‘I didn’t ask. Almost any mention of Helena sends him spiralling into a black mood. I’d like you to tell me.’
‘I’m not sure you’d believe me if I did.’
She eyed the other riders with a suspicion similar to his. ‘Before this morning I wouldn’t have, but a great deal has changed since then.’
‘It hasn’t changed. You’ve simply become aware of it.’
She turned to him. ‘And I’d like to know the rest.’
Bart pulled his reins through his gloved hands before at last answering. ‘Your sister-in-law was not shot in her carriage by a random thief in St Giles. She was murdered by a member of the Scottish Corresponding Society.’ Lady Rexford’s full lips parted as if she intended to deny what he’d told her, but she didn’t. ‘Freddy was their intended target. He was supposed to be with her in the carriage that night.’
‘But he was sick, so she went to the theatre without him,’ Lady Rexford whispered.
‘The man who attacked the carriage had orders to kill whoever was inside. He didn’t know who she was and it made no difference to him. He did what he was paid to do, but he was paid through informants. When we pressed him—’
‘You caught the scoundrel?’
‘I have a number of connections in the underworld. It’s how I’m able to win so many cases against fraud. Unlike other barristers, I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty. The murderer was hanged soon afterward. Freddy was there when he dropped.’
Except his death hadn’t brought Lady Fallworth back. Nothing could.
Lady Rexford traced the stitching on her glove with her finger. ‘Thank you for telling me. It explains a great deal about Freddy’s grief.’
‘He blames himself.’ When he should blame me. I could have done more and I should have done more to protect her. He was glad Moira had turned down his request for help. He couldn’t fail her the way he’d failed Lady Fallworth. He’d been a fool to even ask, but with precious few leads he’d grasped at any chance to learn more about the Rouge Noir and their plans before it was too late.
‘He does.’
* * *
Moira continued to trace the lacing on her glove with her finger, so many things about the last two years finally making sense. While Aunt Agatha had always written to Moira wringing her hands over Mr Dyer and Freddy’s friendship, Helena’s letters had never mentioned any concern about Freddy’s late nights out. Then, when she’d been murdered, Freddy’s grief had been so intense it used to make her ashamed of the shallowness of hers for her deceased husband. Walter had been amiable and pleasant enough, but she’d never possessed the depth of feeling for him that Freddy had held for Helena.
‘It’s why the Rouge Noir must be stopped before they can ruin any more lives.’ Mr Dyer watched the endless parade of people riding by, the hardness in his eyes startling. ‘These noble traitors hate the country giving them their very lives, incomes, titles and influence and are plotting to bring it down with a ruthlessness and glee to make you sick. They haven’t seen the starving people in France, the wounded and dead in Germany and Austria, the suffering, disease, and misery Napoleon’s army leaves in its wake. All they have are their ideas from afar, their so-called noble ideals and the disgusting willingness to see them carried out. I intend to make sure they don’t succeed.’
Moira studied everyone around them, wondering who among them were as evil as Mr Dyer claimed. They all seemed so innocent, going about their day, caring for almost nothing except dresses and society, scandals and balls. Even the shallowest among them didn’t deserve to have their security and livelihoods ripped from them. She remembered the tales her grandmother used to tell her of France during the early days of the revolution and how everything solid they’d built their lives on had been pulled down, leaving them with nothing. Moira would listen, wide-eyed, at the dinner table while she spoke, trying to imagine what it would be like to have everything torn from her and replaced with fear. If Mr Dyer was right and the Rouge Noir wasn’t stopped, Moira might find out.
She adjusted the collar of her riding habit against a brisk breeze, but it wasn’t the fear of the Rouge Noir making her shiver, but an awareness of Mr Dyer beside her. His strong presence overshadowed everything, including her reason, as she’d discovered when she’d allowed him to lead her behind the topiary on Lady Greenwood’s portico. He’d taken her in his arms and kissed her before pulling back and smiling like the devil, as if he’d known before she did she would agree to his kiss and his proposal. The thrill of it had been as intense as this morning when she’d faced him with the pistol. If things had been different and she hadn’t given in to the pressure from Aunt Agatha and her father, she wondered where she and Mr Dyer might be now.
She lowered her hand and adjusted her skirt over the saddle. It didn’t matter. Things were as they were and she could not make the past any different. It was the present she needed to concern herself with, the one which had become very uncertain in the space of only a few hours.
Then something across the park jerked Mr Dyer’s attention away from her. She followed the line of his gaze to see Aunt Agatha being driven in the open-topped landau towards them. Mr Dyer’s horse danced with his rider’s agitation before he brought him firmly under control.
‘Moira, I’m pleased to see you here,’ Aunt Agatha observed, eyeing Mr Dyer as if he were a pickpocket. ‘Although I’m not as enamoured of your chosen company.’
Mr Dyer’s horse snorted.
‘Mr Dyer, you remember my aunt, Lady Treadway.’ Moira made the introduction, trying to keep the ice between them from hardening further.
‘I do.’ His response was glacial.
‘I’d like to say it’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr Dyer, but after our last conversation, I’d expected you to think twice about approaching Lady Rexford.’
‘Remind me of our conversation, Lady Treadway,’ Mr Dyer urged with a smile as sharp as broken glass. ‘After all, it has been some time since we last spoke.’ Bart remembered exactly what she’d said to him, but he wanted to make her repeat it. He wasn’t about to leave without a fight or be shooed off like some kicked dog because the Dowager scowled at him.
Lady Treadway shifted her shawl on her shoulders, more reluctant this time to speak so boldly to him. ‘As you know, my niece is a countess, the daughter of an earl, the sister of an earl. Her prospects are quite high.’
‘Aunt Agatha!’ Lady Rexford exclaimed, trying to stop her aunt, but she was as determined to put Bart in his place today as she’d been five years ago.
‘It’s true, my dear. I’m only looking out for you.’
‘And once again you’ve deemed me unsuitable.’ It was all Bart could do to sit in the saddle with dignity as he stared down at the small woman dressed in purple and lace, her bearing as stiff as a female workhouse warden. There was no longer a promise between him and Lady Rexford, but it didn’t mean he’d allow anyone to dictate anything to him. What Lady Rexford allowed others to dictate to her was her own affair.
‘My niece is a very generous young woman. I don’t want her friendliness to be mistaken for an invitation.’
‘Aunt Agatha, you have entirely misread the situation and Mr Dyer,’ Lady Rexford protested, to her credit. It was more than she’d dared to say to her aunt the last time they’d been in a similar situation.
‘No, she’s read me exactly as she wishes to.’ Bart leaned over in his saddle, the horse’s height combined with his allowing him to tower over the diminutive woman. The aunt didn’t back down, but straightened, meeting his hard look with an even more determined one. For a brief moment he admired the little force in silk. Despite her snobbery, she truly had her niece’s best interest at heart and he begrudgingly admired her for it. ‘Did you wake up this morning, madam,