Blame It on Bath Page 0,112

left. I thought it best to find out as much as I could and report to you. After all, there’s no telling whether the man would have called upon you had I handed him the card with your compliments.”

And coming in person, the clerk could present his prize in triumph. Or perhaps he sensed that Gerard might prefer more subtle methods—which he did, no question. Now he had the man’s name, and with no warning to the fellow that anyone would be looking for him. All in all, it was the best outcome possible.

“Quite right,” he told the man. “Excellent work. I applaud your quick thinking. Er—would I be improper to express my gratitude more tangibly?”

The clerk’s smile said it all. “I’m sure you could never be improper, my lord.”

Gerard smiled back as he counted out some guineas. “I do try to avoid it. But a service must be rewarded.”

“Thank ’ee very kindly, sir. I’m delighted to have been of use.” The guineas disappeared into Brynfield’s pocket in the blink of an eye. “And if I should see the gentleman in question again, I’ll be pleased to let you know of it.”

“By all means.”

Gerard thought hard after William Brynfield had gone. Hiram Scott. The name meant nothing to him, but that counted for little. They only had to find him, then pry the truth from him. “Hiram Scott,” he said absently. “What’s his interest in Father’s marriage?”

“I take it that’s our fellow?” asked Charlie.

He glanced up, mildly surprised to see his brother still there. “Yes—apparently. I took the letters to the post office here, hoping someone might recall something about the sender. That clerk, Brynfield, marked one of the letters. He thought he’d know the man who sent it if he ever returned, and now . . .” He spread his hands wide.

Charlie came around the sofa and sat down, a thin line between his brows. “Who the devil is Hiram Scott?”

“I’ve no bloody idea.”

“Why the hell would he be blackmailing Durham?”

“I’ve no bloody idea,” repeated Gerard.

Charlie shot him a dark glance. “What bloody ideas do you have? I presume you have one or two after a month of searching.”

He was quiet for a moment. Certain things had been coalescing in his mind ever since talking it over with Kate, and more and more he thought one question of hers pointed in the right direction. “I suspect we’re being fooled—trifled with. I suspect he doesn’t want money or anything at all from us. This fellow wants to ruin us, or perhaps only to drive us mad looking for something that probably doesn’t exist.”

Charlie’s irritation dropped away. All expression vanished from his face, in fact. “Explain.”

He took the chair opposite his brother. “Consider this. The letters arrived one at a time, more taunting than demanding or threatening. Durham sent out five investigators after the first one, but the second note makes no mention of their failure. Is it likely someone with such a keen interest in the matter wouldn’t know, or suspect, Durham would take action? Not until the third note does the villain ask for anything, and he didn’t even try to collect it. The last note never repeated the demand for money, only that the blackmailer could ruin Durham at any moment—but he never did. Not one whiff of this appeared anywhere before Durham died. Perhaps Louisa Halston beat him to it when Edward told her, but if you really wanted to press someone, wouldn’t you threaten to tell a newspaper or a notorious gossip? It could be done anonymously, without danger to the instigator, and spread like wildfire until no one could tell where it began.”

“But who is Hiram Scott that he would wish to torment Durham?”

He sighed. “Why would he wish to torment us? This did nothing to Father. The dukedom was his, and nothing could change that. It would embarrass, but not harm. We, on the other hand . . .”

Charlie’s face looked like a stone mask. “But you don’t know who Hiram Scott is. I don’t know who Hiram Scott is. Why would he bedevil us?”

Gerard flipped one hand impatiently. “Perhaps he’s Louisa Halston’s secret lover and wished to disrupt Edward’s engagement to her.”

“Unlikely,” replied Charlie. “She was promptly betrothed to the Marquis of Calverton.”

“Perhaps he acted for Calverton.”

“Then how the bloody hell did Calverton know about Dorothy Cope?” said Charlie crossly. “Whoever did this didn’t blindly kick the hive; he knew something nobody’s spoken of in sixty years. Where could he have gotten that