Wicked Widow, Page 3

  “I doubt that there has been enough time to harm the lass.” Artemas started across the street. “To be blunt, if she was kidnapped with the intention of selling her to a brothel, the bastards will have been careful not to do anything that would lower her, ah, value in that particular market, if you take my meaning.”

  Latimer stiffened with dread and rage. “I comprehend ye well enough, sir. I’ve heard they sell the girls in auctions the same way horses are sold off at Tattersall’s. The poor things go to the highest bidder.”

  “Never fear, we will get to her in time,” Artemas said quietly.

  Latimer turned his head. His face was a bleak mask in the yellow light that flared through the tavern windows. “If we get my Nellie safely out of here tonight, I want ye to know that I’ll be in yer debt for the rest of me life, sir.”

  The poor man was in love, Artemas thought. Unable to think of any further words of reassurance, he squeezed Latimer’s shoulder briefly. “Remember,” Artemas said, “give me fifteen minutes, no more, and then create a distraction.” He moved into the shadows.

  “Aye, sir.” La timer stalked to the door of the tavern door, opened it, and disappeared inside.

  Artemas went into the alley that led to the back of the tavern. Within three steps he was enveloped in a tide of foul odors. The narrow passage had obviously been used as a privy as well as a place to toss refuse. His boots would be badly in need of cleaning when this affair was finished tonight.

  He reached the rear of the alley, turned the corner, and found himself in what had once been a garden. The tavern privy loomed in the corner. The door to the kitchen stood open to admit the night air. One floor above, a light glowed from a window.

  Artemas pulled the collar of his greatcoat up to conceal his profile as he strode toward the kitchen door. If anyone noticed him, he would pass himself off as just one more drunken rake who had wandered into the stews in search of debauchery and entertainment.

  He found the rear stairs and took them two at a time to the upper floor. On the landing he heard the muffled voices of two men. A fierce quarrel was in full boil behind one of the doors that opened off the darkened hall.

  “She’s a prime bit o’ muslin, I tell ye. We can get twice as much for her from that old bawd who operates the house in Rose Lane .”

  “I made a bargain, damn yer bloody eyes, and I ain’t goin’ back on it. Got me reputation to think of.”

  “This is a business we’re in, ye great fool, not a gennelman’s sport with proper rules and the like. The point is to make money, and I’m tellin’ ye, she’ll fetch a lot more blunt if we market her to the brothel keeper in Rose—”

  The argument was interrupted by a sudden uproar from the ground floor. Shouts and cries of alarm echoed up the stairwell. Artemas recognized the loudest of the voices. It belonged to Latimer.

  “Fire! Fire in the kitchen! Run fer yer lives, the place is goin’ up like a torch!”

  A thunderous pounding ensued. The sound of heavily booted feet heading toward the door, Artemas surmised. He heard a rumble and crash as a large object, a table perhaps, overturned.

  He tried the first knob he came to in the hall. It turned easily. He opened the door partway and paused. His senses told him that the unlit room was empty. He stepped inside, leaving the door slightly ajar.

  “Sound the alarm!” Latimer’s muffled voice rose in a yell. “The smoke is so thick in the kitchen ye can’t see yer bloody hand in front o’ yer face now.”

  The second door in the upstairs hall slammed open. Artemas watched from the shadows as a broad, muscular man appeared. He was followed by a thin, rat-faced companion. The light from the lamp inside the room revealed their rough clothing and uncertain expressions.

  “What the bloody hell is goin’ on?” the large man asked of no one in particular.

  “Ye heard the cry.” The thin man tried and failed to edge around the other man. “There’s a fire. I can smell the smoke. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “What about the girl? She’s worth too much to leave behind.”

  “She’s not worth me life.” The thin man finally managed to force his way out into the hall. He dashed toward the front stairs. “Ye can carry her if ye feel like goin’ to the trouble.”

  The big man hesitated. He glanced back into the lamp-lit room. Frustration warred with desperation on his coarse features. “Bloody, friggin’ hell.”

  Unfortunately, greed won out. The man swung around and started back into the small chamber. He reappeared a minute later with an unconscious woman slung over his beefy shoulder.

  Artemas moved out into the hall. “Allow me to assist you in rescuing the young lady.”

  The big man scowled furiously. “Get out o’ me bleedin’ way.”

  “Sorry.” Artemas stepped aside.

  The big man stormed past, heading for the front stairs. Artemas stuck out a boot and simultaneously struck the villain with a short chop to the vulnerable area between neck and shoulder.

  The man howled as his left arm and most of his left side went numb. He stumbled and tripped headlong over Artemas’s outstretched boot. He released Nellie to put out his right arm in a vain attempt to break his fall.

  Artemas scooped up Nellie before the man hit the floor. He draped the girl across his own shoulder and made for the rear stairs. Down below he could hear the sounds of people attempting to flee through the kitchen door.

  A figure loomed halfway up the narrow stairs.

  “Have ye got her?” Latimer demanded. Then he caught sight of Artemas’s burden. “Nellie! She’s dead!”

  “Just asleep. Probably dosed with laudanum or some such concoction. Come, man, we must make haste.”

  Latimer did not argue. He turned and led the way back down the stairs. Artemas followed swiftly.

  When they reached the ground floor, it was obvious that they were among the last to vacate the premises. Smoke roiled in the kitchen.

  “You may have overdone things with the lamp oil in the cooking fire,” Artemas observed.

  “Ye never said how much to use,” Latimer growled.

  “Never mind, it worked.”

  They hurried through the garden and turned down the alley. Several people were milling around in the street, but the overall air of panic was diminishing rapidly. The lack of flames was no doubt hampering the effectiveness of the illusion, Artemas thought. He saw one man, possibly the tavern proprietor, tentatively start back into the building.

  “Let us be quick about this,” Artemas ordered.

  “Aye, sir.”

  The carriage was there, precisely where Artemas had instructed it to wait. At least the woman had followed orders. Short John was on the box, the reins in his hands. The door of the vehicle flew open as Artemas approached.

  “You have her!” Madeline cried. “Thank God.”

  She reached out to help Artemas angle Nellie through the small opening. Latimer jumped up to take charge of the team.

  Artemas got Nellie through the door and made to follow.

  “Hold right where ye are, ye bloody, thievin’ bastard, or I’ll lodge a bullet in yer spine.”

  Artemas recognized the voice. The thin man.

  “Latimer, get us out of here.” Artemas launched himself through the door and pulled it closed behind him.

  He reached out to drag Madeline off the seat and down onto the floor so that she would not be silhouetted in the window. But she resisted for some unfathomable reason. Artemas felt her struggle against him as the coach lurched into motion. She raised her arm. He glimpsed the small pistol in her hand, inches from his ear.

  “No!” he yelled. But he knew that it was too late. He released her and clapped his hands over his ears.

  There was a flash of light. Inside the small cab the pistol’s roar was as loud as a cannon.

  Artemas was vaguely aware of the carriage jolting forward, but the accompanying noise of wheels and hooves was a distant buzz. He opened his eyes and saw Madeline gazing an
xiously down at him. Her lips were moving but he could not hear a word she was saying.

  She grasped him by the shoulders and shook him. Her mouth opened and closed again. He realized she was asking him if he was all right.

  “No,” he said. His ears were ringing now. He could not be certain of the volume of his own voice. He hoped he was shouting. He certainly felt like shouting. “No, I am not all right. Bloody hell, madam, I can only pray that you have not permanently deafened me.”

  Chapter Three

  The fumes that wafted from the open door of the still-room smelled of vinegar, chamomile, and elder flowers. Madeline paused and glanced around the corner into the small chamber.

  With its collection of flasks, mortars and pestles, and various sized jars, together with the abundant assortment of dried herbs and flowers, the stillroom always put Madeline in mind of a laboratory. Her aunt, enveloped in a large apron and bent industriously over a bubbling flask, could have been mistaken for some mad alchemist.

  “Aunt Bernice?”

  “One moment, dear.” Bernice did not look up from her work. “I am right in the midst of an infusion.”

  Madeline hovered impatiently in the opening. “I am sorry to interrupt you, but I want to ask your opinion on a very important matter.”

  “Of course. Just another few minutes. The potency of this particular tonic is entirely dependent upon the length of time the flowers are allowed to steep in the vinegar.”

  Madeline folded her arms and propped one shoulder against the doorjamb. There was no point in rushing her aunt when she was engaged in concocting one of her potions. Thanks to Bernice, Madeline was quite certain the household possessed the largest assortment of soothing brews, strengthening infusions, medicinal jellies, and other such remedies in all of London .

  Bernice was passionate about her tonics and elixirs. She claimed to suffer from weak nerves, and she was forever experimenting with therapeutic treatments for her condition. In addition, she was dedicated to the diagnosis of similar problems in others and was given to preparing special remedies for them based on their temperaments.

  Bernice spent hours researching ancient recipes for various concoctions and decoctions designed to treat afflictions of the nerves. She was acquainted with every apothecary in town, especially the select few who sold rare Vanzagarian herbs.

  Madeline would have been less patient with her aunt’s hobby if it were not for two things. The first was that Bernice’s remedies frequently proved remarkably efficacious. The herbal tea she had given to Nellie that morning had had a wonderfully soothing effect on the maid’s overwrought nerves.

  The second reason was that no one understood better than Madeline did how very necessary such distractions were on occasion. The events of that dark night nearly a year ago had been sufficient to put a severe strain on even the sturdiest nerves. The troubling occurrences of the past few days had only made matters worse.

  Bernice was in her early forties, a dainty, spirited, attractive woman with a quick mind. Years ago she had been a high flyer in social circles, but she had given up the glitter of Society to take charge of her brother’s infant daughter after Elizabeth Reed died.

  “Finished.” Bernice whisked the flask off the flame and poured the contents through a strainer into a pan. “Now it must cool for an hour.”

  She wiped her hands on her apron as she turned toward Madeline. Her silver-blue eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “What was it you wanted to discuss with me, dear?”

  “I fear that Mr. Hunt will make good on his promise to pay a call on us this afternoon,” Madeline said slowly.

  Bernice arched her brows. “He is not intending to call upon us, dear. It is you he wishes to visit.”

  “Yes, well, the thing is, last night after seeing us safely home, he told me quite bluntly that he will have some questions to ask.”

  “Questions? “

  Madeline exhaled slowly. “Concerning how I came to know so much about him and his business affairs.”

  “Well, of course, dear. One can hardly blame the man. After all, he has gone to a great deal of trouble to hide several aspects of his private life. Then, one night, from out of nowhere, a woman he has never met summons him from his club and demands his assistance in rescuing her maid. In the process, she informs him that she knows full well that he is not only the secret proprietor of the Dream Pavilions, but a master of Vanza. Any man in his position would be quite naturally alarmed.”

  “He was not at all cheerful about the matter, that is for certain. I don’t expect it will be a pleasant discussion. But after what he did for us last night, I feel it would be churlish to refuse to see him today.”

  “Churlish indeed,” Bernice said. “From the sound of things, he rose to the status of hero last night. Latimer has been exclaiming over Mr. Hunt’s exploits all morning.”

  “It’s all very well for Latimer to paint Hunt as a heroic figure. I’m the one who must confront him today and explain to him how I came to know the intimate details of his business affairs.”

  “I can see how that will be a trifle awkward.” Bernice eyed her shrewdly for a few seconds. “You are anxious because although you were content to make use of Mr. Hunt’s skills last night, you do not know what to do with him this morning.”

  “He is Vanza.”

  “That does not automatically make him a devil. Not all gentlemen who are members of the Vanzagarian Society are like Renwick Deveridge.” Bernice took a step forward and put her hand on Madeline’s arm. “You need look no farther than your own dear father to know the truth of that.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “There is nothing in your records to indicate that Hunt is inclined toward evil, is there? “

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Indeed, he was evidently quite reasonable about matters last night.”

  “I gave him very little choice.”

  Bernice cocked a brow. “Do not be too sure of that. I have a hunch that Hunt could have made himself far more difficult to manage had he wished to do so.”

  A flicker of hope went through Madeline. “Do you know, Aunt Bernice, you may have a point. Hunt was amazingly cooperative last night.”

  “I’m sure you will be able to explain everything to him this morning in a manner that will satisfy him.”

  Madeline thought about the relentless intent she had glimpsed in his eyes when he had left her at the door last night. The brief flare of relief faded. “I’m not so certain of that.”

  “Your problem is nothing more than overwrought nerves.” Bernice reached for a small blue bottle that stood on the table. “Here, take a spoonful of this when you have your tea. You will be feeling yourself in no time.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Bernice.” Absently, Madeline took the bottle.

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about Mr. Hunt,” Bernice said briskly. “I expect his chief concern is that you do not reveal his identity as the Dream Merchant. One cannot blame him. He is moving in some very exclusive circles at the moment.”

  “Yes.” Madeline frowned. “I wonder why. He does not seem the sort who would give a fig about the Polite World.”

  “Looking for a wife, no doubt,” Bernice said with airy assurance. “If it got out that he was in trade, his search would be considerably narrowed.”

  “A wife?” Madeline was startled by her own response to Bernice’s deduction. Why was she taken aback at the notion that Hunt was concealing his business connections because he was shopping for a wife? It was a perfectly logical conclusion. “Yes, of course. I hadn’t thought of that possibility.”

  Bernice gave her a knowing look. “That is because you are far too busy envisioning dire conspiracies and reading ominous portents into the smallest, most ordinary occurrences these days. No wonder your nerves are so inflamed that you cannot sleep well.”

  “You may be right.” Madeline turned to go down the hall. “One thing is certain, I must convince Hunt that his secrets are safe with me.”

 
; “I’m sure you’ll accomplish that with very little trouble, my dear. You are nothing if not resourceful.”

  Madeline went into the library. She paused to empty the contents of the blue bottle into the potted palm near the window. Then she sat down behind her desk and thought about Artemas Hunt.

  Bernice was right. Hunt had been remarkably cooperative last night. He had also displayed a useful degree of skill. Perhaps he could be induced to be even more helpful in the future.

  ———

  Artemas lounged in his chair, propped an ankle on one knee, and idly tapped a letter opener against his boot. He regarded the sturdy looking man who sat across from him on the other side of the wide desk.

  Henry Leggett had been Artemas’s man of affairs since before he’d had anything significant in the way of business affairs to handle. He’d more or less inherited Henry from his father.

  Not that Carlton Hunt had had much use for Henry’s services. Artemas had been fond of his sire, but there was no denying that Carlton had had little interest in investing for the future. After the death of his wife, the small concern he’d had for managing what was left of the Hunt family fortune had vanished altogether.

  Henry and Artemas had both been obliged to watch helplessly while all of Henry’s sound advice was ignored by a man who lived for gambling and reckless adventures in the stews. In the end it had been Henry who had come up to Oxford to inform Artemas that Carlton had got himself killed in a duel over a disputed hand of cards. It was Henry who had sadly reported that there was nothing left in the family coffers.

  Alone in the world, Artemas had resorted to the gaming hells himself in order to survive. Unlike his father, he’d had a certain knack for cards. But the life of a gamester was precarious at best.

  One night Artemas had encountered an elderly gentleman who had won with methodical efficiency. The others had all played with bottles of claret at their sides, but the old man had had nothing to drink. Unlike his companions, who picked up their cards and tossed them down with fashionable indifference, the winner had paid strict attention to what he held in his hand.