Emilia’s breath caught in her throat. “Nick—this says he killed a racehorse!”
“Itisso difficult to calculate the precise dose of arsenic that will sicken a horse, but not kill it,” he mused. “I don’t wonder that his man got it wrong a time or two.”
“These are prime horseflesh.” She pressed a hand to her forehead. Her father and uncle had been consumed by the stables; she’d grown up hearing about racehorses and the unchecked competition between rival horse owners. Training grooms would attempt to spy out information on opponents and gain any advantage they could. Fortunes were wagered, won and lost. Men had killed themselves over losses at the races. “Fitchley will be called out, if not simply attacked by a mob and shot through the heart.”
Nick folded his newspaper and handed it to Pearce. “If he didn’t want to risk that, he ought not to have poisoned horses all over Newmarket.”
After a moment Emilia put aside her own newspaper. The reporter had done his job with enthusiasm; listed were several large, winning wagers by Fitchley, along with the particulars of the odds and the horses running. There was a very striking pattern of horses falling ill or being physicked after their races. Only one horse had died, but in violent agony. Fitchley had won over four thousand pounds on the race that horse was to have run.
TheIntelligencerpondered suggestively how many horses might have been tampered with, if one valuable colt had been killed, and how many wagers could have been upset by these machinations. The Newmarket track was the domain of the wealthiest, most powerful men in England. If Fitchley had any sense at all, he would be on a packet to the Continent by tonight.
Pearce brought Nick’s coat and held it for him. He settled it with a jerk on his shoulders and Emilia stepped up to him and gripped the front, heedless of Pearce and Henry watching. “Be careful,” she pleaded. “Nick, he’ll be crazed—”
He cupped her face in both hands and kissed her. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I know what I’m doing.” He took his hat and gloves from Pearce. “Bar the door until I return.”
It was early yet, not even five. Too early for him to go to the club. “Where are you going?” She followed him toward the door.
“The club,” he said in mild surprise. “I anticipate a lively evening.” And with a wink, he was gone, striding out to the waiting carriage. Emilia retreated to the window to watch him step inside, the door closed with a snap by a large fellow she’d never seen before. As the man stepped onto his perch at the back of the carriage, Emilia saw the butt of a pistol at his side beneath his smart coat.
She let the drape fall. At least Nick was taking a carriage instead of walking as he often did, and with some strong fellows guarding his back.
The evening seemed to drag. Emilia ate dinner with the girls and tried to talk of pleasant things, but Nick’s empty chair was a silent reminder of the less pleasant things. Nor could Emilia stop wondering what he expected to happen at the Vega Club. She wanted to go and see for herself, and she wanted to stand guard over Lucy and Charlotte, who were both subdued. She supposed they could sense that she wasn’t as unafraid as she’d insisted at breakfast.
It only grew worse after she sent the girls to bed. She walked through the entire house with Pearce, checking every door and window, even though it felt slightly foolish. Fitchley would hardly bring a ladder into Portland Place and try to climb in the drawing room window.
No, he would go to the club to confront Nick if he hadn’t fled town. She and the girls were perfectly safe here. James sat whittling in the entry hall, his pistol on a table beside him. Pearce showed her his own pistol, and assured her he knew how to use it. Emilia thanked him with a shiver. What dangerous people Nick surrounded himself with.
She was sitting in the drawing room, staring sightlessly at Lucy’s dress in her lap, which she was meant to be mending, when the door creaked. Emilia jumped; she’d been lost in thought, but it was only Charlotte. “Miss Greene? May I come in?”
Emilia put aside the dress and smiled, not surprised. “Of course.” She patted the sofa beside her. “Come sit with me.”
Charlotte hurried across the room. “Will that terrible man really try to take Lucy away?”
Emilia sighed. “He didn’t come for her when her father died, nor write to inquire about her. He doesn’t even know her. He’s just trying to stir up trouble.“ She clasped Charlotte’s hand. “But it doesn’t matter, because I will never give her over to him,” she said firmly. “Not even if I have to steal away to America with her under a false name.”
Charlotte bit her lip. “I don’t want that to happen.”
“I’m sure it won’t come to that.” Emilia silently hoped it was true. “Your brother has a plan.”
“Yes, Nick often has plans...” Charlotte didn’t look reassured. “But what if he plans to snatch Lucy?”
Emilia thought of the newspaper story, and of the gossip likely racing through London tonight. “He won’t.” She put her arm around the girl’s shoulders. “He’s done bad things to many other people, and I suspect they will hound him right out of England. Once he’s gone, there will be no danger to any of us.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because I know the people he harmed,” Emilia said. “They won’t take it lightly. Some of them will be out for his blood, and he’ll know that.”
“Why would anyone do that?” Charlotte’s trembling voice rose. “Why would he hurt people and try to take Lucy from us? What would he gain by any of it?”
Emilia thought of Emmett Fitchley’s narrow, satisfied face. “Money,” she said quietly. “He won a great deal of money through his evil actions. Money gives a man power, which he craves. He enjoys having sway over people. And I suppose he thought he’d never get caught. Men like him tend to think they will never be held to account for their sins.”
“What would he do to Lucy, if he got her?”
Emilia didn’t even want to think about that. “He won’t,” she said again. “Nick and I won’t allow it.”
Charlotte looked at her gravely. “But what if you can’t stop him?”
Emilia never answered that disturbing query. From downstairs came a crash, a discordant jangling that sounded as if something had fallen on the pianoforte, and then shouts of alarm. Without stopping to think what it could be, she seized Charlotte’s hand. “Come,” she said urgently, and together they bolted up the stairs to the nursery. “Get dressed,” she told Charlotte, who ran into her own room.
