With that, he simply stood there, the expectation, the absolute belief that Huntingdon would accept his word and dismiss the charges evident in his expression, his stance, his whole attitude.
Barnaby suddenly understood. Cameron, driving the coach, had seen them with Smythe, but he hadn’t, even then, imagined they’d identify him. He hadn’t remembered the lists, or hadn’t thought anyone who might see them would recognize his style. He’d come to the study prepared to face down the worst accusations he’d thought might eventuate—vague ones not backed by any strong evidence—placing complete, overweening confidence in his position among the ton being sufficient to deflect any such charges.
Things weren’t as he’d assumed, but now he was there all he could do was play out his scripted role. He had no other defense.
Looking down, Barnaby murmured, “It’s a performance. He thinks he knows the rules.”
He’d spoken quietly, but his father and Huntingdon would have heard, and they’d know what rules he meant.
Huntingdon studied Cameron, then unclasped his hands and eased back in his chair. “Come now, Cameron. You’ll have to do better than that.”
Anger flashed through Cameron’s eyes. He was used to reading his employer; he now saw that, contrary to his expectations, Huntingdon wasn’t going to join him in waving away the “fanciful” tale, let alone close ranks, gentleman siding with gentleman. “My lord.” Cameron spread his hands. “I don’t know what to say. I have no knowledge of these events.”
From his position behind the desk, from the corner of his eye Barnaby saw movement behind the screen as Penelope and Griselda silently ushered the boys back in; Mostyn had unobtrusively left the room a few minutes before.
Cameron drew breath. “Indeed, I have to say I’m a little surprised to find myself a target of such allegations.” His eyes flicked to Stokes. “One can only surmise that the investigating officers are at a loss for a culprit, and imagine that pointing a finger at one of their betters will cause sufficient consternation that their failure to protect the ton from such depredations will be overlooked.”
A muscle leapt in Stokes’s jaw; a slight flush tinted his cheekbones, but other than that, he didn’t respond to the taunt, but continued to watch Cameron with a steady regard that somehow still managed to convey his contempt.
Cameron’s eyes narrowed, but he couldn’t say more on that front; turning from Stokes, he looked at his employer, and realized his words hadn’t yet succeeded in deflecting the charge.
But Huntingdon appeared to be considering his suggestion. “Indeed?” His tone was encouraging, inviting Cameron to elaborate.
Cameron glanced at Barnaby, then met Huntingdon’s eyes. “I’m also aware that, for some, solving crimes such as this, and pinning the blame on members of the upper class, has become something of a passion. One that carries a certain notoriety—even fame. Such considerations can cloud judgment when they’re indulged to the point of obsession.” Cameron allowed his lips to curve. “An addiction of sorts, if you will.”
“Oh?” Huntingdon’s response was cool.
Barnaby looked down to hide a smile; Cameron had just stepped over an invisible line. A gentleman did not make that sort of allegation about another gentleman other than in private.
“In short, my lord”—Cameron’s voice hardened—“I suspect that these allegations, accusations, call them what you will, have been laid at my door as a matter of expediency. I don’t imagine there was any truly personal aspect to the choice of me as scapegoat, but merely that I fit the bill as a suspect who, by virtue of my station and position as your secretary, will deflect attention from the woeful lack of evidence.”
Looking up, Barnaby saw Cameron’s now hard gaze fixed on Huntingdon’s face. He had to give Cameron credit; had it been anyone with less backbone than Huntingdon, that last jibe—a reminder that should Cameron be charged, Huntingdon’s personal standing would suffer—would have seen him walking free, at least of this room at this time.
Whatever he thought he saw in Huntingdon’s face had Cameron’s confidence returning. His expression eased. With a polite half-bow, he asked, “Will there be anything else, my lord?”
He’d misjudged Huntingdon badly. Once again clasping his hands on his blotter, Huntingdon fixed Cameron with a heavy look. “Indeed, there will. You have singularly failed to explain how lists of houses and items stolen from them, laid out in your distinctive style, came to be in the possession of the burglar who admits stealing the items. While you claim to know nothing about these lists, I myself can confirm that you’ve frequently visited every house listed, and that you’re familiar with the libraries and studies therein, enough to have certain knowledge of the items stolen. Very few gentlemen would have such knowledge, not ofallthese houses. Likewise, you are one of the few with knowledge and access sufficient to have falsified the police order against the Foundling House.
“While lists composed in your peculiar style, your familiarity with the houses involved, and your ability to falsify police orders might individually be dismissed as circumstantial, taken together, they are highly suggestive. However, as you maintain you’re entirely innocent, you can have no objection to allowing the burglar”—Huntingdon beckoned Smythe out from behind the screen—“to take a look at you and confirm whether or not you’re the man for whom he’s been working.”
ThatCameron had prepared for. Calmly, he turned and faced Smythe.
Smythe took one long look at him and snarled, “That’s him. He called himself Mr. Alert.”
Cameron merely raised his brows, then turned back to Huntingdon. “My lord!” His expression and tone were incredulous. “Surely you can’t be intending to place any faith in the word of a man like this? He’d say anything.” Gaze flicking to Stokes, Cameron added, “I daresay he’s been offered an incentive to do so. No court would convict on his word.”
Gravely, Huntingdon nodded. “Perhaps not. However, there are other witnesses.” He looked to the other side of the room. “Miss Ashford?”
Penelope came out from behind the other screen. Hands clasped before her, she addressed his lordship. “Both boys reacted instantly to Cameron’s voice. There can be no doubt that he was the man they overheard giving Smythe instructions”—she looked at Cameron—“of which houses to burgle and what to steal from each.”
Cameron stared at her.
“Two innocent boys who are under no compulsion or threat, and therefore have no reason to lie.” Huntingdon paused, then asked, “What say you now, Cameron?”
Cameron hauled his gaze from Penelope and her condemnatory stare—and glanced at his lordship.
All trace of the gentleman had vanished.
Barnaby swore and started around the desk.
