Susan Carroll (12 page)

“What worries me is that you have already
found one.”

“Sara, I assure you one last time. I am not
the Hook. I swear upon our mother's grave.”

“Our mother is not dead.”

“The graves of our fathers then.”

“Whoever they might be.”

“Not even our own mama knows for sure.”
Gideon flashed her a dazzling smile. Her brother possessed enough
charm to wheedle himself into anyone's good graces, from the local
barmaid to the Archbishop of Canterbury. Only Sara had never been
taken in by him. When he reached out to pat her hand, Sara gave his
fingers a sharp whack with her fan.

“Ow!” Gideon sucked on his injured knuckle,
eyeing her reproachfully. “For all your pretensions, Sara, there is
one difference between you and the Quality. I have never seen a
real lady use her fan for a truncheon.”

“I wish this was a club. Maybe then I could
beat some sense into your head,” Sara muttered as she checked the
handle of her fan to make sure she had not broken it. “I never
thought I would say this, but some things were better back in the
days when we all lived in the slums of Bethnal Green. If you and
Davy didn't mind me, I could thrash you both. Now Davy is taller
than you and I cannot reach to box his ears. He is making a living
by stealing dead bodies to sell and you are up to heaven knows
what. I daresay I shall end with both of my brothers clapped up in
Newgate.”

“At least you will know where we are.”
Gideon's knuckles had apparently recovered enough for him to risk
chucking her under the chin. “Old Aunt Peg always said I was a
villain child, born to hang. When the day comes, will you shed a
tear for me, sweet Sara?”

“Only if you reek of onions.” She turned her
head away so that he could not see her lip quiver in a rare display
of emotion. She had but two fears, one was of ending like her
mother, living above a pawnshop, reminiscing about her many lovers
and the glories of her youth. The other was of Gideon finishing his
life upon the gallows.

Sara was close in age to both her brothers,
but it had always been Gideon she had understood and loved too
well. How many nights had she lost sleep worrying about him,
imagining him taking that final walk up the scaffolding, smiling
and defiant even as the thick hemp was slipped round his neck.

If she understood Gideon through and through,
then likewise he comprehended her every mood. He settled back into
the chair beside her and covered her hand with his own.

“Come on, Sary. Please stop fretting and
scolding.” Gideon's charm was never more lethal than when he
resorted to using her childhood nickname. “I admit I have done a
reckless thing or two which could get me hanged. But one of my
friends has put me onto a scheme for making money that is
practically foolproof.”

“If this suggestion came from one of those
ruffians who carouse with you at the Jolly Tar, I shudder to think
what it is.”

“No, this has nothing to do with any of my
dockside acquaintances. This idea came from the respectable Mr.
Keeler. That is, before we had our falling out. That boy is the
most reprehensible cheater at cards.” Gideon's lips thinned, but
the ugly expression vanished as quickly as it had come, as he
continued enthusiastically, “But Keeler has his uses, being a
banker's son. Before we parted company, he showed me an almost
undetectable method of counterfeiting coin.”

“Counterfeiting? That is your notion of
honest employment?”

“I never said anything about honest
employment. I said I had found a good way to make money.”

Sara pressed her fingers to her temple,
feeling the familiar niggling. She would end by having one of her
infamous headaches over this. Counterfeiting coin! What madness
would possess Gideon next?

“I think it would be better if you left
London. You are doomed to get yourself into some sort of deep water
if you remain here,” Sara said. “I could lend you enough money to
get out of the city.”

“Leave London and do what?”

“Rusticate in the country or go abroad
or—”

Sara was floundering for another suggestion
when she was interrupted by someone barging into their box. One of
the players burst in, a petite female with a half-exposed bosom and
carroty curls.

“Excuse me, madam,” the girl squeaked. “I was
looking for—oh, Gideon!”

When her brother rose to his feet, the chit
all but flung herself into his arms. Wrinkling her nose, Sara
attempted to fan away the stench of cloying perfume. Why did.
Gideon have such low taste in females?

Slipping his arm about the creature's waist,
Gideon said, “Cherry, my little love. Allow me to present you to my
sister.”

Sara gave the girl a look that would have
frosted hot tea. She had no desire to be introduced to any three
penny actress. The girl greeted her with a mighty sob, her face
pale beneath her layering of garish makeup.

“What's the matter, love?” Gideon asked.

“Too dreadful,” was all the girl could choke
out. She continued to snivel against Gideon's shoulder despite all
his coaxing and pressing of kisses to her brow.

Oh, lord, Sara thought. She hoped Gideon had
not gotten another stupid wench with child. Unable to endure any
more of the nonsense, she shot to her feet.

She spun the girl away from Gideon, saying,
“Stop it. Unless you want to be smacked, you'd best save this
melodrama for the stage. Either tell us what is wrong or get
out”

“Sara!” Gideon protested. But her words had
more effect on the girl than all of Gideon's crooning. Cherry
looked up at Sara with wide frightened eyes. Sniffing, she wiped
her face on her sleeve.

“The Hook has been abroad tonight,” Cherry
said “They found another body in the street behind the
theatre.”

A chill shot up Sara's spine. Gideon wrapped
his arm around the trembling actress's shoulders and he seemed to
be avoiding Sara's eye.

No! She sought to reassure herself. It was
all right this time. Gideon had been here with her, watching the
play. But he had not joined her until the second act.

Sara's head gave a mighty throb and she
passed one hand over her brow, fearing she was going to be ill. She
wanted to press Cherry for more details, but was afraid to do
so.

It did not matter. Having finally found her
voice, the girl's words came in a torrent “It was another murder.
Some banker's son. The body is still laying there in all that
blood. And the constables are everywhere. Someone saw something
this time and they might be able to figure out who the Hook is. But
I am still terrified to go home alone tonight.”

The girl clung meltingly to Gideon. Cherry's
hysterics were largely feigned. It was quite clear what the girl
wanted, and it was a testimony to Gideon's finesse that he was able
to steer her back out of the box without promising anything.

Much as Sara wanted the girl gone, she moved
to stop them, placing one hand on Cherry's arm. “This banker's
son,” Sara asked. “Do you know who he was?”

“Some young lad named Daniel Keeler.”

Sara's hand fell back to her side and she
could feel the color draining from her face as Gideon hustled
Cherry outside.

First Bertie Glossop. Now Daniel Keeler. What
was it Gideon had called him? The most reprehensible cheater at
cards. She recollected all too well Gideon's hard smile when he had
denied knowing anything about the Hook's activities.

Sara blinked. The pain that flared behind her
eyes caused them to water. Sometimes it was a great disadvantage to
know one's own brother so well.

When Gideon returned to the box, a heavy
silence hovered between them. He faced her with a wry smile.

“You may be right after all, Sara,” he said.
“Perhaps I should leave London.”

Sara stared deep into those cold silver-blue
eyes. “Yes, you should,” she agreed hoarsely. “Tonight.”

CHAPTER SIX

“Twelve of the clock and a cloudy night”

Anne heard the watchman's mournful cry as she
huddled in the shadows of the high stone wall which separated
Lucien's townhouse from the street. It seemed to her that the old
charley no longer sang out as cheerfully as he once had before the
Hook had brought his murderous activities to Mayfair.

Before she had left the theatre, she had
heard rumors of another killing. But that did not bear thinking of,
not when she was creeping alone through the dark. She was nervous
enough. More than once she had fancied herself being followed,
heard the light tap of a footfall not her own. But when she whipped
about, the sound had been swallowed by the clatter of a passing
carriage, any mysterious shadows becoming nothing more than the
rustling shape of some tree.

Each time she fell prey to such fancies, she
chided herself for a fool, but it was a night prime for dark
imaginings. Clouds settled like a veil across the face of the moon,
the wind whistled around the corners of the houses, and the heavy
threat of an April rainstorm hung in the air. Anne shivered and
draped her shawl over her head. Tightening her grip upon the
pistol, she hastened her footsteps.

She was already late. Slipping away from
Lily's house undetected had not been easy, even at such an hour.
Her sister had been most persistent, pressing her to attend a late
supper at Lord Cecil's. And even after Anne had managed to fob off
Lily, there had been any number of servants about, all seeming to
regard Anne's furtive movements with curious eyes. Lily's household
never settled until the wee hours of the morning.

By the time Anne had succeeded in snatching
up her shawl, bolting out one of the side doors, the clock already
approached twelve. Anne could only hope that Louisa was not
likewise experiencing such difficulties; that even if Anne was a
few minutes late, the little maid would bear the patience and
courage to wait for her.

Following the high wall surrounding Lucien's
garden, Anne rounded the corner, which brought her out onto the
narrow street behind the house. Except for the lone hackney that
creaked by, the cobblestone lane was dark and silent, making her
feel as isolated as though she had crept into the sinister confines
of some back alley.

Once more her nerves played tricks upon her,
conjuring up sounds behind her, shapes that were not really there.
Her heart thudding, she stole one more glance over her shoulder,
but she was quite alone. She hastened toward the tall iron gate
that led into Lucien's garden. Here at least was a pool of light
provided by the two lanterns mounted upon the brick pillars on
either side of the gate.

Anne shoved against the latch, but the gate
was locked, just as she had expected. She peered through the bars.
She had hoped to find Louisa waiting for her, but the house beyond
loomed still as a tomb, with little light showing behind the
windows.

The garden was likewise bleak and deserted, a
desolate place overrun with weeds and dying foliage. It must have
been badly neglected by the previous tenant and Lucien had done
little to set things to rights. Nothing seemed capable of growing
there, not shrubs, not flowers, certainly not a child.

“Louisa?” Anne called, praying that at any
moment the girl would step out from some place of concealment in
the shrubberies. She received no answer other than the mournful
whisperings of the night wind.

Could she be more than ten minutes late?
Surely Louisa would not have given up on her after such a short
delay—that is, if the girl intended to keep their rendezvous at
all.

The prospect that Louisa might fail her was
too daunting, and Anne refused to consider it. She continued her
vigil, clutching the bar of the gate, staring anxiously at the
silent house.

How long she stood there Anne had no idea,
the minutes crawling by. The cold damp of the night air seeped
through her thin shawl, chilling her to the bone, but Anne scarce
noticed it for the numbness stealing into her heart.

She feared that the dawn would find her still
clinging to Lucien's gate, wistfully regarding all those windows,
wondering which one her little girl slept behind. Louisa was not
going to come. Anne knew that with a sick certainty, but she could
not bring herself to abandon her hope and start the miserable
trudge back home.

If only she had taken more pains with Louisa,
been more persuasive, offered her more money to keep their
bargain.

“Did I not make you understand?” Anne
whispered. “You are my last hope.”

She rested her head against the bars of the
gate, the pistol she clutched a heavy weight in her hand. The plan
she had formed began to seem both ridiculous and pathetic. She was
utterly useless at this kind of thing. Getting Norrie safely out of
that bleak dark mansion would take someone far bolder, more
ruthless than she.

It was disconcerting that an image of the
marquis of Mandell should pop into her head. Ruthless Mandell was,
and most certainly bold and unscrupulous. But if Anne ever stood
alone in the dark with him, she knew that Mandell's thoughts would
not be upon rescuing her daughter.

And God help her, perhaps her own would not
be, either. Mandell's eyes had a seductive effect upon her, both
hypnotic and strange. He seemed to call to some wild, dark, secret
corner of Anne's heart, a part of herself that alarmed her. Even
now she could feel that stirring of her blood which was almost a
fever.

Anne fought to suppress the unwelcome
feeling, to banish Mandell from her mind. She was still struggling
to do so when she straightened, suddenly alert. Was it only her
overwrought imagination again or had she actually seen something
this time? A shadowy form emerging from the shelter of the
house?

Anne strained against the gate. No, this time
she had not imagined it. Someone was coming down the garden path.
And it was a woman carrying a large bundle in her arms.