“Not by letter.” Jonathon’s lips thinned. “He came to visit me to ask about the matter.” After a moment, he went on, “Duke is the black sheep of the family, always has been. As far as I know, he has no real fixed abode, but is usually to be found at whatever racecourse is holding a carnival.
“Somehow—probably because he was strapped for cash and so at home at his other aunt’s house in Derby—Aldford’s letter found him. Duke came around wanting to know when he could expect his share of the cash. I felt honor-bound to explain the whole to him—after all, A. J’s share of the discovery was half his.” Jonathon paused, then went on, “Although he was his usual obnoxious self, he didn’t, once he understood what the legacy was, seem all that interested.”
“Describe Duke.”
Jonathon glanced at Tristan, noting his tone. “Leaner than me, a few inches taller. Dark hair—black, actually. Dark eyes, pale skin.”
Leonora stared at Jonathon’s face, did a little mental rearranging, then nodded decisively. “That’s him.”
Tristan glanced at her. “You’re sure?”
She looked at him. “How many lean, tallish, black-haired young men with”—she pointed at Jonathon—“a nose like that do you expect to stumble over in this affair?”
His lips twitched, but thinned immediately. He inclined his head. “So Duke is Mountford. Which explains a few things.”
“Not to me,” Jonathon said.
“All will be made clear in time,” Tristan promised. “But carry on with your tale. What happened next?”
“Nothing immediately. I finished my exams and arranged to come down to London, then I received that letter from Miss Carling, via Mr. Aldford. It seemed clear that Mr. Carling’s heirs knew less than I did, so I brought forward my visit…” Jonathon stopped, puzzled, looked at Tristan. “The sisters said you’d sent people asking after me. How did you know I was in London, let alone hurt?”
Tristan explained, succinctly, from the beginning of the odd happenings in Montrose Place to their realization that A. J. Carruthers’s work with Cedric held the key to the mysterious Mountford’s desperate interest, to how they had tracked and finally found Jonathon himself.
He stared at Tristan, dazed. “Duke?” He frowned. “He is the black sheep, but although he’s nasty, mean-tempered, even something of a brute, it’s a bully’s facade—I’d have said he was something of a coward beneath his bluster. I can imagine he might have done most of what you say, but I honestly can’t see him arranging to have me beaten to death.”
Charles smiled that deadly smile he, Tristan, and Deverell all seemed to have in their repertoires. “Duke might not have—but the people he’s very likely now dealing with would have no scruples in disposing of you if you threatened to butt in.”
“If what you say is true,” Deverell put in, “they’re probably having trouble keeping Duke up to scratch. That would certainly fit.”
“The weasel,” Jonathon said. “Duke has a…well, a valet I suppose. A manservant. Cummings.”
“That’s the name he gave me.” Deverell raised his brows. “About as clever as his m
aster.”
“So,” Charles said, straightening away from the mantelpiece, “what now?”
He looked at Tristan; they all looked at Tristan. Who smiled, not nicely, and rose. “We’ve learned all we need to this point.” Settling his sleeves, he glanced at Charles and Deverell. “I rather think it’s time we invited Duke to join us. Let’s hear what he has to say.”
Charles’s grin was diabolical. “Lead the way.”
“Indeed.” Deverell was already at Tristan’s heels as he turned for the door.
“Wait!” Leonora looked at the black bag, sitting beside the chaise, then raised her gaze to Jonathon’s face. “Please tell me you have all of A. J.’s journals and her letters from Cedric in there.”
Jonathon grinned, a trifle lopsidedly. He nodded. “The purest luck, but yes, I have them.”
Tristan turned back. “That’s one point we haven’t covered. How did they catch you, and why didn’t they take the letters and journals?”
Jonathon looked up at him. “Because it was so cold, there were hardly any passengers on the mail coach—it got in early.” He glanced at Leonora. “I don’t know how they knew I was on it—”
“They’d have had someone watching you in York,” Deverell said. “I take it you didn’t change your schedule immediately after you got Leonora’s letter and rush off?”
“No. It took two days to organize bringing my time away forward.” Jonathon sank back on the chaise. “When I got off the coach, there was a message waiting for me, telling me to meet a Mr. Simmons at the corner of Green Dragon Yard and Old Montague Street at six o’clock to discuss a matter of mutual interest. It was a nicely worded letter, well written, good quality paper—I thought it was from you, the Carlings, about the discovery. I didn’t really think—you couldn’t have known I was on the mail coach, but at the time it all seemed to fit.
“That corner is a few minutes from the coaching inn. If the mail had got in on schedule, I wouldn’t have had time to organize a room before going to the meeting. Instead, I had an hour to look about, to find a clean room, and leave my bag there, before going to the rendezvous.”
Tristan’s unnerving smile remained. “They assumed you hadn’t brought any papers with you. They would have searched.”