little note dropped by to let me know you were in the city—that’s the ticket. I was quite unaware of your presence, or I would have called.”
Julia dismissed the niceties of proper behavior with a shrug. “Phoebe and I came up a few weeks ago.”
“Ah, the fair Phoebe.” Another smile creased his face. “How is that lovely creature?”
“As kind and sweet and motherly as ever. Not as sad, however. Time tempers all grief, I suppose.”
“Yes. It is only kind, you know. Otherwise, I am sure that we would not be able to live.”
“But neither she nor I have forgotten Selby.”
“Of course not. It’s not to be expected.” He was watching her more warily now, sensing that they were arriving at the meat of Julia’s quest.
“Nor have we forgiven those who drove him to his grave.”
“My dear, you sound positively Greek. Whatever are you talking about?”
“I am talking about clearing my brother’s name. I need your help to do it.”
If she had not been so intent on her mission, Julia would have laughed at the horrified widening of Geoffrey’s brown eyes.
“But, my dear cousin, you know I am not much good at this sort of thing.”
“What sort of thing? You haven’t even heard what I’m going to ask.”
“I mean revenge and all that. Ferreting out clues, finding the guilty party.”
“You won’t have to do much,” Julia assured him. “I just need you to get me inside one of the nicer gaming establishments. Madame Beauclaire’s, to be exact.”
Geoffrey’s eyes now looked as if they might pop right out of his head. “Have you gone mad! A lady at a gambling hell!”
“I wouldn’t call it a hell, would you? I know Selby used to go there, and he said it was quite a genteel establishment. He said that there were even ladies who attended.”
“There are females there,” Geoffrey admitted. “There are even sometimes a woman or two of the ton—but never one who is young and unmarried. Most of the women you would find there are, well, uh…”
“Loose?” Julia suggested.
“Really, Julia, you must stop these frank ways of yours if you are ever to get anywhere in Society.”
“And that, dear cousin, is something we both know will never occur. Not after what happened to Selby.”
He sighed. “I know. It’s a terrible thing. I wish there were something I could do about it….” He shrugged eloquently.
“There is. You can escort me to Madame Beauclaire’s. One cannot get in without an invitation, I’ve heard. I am sure that you would always have an invitation.”
“Of course.” He looked slightly offended that there could be any doubt about the matter. “However, I rarely go. Gambling is so taxing, I find. All that tension—the fear of losing, the excitement of winning. Just watching some of those poor devils is enough to tire me.” When Julia said nothing, merely continued to watch him, he sighed and continued, “What good will it do, anyway? How can your going to Madame Beauclaire’s clear Selby’s name?”
“Lord Stonehaven goes there—so I have heard.” Julia refrained from mentioning that she had observed him entering the small, elegant house on three different occasions—twice with a beautiful woman on his arm. “I need to speak with him.”
Geoffrey groaned. “You’re not going to confront Stonehaven in the middle of Madame Beauclaire’s, are you? It wouldn’t be at all the thing, you know.”
“I’m not that dead to propriety, Geoffrey. I don’t intend to confront the man at all. I simply want to talk to him.”
“If you hope to persuade him that Selby didn’t do it, I must warn you that I think it’s a lost cause. The evidence was overwhelming—those letters Selby wrote, his using that name….”
The trust that Selby had been accused of stealing from had been set up for Thomas St. Leger, the son of one of Selby’s friends. Walter St. Leger, the father, had died when he was only twenty-nine, leaving behind a widow, Pamela, and a young son. While the mother, of course, had the guardianship and care of the boy, the estate had been put into a trust until Thomas reached his majority, and Walter had named as trustees four of his friends: Sir Selby Armiger; Deverel Grey, Lord Stonehaven; Varian St. Leger, who was also his cousin; and Major Gordon Fitzmaurice. The fund was actually administered by an agent in London, who took care of the investments of the trust. The trustees’ job was to oversee the boy’s needs and to direct the agent to remit money to his mother as needed. In theory, any of the four trustees could order the disposition of the money, as long as the request was in writing and was co-signed by another of the trustees. In practice, it had been Selby who most often had made requests for the money, because his estate lay near Thomas’s lands, and it was he who frequently saw the boy and who had the closest relationship with him.
Lord Stonehaven had grown suspicious when he learned that four large sums of money had been withdrawn from the trust within the space of a year, and that each of them had been sent not to Thomas St. Leger or his mother, but to a person named Jack Fletcher at a London address. A search had turned up no such person and no reason for money to be sent to him. The money had simply disappeared. All four letters requesting the transfer of funds had been written in Selby’s hand and signed by him. They had been countersigned, of course: once by Varian St. Leger and three times by Major Fitzmaurice, but neither of the two men could recall the letters. The most damning thing had been the name Jack Fletcher. All the trustees had known that Jack Fletcher was a false name made up by Selby when they were all young men first sowing their wild oats. Upon being caught in some scrape or other at the university, Selby had always blamed it on Jack Fletcher. The name had become something of a joke with him; thereafter, whenever anything happened—an accident or a prank gone awry—he would laughingly say that Jack Fletcher must have done it. He had even gone so far as to invent a family history for the fictitious man and endow him with all sorts of bizarre characteristics and peculiar looks. The fact that the money had been sent to that name seemed an egregiously arrogant act on Selby’s part, a mental thumbing of his nose at the world, and it was taken as proof positive that he had committed the crime.
“I know how damning it looked,” Julia admitted. “It shows you how far the real thief went to make it look as if Selby were the one who had done it.”
“But Selby’s suicide…” Geoffrey said delicately. “Why would he have killed himself if he had not—”
“He didn’t kill himself!” Julia snapped, whirling around to face him. Her eyes blazed, and she set her fists pugnaciously on her hips. “Selby had too much courage for that. He wouldn’t have abandoned Phoebe and Gilbert to the scandal. Phoebe—well, I’m afraid Phoebe thinks that he did kill himself, that he was so upset over the fact that no one believed him that he put an end to it. But I am certain it was an accident. He was at his hunting lodge. He was probably cleaning his gun or—or loading it to go out and shoot, and it went off somehow. No doubt he was so distracted by worry and the feeling of being under suspicion that he was careless in a way he would not have been normally. His death was a direct result of Stonehaven’s hounding him.” She narrowed her eyes at her cousin. “Don’t tell me that you are one of the ones who thought he was guilty.”
“I don’t know what to believe,” her cousin replied honestly. “I would have said he was one of the most honest and trustworthy men I know. It seems inconceivable that he could have betrayed a trust like that. But the evidence—”
“Was faked!” Julia said flatly. “Someone very carefully set out to make sure that Selby was the one blamed for the disappearance of the money. That someone, I am convinced, was Deverel Grey.”
“Lord Stonehaven?” Geoffrey