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Twelve

The frosty greeting from the footman who opened the door at Victor Messinger’s home wasn’t altogether unexpected. After all, this marked Hugh’s third visit in as many days, and as with the last two, the footman likely knew the investigating viscount was bound to upset his employer. Messinger, Hugh suspected, was just the sort of man who took out his frustrations on the staff.

“I dearly hope you’re correct about this,” Thornton muttered as they were shown into the sitting room.

“I am,” he replied, entirely confident. He wanted answers, and Victor Messinger had been stonewalling him from the very beginning.

Unlike his visit yesterday with Sir Gabriel, Victor didn’t take an age to join them. He swept into the parlor with the same urgency as before and with a frown already in place. He glanced at Thornton.

“Who have you brought with you this time, Lord Neatham?”

As Hugh introduced Thornton, he thought of Sir, who had accompanied him on his first visit to Cumberland Place. Wherever the boy was, Hugh hoped he hadn’t gotten into any dangerous mischief. After spending most of his life answering to no one but himself, Sir was still adjusting, not only to adhering to rules, but to having people who worried about his well-being.

“And have you come to accuse me again of committing murder?” Messinger demanded to know.

As he’d forgone any polite greeting, Hugh chose to do the same. “No. I’ve come to speak to your son, Calvin. Bring him down from wherever you’ve been hiding him, will you?”

Victor’s immediate reaction of shock lasted only a second on his countenance before it was masked with amusement. “Calvin? I have no idea what you are on about. My son is on his grand tour, of which you are already aware.”

“No, he isn’t,” Hugh countered. “He arrived home a month ago, and you’ve been lying ever since.”

Victor’s false amusement faded to something much more honest: humiliated fury. “How dare you make such an accusation?”

“Easily,” Hugh answered. “You told Sir Gabriel and me yesterday that your son’s valet, Lansing, is with him on the Continent.”

Victor crossed his arms, a marker of agitation. “Yes. What of it?”

“Curious,” Thornton said, clearly pleased to be involved now. “Mind telling us how Lansing came to be at Mr. Frederick Cheever’s home last month? And why he was there to summon another guest, Miss Penelope Harwood?”

Thornton had thought Lance was the name of the servant who was seeking out Miss Harwood, but on the carriage ride to Cumberland Place, Hugh had asked if that name might have been Lansing, and Thornton had snapped his fingers. “That was it,” he’d confirmed.

Red crept into the MP’s cheeks. “That is a lie.”

“It isn’t,” Thornton replied. “I was there. Cheever’s footman will verify Lansing’s arrival at the servant’s door, if necessary. I think it far wiser, however, to skip the theatrics and simply call your son down so that the Viscount can question him.”

Victor fell quiet, his flushed complexion deepening toward puce. Hugh gave him a few moments to make his choice. If he decided to toss his visitors out, Hugh would have to send Thornton’s driver Merryton to Bow Street to fetch Sir Gabriel and a few officers, while Hugh and Thornton kept watch on the home to be sure Victor did not attempt to spirit his son away.

Thankfully, that wasn’t the route the MP chose.

Victor went to the parlor entrance, his pace more sedate this time, and signaled the footman waiting outside. He murmured something, and the footman nodded before disappearing.

Victor turned back to Hugh and Thornton. “My son is not a murderer. That isn’t the reason for the ruse.”

Hugh remained tight-lipped, hoping Calvin would arrive in short order. He had no more patience to spare. If there was one thing that grated during an inquiry, it was a blatant and persistent liar.

When a young man around Tobias’s age entered the parlor, Hugh inspected him; tall and handsome, with the same sharp nose and chin as his father, but with eyes that were more thoughtful. He wore trousers and shirtsleeves; no need for a waistcoat or jacket if one was confined to a house.

“Calvin,” his father said, his tone brittle. “This is Viscount Neatham and Lord Thornton. They have become aware of your return to Town.”

Calvin ducked his head, his hands clenching into fists.

“Have a seat, Calvin,” Hugh said to the young man. He gestured toward a chair, but Calvin stayed where he was.

“I’ll stand, thank you. And I’ll save you from having to ask. I did not kill Penelope.”

Though he appeared nervous, he didn’t sound it. His voice was steady and strong.

“I’d like to discuss first why you are no longer on the Continent,” Hugh said.