A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 21 - Twenty One

The afternoon sun was trying its best to shine through the tall windows of the Duke’s study, but Rowan was in no mood for extra sunshine. He was staring at a stack of ledgers that his estate manager had left for him.

Crop rotation.

Wool prices.

Roof repairs for the tenant farmers in Kent.

Rowan sighed. He rubbed his temples. Being a Duke was 10% attending balls and 90% worrying about sheep and estate affairs.

He stood up and walked to the window, needing a distraction. He looked down into the courtyard.

He expected to see the gardeners trimming the hedges. He expected to see a groom walking a horse.

Instead, he saw a carriage.

It was not one of his carriages. It was not the sleek, black Hamilton coach with the gold crest on the door. It was a hired hackney carriage. It was scuffed, muddy, and looked like it smelled of old boxes.

The front door of Hamilton House opened.

Delaney Kingsley stepped out. 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝒆𝒘𝙚𝓫𝙣𝙤𝒗𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

Rowan leaned closer to the glass. She was wearing her gray dress, of course. She had a bonnet pulled low over her face, hiding her features. She looked small against the massive stone columns of his house. She clutched her battered leather bag to her chest as if it contained diamonds.

She hurried down the steps. She did not look left or right. She climbed into the shabby carriage quickly, and the door slammed shut.

The driver cracked his whip, and the carriage rattled away down the gravel drive, disappearing through the gates.

Rowan frowned. His brow furrowed.

"Where is she going to?" he asked aloud.

He checked his pocket watch. It was two o’clock. They had no lessons scheduled. She had told him she was going to the library to "research compatible candidates."

The library was downstairs. It was not in a hired hackney carriage heading toward the city.

Why did she hire a carriage? He had a stable full of the finest horses in England. He had footmen who would have driven her anywhere she wished. Why sneak out in a rented box on wheels? Was she meeting someone? A lover?

Rowan felt a sudden, sharp pinch in his chest. It felt annoyingly like jealousy.

"Don’t be ridiculous," he muttered. "She is a spinster matchmaker. She probably has an appointment with a knitting circle. Or a sale on gray wool."

He turned away from the window. He walked back to his desk and sat down. He picked up his pen.

"It is not my business," he said firmly. "She is an employee. She has a life. I have sheep to worry about."

He dipped his pen in the ink. He looked at the ledger.

Sheep.

He stared at the page.

Where is she going?

He groaned and threw the pen down. It splattered ink across the page.

"Blast," Rowan swore. He stared at the ink stain. He couldn’t focus. The mystery of the gray-dressed woman was far more interesting than the price of wool.

Delaney sat inside the hackney carriage. It did not smell like old boxes. It smelled like wet dog and stale tobacco.

She did not care. She sat on the edge of the cracked leather seat, her hand resting on her bag. Inside the bag, hidden beneath her notebook, was the heavy velvet sack Aunt Margery had given her.

Twenty thousand pounds.

She had taken five hundred pounds in gold coins and put them in a smaller purse. It was enough to hire the best private investigator in London. It was enough to buy answers.

The carriage rattled over the cobblestones. They left the clean, wide streets of Mayfair. The houses grew smaller. The streets grew dirtier. The air grew thick with coal smoke and the noise of the city.

They arrived at Fleet Street. It was a busy, chaotic place, full of lawyers, journalists, and men who sold secrets.

"Stop here," Delaney called out.

The carriage jerked to a halt. Delaney paid the driver and stepped out. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. She kept her head down.

She walked past a noisy tavern. She turned down a narrow alleyway. At the end of the alley was a door with peeling green paint. A small brass plaque read: MR. THIMBLE. PRIVATE INQUIRIES.

Delaney took a deep breath. She touched the tin of "Justice" in her mind.

This is it, she thought. Today, we start fighting back.

She knocked on the door.

"Enter!" a voice barked.

Delaney opened the door. The office was small and dusty. Papers were stacked everywhere—on the desk, on the chairs, even on the floor. Behind the desk sat a small man with spectacles and ink-stained fingers.

"Mr. Thimble?" Delaney asked.

The man looked up. He squinted at her. "That is my name. If you are looking for a lost dog, I charge two guineas. If you are looking for a cheating husband, I charge five."

"I am looking for the truth," Delaney said.

She walked to the desk. She did not sit down. There was nowhere to sit.

"I need you to look into a case from twenty years ago," Delaney said clearly. "A case of embezzlement involving the Kingsley family and their death."

Mr. Thimble paused. He had been reaching for a biscuit, but his hand stopped in mid-air.

"Kingsley?" he repeated. "Arthur Kingsley?

The man who stole from the queen?"

"He was framed," Delaney said. Her voice was steady, though her heart was pounding. "He did not steal that money. I have reason to believe he was set up by a partner and that partner orchestrated the carriage accident. I want you to find the proof."

She opened her bag. She pulled out the heavy purse of gold coins. She dropped it on the desk. It landed with a loud, heavy clunk.

"There is fifty pounds in there," Delaney said. "As a retainer. I will pay double upon completion."

Mr. Thimble looked at the bag of gold. His eyes went wide. It was more money than he made in a year. Greed flashed across his face. He reached out a hand to touch the bag.

"Fifty pounds," he whispered. "That is... generous."

"Will you take the case?" Delaney asked.

Mr. Thimble’s fingers grazed the leather of the purse. Then, his brain seemed to catch up with his greed.

Kingsley.

He snatched his hand back as if the bag were on fire.

The color drained from his face. He looked at the door. He looked at the window. He looked terrified.

"No," Mr. Thimble said.

Delaney blinked. "Pardon?"

"No," he said louder. He stood up. He pushed the bag of money back toward her. "Take your money. Get out."

"Mr. Thimble," Delaney said, confused. "I am offering you a fortune. Why—"

"I know that name," Thimble hissed. He leaned over the desk, his voice dropping to a frantic whisper. "I know what happened to the last man who asked questions about the Kingsley incident. He had an accident. A very bad accident involving a carriage and a dark street."

"That is why I need help," Delaney argued. "Because there is a crime—"

"There is no crime!" Thimble shouted. "Arthur Kingsley was a thief! That is the official story! And I like my neck exactly where it is, thank you very much!"

He ran around the desk. He grabbed Delaney’s arm and practically dragged her to the door.

"Go away!" he panicked. "Do not come back! Do not say you were here!"

"Wait!" Delaney cried. "Please!"

He shoved her out into the alley and slammed the door. She heard the lock click. Then the deadbolt slid home.

Delaney stood in the dirty alley. She stared at the peeling green paint.

She felt a cold knot form in her stomach.

She picked up her bag and walked back to the main street. She hailed another carriage.

"Where to, Miss?"

"Cheapside," Delaney said. "Mr. Grist’s agency."

Mr. Grist was a large man with a red face and hands the size of hams. His office smelled of gin.

He listened to Delaney’s request. He looked at the gold.

"Kingsley," Mr. Grist grunted. He chewed on a toothpick. "The old man who lost everything to Lord Hawksley?"

Delaney went still. "I didn’t mention Lord Hawksley."

Mr. Grist laughed. It was a dark, ugly sound. "Everyone knows, girl. Kingsley and Hawksley were partners. Kingsley was termed a thief. Hawksley got rich. It’s the way of the world."

"It was theft," Delaney said. "Hawksley stole the funds for the trade with the queen and framed my father. I am sure he caused the accident. I will pay you one hundred pounds to find evidence."

She added another bag of coins to the table. One hundred pounds. A small fortune.

Mr. Grist looked at the money. He licked his lips.

"One hundred," he muttered. "I could retire to the country."

"Yes," Delaney urged. "Just take the case. Find the ledger. Find the clerk who forged the signature."

Mr. Grist reached for the money. But then he stopped. He looked at Delaney. He looked at her gray dress. He looked at her desperate eyes.

He shook his head slowly.

"I can’t do it, Miss," he said.

"Why?" Delaney demanded. "Is it not enough money? I can get more. I have... I have a patron."

"It ain’t about the money," Grist said heavily. "Lord Hawksley owns half the judges in London. He owns the constables. If I start poking around his business, I won’t just lose my license. I’ll lose my life."

He pushed the gold back to her.

"Take a bit of advice," Grist said, his voice surprisingly gentle. " Go home."