Luck Be a Lady (25 page)

“I hate to see you afraid.” Stella sounded ruefully amused. “There's no cause for it—not with me, at least. My husband, you see, liked to use his fists on me. And so one day when he lifted his hand, I pushed him down the stairs.” She leaned forward, bringing her face into the wash of moonlight. “The result was not by my design.”

She was younger than Catherine had first realized—thirty at the most. Her eyes were a bright, vibrant blue, her heavy lids lending them a sensual look, quite at odds with the delicate cupid's-bow of her mouth. Here was a face that would cause men to stare. She was not pretty, precisely, but she was certainly striking.

She also looked familiar, somehow. “Who are you?” Catherine whispered.

The woman frowned. “Never mind that. You don't want to be here, do you? That troubles me.”

“Who would want to be here?”

“Most of the residents. But as I've said, times have changed. You're not the first woman brought in recently to be mistreated.”

“I'm sane,” Catherine said fiercely. “And Denbury means to torture me. To shock me, in the morning.”

Stella studied her. “I gather it was not a magistrate who dispatched you here.”

“It was my brother. He wants to steal my company.”

“Oh dear.” The woman pressed her palms together at her lips. “One expects it from a husband—but a brother? How terribly distressing.”

This conversation was beginning to feel ludicrous. To sit commiserating politely about who had landed them in the madhouse! “Listen,” Catherine said through her teeth. “You seem to have full liberties here.” If only she had asked Lilah to teach her how to pick locks! Instead, she would make do with secondhand hopes. “Can you post a letter for me? I must let someone know what my brother has done.”

Stella shook her head. “I could have done it, before. But I fear Denbury is reading my letters now before he posts them.”

Catherine swallowed hard. “Then I am doomed.”

Stella seemed to sense her fight against tears. She came off her stool and settled beside Catherine in a fragrant floral cloud. Catherine breathed deeply of the civilized scent as Stella closed one soft hand over hers. “Take heart,” Stella said. “I have a brother, too—a far kinder one that yours. I'll write to him, ask him to come visit. Denbury shan't oppose that. James will be here within
hours of receiving my letter. And once he's here, I'll tell him to carry a message for you. Whom would you like him to contact?”

Catherine opened her mouth—then hesitated as the pieces clicked together. Stella and James. James, Viscount Sanburne. Stella, Lady Boland. This was the notorious murderess, daughter of the Earl of Moreland, whose trial had been in all the newspapers years ago.

Catherine stared at her, unable to square it. Lady Boland hardly struck her as a vicious madwoman.

“You must tell me now,” said Stella with a soft squeeze. “I have seen what electrotherapy can do. It's possible you won't remember the name or address afterward.”

Fear passed like an icy draft through her bones. She had never known such terror. God above, who would she be without her mind? Without her learning, her knowledge?

“Nicholas,” she said as her tears spilled over. The very feel of his name seared her; she had never gotten a chance to speak it aloud to him. And she might never do so now. Heavens, how had she taken his attentions for granted? And how had she imagined that his touch was his greatest allure? He listened to her; he respected her opinions; he consulted with her as an equal. He would never look askance on her for working; never imagine that labor might imbalance her mind. He was . . . a miracle, and she had squandered him. “Nicholas O'Shea,” she managed. “Write to him at the House of Diamonds, Whitechapel, London.”

“I will ask James to carry the message himself.” Stella's grip tightened. “Look at me, Catherine.” Her gaze was steady and resolute. “You are stronger than you think. You can bear this.”

Footsteps sounded in the hall, heavy from the weight of clogs. Stella rose, tightening the knot on her wrapper. “I will do my best,” she whispered rapidly, “to keep Denbury distracted, tomorrow. The electrotherapy cannot be undertaken without his—”

The door flew open. “Lady Boland!” The nurse in her white smock looked shocked. “You can't be mixing with these likes. This one's dangerous!”

“She seems very composed to me,” Stella said. “I believe you might skip her medicine tonight.”

“Mr. Denbury's orders, m'lady. I can't cross him. You know how he's gotten.”

Stella cast her an apologetic glance before brushing past the nurse.

Catherine rose. “Lady Boland is correct,” she told the woman. “I don't require—”

But the nurse's deference had disappeared with Stella's departure. “Your choice,” she said with a sour twitch of her mouth. “You take it, or I call the men to hold you down while I pour it into your gullet.” She lifted her brows. “And it gets hard to measure that way, mind you.”

Catherine's glance fell to the bottle in the woman's hand. Laudanum, perhaps. Or chloral. Too much could kill a person.

She tried twice before managing the words. “I will take it,” she said numbly. “No need to call anyone.”

*    *   *

The gates had posed no challenge. Spike-topped wrought iron, they were for show. The doors, too, yielded after a round of brute force from Johnson's crowbar.

But now that they were inside, finding her would
be the trick. For this was no ordinary madhouse, but a granite palace, three stories high, sixty rooms across. Nick had counted the windows earlier as they had tied up the horses and planned their attack. As he prowled down the dark hall, Johnson at his heels, the tick of a nearby grandfather clock seemed to amplify his urgency. The moon had already set. Three hours till dawn—less than that, before the servants stirred.

It had taken too long to get here. Johnson had staggered into Diamonds with a nasty gash on his head, and no memory of how he'd acquired it. Amy, the domestic Nick had been bribing to keep an eye on Everleigh's ever since Lilah had gone to work there, had married last month and was no longer in his employ. His only clue had come from the red-haired lass who'd burst into Diamonds in a panic, babbling of brutes and a kidnapping. “Kenhurst,” she'd said. “I heard them mention a place called Kenhurst.”

He wasn't a man given to nerves. At knifepoint and gunpoint, he'd never felt his heart skip a beat. But as that girl had spoken, his vision had grayed, a buzzing filling his ears as the world tilted underfoot.

He'd reached out to the wall to catch his balance.
So this is terror,
he'd thought.

His fear didn't matter. Only her safety. That single moment of weakness was all he'd allowed himself before launching into action.

Kenhurst.
Nick had never heard mention of such a place. The name didn't appear in any of the railway schedules. Nobody at Neddie's knew of it. And so he'd convened a meeting in Malloy's flat to plan a kidnapping of his own. Ambush Everleigh and make him talk, before Nick ensured he'd never talk again.

Everleigh would be prepared for such an attack. Had he any interest in survival, he would not return home. He'd be far from London right now, hiding like a rat.

But the land auction was slated in two days' time. And Nick had seen enough in that board meeting he'd interrupted—had seen Everleigh pale as the members voted to endorse the auction. Had seen him scurry over to Pilcher, whispering frantically before excusing himself. He was a man beholden. He dared not skip that auction, for fear of displeasing his master. Pilcher would expect his support.

Everleigh would return to town, all right. And Nick would be waiting, armed to the teeth.

They had been planning their respective roles when Peggy Malloy had passed through the kitchen. Catching wind of their conversation, she'd stopped dead. “Kenhurst, did you say?” Peggy had always been an avid one for tales of murder, particularly when a woman was the villain. Kenhurst, it transpired, was home to the most famous murderess of the decade. “Locked her up in Kenhurst, they did. Madhouse up Kedston way. Four hours in the saddle—no farther.”

It had taken three. Nobody was stirring. The hallways were empty. Once, distant footsteps called them to a halt where two corridors crossed; Johnson drew his knife, and Nick tightened his grip on his garrote.

But the footsteps faded, mounting the stairs.

And so they continued their prowl. Place tried to look fancy, with tapestries on the walls and a thick carpet underfoot. But each door bore a padlock and an inset panel, which could be unlatched to spy on the inmate within. At odd moments, curious moans floated through the walls, causing Johnson to flinch, and Nick to walk faster, teeth gritted.

The first corridor held only men, slumbering in nightcaps on their cots. But the next hall proved more promising. Women. Nick opened shutters in rapid ­succession—then startled backward after he pulled one open to discover a woman peering back at him.

He wheeled toward Johnson to warn him—but it proved unnecessary. The door began to open.

Damn it. He'd missed a detail: this door had no padlock on it. These quarters didn't belong to a patient.

He caught Johnson's eye, laid a finger to his lips, and stepped aside.

The woman leaned out into the hall. He hooked his arm around her throat, pulled her back against his body, and muffled her gasp with his palm.

“Stay quiet,” he said, “and you won't be hurt.”

“All right.” Her voice, muffled by his hand, sounded surprisingly steady. “I've no interest in troubling you.”

He caught Johnson's wide-eyed look. The woman's composure seemed odd, given the circumstances. Perhaps working here had prepared her for this kind of surprise.

He didn't trust her promise, though. He kept her locked in his grip as he said, “I'm looking for someone. Catherine—”
Catherine O'Shea.
That was her name, by all rights. He silently cursed this bloody charade they'd undertaken. “Catherine Everleigh.”

“Oh.” He felt her relax, and realized she'd not felt as calm as she'd appeared after all. “Are you Nicholas O'Shea?”

He exchanged a frown with Johnson. If Peter Everleigh was trying to blot out this marriage, he was going about it the wrong way, bandying Nick's name about.
“Doesn't matter,” he said flatly. “You're going to show me where she is. Nod if you understand.”

She nodded readily. “Around the corner,” she said. “In the . . . receiving wing, they call it. It's not quite as nice as the ladies' department, I'll warn you.”

He nudged her forward, into a shuffling half step as he held her tight against him. But at the corner, she suddenly balked, twisting in his arms and dragging at his hand. “Stop it. Stop it!”

Her sudden panic baffled him. He tightened his grip, heedless now of whether or not he hurt her. “Be—”

“I won't be manhandled!”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Johnson raise his knife, a silent offer to do the dirty work. But after a moment, he shook his head. Instinct, maybe, nudging him.

“Make a shout,” he said into her ear, “and you'll regret it.” Slowly he released her.

She took a long, shaking breath before facing him. Tall and pale, with hair a shade darker than Catherine's. Didn't look like a prisoner, in her fine lace nightgown. Nor did she look like some humbly paid nurse.

“You
are
Mr. O'Shea, I think. Catherine was trying to get word to you. I promised to help her.”

“Did you, now?” He had no interest in whether it was true or not. All he cared for was finding her. “Then I'll spare you that effort. Show me where she is.”

“She won't be awake. They drugged her again.”

He gritted his teeth against a red haze of rage. He could not afford to indulge it. He blinked until he got a clear view of her again. She mattered not a whit. Nurse, madwoman, innocent, she mattered nothing. He'd
never hurt a woman, but in the place where his scruples should be, he felt nothing at all. “Show me,” he said, very low, and saw her realize that he was done with talking.

Her gaze dropped to the wire wrapped around his knuckles. “All right,” she whispered, and lifted the hem of her robe to walk quickly down the hall.

Around the corner, flagstones changed to creaking wooden boards; handsomely carpeted walls gave way to rough plaster. She drew up beside the third door, grasping the padlock for a moment before turning to him, an apologetic twist to her mouth. “I can't open this. The nurse took away my skeleton key, after she caught me visiting.”

He opened the shutter, peered in. Impossible to tell if that huddled figure was Catherine. The woman looked too small, curled up like a child on her side . . .

His breath caught. He glimpsed her braid, peeking out beneath the blanket.

He snapped at Johnson, who stepped up, slamming the crowbar down on the padlock with a smashing bang.

The woman jumped. “Quiet! If they hear you—”

“Give me that.” Nick seized the iron bar, fitted it into the door, and threw his weight into it. Wood began to splinter. He eased off, breathing raggedly for a moment, before throwing himself against it again.

The door groaned, but wouldn't budge.

“Don't,” the woman said, as he raised the crowbar over his head. “I'm telling you—the guards are armed.”

“So are we,” Johnson told her, and lifted his ­pistol.

Nick brought the bar down—once, and then again, allowing himself to imagine, for a sweet black moment, that the lock was Peter Everleigh's skull.

*    *   *

They were coming for her. Coming to shock her, to wipe her mind clean, to destroy her. She pushed them away, but her hands flopped, lax as damp rags. “No,” she managed. “No—”