No Place for a Dame (40 page)

“I had no idea you were such a bloodthirsty little thing.”

“I am where you are concerned. Now, see me outside and bid me good-bye.”

He nodded, as if not trusting himself to speak, and held the door open for her. Then he followed her to the coach where the porter waited. Giles had secured her a seat facing forward and extra cushions. He handed her up and closed the door behind.

“Every day,” she called out the window, feeling anxious now that the final moments were here.

He did not reply and the last she saw of him he was standing beneath the saffron glow of the yard’s lantern, the snow collecting on his broad shoulders and catching in his golden hair. He stood gazing after her until the coach turned the corner and he was lost to her sight.

She sank back, sighing. The carriage was making slow progress, lumbering and creaking its way through the twisted alleys towards the wider thoroughfares near St. James. From there they would take the turnpike road north towards Chester and the pace would pick up. She was to get off at the first posting house and change directions, going home to Killylea to wait for Giles.

Home
. How wonderful that sounded. How much she missed the sounds of the ocean crashing on the base of the cliffs, the gleaning cries of the gulls surfing in winds above, the salt-sweet air and brilliant, crystalline skies. In six months Giles would join her, and they would never need be apart again.

They had been driving fifteen minutes when the carriage came to a
sudden halt, drawing a muttered oath from the man sitting across from her. “What now?”

Outside, voices rose in a brief exchange; the door swung open. A thin, aristocratic-looking old gentleman in a black topcoat, a scarf wound around his neck, peered inside. He spotted her and his noble old countenance collapsed in sympathy.

“Miss Quinn?” he said.

“Yes?” Her heart began to beat faster.

“I have been sent by a Lord Strand to fetch you.”

“Fetch me? Why?”

He looked at her sadly, his face filled with compassion. “I was on my way to my office. There was an accident. The gentleman was not looking and he stepped into the street and—”

She bolted forward. “What gentleman?”

“Lord Strand. He’s been injured. He begged me to find your coach. I’m afraid…” He shook his head. “If you could—”

She was already scrambling past him and out of the coach. “Take me to him,” she commanded.

He already missed her. But, he told himself, at least he could use the months to conclude old business, discover what had happened to Jack, then officially—and permanently—resign his services to the crown. The barouche pulled to a stop in front of his townhouse and he got out.

Giles spotted the boy at once, scurrying across the street from beneath the holly bushes where he’d been sheltering.

“Lord Strand?” he called out.

Will jumped down from where he’d been sitting next to the driver. “What are you lot doin’ speakin’ to his lordship?” he snapped. “There ain’t no cadging here. Get on wid ye!”

“Ain’t cadgin’,” the boy protested.

“What do you want, boy?” Giles asked.

“Gentleman said I was to give you this.” He handed Giles an expensive vellum envelope and snickered at Will.

A cold finger touched Giles’s spine. He dug in his pocket and pressed a shilling in the boy’s hand. The lad tapped two fingers to his cap and darted away.

Silently, Giles opened the envelope and unfolded the single sheet inside.

St. Anne’s Churchyard. Miss Quinn is with me.

He jerked the carriage door open and swung inside, banging on the roof and shouting, “St. Anne’s Church. Fast!”

Chapter Forty-One

S
t. Anne’s Church existed in a nether region halfway between the mansions of St. James and the squalor of Covent Garden. As though afraid of insulting either contingent, it abstained from the ornamentation that marked the richer area but refused to decline into the shabbiness of the poorer. Not a single light burned from within its small, tidy edifice.

Giles had left the carriage around the corner a block away, hoping to survey the situation before making his presence known. He knew the chances of this were slim; Jameson had not acted as codirector of the Secret Committee for twenty years because he was sloppy.

True to his suspicion, a quick inspection of the church proved futile. No one was there. Instead, he found them in a mausoleum, the centerpiece of the lichyard at the side of the church. It was a huge marble edifice some thirty feet long and half that across. The bronze door stood open, light spilling out over nearby headstones sprouting drunkenly from the frozen ground.

There would be no furtive approach and he had no weapon on him. Fear and desperation had propelled his actions; he’d raced here
without thinking to arm himself. He took a deep breath and entered the chamber.

A single lantern sat on the floor, the only source of light inside. Avery stood at the far end of the mausoleum, separated from him by an ornate granite sarcophagus. Sir Jameson gripped her from behind, his pistol to her temple.

She held herself very straight. More than fear shimmered in her direct gaze, there was anger, too. And courage, God love her.

The flame guttered in the lantern, licking Jameson’s gaunt face with its insubstantial light. The hand holding the pistol quaked. His finger, Giles noted, was on the trigger. He had to get him to lower the gun before he fired, intentionally or otherwise.

“A mausoleum, Sir Jameson?” Giles drawled, glancing around like a visitor at an art exhibition. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a man given to melodramatics. I can’t help but think the owner would take exception to making such a use of his ancestors’ final resting place.”

“Not at all. That is my maternal grandfather, you see,” Jameson said conversationally, nodding to the sarcophagus. “However, I do apologize for the gothic setting. Over the years I have found it to be an exemplary situation for this sort of thing.”

“And what sort of thing is that?”

“Interrogations. Trades. Occasionally executions.”

Avery’s face paled in the lantern light.

“And which is this?”

“That remains to be seen.”

“Let Miss Quinn go.”

“Miss Quinn, is it?” A creaky sound emerged from Jameson’s throat. Giles realized it was a laugh. “She’s your whore, Strand. Nothing more or less. Oh, please,” he sneered, “do not bother with indignation. I know she was in your bed the very night her brother was wounded. You were seen. I thought at first you were buggering the boy. It would have been so much more convenient had that been the case.”

“You mean so much easier to extort information from me.”

Jameson nodded. “Just so. Now I have been forced to more extreme measures.” His smile disappeared as quickly as if someone had snubbed out a flame. “Where is Seward? Where is my beloved adopted son?”

He was mad, Giles realized. Quite mad.

“The Netherlands,” Giles answered at once. “In Overflakkee.”

The pistol swung towards him. The gunpowder flashed in its pan at the same time pain exploded in his side. Avery cried out, jerking forward. Jameson snatched her back. Giles looked down at the hole ripped through the side of his greatcoat.

“Damn,” he said. “This is my favorite coat.”

“Next time it will be Miss Quinn’s turn. And I shan’t miss.” Jameson jammed the barrel of the pistol up under Avery’s chin. “Do you take me for a fool?”

Giles did not think the bullet had hit anything vital but blood loss was making his head swim. His legs were starting to fail him. “No!” He held up his hand in a placating manner. “No.”

Giles did not know how Jameson had known he was lying. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that he had nothing to trade for Avery’s life. God help him, he would have given Seward up if it meant saving her. There was nothing he would not have sacrificed to protect Avery.

“Then tell me!” Jameson raged, spittle flying from his mouth. “Tell me so I can put the bastard in the ground!” Every vestige of refinement had fallen from him like skin from a molting snake. He quivered with rage, his face contorted. “Tell me!”

He swung the pistol towards Giles again and suddenly Avery grabbed his wrist, yanked it back, and sank her teeth into his flesh. Jameson screamed and Giles lurched forward, unable to do more than pitch against the sarcophagus.

The gun dropped from Jameson’s hand and Avery fell to her knees, scrambling for it. She had youth and agility on her side. Jameson didn’t stand a chance. He didn’t even try. She sprang to her feet, the second barrel of the pistol already cocked and pointed at Jameson’s chest.

Giles gasped, pulling himself upright against the stone coffin.

“Well, now what are you going to do, my dear?” Jameson asked, cradling his injured arm against his chest. “Are you going to shoot an old man in cold blood? I don’t think so.”

The anger was fading from her expression, panic and uncertainty replacing it.

“Giles?”

“I’m fine. Don’t take the gun off him.” He was not fine. He could feel the blood flowing from the wound, unconsciousness licking at the edges of his vision.

“I daresay time is ticking away for your lover, Miss Quinn. You best tend to him before he succumbs. I assure you, I have no other weapons. I will just be on my way.”

“Stay where you are,” she commanded. Her voice shook, but the gun didn’t. Her father had taught her well.

She glanced at Giles, anxiety bright in her face. “What should I do?”

She should shoot Jameson, Giles thought. He should tell her to shoot him. If she didn’t, Jameson would go to ground and with his resources they would never find him until the day he chose to reappear. They would never be able to relax their guard. They would be condemned to lives spent looking over their shoulders.

But he couldn’t say it. He knew too well the sorts of nightmares that killing a man engendered, no matter how necessary. He would not allow Avery to suffer that.

“Let him go, Avery.”

“Yes,” Jameson said. “You don’t want to be a murderer.” He started past her.

“No!” she shouted. She had come to the same conclusion as he, Giles realized.

Jameson halted. Licked his lips.

“It’s all right,” a calm voice said from behind Giles. “You may put down your weapon, Miss Quinn. The matter is well in hand.”

Giles turned his head. Sir Robert Knowlton stepped into the room.

“You?” Avery’s brow pleated with confusion. But she still didn’t lower her weapon. She had learned caution quickly, but thoroughly.

“Yes, Miss Quinn. Me.” Knowlton’s voice was calm but he did not take his eyes off the gun. “I am sorry for the little deception I perpetuated on you at the coffee shop near Strand’s townhouse. I was trying to ascertain exactly who you were. And what. I’d been following you and when you went into the bookstore, I popped into the coffee shop. So obliging that you entered so soon afterward.

“You see, Lord Strand and I have a long-standing professional relationship. When I heard that he had acquired a protégé, I was, of course,
curious. One cannot be too careful when one’s agent suddenly takes up with someone no one has ever heard of. But during our delightful conversation, and after I realized you were a young lady, my fears were assuaged.”

“Agent?” she echoed.

“I see Strand has been discreet. Most gratifying. But, I believe, no longer necessary. Yes, my dear, Lord Strand has worked in his government’s employ for some time now. Under my auspices.” He glanced at Jameson, who was not paying them any heed, his gaze darting about the room, assessing and discarding plans, looking for a way out that did not exist. “Amongst others.”

Knowlton smiled at Avery. “So, you see, you can put the gun down. Sir Jameson is no longer in a position to threaten you. Nor will he ever be. He has shot a peer of the realm, you see, though I doubt he will ever stand trial.”

Which meant Knowlton was now the sole head of the committee. A dark suspicion filled Strand. “How did you find us so quickly?”

Alerted by the tension in Giles’s voice, Avery turned the pistol back up towards Knowlton. Jameson edged sideways. The pistol barrel swung back to follow him. “Stay where you are!”