Page 58 of Prince of Scandal

The merchant crumpled, his shoulders beginning to shake. “Dottie was very concerned when she didn’t fall pregnant quickly. Kept requesting large sums for physicians and tonics and treatments because it was her fault and Osbourne shouldn’t have to pay. I started feeling like a bank. And they’d only been married months! Far too soon for that sort of carry on. Then two of my ships sank in a storm and I couldn’t afford it in any event. So I stopped. I never thought the money might be for him…Christ Almighty…my poor girl…”

Georgiana shuddered. Oh God. It was worse than they’d thought.

* * *

It was hard to contain his emotions at hearing Mr. Carr’s story, especially when there were so many roiling together. Firstly, fury that Osbourne had actually established a pattern with his three wives and no one had ever bothered to investigate. How was that even possible? It might be more understandable in some far-flung outpost, but this was London. Home of the Watch, Bow Street Runners, the Thames River Police, constables, magistrates…were the lives of young English ladies really worth so little? Especially against the word of the same man? Secondly, sympathy for the broken father in front of him. What an impossible position Mr. Carr had been placed in, loving his daughter and sympathizing with her plight, yet struggling financially himself. No bank would have helped him. Probably not even the ruthless criminal lenders. And lastly, grim validation that his theories and suspicions about Osbourne weren’t the ravings of a mind twisted by regret and frustration and grief, but accurate based on a number of facts.

Ashton shuddered. It was all so damned terrible. Even as late as this morning, a part of him had wanted to be wrong about Osbourne—the alternative, that an actual cold-blooded murderer strolled amongst the upper echelons of English society without hindrance, was too horrific to contemplate. But it was true. All of it.

While Mr. Carr wiped his eyes with a linen handkerchief and regained his composure, Ashton sat silently, not wanting to add to his distress with any ill-timed or ill-thought words. The poor man had been through hell, and no trite assurances could change that or bring Dorothy back.

Ashton went to rub his face, but Georgiana’s hand shot out and touched his arm. Sending her a grateful look for saving his makeup, he instead cleared his throat and looked at Mr. Carr, who now sat quietly, his hands clasped in front of him on the desk. “You have my deepest sympathies for your bereavement. It must be excruciating to lose a child, especially in such heinous circumstances. May I ask…did you share your suspicions with anyone?”

The merchant nodded. “Initially, yes. My cousin is a viscount, so unlike many of my fellow men in trade when faced with an aristocratic issue, the authorities allowed me a hearing, at least. But they patted my head and suggested my wife and I spend a month by the seaside to take the air and heal our troubled minds. It’s been three years, and our minds are still bloody troubled.”

Now that was entirely understandable. A horrific act, but no justice. No slamming of a prison door in the Tower or Newgate, nor a date with the noose at Tyburn for Osbourne. Just the knowledge that the man would continue on his life unhindered in his search for another victim. And the bastard thought to make Georgiana his next source of income. There was one tiny silver lining: Osbourne believed her to be pregnant. As long as he thought that, it was unlikely he would harm her. But if someone told him otherwise and he received no money…Christ.

“As loving parents, of course you would be troubled. But I must tell you…Osbourne approached me,” said Ashton abruptly. “Demanded five thousand pounds to be paid at the start of each month.”

“Good God. He’s getting bolder, asking you directly. It was two thousand for Dottie’s doctors and treatments.”

Georgiana moved restlessly in her chair, the rustle of her green-striped gown ridiculously loud in the tense silence. “One must ask…who needs five thousand pounds per month to live? I am no steward or business owner, but even the grandest of peers with estates all over the country surely wouldn’t require that much.”

“An excellent question, my lady,” said Mr. Carr slowly. “I would venture to say a man with a great many hidden expenses…or a great many hidden debts. Major Lord Osbourne doesn’t race thoroughbreds or venture abroad, and only owns three properties that I know of…oh dear, do I sound a trifle unhinged knowing all this?”

“Not at all,” said Ashton. “This is very helpful to my own enquiries. Is Osbourne a gambler, perhaps? High stakes? That is a swift way to lose a fortune, as many a foolish young buck will attest.”

Georgiana tapped her chin, clearly deep in thought. “There are several establishments in town offering high stakes cards and dice. Purgatory is the most popular with peers, but I understand the club recently reduced its opening hours as the owner rescued his dowager duchess lover from her ghastly brother-in-law’s imprisonment and spirited her away to Paris.”

Ashton’s eyes widened. Skeletons in every closet, yet the English ton would persist in calling themselves Polite Society. “Er…I see.”

She smiled briefly. “The only recent society scandal bigger than mine. But while Purgatory is certainly a place a peer could lose a great deal of money, Rupert never mentioned going there. And I think if he was a member, he would brag about it. Even my brother, Lord Northam, who isn’t impressed by anything, says Purgatory is top of the tree.”

Mr. Carr picked up a quill and tapped it absently against his desk. “I agree. Major Lord Osbourne relishes tossing his position and connections in the face of others, there is no way he would conceal such an exclusive membership if he had it. We didn’t realize this initially, but the only reason he pursued Dottie was my money; apparently she was just suitable enough with a viscount in the family. So I wonder if he is more discreet in his vices and goes somewhere smaller, more intimate. A country house party, perhaps?”

A knock sounded at the office door, and with a grimace, the merchant hurried over to answer it. After a brief conversation with an employee, he returned. “I do apologize, but there is a matter downstairs that needs my urgent attention.”

Ashton rose to his feet and held out his hand. “Of course. Thank you for meeting with us, it has been most helpful.”

“I wish you well,” said Mr. Carr, shaking it firmly. “If I could beg a favor…will you send a note of any developments? Rest assured, my wife and I will render any assistance we can. Whether the authorities would approve or not.”

Their eyes met in perfect, grim understanding. “You have my word.”

The merchant then smiled and bowed over Georgiana’s hand. “My lady. Good day and God bless.”

As he and Georgiana departed the office, Ashton offered his arm and they descended the stairs and crossed the warehouse floor in silence, although he could practically feel her need to speak. When they at last reached the footpath, he leaned down and murmured into her ear: “Is the duke still in St. James’s Square?”

“Yes,” she whispered, gripping his arm tightly.

Soon they were back in the wretched hackney being jostled along the rutted, uneven cobblestones of Cannon Street. It was hard to know which was worse, though, the road surface or the overpowering stench from the Thames. This close to the river it was truly appalling, a stomach-churning blend of damp wood, rotting fish, mud, and manure, alongside whiffs of the tanneries, slaughterhouses, and foundries back behind them in Whitechapel. The men and women who lived and plied their trade around this part of London must have stomachs of cast iron; only when they reached Charing Cross did he feel like he could breathe without retching.

Ashton bumped shoulders with Georgiana. “You are doing splendidly.”

“You are doing splendidly,” she replied ruefully. “With that smell, I’m quite sure my face is a similar shade of green to my gown stripe. Ugh. Just the thought of food makes me want to cast up my accounts right now, and that is saying something. I don’t think I could even manage strudel.”

“Franz made some more, by the by. I shall ensure you have dessert.”

Georgiana nodded, then her shoulders drooped. “That is something at least. Mr. Carr’s story was utterly heartbreaking. I want to slap everyone who didn’t believe him. I mean…how on earth could anyone of sound mind look at a man with three dead wives, all within a year of marriage, and not even be a little bit suspicious?”