The footman made to speak, but like a baby bird, he lacked the strength to do anything other than open his mouth. When he did manage to form a word, all he said was, “Florentine.”
The butler gave a resigned sigh. “They think his lordship killed Florentine. They have no proof, but she escaped wearing nothing but her nightdress and was found over a week later, floating in the Thames.”
Isabella’s heart skipped a beat.
A vision of the grey, lifeless woman invaded her mind.
“They?” she asked.
“James.” He gestured to the poor fellow leaning on Mr Gibbs. “And Nancy, the maid.”
A ripple of alarm ran over Isabella’s shoulders. “Where is Nancy?” The maid had every reason to be afraid.
The butler’s grave expression said he feared the poor girl was dead, too. “She was last seen this morning, scrubbing the front steps. I went to hurry her along and found nothing but the overturned bucket and brush.”
Knowing Nancy had fled brought some consolation.
Yet why had she not come to Fortune’s Den for help?
“What about Sarah? What happened to her?” Isabella needed all the facts before confronting Lord Oldman.
“The girl worked on a trial basis. It was Mr Myers idea. But his lordship sent her back. Complained she was cold and heartless and far too stubborn. He found it hard to find fault with her work.”
“You mean he had no excuse to punish her.” Isabella fought to contain her rising temper. “Where did he hire her?” She prayed there was a record of her employment, a trail leading to Sarah working in another household.
The butler shrugged.
A commotion in the basement caught Isabella’s attention. By the sound of it, Christian was dragging the deranged pharaoh upstairs.
“Gather all the servants and have them pack their things,” she said. “They will have new positions in better households.”
Aaron Chance was in dire need of a maid or two. The man liked to keep staff to a minimum, but surely he would spare a thought for these unfortunate souls.
Noticing one chest was unlocked, she lifted the lid and peered inside. The trunk did not contain gem-encrusted pieces, not even the faint glimmer of rubies or gold. It was full of ushabti figurines. Smashing one on the floor proved all was not as it seemed.
With Mr Gibbs in tow, she joined Christian and Aramis in Lord Oldman’s study. While they bound the man to the chair with his silk cloak, she explained what she had found in the chamber.
“But that’s not all,” she said, anger and disgust leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. “Nancy is missing. He sent Sarah back to wherever he hired her.” She pointed at the bare-chested lord. “And a maid named Florentine fled this house and was recently found dead in the river.”
Christian folded his arms across his broad chest and perched on the desk. He glared at the peer. “So, Florentine knew you were deceiving the collectors. You kept her in your sordid little chamber and when you released her, she ran.”
Christian had missed the crucial part.
“He found her and killed her!” The desire to punish this buffoon had her blood charging through her veins. She would ensure he paid the price for all those who took advantage of the downtrodden.
Lord Oldman practically shook with outrage. “Foolish woman! Have you lost your mind!”
“Don’t speak to her in that manner,” Christian snapped.
As predicted, the lord spouted a list of rehearsed excuses. “I agreed to let Woodrow and Clarke along on the expedition so they could check the quality of the pieces. If you don’t believe me, visit the collectors. Every piece sold is genuine.”
“You have a treasure chest full of useless pottery in your basement,” she countered. “Florentine died because she told the curator about your scheme. Lucky for you, the man is afraid of his own shadow, and sent her away.” Not so lucky for Florentine. The curator could have saved her life had he fetched a constable.
“Snell gave me that chest. It was included with the goods given by the Vizier. I’ve been meaning to dispose of it but haven’t had time.”
Aramis stepped forward, his eyes dark and full of hatred. “No, for recreation, you terrify the people who work for you. Perhaps you need a good dose of your own medicine. Perhaps I might resort to torture, tell all the men at the club that you pissed your trousers at the mere flash of a blade.”
Christian adopted Mr Daventry’s calm approach, though he was by no means less menacing. “You know we can ruin you. One word of this and the gossips will have a field day. Forget about your shady deals. The murdered woman worked here, so you’d better tell us exactly what happened before we summon the magistrate.”
