De Lacey avoided thinking too deeply about Mr. Baxter’s reasons. But as Mrs. Watson covered her face with her hands, he wondered why Charlotte Holmes had to die. If it was truly as Mr. Baxter said, because she’d learned that much of De Lacey Industries’ revenue came of thieving from other enterprises, then shouldn’t Mrs. Watson and Lord Ingram also lose their lives? Yet there had been no such orders concerning those two.
He shook his head and told his men not to slack.
* * *
Mr. Baxter arrived early afternoon the next day.
De Lacey didn’t know how the man managed it, but he always looked like some grand dame’s favorite son, freshly returned from six months abroad—a little weary from his long travels, perhaps, but in good cheer, as he looked forward to being fawned over by his loved ones.
That general air of agreeableness had fooled De Lacey, until Mr. Baxter had shot and killed the first de Lacey that he, former Timmy Ruston, had served under. That man had dared to steal from the organization’s coffer, and until the revolver had appeared in Mr. Baxter’s hand, they had been enjoying a convivial dinner.
In fact, that precise moment, there had been champagne going around for toasts. After the former de Lacey’s body had slumped out of his chair, Mr. Baxter had raised his glass and ordered everyone else to drink to trust and camaraderie.
Since then, De Lacey hadn’t had a glass of bubbly. He’d also been terrified of misreading Mr. Baxter, of thinking he was safe only to learn otherwise with a bullet between his eyes.
He could only hope that Miss Baxter hadn’t somehow escaped despite his wholehearted effort to contain her within these walls.
When Mr. Baxter’s carriage rolled to a stop before the Garden, de Lacey himself pulled down the steps. His overlord descended, the hems of his great coat billowing in the wind. He held onto his hat with one hand and regarded the high wall before him.
He looked . . . Well, de Lacey had thought he’d sense in Mr. Baxter either gratification brought on by Charlotte Holmes’s death, or grimness because of the imminent confrontation with his daughter. But if anything, Mr. Baxter seemed distracted, as if the former’s fate was but an afterthought and the latter a minor inconvenience, albeit one he must handle himself.
Peters opened the gate.
Mr. Baxter brought four men. De Lacey had six. At Mr. Baxter’s signal, De Lacey left two of his six men outside. All the others followed them into the Garden. Peters glanced at the phalanx of men. But if he was intimidated, he did not show it.
He brought the visitors not to Miss Baxter’s lodge, but to the meditation cabin. Mr. Baxter told the other men to stay put and only took de Lacey inside with him.
The meditation cabin had once been a chapel large enough to seat fifteen families. The pews were long gone, but the pulpit remained, and upon it Miss Baxter sat, on a throne-like chair, directly beneath the eye painted on the blood-red ceiling. To one side of the chair stood a man with a cut to his upper lip—McEwan, most likely. Peters went to stand on her other side.
She wore a dark red dress, cut simply, but with a most unusual collar that rose like a ruff and framed her bright auburn coiffure and sharp-featured face as if she were Queen Elizabeth herself. Her necklace, shaped like a chain of office with alternating squares and fleurs-de-lis of gold filigree, further reinforced the impression of regality.
Facing her, two steps down, a much humbler chair had been placed. De Lacey thought the deliberately insulting arrangement childish. This woman, at the end of her ropes, was still playing useless games.
Mr. Baxter, his hand on the back of the lesser chair, shook his head slowly. His expression was kindly, indulgent, as if he were faced with a five-year-old girl who insisted on wearing her shoes on the wrong feet. But Miss Baxter must have seen something that eluded de Lacey, for she smiled, evidently delighted by her father’s reaction.
“Father, how good of you to come and see me. Do take a seat.”
A muscle leaped at the corner of Mr. Baxter’s eye, a minute movement, yet one entirely at odds with the affectionate smile he returned to his daughter. His hand slid along the top rail of the chair and came to rest on his watch fob.
De Lacey froze.
The other de Lacey—what had been his name, Sumner? At that dinner, Sumner had been as arrogant as Miss Baxter was now. He’d made Mr. Baxter stand up to toast the company, hadn’t he? And Mr. Baxter had complied, with a smile as mild as a spring breeze.
But a muscle had leaped at the corner of his eye on that evening too. And he had stood behind his chair, slid his hand across its top rail, patted his watch fob—and pulled out a revolver and shot the still-grinning Sumner.
A chill gripped de Lacey’s lungs. Was he about to do the same to his daughter?
Mr. Baxter sat down in the lesser chair.
Miss Baxter, utterly unaware of her peril, smiled more widely. “Some tea? Coffee?”
But inside the chapel there were no accoutrements for the making of hot beverages.
“Enough, Marguerite,” said Mr. Baxter gently, with seemingly infinite patience.
Miss Baxter’s smile turned frosty. “Have you ever thought that for yourself, Father? Have you ever looked into the mirror and said, ‘Enough, James’? No, of course you haven’t. For you the entire world will still be too little. It’s only others who must learn to settle for less so that you can have more.”
“Because I did not let you do every ridiculous thing that came into your head, you conspired with my enemies to bring me down? My child, you went too far.”
So Charlotte Holmes had been right in her guess and that truly was the reason he had been furious the other evening. He’d learned that his daughter had been in league with those who mounted a coup against him. No wonder he’d immediately sent men to make sure that she didn’t escape.
“No, Father. Regrettably, I did not go far enough. Madame Desrosiers wanted to kill you. I did not want you to die at my hand. Alas, wouldn’t it have been better for me now if I had killed you then?”
His head bent, Mr. Baxter placed a hand over his face. He looked as if her heartless words had crushed his spirit. De Lacey pulled at his collar—the barbed-wire-around-his-throat sensation was back.
“To think of everything I have done for you,” said Mr. Baxter, his voice muffled.
“I think of it often, everything you’ve done ‘for me.’ Do you know what I think of most often? That when you decided you wanted me to live with you after all, my grandmother had to die because she did not want to let me go and I did not want to leave.”
De Lacey swallowed. He did not want to know this.
Mr. Baxter raised his head.
“I see from your expression you didn’t think I knew.” Miss Baxter set an elbow on an armrest, stretched out her legs and crossed her booted feet at the ankle. “All these years, all these years I’ve had to tread carefully around my grandmother’s murderer. She loved me as if I were a star that had fallen into her hands. Has anyone ever loved you like that, Father? No, of course not. I can tell that you were never loved.”
De Lacey’s fingertips shook. He yearned to take a step back but dared not draw any attention. He didn’t even dare pull at his collar again—and he could barely breathe.
Miss Baxter raised her free hand and inspected her nails. “Let’s see, Father, have we come to the portion of the conversation where you tell me I have no choice but to go home with you?”