Prinny’s whereabouts to Mr Clarke?’ Hart asked, tossing his head to the side to shift a lock of hair out of his eyes.
‘I have not.’
‘Well, I have,’ he said through a smug smile.
Gabriel leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. ‘Who is it?’
Hart sat back in the chair and stretched his legs out. ‘I was at Lyonsdale House recently, when Julian mentioned the wedding portrait of his wife had been completed. Always the polite guest, I asked to see it.’
‘I do not understand what this has to do with the gunman.’
Hart leaned forward, their knuckles almost touching, ‘Because the signature on that portrait matched the handwriting on your note.’ He reclined back again and arched an arrogant brow.
‘You are certain?’
‘I wasn’t at first. Something about the signature looked familiar, but then today I realised where I had seen such handwriting before. Are you still in possession of the note?’
Gabriel nodded.
‘Let me see it and I will prove to you I have found your match.’
When Gabriel returned from retrieving it from his study, Hart spread the paper out on the game table.
‘See here the swirled loop of the “m” and the down stroke of the “j”? I tell you, I have found your match.’
Although Hart was known to have an uncanny memory, Gabriel was not completely convinced. However, this was as close to a lead as he had had since the attempt on Prinny’s life. He had to pursue it.
‘Whose signature is it?’
‘A Mr John Manning of Hanover Square.’
Gabriel’s heart dropped to his stomach and the hair on the back of his neck rose. That man spent time with his wife...with his child.
‘You have grown quieter than usual,’ Hart said. ‘What are you not telling me?’
‘The gunman is dead.’
Hart’s previously casual pose was replaced by one of rapt attention. ‘How is that possible? He was under guard.’
Pushing away from the table, Gabriel stood and walked a few paces in agitation. Spinning back around, he ran his hand through his hair. ‘I do not know. You are certain Manning might be involved?’
‘I tell you, that is the man’s hand. If only you had a painting of his, we could...’ Hart’s gaze bore into him as if he could read Gabriel’s thoughts. ‘Your wife is his patron. Surely there is a painting of his here?’
Dear God, this couldn’t be happening, not again. Never discount the obvious. His father had pounded it into his head. The more he considered the facts, the harder it became to steady his breathing. Olivia had arranged the meeting between Prinny and Mr Owen. She told him not to take the royal coach and that she would take him in hers. Her carriage had the Lyonsdale crest on the side, just as his did. Just yesterday she’d persuaded Prinny to go for a walk outside in his garden where anyone in the park beyond would have had an easy shot at him. And he had heard her discuss Prinny with Manning.
He did not believe in coincidences. He knew first hand anything was possible. His past had taught him that—at a great cost. An icy chill ran through his veins.
If she were part of this, she would be tried for treason and swing from the gallows. He tried to scrub the image from his mind, but it would not go away.
‘Winter, did you hear me?’
He could not do this with Hart present. ‘I will search for one of his paintings. With the collection my wife is amassing, surely you can see it will take some time for me to locate his work.’
‘I have solved the informant’s identity before you did and yet you will not look me in the eye. If he is the person who hired Mr Clarke, you will be able to put the mystery of this assassination attempt to rest. The vile criminal will swing.’
And that was what Gabriel was beginning to fear.
Once Hart was on his way, Gabriel rang for Bennett. ‘Is Her Grace home?’
‘No, sir, I believe she is at Mr Manning’s studio for her sitting.’
Gabriel closed his eyes and prayed he was wrong. ‘Do you know when she is expected to return?’
‘No, sir, I do not.’
‘Is Colette with her?’
‘No, she was granted the day to visit her mother. I believe Lady Haverstraw is with Her Grace today.’
Gabriel rubbed the ring that had belonged to his father, not at all comfortable with what he was about to do. ‘If she arrives home in the next hour, I need you to keep her from our rooms.’
Bennett did not look pleased and he knew it was taking all of his butler’s control not to say what was on his mind.
‘Do I make myself clear, Bennett?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Bennett replied before Gabriel took the stairs, two steps at a time.
Olivia had mentioned Manning had painted something for her. He paused in the doorway of her bedchamber and knew once he entered, his life with his wife might be changed for ever.
Taking a deep breath, he turned the handle and was met with the faint scent of honeysuckle. He had not been in the room without her in years. The curtains were drawn back, letting the light stream in through the mullioned windows. There were miniature portraits on her dressing table.
That appeared to be as good a place as any to start. He picked up each frame and squinted at the signature on each one. If any of these were painted by Manning, it would be anyone’s guess from the small size of the writing.
He ran his hand through his hair and turned about the room. There was a landscape over her bed and two smaller ones flanking the large one. Who did she say Manning painted?
His entire body froze and his gaze shifted to the fireplace. There it was. Over the mantel was a portrait of Nicholas. His son was sitting on a bench wearing a blue-velvet gown, his arms wrapped around Gabriel’s mother’s spaniel, Caesar. Walking slowly towards it, he found the signature of the artist in the lower-right corner. His stomach dropped when he took note of the distinct curve of the ‘m’.
There was no denying it. Hart was correct. Olivia’s friend was the man who’d supplied the gunman with Prinny’s whereabouts. However, the scrap of paper he held in his hand would not prove a thing in court. They needed to monitor Manning’s movements and hope he revealed his actions.
He knew he should not waste the opportunity to try to find something that might tie Olivia to Manning’s crime. His stomach rolled at the idea.
On the table beside her bed was a stack of books. He went through each one, looking for hidden notes, but found none. Her dressing table held the usual items a woman kept on hand. He checked and found no hidden compartments. Where would a woman hide her secrets?
He entered her dressing room, where just that morning he knew she’d reclined bathing in the warm water he had arranged for her. Even in the early years of their marriage, he had never had a reason to look inside his wife’s wardrobe. Seven shelves of pristinely folded silks, satins and muslins were available for his perusal. How many gowns did one woman need?
Rummaging around the bottom of the immense painted cabinet, his hands touched a wooden box approximately one foot by eight inches. It didn’t take long before he picked the lock. Pausing for a moment, he prepared himself for what he would find. When he lifted the lid, he stopped breathing.
Perched atop a stack of letters that were tied with a red ribbon