“Yes, blast it. She has the money. I was very careful about that. I would not have asked for more than she could afford. I never thought she’d bring someone else into it. It wasn’t as if she would take such a case to the police.”
Because she’d be too ashamed. It wasn’t only the amount he’d been careful about. He’d chosen a method of blackmail designed to shame Lady Inglis—his lover, his friend—into paying.
It’s probably a good thing Simpson only has eyes for Gray right now, because if he looked my way, I’m not sure I could hide my disgust and outrage well enough to keep him confessing.
“You offered to pay the ransom because you knew she would never allow that,” Gray says, still calm, his expression blank. “You also offered to pay your valet because you knew he didn’t have the letters. And, if Lady Inglis accused him, as the obvious culprit, you could say you’d attempted to buy them back. That would stall any further investigation until it was too late.”
Simpson had let the valet go at exactly the right time for Lewis to be the obvious culprit. Offering to buy back the letters would deliberately muddy the waters. Lady Inglis would think Lewis stole the letters, yet Simpson’s offer seemed to prove otherwise, and the date for payment would arrive too quickly for her to make a decision. She’d be forced to pay.
“I would have repaid her,” Simpson says.
“Then why not simply ask for a loan?” Gray says.
Frustration darkens Simpson’s face. “Because I do not wish to be treated as a child. If I told Patricia that I needed money for my trip, she would say I do not need the trip. She does not understand that Idoneed it. My mind must be stimulated by travel, or I grow bored.” His lips jut in something dangerously close to a pout. “I am poor company if I am bored.”
I try not to stare at Simpson. Is this what it’s like to be born into the nobility? To never need to work for a living? To not even understand the difference between a want and a need? It all blurs together into your unalienable rights.
“I would have repaid it,” he says, that lip jutting a little more. “So itwouldhave been a loan.”
“For which you threatened her with public humiliation,” Gray says, his tone still deceptively mild.
“I’d never do such a thing. Not to Patricia. Not to any woman. I am not that sort of man.”
Gray says nothing. I inwardly seethe with all the things I want to say, all the things I can’t say. Gray’s silence speaks enough, and under it, Simpson squirms.
“I would never have exposed her,” Simpson mutters. “The letters are all safe. No one has seen them.”
“Good,” Gray murmurs. “Then you shall return them to Lady Inglis.”
Simpson perks up. “Yes, of course. I will quietly return them, and she need never know that I was the one?—”
“No.”
“I can still credit your investigation. Whoever stole them realized you were on the case and returned them to me in the post?—”
“No.”
“But you cannot tell her the truth,” Simpson protests. “She will be hurt, and there is no need?—”
“Yes, there is.” Gray meets his gaze. “The only question iswhotells her the truth. You or me?”
ChapterSixteen
We’re at Lady Inglis’s house. Simpson never answered Gray’s question. He’d gotten up and walked out.
Gray had given him twelve hours. He did ask me about that, and I can grumble that his “consultation” came after he’d made up his mind, but I’ll give him this on the grounds that the parties involved are his casual friend and his former lover. They are also members of the nobility. Gray must take care where he places each step to avoid landmines.
Gray and Isla might choose to step on some of those social landmines, but it’s a calculated decision with equally calculated efforts to avoid stomping on enough of them to make life in this world untenable.
The next morning, we go to see Lady Inglis. If I’m to cut Gray a break in not consulting me on the timeline, I suspect that if it weren’t for me, he’d have given Simpson a full day, possibly even waited until after tomorrow, which is Hogmanay. Yes, that’s the deadline for the ransom, but I’ve already notified Lady Inglis that she doesn’t need to pay. Waiting until after the holiday would be the more socially correct thing to do, but in moving sooner, Gray is acknowledging that this is my investigation. And, maybe, he’s also acknowledging that while letting Lady Inglis enjoy Hogmanay in blissful ignorance may seem a mercy, I don’t think she’s the kind of person who would appreciate that. I know I wouldn’t.
I suggest Gray go alone. It may be my investigation, but this is still a personal-adjacent matter that might be easier without me there. He asks me to attend, though, and I can tell that’s not just Gray being polite. He’s uncomfortable visiting Lady Inglis on his own.
I do suggest he tell her in private. We don’t know whether Simpson has confessed. I suspect not. Either way, it will be easier for Lady Inglis to hear it from Gray alone.
I sit in the parlor while they go into another room. This time, I make sure the doors are shut and I can’t hear any of their conversation. When the clock strikes the half hour, Gray emerges. He shoots me the smallest shake of his head, which means no, Simpson did not confess. Coward.
Lady Inglis appears a moment later, smiling with false brightness, her eyes red rimmed from tears.
