The Black Mask Read Free Page B

diamond-headed cane had been stolen. The thief wasn’t seen, though a beggar, sitting on a curb, later gave witness that a black shadow had stooped over him and left the countess’s emerald diadem in his lap. Not knowing how to turn such a piece into cash money, he turned it in at Bow Street, collecting a considerable reward.
    The Black Mask, it seemed, had a passion for equality, as well as for jewelry.
    “Have you heard the latest?” Rupert asked of no one in particular.
    “What is it?” Rose forgot to be cold and blasé in front of Sir Niles.
    ‘That fellow he robbed—Curtis, was it?”
    “Curtman,” Sir Niles supplied.
    ‘That’s it. Curtman. Turns out the fellow was nothing but a cursed slave trader, selling the poor devils to plantation owners. Had any number of ships moving, all the while pretending to ship cotton. They say he’ll be up before the beak come tomorrow, and dashed well serves him right.” He glared around as though daring anyone to contradict him. “I know this Black Mask fellow is nothing but a common thief, but this time I say jolly well done!”
    “But what did the Black Mask have to do with Mr. Curtman’s slaving?” Rose asked.
    Mr. Crenshaw obligingly answered. “The, er, gentleman in question was unwise enough to entrust to a secret strongbox his collection of accounts pertaining to the acquiring of his fortune. It seems in the course of his other activities, the thief discovered this cache.”
    “How?” Rose asked, agog.
    “It’s believed one of Curtman’s servants must have betrayed the secret, though they all deny it stridently.”
    “There, you see, Sir Niles,” Rose said triumphantly. “If he could find this person’s secret lockbox, he could find yours.”
    “Very true. I shall invent a new hiding place at once.”
    Tell her who got the papers,” Rupert said, chuckling, as he drew out his snuff box. He didn’t wait for Mr. Crenshaw. “The prime minister!”
    “The prime minister?”
    Mr. Crenshaw coughed, disapprovingly. “The incriminating documents were, so it seems, laid under Lord Liverpool’s eyes at breakfast when his butler attempted to pour him a cup of tea. There was no tea in the pot, only the papers. A deplorable thing to happen at breakfast. They say poor Lord Liverpool suffered from indigestion the rest of the day.”
    “However did the Black Mask put the papers into the teapot?” Rose asked, smiling at Mr. Crenshaw’s belief in the sacredness of breakfast.
    “No one knows that either,” he said. “But it does show that the fellow in question suffers from a rather juvenile sense of humor.”
    “Of course,” Sir Niles said, “slavery itself is not yet illegal. Only the actual trafficking in slaves.”
    Rose turned cool eyes upon him. She had no wish to be fair to Mr. Curtman, and thought it very like Sir Niles to see the immoral side of what was a very plain issue.
    “An excellent point, Sir Niles,” Mr. Crenshaw said. “And this Curtman was clever enough not to transport his slaves in ships of British registry. Nonetheless, I think even if he should escape fining—which, at a hundred pounds a head for each slave mentioned in his very complete records, is no bagatelle—Mr. Curtman will find life most unpleasant in London.”
    Rupert sneezed and laughed at the same time, a bizarre sound. To be sure,” he said, bringing out an overlarge handkerchief. “There’s not a hostess will receive him, and his marriage to Miss Stonebridge has been broken off.”
    ‘The daughter of ‘Liberator’ Stonebridge?” Rose asked. “I met her only last week. She’s a sweet, sweet girl.”
    “She’s better off,” Rupert said, sneezing. “This Curtman was giving money to the antislavery cause with one hand while making money from slaves with the other hand. That’s the kind of hypocrisy we fought the French over, and here it is right in London. Why, the very thought makes me want to shout!”
    “Poor Miss Stonebridge.”
    “She’s better