Curse the devil!
She should have refused to let him leave with the leather case, insisted she sit wit
h him while he absorbed the facts. Been a pillar of support.
Should I survive the night…
Beatrice stopped pacing. Fitzroy Square was but a five-minute walk, and men like Mr D’Angelo rarely tumbled into bed before dawn. She should go to him, try to prevent him from seeking solace in reckless pursuits.
While quickly dressing, other comments flitted through her mind. By his own admission he used lust to numb the pain, but he used brandy and port, too, and there were dusty bottles of liquor hidden at the back of the pantry.
Miss Trimble usually slept with one eye open, but Beatrice waited for the longcase clock in the hall to strike the hour before heading downstairs, thankful it was midnight, not one.
She hurried to Fitzroy Square, gripping a bottle and a pocket pistol beneath her thick cloak. Footpads lingered in affluent areas at night, though Mr D’Angelo’s butler was the only mischief-maker Beatrice encountered.
“There is no one home, miss.” The snooty fellow glared over his hooked nose. “Might I suggest you return at a respectable hour?”
He tried to close the door, but Beatrice wedged her booted foot in the gap. “Inform Mr D’Angelo that Miss Sands is here to discuss aspects of our current case. I am an enquiry agent for the Order.”
“And I’m the Duke of Marlborough, miss.”
“Good evening, Your Grace. Am I to understand you’re refusing to inform Mr D’Angelo he has a caller?”
The butler sneered. “The master’s instructions are clear, miss. No lady callers permitted day or night. A man’s home is his sanctuary.”
“But I am here out of concern for Mr D’Angelo’s welfare.”
“Yes, yes, you’ve come to soothe his woes. It’s a story I’ve heard many times before. Now, if you will excuse me, I have—”
“Earlier this evening, I gave your master documents relating to the death of his parents. When he left me, he had the look of a man who might murder someone, if not himself. When a man dies alone at home, surely you know the butler is considered the most likely suspect.”
The man rolled his eyes and was not the least bit intimidated.
“I shall tell the magistrate you refused me entrance, which is why I had no option but to brandish my pocket pistol.” Beatrice aimed the weapon, and the poor devil jumped in fright. “If Mr D’Angelo wants me to leave, I will do so. You have my word. Now take me to him.”
Fear and confusion marred the man’s wrinkled features. Perhaps he thought her a spurned lover come to put a lead ball in Mr D’Angelo’s chest.
Beatrice sighed. She lowered her weapon. “Take the pistol. Keep it until I’m ready to leave. I come with the intention of helping Mr D’Angelo through his torment, not harming him. All I ask is that you give him the choice.”
He took the pistol from her outstretched hand but did not welcome her inside.
“If he does himself an injury, I shall hold you responsible.”
With a huff of resignation, he said, “Follow me, miss.”
She ambled behind, waited while he knocked on the drawing room door. Upon receiving no reply, she said, “Open it. I need to know all is well. Blame me if he’s annoyed.”
The butler inclined his head and pushed open the door.
Mr D’Angelo was sitting on the floor before a roaring fire, legs stretched out in front of him, his head tilted back against the sofa, his arms splayed wide. He wore nothing but a white open-necked shirt and tan breeches. Paper littered the floor, her father’s notes strewn about the rug. The leather case lay but a few feet from the door, as if he’d hurled it across the room in a vicious temper.
The butler cleared his throat. “There is someone here to see you, sir. I informed the lady you were averse to visitors, but she drew a pocket pistol and demanded an audience.”
Mr D’Angelo did not move or open his eyes.
Panic seized her throat. She pushed past the butler and raced into the room. “Dante? Dante!”
“Miss Sands is here, sir.”