Page 11 of Honor Unbound

“Bad news?” Marie strode into my library, a shawl clasped in her hands.

“Neither good nor bad.” I eyed the young woman. I’d been impressed with her spirit and brains when I’d met her at my brother-in-law’s home earlier in the year, and I had yet to regret my decision to hire her as one of my servants. However, I couldn’t help but wonder if I would have learned more fromTrent’s widow if I’d called on the woman alone. “Is that my shawl?”

“Yes.” She handed the burgundy linen square to me. “I repaired the hole. You can wear it today when we go out. The color complements your gown.”

“Thank you.” I folded the rectangle of fabric and placed it on my lap, giving Southey a reproving look. It had been his teeth that had caused the hole. “Ernest is preparing the carriage now. We should leave shortly.”

A soft tap sounded at the door. Mr. Burton stood in the entrance, holding a paper in his hand. “I found it. You wouldn’t believe how stingy that man atThe Timeswas. Didn’t want to part with a single back issue. But when I dropped your name and that of your nephew, well, he very generously loaned it to us.”

“Excellent.” I hadn’t been sure my memory had been correct. “July then, was it?”

“Was what?” Marie looked between us, narrowing her eyes. “And why aren’t you in livery?” she asked Burton.

“It was.” Burton strode across the room and handed me the folded paper. “And Lady Mary thought I should be out of uniform if I’m to be asking people questions today.”

“The carriage is out front, milady.” Stavers hovered in the doorway.

I rose and pointed at a little bed Jane had put together for the dog. “You have to stay, Southey.”

The dog grumbled, and instead of going to his silk-lined bed, he jumped up on my settee, turned three times, and dropped to his belly.

I decided not to argue the matter. I left the room, patting Stavers’s stooped shoulder as I passed.

Marie followed close on my heels. “Mr. Burton isn’t coming with us, is he?” Was there a hint of accusation in Marie’s voice?

“He is.” I draped the shawl over my shoulders and picked through my assortment of walking sticks by the front door. The one topped with an onyx falcon called to me today. “I think the article in this paper will be of great interest to our magistrate, Sir Kelsey.”

Marie plucked up her reticule from the side table. The strings slipped through her fingers and it fell to the floor.

Burton picked it up before she could. “Here you are, miss.”

She flushed and mumbled a “thank you.”

Burton opened the door for me then helped me up the steps of the coach. He followed Marie inside, then shut the door. “I understand lawsuits have become quite common among men of business. Do you think it could be the cause of Mr. Trent’s murder?”

“I don’t know, but Sir Kelsey should see it regardless.” And if, in gratitude for my bringing the matter to his attention, the magistrate decided to share some information of his own that would only be fair.

“What’s in the article?” Marie tapped her fingers against her skirts.

“Information about a lawsuit.” I settled back. The ride to the magistrate’s office wouldn’t take long. I’d learned he didn’t keep his office at Bow Street but on Brook, more central to the district he was responsible for. “It seems Mr. Trent was unhappy with one of his suppliers of tin cans. I only remember the story because it was beneath one about a guest speaker I had at The Minerva Club, that renowned explorer.”

“I still don’t understand that.” Marie wrinkled her nose. “How does putting food in a tin can make it last more than a couple of days?”

I was a bit unclear on the details about that, as well. “Something about the heating process when the food is put in the can.” I flapped my hand. “Sounds ghastly.”

“It isn’t the worst thing I’ve eaten.” Burton stretched his legs, his boots tapping into Marie’s. “And it helped to keep the critters away from our food supply.”

Marie and I stared at him.

“What?” He ran his hand up his dark-blond hair. “Canned food was introduced as our rations when I served during the Peninsular War. I’m certain the British government is the main customer of Mr. Trent’s goods.”

“I didn’t know you served.” Marie stared down at her hands. “What regiment were you in?”

“The Ninth.” Burton cocked his head. “Who do you know who served?”

“My brother.” Marie brushed her finger under her eyes. “He was in the Thirteenth. He died at Salamanca.”

I stared out the window as Marie composed herself. It seemed that England’s plight was constant war. It made some men’s careers, made others a great sum of money. Most, like Mr. Burton, were lucky if they just survived.