Outside in the hall a floorboard squeaked. The first creak was followed by another, closer this time. Someone was coming down the hall toward the bedroom. One of the guards, most likely. Would he open the door of his employer’s bedroom or was that forbidden territory? There was no way to know how thorough Quinby or Royce would be, but from what Anthony knew of Hastings’s temperament, it did not seem likely that he would authorize either man to prowl through his private sanctuary.
Voices sounded out in the hall. A man whispered something in soft, urgent tones. A woman responded, her voice equally low and eager.
Hastings had evidently brought one of the female guests up to his bedroom while his young bride was dutifully dealing with the crowd downstairs. The action certainly confirmed Louisa’s already low opinion of his character. But the sensibilities of the very new Mrs. Hastings were not his primary concern at the moment. He had to get out of the room.
There were two alternatives: the window and the connecting door to Mrs. Hastings’s bedroom. He chose the latter. If he went out onto the ledge he might not be able to find another unlocked window to crawl back through.
His hand was on the knob of the adjoining bedroom door when he heard the outer door of that room open. He stilled, listening as the couple entered.
“This is so damned risky, Lilly.”
“Hastings and his guests have all had far too much champagne tonight. No one will notice that you and I have slipped away for a short time. In any event surely this is no more reckless than the way we used to meet before I was forced into this ghastly marriage.”
“But if anyone discovers us—”
“Darling, I have been so desperate for you. The past few weeks have been a nightmare. Hold me.”
There was a rustle of heavy skirts and some passionate-sounding moans.
“Oh, God, Lilly. You cannot know what it has been like for me. I lie awake every night thinking of you in Hastings’s bed. The image is driving me slowly mad.”
“Do not torment yourself, my love. He was unable to consummate our marriage on our wedding night, and he has not come to me since.”
“Hastings is impotent?”
“He says it is my fault. He claims I do not understand his special needs. I believe he goes elsewhere to satisfy those needs, and I am truly grateful, believe me.”
“So am I.”
Anthony released the knob and went back across the room to the door that opened onto the hall. He let himself out into the shadowed corridor and descended the rear stairs.
4
She did not realize how tense she had become waiting for Anthony to return until the carriage door opened abruptly. She nearly yelped in surprise when he vaulted up inside the darkened cab.
“Didn’t mean to startle you, Mrs. Bryce.”
He pushed open the trapdoor.
“Arden Square, Ned.”
“Aye, sir.”
The vehicle rumbled forward. Anthony dropped down onto the seat across from her.
She knew at once that something had happened. A hot, seething energy emanated from him. She felt as though she was sharing the carriage with a panther that had just scented prey.
“What kept you?” she said a good deal more sharply than she had intended. “I’ve been worried. You were gone for a very long time.”
“Twenty minutes at most. Most of that time was spent in the garden, waiting for an opportunity to gain access to the house.”
“Time does not pass quickly when one is waiting in a closed, unlit carriage.” She peered at him, trying to make out his features. “Are you all right? Was there a problem?”
“Thank you for your concern. I am quite well, thank you. The only problem, such as it was, proved to be quite minor.”
“You sound in remarkably good spirits for a man who has just risked his neck. Do you enjoy your work, sir?”
He gave the question some thought and then shrugged. “The exercise does seem to have elevated my mood. What of yourself, madam? Do you derive a bit of a thrill from creeping about in other people’s bedrooms?”
“No, I do not,” she said tightly. She raised her chin. “And there is no need to make it sound as though I am in the habit of doing that sort of thing.”
“I see. You only flit through strange bedrooms when the fancy strikes, is that it? When was the first time you invaded someone’s bedroom?” he asked.
A shiver of warning slithered down her spine.
You’ve said enough, she thought. In spite of his assistance this evening, the plain fact is you do not know this man. You cannot take the risk of revealing your secrets to him.
“Never mind,” she said. “Tell me what you found. Did you get the safe open?”
“Certainly.” He turned up one of the lamps, reached into the voluminous coat and brought out a handful of papers. “These were all that were inside the safe.”
She stared at him, astonished. “You took all of his personal papers?”
“Yes. There wasn’t time to sort through them to find the specific papers you wanted so I grabbed the lot.”
“Good grief.” What had she expected? He was a thief, after all. “I, uh, just wanted to know if there were any papers relating to the brothel inside the safe. I didn’t actually intend—” She broke off. “Never mind.”
“Here.” He handed the papers to her. “See if you can find what you’re looking for in that bunch.”
Gingerly she took the papers and held them up to the light.
“They all appear to be business-related,” she said, rifling through them. “Most deal with his new
investment scheme. I don’t see any relating to—” She stopped when she caught sight of a familiar address. Excitement stirred her pulse. “Ah, here we are. This one mentions the property at Number Twenty-two Winslow Lane.”
She read through the document quickly and then looked up. “You have found the very document I was looking for, sir. According to this, Hastings recently invested a large sum of money in Phoenix House.”
“Nothing like a satisfied client, I always say.” He took several small, leather-bound books out of various pockets. “May I hope for repeat business?”
She ignored the teasing and examined the small books. “What have you got there?”
“I’m not sure yet. I took them because most of them did not appear to belong to Hastings or his wife.”
He handed a volume to her and opened one of the others to examine it.
“This is a private journal,” Louisa said. She paused when she saw the name inscribed on one of the pages. “Good heavens, you’re right. It cannot possibly belong to Hastings. According to this, it is the diary of Miss Sara Brindle. She is set to marry Lord Mallenby at the end of the month. How on earth did it end up in Hastings’s safe?”
“An excellent question.” He held up the book he had been perusing. “This journal belongs to a young lady named Julia Montrose.”
“I’ve met her. She was recently engaged to Richard Plumstead. It is considered a spectacular match. Plumstead is in line for his father’s title.” She frowned. “This is all quite bizarre. Why would Hastings have these diaries?”
“I can think of one very good reason off hand.”
She took a quick breath. “Do you think that he is blackmailing those people?”
“I doubt if young Julia or Sara has sufficient income of her own to pay blackmail. They likely receive only quarterly allowances. If Hastings is extorting money from anyone, it would be from someone else in the family. In the case of Julia, it would have to be her great-grandmother, Lady Penfield. She still controls the fortune in that family.” Anthony paused. “She is quite elderly and not in good health.”
“Lady Ashton said something about Sara Brindle’s elderly aunt having control of Sara’s inheritance.”
Anthony opened the last of the small volumes. “This, I suspect, will prove to be a record of extortion payments.”
“We must return those items to their rightful owners immediately,” Louisa said.
“I agree. But some discretion will be required.”
“Yes, of course. We cannot reveal our own identities.” She paused. “What of the business papers?”
“Those I will keep,” Anthony said coolly.
“But they belong to Hastings. It is one thing to take the blackmail items, but I think we should restore the papers to the safe.”
He looked at her, his eyes pitiless in the soft light. “The bastard is not only a blackmailer, he is also a cold-blooded murderer. I feel under no obligation to return anything to him.”
She felt everything inside her turn to ice. “That is the second time you have said you believe him to be a murderer. Do you have any evidence?”
“I didn’t until tonight.”
He withdrew a black velvet pouch, opened it, and turned it upside down. She watched a cascade of gold and blazing gems spill into his fingers.
“Good heavens,” she whispered. “It must be worth a fortune.”
“It is. And it also proves that Hastings is guilty of murder.”
“I don’t understand. You took that from his safe tonight?”
“Yes.”
She stared at the glittering pool, stunned in spite of herself. “You really are a jewel thief.”
“This necklace belonged to a woman named Fiona Risby.”
She jerked her gaze back up to his grim face. “Your fiancée? The woman who threw herself off a bridge?”
“I was never completely convinced that Fiona committed suicide. Finding this necklace in Hastings’s safe proves I was right. He killed her.”
“You’re certain that is her necklace?”
He poured the necklace back into the pouch. “Yes. It is quite distinctive. A family heirloom. Fiona wore it the night she died.”
“What are you going to do? Now that you have taken it from Hastings’s safe, it is no longer evidence against him because it is not in his possession.” She paused delicately. “I hesitate to point this out, sir, but if the police discover that you have the necklace they might well consider you a suspect.”
“I couldn’t leave it behind in the safe; it would never be found there. Hastings would never allow the police to search his mansion.”
“I see what you mean. But what are you going to do with it?”
“I’m not sure yet,” he admitted. “But by the time I call on you tomorrow, I hope to have a plan.”
“You are going to visit me in Arden Square tomorrow?” she asked, suddenly cautious.
“Of course.” Anthony’s smile was dangerously enigmatic. “I have yet to collect my fee for this night’s work.”
5
Anthony let himself into the darkened town house. There was no one around to open the door. His small staff knew that they were not expected to wait up for him.
He went into the library and tossed the heavy overcoat across the back of a chair. He peeled off his evening coat, unknotted his black tie, and loosened the stiff collar of his shirt.
He set the items that he had removed from the safe on a table next to a reading chair and splashed some brandy into a glass. After taking a long swallow of the brandy, he lowered himself into the chair. Picking up some of the business papers, he began to read.
Twenty minutes later he had no doubt about what he was looking at. The papers were confirmation of the rumors he had been hearing in his clubs. Elwin Hastings was masterminding another investment consortium. There was nothing surprising in that. Hastings had been involved in a number of financial
ventures over the past few years. What was strikingly unusual about this particular scheme was the identity of one of the participants.
He finished the brandy, rose, and poured himself another. It was late, but he was in no hurry to go to bed. He knew that when he finally did sleep he would likely dream of Fiona Risby. He would not see the young, beautiful, vibrant woman she had been in life; rather he would see her as she appeared after they pulled her out of the river, dead eyes filled with accusation.
He took the necklace out of the velvet pouch and studied it. One of the two questions that had been driving him for the past year and two months had been answered with ringing finality as far as he was concerned. Fiona had not committed suicide. Hastings had murdered her.
But the second question still remained. He needed to know why Fiona had been killed. Above all he had to discover if he was responsible for forcing her into the dangerous situation that had resulted in her death.
He drank some more brandy. A plan began to take shape in his mind.
Some time later he went upstairs to bed. To his amazement it was not the image of Fiona’s body that disturbed his sleep; it was Louisa Bryce’s face he saw. She looked at him through the invisible veil of her spectacles, watchful and mysterious. In his dreams he chased her through an endless maze of corridors knowing that he could not stop until he had unlocked her secrets.
6
The nightmare began the way it always did…
A muffled thud reverberates down below. The sound comes from the rear of the shop. The new lock that she installed last week has just been forced.
She is suddenly cold from head to toe, paralyzed by fear. Her heart is pounding. Panic roils her stomach. Icy perspiration dampens her nightgown. She is clutching the quilt as though it were a shield.
Iron hinges squeak. The door is opening. The monster is inside the shop.
He has come for her. For the past month she has lived with a growing dread. Tonight her worst fears have come true.
She must move. She cannot stay here in bed like a terrified child waiting for the demon to find her.
The bottom step creaks beneath the weight of a heavy, booted foot. There is no attempt at stealth. He wants her to know he is coming for her.
She must get out of bed this instant or there is no hope. Screaming will do no good. There is no one in the room next door to hear her. She is not even certain that she could call for help. The frightening paralysis has affected her voice as well as the rest of her body.
She forces herself to concentrate on the desperate plan that she concocted a few days ago. The act of focusing her mind on something other than raw fear gives her strength.
Employing every ounce of will she possesses, she pushes aside the covers and gets to her feet. The floor is very cold. Somehow that helps to steady her nerves.
Another step creaks. He is midway up the stairs now. Not hurrying. Taking his time.