Mr D’Angelo frowned and snapped his head back. “I was in that carriage, Miss Sands. Besides my parents, the only other occupant was their steward.”
Ah, her poor Papa!
Beatrice’s throat tightened, almost blocking her airways, but she had to tell him everything while she had his undivided attention. “Yes, that is correct. My father, Mr Henry Watson, was shot first by all accounts.”
With his elbows propped on the table and his bruised hands clasped, Mr D’Angelo studied her intently. “So, your name is not Miss Sands. You lied to me.” Disdain dripped from those last few words.
“I did not lie. I took my aunt’s name, for she wished never to remind anyone of the tragedy. Wished to keep it a secret, even from me, and so we moved to Rochester, and people assumed I was her daughter.”
The muscle in his cheek twitched, and his lip curled into a sneer. “Rumour has it Watson stole from my father, that he arranged the robbery, but his accomplice betrayed him.”
In a panic, Beatrice grabbed his arm. “That is a lie. A wicked lie.”
He shrugged out of her grasp. “Is it? Then why would your aunt seek to relocate and change your name?”
“Out of fear. My father was not a steward. My father was an enquiry agent hired because your parents believed someone wished to kill them.”
Beatrice rummaged in her reticule with trembling fingers and handed Mr D’Angelo the letter of appointment written by his father.
“This is proof, proof what I say is true.”
Perhaps she should have waited until they had solved the widow’s case before revealing the facts. But having lived for eighteen years believing a lie, she could not keep such vital information from Mr D’Angelo.
He snatched the letter as if she had the plague and the merest touch of her fingers would infect him too. His brusque manner softened as he read, though he cleared his throat and inhaled deeply when water filled his eyes.
“May I keep this?” His voice cracked, and so he reached for his port and swallowed the soothing nectar.
“Of course. I wish to assist you in any way I can and have other documents at home that might interest you. In her wisdom, my aunt kept them. Hid them in a chest beneath the silk gowns she inherited from my mother.”
“Other documents?”
“Notes my father made regarding suspects. Details of a prior attempt on their lives. Though I am inclined to believe they knew their attacker and did not suspect him of treachery. My father would have been armed. Hence the reason he was shot first. I know it may be difficult for you to read—”
Without warning, Mr D’Angelo slid out of the booth. “Excuse me a moment.” He marched to the rear of the coffeehouse, spoke to the waiter who pointed to a narrow corridor.
A little shocked by his sudden departure, Beatrice waited. Perhaps he had downed his port too quickly and needed air. Perhaps the boyhood memories were too much to bear, and he was clutching the brick wall in the yard, casting up his accounts.
She sat fiddling with her fingers, not knowing what to do. Mr D’Angelo’s pain was like a ferocious lion trapped in a cage. Angry. Savage. Should anyone step too close to the bars, he would likely claw and bite.
Minutes passed.
She motioned to the waiter who informed her the gentleman had thrust enough coins into his hand to pay for their drinks, that he’d asked about a rear exit.
Mr Bower appeared, his large frame towering above her as she sat hunched in the booth. “Mr D’Angelo has asked me to escort you home, Miss Sands.”
“You’ve spoken to him?”
Mr Bower nodded.
“Where is he?”
A wince tainted Mr Bower’s usually passive expression. “He remembered he had business in town and asked me to convey his apologies.”
“Do not lie to me, Mr Bower. I’m not a chit making her debut.”
“I beg your pardon, miss, but I am simply relaying the message. Mr D’Angelo insisted I see you safely back to Howland Street.”
“I take it he is on foot.”