth.

  “I see.” She stayed quiet for a while, drumming three fingers against the arm of the sofa in a pattern utterly familiar to Owen. The index finger twice, then the middle finger once, then the ring finger twice, and back to the middle finger for one tap, then the index finger twice again, and so on. He couldn’t say why it pleased him to see she retained that odd little quirk.

  “You may see the journals,” she announced and stopped drumming.

  Owen nodded, not particularly surprised by her decision. There had never been a question of whether or not she’d hand over her father’s notes once she learned of the murder. The question had been—and continued to be—how painful would she make the process?

  She rose from her seat and brushed a hand down the front of her gown. “Most of my father’s belongings are stored away. It will take some time to find—”

  “Time is of the essence,” Gabriel cut in.

  She gave him a withering glance. “You don’t say.”

  “We can help,” Owen offered.

  “No.”

  “Be sensible, Lottie.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  He hadn’t meant to. It had slipped out of its own accord. “Apologies. Charlotte—”

  “Miss Bales.”

  Though that was reasonable and expected, it, too, irritated him. “Miss Bales, the quicker we look through the journals, the sooner we—”

  “Those journals are hidden away for good reason. They’re not to be gone through in the parlor in the middle of the day. And you cannot stay here at night, when they can safely be pulled out of hiding. Therefore, you cannot help me. There is an inn in the village. It’s the… It’s…” Charlotte trailed off with an uncharacteristic awkwardness as her eyes caught and focused on the window behind him.

  Following her gaze, Owen spotted a small, blond woman and a black-haired young man climbing the front steps. They walked arm in arm, carrying what appeared to be a kite. “Peter and Esther?” He looked to Lottie, studying her face. “You weren’t expecting them home yet.”

  She pinned him with a cold, hard stare. “You will follow my lead in this, or God help me, I will burn this house down with you and your precious journals inside.”

  “Understood.”

  There was just enough time for Gabriel and Samuel to nod in agreement and for Lottie to open the parlor door before Peter and Esther entered the foyer.

  “Lottie!” Peter’s young and decidedly robust voice rang clearly through the house even as he looked over and discovered the group in the parlor. “Oh. I beg your pardon.”

  Lottie greeted them both with a broad, cheerful smile. “Peter, Esther. You’ve returned early.”

  The boy held up his kite without looking at her. He was all eyes for the newcomers. “Broken, I’m afraid.”

  “A fortunate mishap, as it happens.” She gestured them into the room. “You’ve arrived just in time to meet our guests. Lord Renderwell, Sir Samuel Brass, Sir Gabriel Arkwright, you remember my brother and sister, I presume?”

  “Miss Esther. Mr. Bales—”

  “What a delightful surprise to see you again,” Esther chimed. Unlike her brother, who appeared bemused by the presence of strangers in his home, Esther merely seemed amused. Her eyes shone with the light of recognition and a spark of mischief that reminded Owen of her late father. “Simply delightful.”

  Peter shook his head lightly. “I’m sorry. We’ve met?”

  “You were just a lad, Mr. Bales,” Samuel offered. “No more than five, I’d wager.”

  “He was six,” Lottie corrected and smiled at Peter. “These gentlemen were in business with Father.”

  “Were you? Truly?” Suddenly animated, Peter set the kite aside and grinned at his guests with unabashed excitement. “Oh, splendid. This is absolutely splendid. I’ve always wanted…” His gazed tracked past Samuel, then shot back again. “Er…that is, I should like to hear…” A line formed across his brow and he lifted a finger to point at Samuel. “I… Do you know… I do remember you. You once carried me up a staircase on your shoulders.”

  Samuel smiled, clearly pleased. “I did.”

  “Well”—Peter chuckled with a hint of good-natured embarrassment—“it is a pleasure to see you again under more dignified circumstances.”

  “You were sufficiently dignified for a boy of five,” Samuel assured him.

  “Six,” Esther corrected cheerfully. “Pray tell, what has brought you all the way from London, gentlemen?”

  Lottie waved the question away. “They’ve come for a bit of old paperwork, that’s all.”

  Peter looked to Owen with a curious smile. “We could have sent papers.”

  Young perhaps, but quick and inquisitive, Owen noted. “We are returning from a trip north and, I confess, we were eager for the opportunity to look in on the Bales children again. You were scarcely past knee-high last I saw you. And now you are in your third year of schooling with Mr. Derby in Poundswich, I believe?”

  Peter looked to his sisters with surprise. They stared at Owen.

  “I am,” Peter confirmed after a moment.

  “Performing well, I presume?”

  The young man straightened, his face lit with pride. “I am, my lord. Quite well.”

  Samuel nodded approvingly. “Always were a bright lad.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Yes, we’re quite proud of Peter,” Lottie agreed. “Gentlemen, I’m sure you will wish to secure a room at the inn before—”

  “The inn?” Peter looked at her, aghast. “Rubbish. You’ll stay here. We have plenty of room.”

  “Peter, I think—”

  “The White Calf is a fine spot for a drink.” He sent a quick, sheepish look at Lottie. “I’m told. But its accommodations are lacking. We haven’t much call for lodgings in the village. The nearest railway station is nearly two hours by horseback.” His cheeks bloomed pink. “But you’d know that, I imagine. Just come from there, have you?”

  Lottie stepped forward. “I’m sure Lord Renderwell—”

  “Would be happy to accept your generous invitation, Mr. Bales.” Owen stepped forward as well. “Thank you. You’ve raised a gracious young man, Miss Bales.”

  The smile she gave him was so sharp, Owen wondered it didn’t draw blood. “His generosity is entirely of his own making, I assure you. Peter, would you be so kind as to inform Mrs. Lewis we are to have houseguests?”

  “Of course. My pleasure.”

  And by the look of the ear-to-ear grin on his face, it genuinely was. Owen watched as Peter took his leave and was mildly surprised the boy didn’t break into a skip.

  “He is a fine boy, Lott—” he began when Peter was out of earshot.

  “Miss Bales,” Lottie hissed, spinning about to glare at him. She stepped forward again, and then again, until they were nearly nose to chin in the center of the room. “This was not part of the agreement, you rotter. You’ve no right, no right—”

  “No, I haven’t,” he agreed. “But the alternative is the entire village of Wayton speculating as to why the Bales household could not, or would not, put up a visiting viscount for the night.”

  Before Lottie could answer, Esther shrugged and smiled. “I wouldn’t mind a spot of gossip. It might liven—”

  “You will take your dinner in your rooms tonight,” Lottie
interrupted. “And breakfast in your rooms tomorrow. You will make every effort to avoid Peter, and under no circumstances will you engage him in any discussion regarding this family. Are we agreed?” Her eyes narrowed. “Or shall I fetch a candle and a stack of hay?”

  “We’re agreed.” They would play things her way, for now.

  Samuel and Gabriel nodded.

  “Good. Cross me”—she placed a small hand on his chest and shoved him back an inch—“and I will cram that hay down your lying throat before I set it ablaze. Understood?”

  She didn’t wait to see if he had, in fact, understood. She simply spun on her heel and strode out of the room, a blatantly amused Esther in tow.

  Two

  Lottie Bales was not a woman prone to violence. In years past, she had been a woman prone to swindling and stealing, and, currently, she was a woman of some deceit, but never had she been moved to do a person bodily harm.

  And yet, as she looked down on the activity in the front drive from Esther’s bedroom window, she could not deny that it would a pleasure—a very great pleasure—to grab one or more of the various sharp objects to be found so conveniently on the desk next to her and rain them down upon Lord Renderwell’s dark head.

  Oh, it would be so easy.

  He was right there, standing on the front terrace not ten feet out from the house. Just standing there as if he had every right to be on her front terrace, ordering her staff to put his belongings in her home.

  As if he had every right to come crashing back into her world.

  Pity he didn’t feel the right to be a few feet closer. She was too far away to make out the light green of his eyes, and she rather fancied the idea of seeing them widen in fear at her first volley. But, like his forked tongue and cloven hooves, she didn’t need to see them to know they were there. Just as she didn’t need additional proof that his handsome face, with its sharp cheekbones and broad jaw, hid a devious mind and that his charming smile hid an icy heart.

  She watched as Samuel joined him and felt her hands curl into fists. Even at six feet, Owen ought to have looked smaller while standing in Samuel’s towering shadow. Most men did.

  But not Viscount Renderwell. Oh, no. The man had always possessed a larger-than-life presence. In the naïveté of her youth, she’d imagined that presence stemmed from virtues like courage and integrity and strength of purpose.

  But now she knew it was simply pride and ambition that gave the man his grand stature. He reminded her of those colossal balloons she’d seen as a child—highly impressive when puffed up and looming over humanity like a guardian angel. Upon closer inspection, however, it became clear there was nothing of substance to be found inside.

  It had been something of a disappointment to learn those giant balloons were empty.

  It had been devastating to learn Owen Renderwell was just as hollow.

  She’d built fantastic dreams around the man. Such impossible, ridiculous dreams. How could she not, when he’d offered up everything she ever wanted on a platter?

  When she’d first met Owen, he’d held no illusions about her family. He’d known exactly what her father was and enough of what her father had done that he ought to have tossed the man in prison and been done with it. Instead, he had extended a hand in friendship, even offered a chance at redemption.

  Work for me and give your family a chance at a normal, decent life. Or, you may see them when they take leave of the poorhouse to visit you in Newgate.

  Esther had once pointed out that the redemptive properties of blackmail were somewhat suspect. But Lottie hadn’t cared. She’d been willing to accept any chance of redemption obtained via any means available. And if the only means happened to be the noble, charming, and handsome Lord Renderwell, Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard and decorated veteran of the Crimean War, well…

  In the four years they’d worked together, Owen had never made her feel as if her family was under threat. He’d been infinitely respectful to her, offering every kindness and courtesy. He’d gone out of his way to make her laugh and make her think. He’d treated her like a person of worth. In time, she’d even begun to believe she might one day become that person.

  But it had all been lies.

  Owen Renderwell had seen a means to an end in her father and nothing more. God only knew what he’d seen in her. A means to keep her father in line, no doubt.

  “Blighter.”

  The bedroom door opened and Esther padded across the carpet. Stopping next to the desk, she brushed Lottie’s hand away from a heavy inkwell. “You can’t do that, and well you know it.”

  “I wasn’t going to kill him, just…” She wiggled her fingers around the side of her head. “Graze him a bit. Expose his horns.”

  “You haven’t the aim.” She nudged Lottie aside. “And these are my things. Bloody your own inkwell.”

  Lottie wanted to smile at that but found she couldn’t, not while Owen was still in her line of sight. “Ugh. The nerve. The nerve of them coming here. I should have refused to see them. I should have told Mrs. Lewis to toss them out on their ears.” Or have Mrs. Lewis send for a footman to see the job done, which was a hair more realistic.

  Esther gave her a quizzical look. “Why didn’t you?”

  “Because…” Because she’d thought, just for a moment, that Owen might have come for something other than a favor. That, perhaps, he had come to make amends. She wasn’t at all certain she wanted to make amends, but, despite all better judgment, the idea that he should try again after so many years had intrigued her. “Because I’m an idiot.”

  “Rarely.” Esther studied the scene outside the window. “Although you’d certainly qualify if you marred that perfectly lovely visage. Lord Renderwell has aged quite handsomely.”

  “So has Mr. Nips,” Lottie grumbled. “We don’t let him in the house.”

  Esther craned her neck for a look at the ancient, white-muzzled pony standing serenely in his pasture. “I doubt Lord Renderwell bites.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “Well, I doubt I’d mind the nibble—”

  “Don’t.”

  Esther laughed and turned from the window. “Never fear, my dear smitten sister. As I recall, his dapper friend was always more to my taste. Lovely sense of style, that one, and very little sense otherwise.”

  Lottie’s eyes narrowed. It would be like Esther to ease a distasteful situation with a touch of humor. Unfortunately, it would also be like her to hide a distasteful truth in a bit of teasing.

  The girl was every inch their father’s daughter. She was just as charming, just as cunning, and just as manipulative. A conniving rogue in a sweet pink gown, that’s what she was. And it was foolish to make assumptions about rogues.

  Lottie jabbed a finger at her sister. “You listen to me, Esther Walker. These men are not to be trifled with. They’re nothing like your Harold Briggins or Timothy Wait or any of the other gullible boys in the village who are so eager to see the best in you. Try to make these men dance to your tune and call you a pretty piper, and they’ll break that fife over your head for all the world to see. They will ruin you.”

  Esther raised both eyebrows. Of the three Walker children, she was the only one incapable of arching just one brow. “Your memory of them is quite different than my own.”

  “You were a child and they treated you like one. You’ll not receive the same consideration now.”

  “I was well past nineteen when they left.”

  “But scarcely fifteen when they first…” She shook her head. This particular line of argument would have no impact on Esther. “It makes no difference. Esther, these men are not good marks.”

  You’ve got to pick your mark, poppet. Why risk toying with a tiger when a kitten will do just as well?

  Esther had likely never heard that particular gem from their father, but she’d recognize the wisdo
m in it. Her habit of causing trouble without actually getting into any was a result of careful calculation, not luck.

  “You would remember them better, I suppose,” Esther conceded at length, and she shrugged. “I’ll be good.”

  “Your word?”

  “Yes, my word.”

  Lottie breathed a sigh of genuine relief. Her sister might be a rogue, but she was a smart rogue, and she was loyal to the family. She would keep her word.

  Esther smiled pleasantly and leaned against the window frame. “Well, now that I’ve successfully distracted you from your murderous intentions, will you tell me the real reason Renderwell and his men have come and why you’ve allowed them to stay?”

  She’d rather not, but there was no getting round it. “They want to search Father’s journals for clues to an encrypted letter.”

  Esther made a scoffing noise. “You refused them, of course.”

  “I wanted to—”

  “You agreed? You are an idiot.”

  “The letters were left behind by a murderer.” Lottie’s heart twisted at the thought and at the dim memory of the woman who’d taught her to waltz and how to hide a dagger in her décolletage. At eleven, Lottie’s décolletage had been nearly indistinguishable from her waist. Still, it had been a sweet gesture. “Mrs. Popple was the victim.”

  Esther straightened, her blue eyes rounding. “Mrs. Popple? Father’s friend?” She swallowed audibly when Lottie nodded. “Good Lord. I… Good Lord.” She swallowed again. “I…I don’t remember her well, to be honest. Do you?”

  “Some.” But not as well as the woman deserved. It had been years since Lottie had even spared a thought for her. “She was kind to us when we were young.”

  “I do remember that. I remember her laughter.” Esther glanced out the window and back again. “And Renderwell hopes to find the same encryption in father’s old notes, does he?”

  “I doubt they expect to find an actual cipher, or a codebook for the letter, but even a piece of the puzzle would help.” If they could discover an encryption of similar make, it was possible they could trace its origins to a particular group or groups in London, which might narrow their search.