The Suspect's Daughter Read Online Free

instincts.
    Barnes continued, “Fairley is ambitious and has shown ungentlemanly conduct in the past. And his wife’s death might have pushed him into a state of ruthlessness—enough to murder to achieve his goal.”
    “We won’t let that happen.”
    Leaning forward, Barnes laced his fingers together on his desk. “We have to handle this delicately. We can’t accuse a man with Fairley’s standing of plotting such a serious crime without irrefutable proof. And even if we find such proof, we must wait, watch, and learn who else is involved.” Barnes picked up his pen and absently sharpened the tip.
    “I understand.” Grant watched his long-time friend and visualized the gears turning in his head.
    Barnes set down the pen and leaned forward. “I need you to go deeper—get invited to the conspirators’ secret meetings. The Secret Service is guarding the prime minister day and night, and working to learn exactly when the assassins plan to strike. But if we can discover all the conspirators, we can eradicate them and end the threat.”
    Grant grimaced. He’d have to make some new ‘friends.’
    Barnes chuckled softly. “What? You look like I’ve proposed something distasteful.”
    “‘Going deeper’ means I must rub shoulders with a bunch of nobs and dress like a fop and act like I care about politics.”
    Barnes cocked a brow. “Might I point out that you are the son of a nob?”
    “Don’t remind me.” Grant slumped down in his chair.
    Amusement twinkled in Barnes’s eyes. “Far be it from me to suggest you spend time with men who are literate and bathe once in a while.”
    “That’s something in their favor. But if I suddenly show up at respectable establishments, everyone will view that as suspicious.”
    “I’m confident you’ll think of something.” A smile hovered around his mouth.
    Grant resisted the urge to let out a long-suffering sigh. Very well, he’d do the pretty with those who enjoyed worthless pastimes like parties and balls. Few outside his family knew of his involvement with Bow Street, so no one would suspect him of working on a case. If he played the game right, the conspirators would approach him with the suggestion that something ought to be done about the prime minister—something quick and incisive. And Grant would drag the conspirators to justice, one way or another. Those involved would feel the full force of the law.
    He took a hackney home. With the aid of his street-urchin-turned-valet, Clark, Grant shaved and changed into something fashionably uncomfortable. That unpleasant task completed, Grant took another hackney to a gaming establishment respectable enough to attract wealthy customers. Grant strode in as if he frequented the place that attracted the idle, bored rich who sought pleasures away from balls, soirees, and the other inane social gatherings of the London Season.
    Bright enough to appear honest, yet softly lit to create an ambiance of intimacy, the room hosted a number of tables filled with gamblers throwing away their money on everything from whist to faro. Dark paneling and woodwork from a bygone era adorned the walls, and scarlet velvet decorated the furniture. Grant reminded himself of his role tonight as the son of an earl and relaxed his expression into one of savoir-faire .
    Out of habit, he noted the row of windows along the street-side wall, and the back door on the far side of the adjoining room, which probably led to an alley. A young man nearest Grant leaned against the wall, too drunk to be a threat. Two next to him shouted at each other and guffawed. Bully boys stood by to throw out any trouble makers. Seasoned players mingled with cocky innocents unaware of how badly they were getting fleeced.
    Almost afraid to move his head lest he muss the awkward perfection of his cravat, Grant ambled to agreen baize table to observe a high stakes game of faro. Dice rolled to a stop, and cries of triumph and woe exploded as players won and lost money in a