Lord Ingram smiled slightly. Good. He had sent the wine and pastry not out of the goodness of his heart, but because they’d be finished far too soon—and remind Bancroft of everything he now had to do without.
He wasn’t sure whether himself of yesteryear would have done such a thing, but some of Holmes’s ruthlessness was rubbing off on him. And when he’d written to her about his malicious gift, she’d responded with full-fledged approval. Well done, Ash. That is the only way to treat a man who framed you for murder.
“I’ve brought you more. A bottle of Sauternes and a pear tart.”
Bancroft sniffed. “For a pear tart, I would have preferred Riesling, but Sauternes would do.”
The wine had been decanted into an old-fashioned wine bag, and the pear tart, in its pasteboard box, had already been cut into small pieces to eliminate the need for knife or fork.
With an eagerness that his former self would have scorned, Bancroft tucked into the pear tart, only to look up a few seconds later. “This isn’t made by the woman on your estate.”
“No, it’s from the Reform Club.”
Bancroft sniffed again. “Lesser, but still acceptable.”
He luxuriated in a few more morsels of the pear tart. “You still haven’t said why you’ve come. I assume you didn’t simply wish to see me dine well.”
“No indeed. I’ve come to ask you about a certain someone.”
“Who?”
“We first spoke of him last summer. And you told me then, in no uncertain terms, never to be personally embroiled with him.”
Moriarty.
Bancroft frowned. “I believe I know of whom you speak. What happened? Did you go against my advice?”
“One could easily contend that I have been personally and inextricably enmeshed with that particular character ever since he subverted Lady Ingram against the Crown’s interests, but no, I have refrained from putting myself into his orbit. However, it often turns out that his reach is far greater than we anticipated. Perhaps you’ve read in the papers of my friend’s investigation last December?”
“I have indeed.”
Something dark and hostile gleamed in Bancroft’s eyes—it had been the same investigator, Charlotte Holmes, whose work had resulted in his apprehension.
Lord Ingram felt another surge of satisfaction. “What you did not learn in the papers was that the true culprit was in league with the person you warned me away from. The stolen funds at the heart of the case had been funneled to build factories for him, from which he could henceforth derive legitimate gains.”
Bancroft’s brow lifted a fraction of an inch. He wiped his hand with a handkerchief, took a wrapped crayon out of his pocket and wrote De Lacey Industries? on a scrap of paper.
“You knew?”
Bancroft threw the scrap of paper into the fireplace. “No, not about how the construction of the enterprise’s factories was funded. But last summer, once we learned the name of this person’s lieutenant in Britain, I had someone look into entities associated with that name. His minions must have stolen a fortune.”
“It seems likely that he did not use the gambit only on one firm. But in any case, although my investigator friend hadn’t the least intention of provoking this person, this person saw it differently.”
“Oh, he would most certainly see it differently.” Bancroft laughed softly. “In fact, he would be highly displeased with said investigator.”
His voice was sharp with pleasure. Bancroft, who probably did not believe that he himself had been responsible for his downfall, must feel that Charlotte Holmes, the proximate cause, bore the greater part of the blame.
“The person whom we haven’t named called yesterday upon the investigator and engaged the investigator to find out the fate of his daughter at a certain Hermetic religious community,” said Lord Ingram.
And Holmes, his Holmes, was at this very moment on her way to meet mortal danger.
A gleam came into Bancroft’s eyes. “What is this community called?”
Lord Ingram’s fingers dug into the armrests of his chair. “Why do you ask?”
“Your investigator’s work this past summer gave us keys to the ciphers that man’s minion used over a long period of time. My people went back and combed through everything in the archives that had been intercepted and was thought of as either unimportant or undecipherable. We then applied those keys and some of the messages that newly made sense concerned what was referred to as the Garden.”
“What did those messages say?”
“‘All’s well at the Garden’ and the sort.”
Disappointment tasted acrid. Lord Ingram hadn’t come merely to learn that the Crown had got hold of some messages in which de Lacey passed on news of Miss Baxter’s well-being to her father. “Anything else you can tell me?”
Something worth the revulsion and heartbreak of a visit with you.
Bancroft did not answer.
After a while, Lord Ingram said, “I’d be glad, of course, to send a bottle of claret from my late godfather’s vineyard in Bordeaux, to go with a chocolate tart.”
Bancroft remained silent, but poured some Sauternes into a tin cup and swirled it around, conveying, with every gesture, the insufficiency of Lord Ingram’s offer.
“Or I could spare myself the trouble,” said Lord Ingram, “since, unfortunately, I already know more about this man than you do.”
Bancroft set down the cup abruptly. After a moment, he said, “The claret must be at least twenty years old, and the chocolate tart has to be made by the woman who works for you.”
“What vintage you receive and who makes the chocolate tart will depend on what I learn today,” said Lord Ingram coolly. He didn’t care to play games, but he had served for years under Bancroft and learned from the best.
Bancroft’s eyes narrowed. Lord Ingram met his cold gaze. Bancroft thought he still had some hold over his little brother, and perhaps he wasn’t entirely wrong about that. But Holmes’s safety was at stake here and for Holmes he would crush ten of Bancroft without a second thought.
Bancroft looked away first. He took a large gulp of the Sauternes, frowned, and pushed the tin cup away. “A woman came to see me last night. Strictly speaking, we are not allowed conjugal visits. But when palms are sufficiently greased, eyes look elsewhere. I had not anticipated this caller and was—very briefly—pleasantly surprised. I didn’t think either you or Remington loved me enough to send such a consort and she looked very agreeable indeed.
“Alas, she only wished to speak to me. And the message she conveyed was not intended for me, but for you. She said that she had kept the mother of your children safe. And that she hoped you would return a favor in time.”
This Lord Ingram had not expected. The only woman who could have protected Lady Ingram would have been Madame Desrosiers, Moriarty’s former mistress who had staged a coup and dethroned him—for a while—and with whom Lady Ingram had thrown in her lot.
Was that why Moriarty was in England, to catch Madame Desrosiers?
“You said she came last night?”
“Odd, is it not? She had a message for you, who never visits, and here you are the next day.”
Lord Ingram leaned back and gave Bancroft a look as long and cold as any Bancroft ever meted out. “And when were you going to tell me this, brother dear?”