Sinless Page 3

  A narrow passage, stinking as much as the jail, led to the courtroom. A blinding light at the end of the dark space appeared like the gates of heaven, although Darius doubted such a place existed in this part of London. He had never found it here, at any rate.

  Bracing himself, he stepped out and headed straight for the box where his brother had stood a few months ago. Now came his real test.

  Here, at Bow Street Magistrate’s Court, justice was truly blind. At least the magistrate was. Today the man himself sat behind the substantial bench, his eyes dramatically bound with a black velvet ribbon.

  Graham kept pace with Darius and took his place by his side. Darius assumed Graham didn’t want to lose sight of him, since nobody in their right mind brought a lawyer to a hearing like this.

  “Your name, sir,” the clerk said. He stood by the magistrate’s side, occasionally muttering to his master.

  Darius considered giving a false name but decided against it. Nobody had yet asked him for his name. The court was all but empty, it being too early for many journalists and muckrakers to concern themselves. The courts had stolen quite a march on them, holding the hearings so early. Did they want to keep the raid on Mother Fleming’s quiet, or had they received orders from a different authority? John Fielding was as incorruptible as a magistrate could be, but he would not be above influencing from a higher power.

  Darius’s heart sank. Had his family come to hear of his latest exploit? The interview with his father came heart-sinkingly closer. The Marquess of Strenshall had the heartrending sigh down to a fine art.

  “Darius Shaw,” he said, deciding not to embellish his name further.

  “Is your father the Marquess of Strenshall?” the clerk inquired sweetly.

  “He is.” Damnation.

  Mr. Fielding sat up, leaned his elbows on the slab of highly polished oak before him and lifted his head. “The brother of the gentleman who came before me accused of murder?”

  Why he had to harp on about it Darius did not know. “The same. However, this is mine and mine alone. I object to your ruffians holding me against my will. My coat is completely ruined, and I’ve had no sleep at all.” He let his voice move to the plaintive.

  “You were discovered in a house of ill-repute last night. A house of such illegal and shocking reputation that I would wish it gone from the face of the earth.”

  “You have your wish, sir. I was merely enjoying the entertainment.”

  “Is that what you call it?” Mr. Fielding’s voice rose to a dull roar. “It is a scar on this city. It has no place in any jurisdiction of mine.”

  Idly, Darius wondered if High Holborn was actually part of Mr. Fielding’s remit. But since a Runner had attended the raid last night, he presumed he had some say over the proceedings. “They promised me singing and dancing. And good wine. They lied about the wine. It was vile stuff. I had decided to move on to another more promising establishment when all hell broke loose. Your men could have retained a little civilized behavior.”

  “And what were you doing in that dreadful place?”

  “I told you. Being entertained.”

  After an impressive pause, Mr. Fielding continued, “There are rumors about you, Lord Darius.”

  “Considering my family, that does not surprise me. The weak will always vent their spite on their betters.”

  “Do you habitually think of yourself as better than others? Are not all men equal under God?”

  Darius sighed. “Truly, sir, I find the hour too early for theological discussion. As for better, do you not consider anyone who spews bile over their fellow man as inferior? I was merely amusing myself after a particularly tiring and tedious evening performing my family duty by squiring my younger sister to an entertainment. That is all.”

  Mr. Fielding addressed the clerk. “In what state was he found?”

  Darius heaved another sigh but said nothing. Graham gave him a warning glance, but Darius merely raised a brow in return.

  “Fully dressed, sir, in the main room, watching a lewd performance on a makeshift stage,” the clerk said, reading from his notes.

  Fielding slashed a line in the book open before him. Interesting how he held his finger over the precise point to guide him. “I am tired of this. Sir, I do not wish to see you in my court again. You mock the due process of the law.” He gave a dismissive wave. “You may go.”

  The job was done. Someone had seen and marked Darius’s presence at the inn last night. This would identify him in the public record. At least Andrew Graham had not opened his mouth. Had his presence here made a difference?

  “Obliged to you, sir.”

  Without further ado, Darius climbed down from the box, making way for the next unfortunate. Without deigning to take notice of anyone, he strode from the court, his feet rapping on the stone flags.

  The jailer sniffed as he passed, but he didn’t stop Darius leaving, Andrew Graham hard on his heels.

  They did not speak until they had gained the open air.

  Darius tipped his head back and drew a deep breath. He wouldn’t go so far as to call it fresh air—London air could never truthfully bear that name—but at least it was untainted by mold, dead rats, unwashed humanity, and bodily waste. Mostly, at any rate.

  Smoke curled over the city. Autumn was creeping into winter, and even a city set in a valley felt the cold at this time of year. Darius welcomed the pinch of approaching winter.

  “If you feel unwell, do not dismiss it. Find a doctor.” Graham’s words drew Darius back to reality.

  He glanced at the man by his side. What an odd thing to say. “Why would I do that?”

  “Jail fever.”

  The terse words brought a chill of recognition to Darius. He had not thought of it before, but jail fever killed many people every year. A particularly severe bout could spread, via the courtroom, through the city. “I will.”

  He didn’t even add a touch of his customary sarcasm to the words. He would not trifle with such a deadly illness. “Nobody in there seemed particularly unwell. The usual wens and warts, presumably, though I did not get close enough to notice.” He scratched the back of his neck. “However, I fear a bath is in my immediate future.” Even though he had not used the bed, fleas could jump.

  “I would appreciate a private word with you, my lord.”

  The formal title gave Darius a moment of humor. “Call me Darius. Or Shaw, but I prefer my first name.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Shaw could describe a number of people. Darius is mine alone.”

  “An emperor’s name.”

  Darius gave a short laugh. “Not a particularly distinguished one. I am grateful I wasn’t saddled with a more illustrious title. I have cousins named Nicephorus and Julius Caesar. I consider myself lucky in that respect. However, the names mark us out.”

  He was a member of a powerful extended family unit, bound by their outlandish names and their loyalty to each other.

  “Indeed they do. You did not inform the jailer of your identity, although your clothes also, as you said, mark you out. However, you could have been any rich wastrel. Someone wanted to point you out.”

  “Why would someone do that?”

  “I don’t know.” Graham’s eyes gained a faraway look. “They could have released you last night. You were fully dressed, doing nothing wrong as far as they knew. Except visiting such a place. But in the season, many young men visit places they should not. Is there something you are doing that would elicit interest?”

  “No.” Darius shrugged. Nothing he was at liberty to tell this man, at any rate. “I should not have attended that place straight after a ball last night. I should have gone home and changed.” He twitched the brocade into place. “Perhaps this was a little too flamboyant even for a molly house.”

  Graham turned to him, facing him directly, ignoring a pair
of chairmen who had to step into the road to carry their sedan chair past them. Their curses were particularly fine. Darius memorized them for future use.

  He gazed into Graham’s eyes, forcing him to return to the here and now. He didn’t find the task particularly onerous. “You have beautiful eyes.”

  He only became aware that he’d said the words aloud when Graham froze. “I am not particularly interested in your aesthetic sense, sir.”

  Darius nodded, accepting the reprimand. But he had only spoken the truth.

  “However,” Graham went on, “I am interested in some aspects of last night. Permit me to assure you that we may be on the same side in this matter, and working together would aid us more than fighting. With your family’s reputation, I doubt my initial suppositions were true. I would like to explain what I was doing there, if you will do the same.” He glanced around, as if noticing the press of humanity for the first time. “Should I call on you?”

  Darius shook his head. “Someone is always about my business at my house.” He did not intend for anyone to know about this matter unless it proved significant, and especially if Graham was involved in it. “I will come to you. Later today, if it suits?”

  Graham nodded. “If you would. You are welcome to stay for dinner, should you wish.”

  Darius had an infinite store of curiosity. He had never eaten in a Cit’s house before. Although, as a lawyer, Graham was not precisely a Cit, but he lived like one. Rumor had it Cits lived extremely well. “I appreciate the invitation, thank you. Until later, then.”

  Without waiting, he strode away, feeling Andrew Graham’s eyes on him until he reached the corner.

  Chapter 3

  As he’d expected, Darius received a quiet request to visit his father in his study on his return. He sent a courteous message via a footman that he would attend when he was fit to do so, in about an hour. He doubted Lord Strenshall would welcome a visit from his son in this state.

  When he walked into his bedroom, he caught his valet’s response. Richardson’s nose twitched.

  “I agree,” Darius said, stripping off his coat as he walked across the room. “Order a bath, if you please. Nothing less will get this stink out. And I do not wish to see this suit of clothes again. Remove the buttons and get rid of the rest. Everything.”

  “I have already ordered the bath, my lord. It will be here directly. May I suggest you allow me to comb through your hair?”

  “You know where I spent the night, then?”

  Richardson lowered his eyes. “A watchman had the temerity to call at what your father referred to as an ungodly hour, although in fact he himself had only been at home for half an hour.”

  “Good,” Darius said absently. “I trust he sent the man away with a gentle reprimand.”

  “More than gentle, sir.”

  The door opened to admit a maid and two footmen followed by another maid carrying the tub and four cans of hot water. The half-full tub was deposited in front of the fire, and Richardson supervised them placing the soft white towels precisely in place, so Darius wouldn’t have to sully his precious flesh with bare metal.

  Darius strode into his dressing room, shedding garments as he went. By the time he entered the small room attached to his bedchamber he was down to his underwear, shoes, and stockings. He used the chamber pot, washed his hands, and studied himself in the mirror. Considering he’d had no sleep last night, he was holding up fairly well.

  An hour later, dressed more soberly in dark red cloth and cream, smelling a good deal better, and his damp hair tied back neatly but clinging to his neck, Darius felt ready to face his formidable parent.

  He had a problem with interviews in his father’s study. While his father had delivered his fair share of physical punishment, his father’s displeasure and deep disappointment was far worse. When they brought sorrow to their father, his children truly grieved. He made sure of it.

  Darius sighed, glanced in a nearby mirror, and made sure his neckcloth was straight before he tapped on the study door. A footman standing on duty in the hall gave him a sympathetic glance he was not meant to see, so he chose not to see it.

  Opening the door, he braced himself for a confrontation of some kind. He would have to explain himself, but he was damned if he’d explain yet again what he was and why.

  His mother barely acknowledged his other life, and his father referred to it in passing. The effect had separated Darius from his family somewhat.

  Situated on the ground floor, the room was of modest size and lined with bookcases holding various items. Books, naturally, but also folders, some tied in red ribbon denoting their legal nature, others of worn and cracked leather, some brand-new. A few souvenirs propped up the volumes, and on the remaining bits of wall, miniatures of the family hung. This room was most certainly not for public consumption.

  The marquess’s chair creaked as he leaned back and propped his elbows on the scratched old-fashioned mahogany desk that took up most of the floor space. Darius had often wondered how they’d managed to get it in here, since the windows were not large and only one door led in. He preferred to leave it as a mystery. Life should hold some mysteries.

  His father motioned to the chair on the other side of the desk. After a perfunctory bow, Darius accepted the offer and sat, waiting for the axe to fall.

  “What happened to the bastard?”

  Darius’s eyes widened. “Which particular bastard are you referring to, sir?”

  The marquess’s mouth flattened. “The one you were pursuing last night. The young man with a remarkable number of names.”

  Ah. He should have guessed his father would discover his true purpose. Relief swept through him. Not another lecture, then. “Who told you?”

  “That interfering fool General Court.”

  Darius groaned. “He knows? Damnation. I wanted to clear the matter up cleanly.”

  “By killing the man?”

  Darius shrugged. “If it became necessary. I had actually planned to find out what he knew and get him out of the country. I want to discover what he knows so that we know what, if anything, is compromised.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “That we had a spy creating mischief?” Darius paused, but this was his father. If he couldn’t trust him, he could trust no one. “Julius suspected it, but he is busy about other matters, so I offered to investigate.”

  “Your cousin has fingers in far too many pies, but your mother is fond of him.”

  Julius Caesar Vernon, otherwise the Earl of Winterton and heir to the Dukedom of Kirkburton, did indeed have a considerable network of intelligence. However, the Strenshalls could rival it, if they wished to, and Darius had his sources.

  Darius crossed his legs, relieved he was not to be subjected to a reprimand, or worse. “A rumor at Lloyd’s put me on the track of the man. He’d been offering a particularly tempting document for sale. Where else than in a coffeehouse where gentlemen make agreements every day? I had a name, and I went in search of it. I met the youth and befriended him, after I discovered we had a few interests in common.” He grinned. “It was not difficult. He said he was going to Mother Fleming’s, so I naturally offered to accompany him. I had thought to seize the document from him there. And then we were raided.”

  “Yes,” the marquess said. “That was most unfortunate.”

  “More than unfortunate. I think that raid was no accident. Someone wanted that youth in custody.”

  “And is he? In custody, I mean?”

  Darius sighed. “No. I thought they had taken him, so I allowed them to put me in a cell, but he was not there. I saw the magistrate this morning. He reprimanded me and let me go. I’m a young rake living a little on the wild side of town, a burr under his skin. That is all.”

  The marquess nodded. “Indeed. Do you know what the document contains?”

  “Names. A
list of our spies in France and Italy. God knows where he got it.”

  His father leaned back, his old chair creaking. “With war looming, we know the French are setting spies in place over here. We discovered only yesterday that Mother Fleming’s was part of that circle. We allowed it to continue, and we left someone in place there. That, in case you had not worked it out, was how I discovered what had happened last night.” He sighed. “It was useful to know where they were exchanging documents and news. Now we have to start again. Did you have anything to do with that raid?”

  Darius shook his head. “Not at all, sir. But I may know someone who did.”

  His father waved his hand, the lace at his wrist falling back to reveal hands as capable of building walls as writing a delicate signature. “Go on.”

  “Do you remember Andrew Graham, the lawyer who gave us signal help last year?”

  “Of course.”

  “He accompanied the Runner who led his men into Mother Fleming’s last night. What was he doing there? He is a man of business, a solicitor and a barrister, not a Bow Street Runner.”

  Darius’s father regarded him steadily. A softer expression entered his eyes. “Andrew Graham,” he said thoughtfully. “When a man has lived a certain number of years, he recognizes certain symptoms. I saw when Marcus fell in love with his wife, rather than accepting her. They were always friends, but when they were thrown together, Marcus used that as an excuse to marry her. He loved her. I saw a similar change in your twin, and in Claudia. My son, sometimes we cannot have our heart’s desire.”

  A chilly spark shot through Darius, immobilizing him. “If I am attracted to him, that is entirely my affair. Believe me, Papa, I know what I can and cannot do.” He slipped into the childish endearment naturally, almost without noticing. “There will be no happy ending for me, no domestic bliss.”