Rosemary Stevens by Murder in the Pleasure Gardens Page B

good at her trade.”
    I smiled at this frank remark. “Lady Salisbury, will you marry me?”
    She smiled back. “You may call on me when James is six feet under.”
    I confess I felt inappropriately lighthearted at that moment until I perceived that Miss Lavender, accompanied by her father, stood toward the back of the church.
    Then I frowned. Even from a distance, I could tell Miss Lavender was upset.
    I escorted Lady Salisbury to the door, and observed Mrs. Hargrove, the Jacombe housekeeper, sitting quietly without a trace of emotion on her face in the last pew.
    I then doubled back to see Miss Lavender. I noted that Mr. Nevill was slowly making his way to the door. I wanted to speak to him, so I made my conversation with Miss Lavender brief. “A sad day, it seems,” I said.
    “A great loss to Bow Street,” came Mr. Lavender’s reply.
    Miss Lavender had that faraway look on her face, her skin almost translucent in the light of the church. Her gaze was fixed on the coffin draped in black at the front of the aisle near the pulpit.
    “Miss Lavender,” I said, “I must speak with someone now, but I wonder if I might take you and Lionel to Gunter’s for ices later.”
    She dragged her gaze to me. “That would be nice.”
    “Shall we say two hours’ time? I shall bring a hackney coach to the Haven of Hope and collect you and the boy.”
    Mr. Lavender glared at me, his bushy brows coming together to form one hairy line of disapproval above his eyes. As usual in my presence.
    Ever independent, Miss Lavender ignored him and said, “I should like that. Thank you.”
    I hastened away before Mr. Lavender could bellow a word and before old Mr. Nevill could leave the premises. As it was, I caught up with the latter outside where a jumble of carriages and sedan-chairs awaited their masters.
    “Mr. Nevill, may I have a word with you?”
    Mr. Nevill looked at me with his cloudy eyes squinted against the sunlight. “Oh, it is Mr. Brummell, is it? What do you want?”
    Not the best of beginnings. I decided to charge right in. “I understand that you and your son were involved in a banking adventure with the late Mr. Jacombe. One that went seriously awry and almost cost you everything.”
    I thought the old man would have an apoplexy right there. “How did you find out about that?” he demanded.
    He himself had just confirmed what Molly said, but it would not do to let him know that. “Old scandals live on, you know.”
    “I told my son, Harry, not to get involved in that bank deal. But he was driven by his insatiable wife to make more and more money. He bought stock in a bank partially owned by Jacombe. They lent a great amount of money to the Prince and never got repaid.”
    I could believe that. Prinny was not one to look back when it came to money. “Your son had stock in that bank and was liable for the bank’s debts.”
    “Of course he was. That is the way it works, you know.”
    “And the debts were called in?”
    “Yes, they were, more’s the pity. Stockholders had to come up with the money. I paid Harry’s portion to prevent him and his family from being ruined and sent to debtor’s prison.”
    “That was good of you. And Mr. Jacombe?”
    “Jacombe had already sold his stock by the time the debts were called in. The way his crafty lawyers had written the whole thing, no one could touch him.”
    “Did Jacombe know that the stock in the bank was worthless when he sold it to your son?”
    The old man narrowed his eyes at me. “I am not sorry the bastard is dead if that is what you are getting at.”
    “So why did you come here today?”
    “I always enjoy a good funeral, and the next one may be my own.”
    So saying, the cantankerous Mr. Nevill limped away on his cane, a footman rushing to guide his master to an ancient coach.
    Did Mr. Nevill hate Jacombe enough over that banking deal to kill him all these years later? That did not make sense. I could more easily see him killing Jacombe to protect his