by Lisa Kleypas
“Convince me that you don’t,” Leo said, clenching his neck more tightly, “and I may let you live.”
Latimer’s bloated face turned dark. “I have no use for that woman, or any other harlot, because of the … the stew you’ve put me in! You are tearing my life apart! Investigations, questions from Bow Street … allies threatening to turn on me. D’ you know how many enemies you’re making?”
“Not nearly as many as you.”
Latimer writhed in his merciless grasp. “They want me dead, damn you.”
“What a coincidence,” Leo said through clenched teeth. “So do I.”
“What has become of you?” Latimer demanded. “She’s only a woman. ”
“If anything happens to her, I’ll have nothing left to lose. And if I don’t find her within the next hour, you’ll pay with your life.”
Something in his tone caused Latimer’s eyes to widen in panic. “I have nothing to do with it.”
“Tell me, or I’ll garrot you until you swell up like a toad.”
“Ramsay.” Harry Rutledge’s voice sliced through the air like a sword.
“He says she’s not here,” Leo muttered, not taking his gaze from Latimer.
A few metallic clicks, and then Harry placed the muzzle of a flintlock in the center of Latimer’s forehead. “Let go of him, Ramsay.”
Leo complied.
Latimer made an incoherent sound in the sepulchral quiet of the room. His gaze locked with Harry’s.
“Remember me?” Harry asked softly. “I should have done this eight years ago.”
It appeared that Harry’s ice-cold eyes frightened Latimer even more than Leo’s murderous ones. “Please,” Latimer whispered, his mouth shaking.
“Give me information about my sister’s whereabouts in the next five seconds, or I’ll put a hole in your head. Five.”
“I don’t know anything,” Latimer pleaded.
“Four.”
“I swear it on my life!” Tears sprang from his eyes.
“Three. Two.”
“Please, I’ll do anything!”
Harry hesitated, giving him an assessing stare. He read the truth in his eyes. “Damn it,” he said softly, and lowered the pistol. He looked at Leo, while Latimer collapsed in a sobbing drunken heap on the floor. “He doesn’t have her.”
They exchanged a quick, bleak glance. It was the first time Leo had ever felt a kinship with Harry, sharing this moment of despair over the same woman.
“Who else would want her?” Leo muttered. “There’s no one with a connection to her past … except the aunt.” He paused. “The night of the play, Cat happened to see a man who worked at the brothel. William. She knew him as a child.”
“The brothel is in Marylebone,” Harry said abruptly, heading for the door. He motioned for Leo to follow.
“Why would the aunt have taken Cat?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps she’s finally gone mad.”
The brothel was sagging and flat-breasted, with trim that had chipped and been painted a thousand times until someone had finally decided the effort was no longer worth it. The windows were soot-darkened, the front door askew like a lascivious half-smile. The house next door was far smaller, stoop-shouldered, a maltreated child standing next to its promiscuous older sister.
It was often the arrangement that when a brothel was a family business, the owners lived in a separate dwelling. Leo recognized the house from Catherine’s description. This was where she had lived as a naïve young girl, unaware that her future had already been stolen from her.
They rode through a cross-street to a fetid alley behind the brothel, a crumbling mews with tilting sides, one of many in the labyrinth of nooks and tiny streets concealed behind the main thoroughfare.
Two men lounged in the doorway of the larger building, the brothel, one of them possessing a massive physical stature that distinguished him as the Bully of the house. In the world of prostitution, the office of Bully was to keep order at a brothel and settle disputes between whores and clients. The other man was small and slight, a hawker of some manner, with a pocketed apron knotted around his waist and a small covered handchaise at the side of the alley.
Noting the attention the visitors paid to the back entrance of the brothel, the Bully spoke in an affable tone. “Sporting ladies aren’t working yet, guvnahs, you ’as to come back at nightfall.”
Leo summoned all his will to keep his tone pleasant as he spoke to the strongman. “I have business with the mistress of the house.”
“She won’t see you, I ’spect … but you can ask Willy.” The Bully gestured toward the dilapidated house with a meaty hand, his manner relaxed, his eyes sharp.
Leo and Harry went to the dilapidated entrance of the smaller house. A cluster of nail holes was all that remained of a long-gone door knocker. Leo struck the door with his knuckles in a controlled hammer, when he longed to kick it down with the full force of his impatience.
In a moment, the door creaked open, and Leo was faced with the pale and undernourished countenance of William. The young man’s eyes dilated in alarm as he recognized Leo. Had there been any color to his complexion, it would have leached out at once. He tried to close the door again, but Leo shouldered his way forward.
Grabbing William’s wrist, Leo forced it upward and surveyed the bloodstained bandage on his hand. Blood on the bed … the thought of what this man might have done to Cat ignited a rage so violent that it obliterated every other awareness. He stopped thinking altogether. A minute later, he found himself on the floor, straddling William’s body and battering him mercilessly. He was dimly aware of Harry shouting his name and endeavoring to pull him off.
Alerted by the fracas, the Bully stormed through the doorway and launched at him. Leo flipped the heavier, larger man over his head, causing his body to slam to the floor with an impetus that shook the house to its frame. The Bully lurched to his feet, and his fists, the size of Sunday roasts, whipped through the air with bone-crushing force. Leo leaped back, raising his guard, then jabbed forward with his right. The Bully blocked him easily. Leo, however, did not fight according to the London Prize Ring rules. He followed with a side kick to the kneecap. As the Bully bent over with a grunt of pain, Leo delivered a fouetté, or whip kick, to the head. The Bully toppled to the floor, right at Harry’s feet.
Reflecting that his brother-in-law was one of the dirtier fighters he’d ever seen, Harry gave him a short nod and headed into the empty receiving room.
The house was eerily vacant, quiet except for Leo’s and Harry’s shouts as they searched for Catherine. The place reeked of opium smoke, the windows filmed with such thick grime that curtains were entirely unnecessary. Every room was shrouded in filth. Dust upon dust. Corners clotted with webs, carpets blossomed with stains, wood floors scarred and buckled.
Harry saw a room upstairs where lamplight oozed into the hallway shadows, filtering through a miasma of smoke. He took the steps two and three at a time, his heart hammering.
The form of an old woman was curled on the settee. The loose folds of her black dress couldn’t conceal the stick-thin lines of her body, gnarled like the trunk of a crab apple tree. She appeared only half conscious, her bony fingers caressing the length of a leather hookah hose as if it were a pet serpent.
Harry approached her, put his hand on her head, and pushed it back to view her face.
“Who are you?” she croaked. The whites of her eyes were stained, as if they had been soaked in tea. Harry struggled not to recoil at the smell of her breath.
“I’ve come for Catherine,” he said. “Tell me where she is.”
She stared at him fixedly. “The brother…”
“Yes, where is she? Where are you keeping her? The brothel?”
Althea let go of the leather hose and hugged herself.
“My brother never came for me,” she said plaintively, perspiration and tears seeping through the powder on her face, turning it into a creamy paste. “You can’t have her.” But
her gaze chased off to the side, in the direction of the stairs leading to the third floor.
Galvanized, Harry rushed from the room and up the stairs. A blessed waft of cool air and a ray of natural light came from one of the two rooms at the top. He went inside, his gaze sweeping across the stagnant room. The bed was in disarray and the window had been thrown open.
Harry froze, sharp pain lancing through his chest. His heart had stopped with fear. “Cat!” he heard himself shout, running to the window. Gulping for air, he looked down at the street three stories below.
But there was no broken body, no blood, nothing on the street below except rubbish and manure.
At the periphery of his vision, a white flutter caught his attention, like the flapping of a bird’s wings. Turning his head to the left, Harry drew in a quick breath as he saw his sister.
Catherine was in a white nightgown, perched on the edge of a winged gable. She was only about three yards away, having crept along an incredibly narrow sill that was cantilevered over the second story below. Her arms were locked around her slender knees, and she was shivering violently. The breeze played with the loose locks of her hair, glittering banners dancing against the gray sky. One puff of wind, one momentary loss of balance, would knock her off the gable.
Even more alarming than Catherine’s precarious perch was the vacancy of her expression.
“Cat,” Harry said carefully, and her face turned in his direction.
She didn’t seem to recognize him.
“Don’t move,” Harry said hoarsely. “Stay still, Cat.” He ducked his head inside the house long enough to shout, “Ramsay!” and then his head emerged from the window again. “Cat, don’t move a muscle. Don’t even blink.”
She didn’t say a word, only sat and continued to shiver, her gaze unfocused.
Leo came up behind Harry and stuck his own head out the window. Harry heard Leo’s breath catch. “Sweet mother of God.” Taking stock of the situation, Leo became very, very calm. “She’s as high as a piper,” he said. “This is going to be a pretty trick.”
Chapter Thirty-one
“I’ll walk along the sill,” Harry said. “I’m not afraid of heights.”
Leo’s expression was grim. “Neither am I. But it won’t hold either of us—too much stress on the trusses. The ones above us are rotting, which means they probably all are.”
“Is there another way to reach her? From the third-story roof?”
“That would take too long. Keep talking to her while I find some rope.”
Leo disappeared, while Harry hung farther out the window. “Cat, it’s me,” he said. “It’s Harry. You know me, don’t you?”
“’Course I do.” Her head dropped to her bent knees, and she wobbled. “I’m so tired.”
“Cat, wait. This isn’t the time for a nap. Lift your head and look at me.” Harry continued to talk to her, encouraging her to stay still, stay awake, but she barely responded. More than once she altered her position, and Harry’s heart plummeted as he expected her to roll right off the winged gable.
To his relief, Leo returned in no time at all with a substantial length of rope. His face was misted with sweat, and he was drawing in deep lungfuls of air.
“That was fast,” Harry said, taking the rope from him.
“We’re next door to a notorious whipping den,” Leo said. “There was a lot of rope.”
Harry measured two spans of rope with his arms and began to tie a knot. “If you’re planning to coax her to come back to the window,” he said, “it won’t work. She won’t respond to anything I say.”
“You tie the knot. I’ll do the talking.”
Leo had never experienced fear like this before, not even when Laura had died. That had been a slow process of loss, watching her life slip away like sand from an hourglass. This was even worse. This was the deepest level of hell.
Leaning out the window, Leo stared at Catherine’s huddled, exhausted form. He understood the effects of the opium, the confusion and dizziness, the sense that one’s limbs were too heavy to move, and at the same time a feeling of buoyant lightness as if one could fly. And added to that, Catherine couldn’t even see.
If he managed to get her to safety, he was never going to let her out of his arms again.
“Well, Marks,” he said in as normal a voice as he could manage. “Of all the ridiculous situations you and I have found ourselves in, this one takes the biscuit.”
Her head lifted from her knees, and she squinted blindly in his direction. “My lord?”
“Yes, I’m going to help you. Stay still. Naturally you would make my heroic rescue effort as difficult as possible.”
“I didn’t plan on this.” Her voice was slurred, but there was a familiar—and welcome—touch of indignation in it. “Was trying to get away.”
“I know. And in just a minute, I’m going to bring you inside so that we can argue properly. For the time being—”
“Don’t want to.”
“Don’t want to come in?” Leo asked, puzzled.
“No, don’t want to argue.” She lowered her head to her knees again, and gave a muffled sob.
“Christ,” Leo said, his emotions nearly getting the better of him. “Darling love, please, we won’t argue. I promise. Don’t cry.” He took a shuddering breath as Harry handed him the rope, looped with a perfect bowline knot. “Cat, listen to me … lift your head and put your knees down just a little. I’m going to throw a rope to you, but it’s very important that you not reach for it, do you understand? Just sit still and let it fall into your lap.”
She held obediently still, squinting and blinking.
Leo let the loop swing a few times, testing its weight, estimating how much line to allow. He tossed it in a slow, careful motion, but the loop fell short of its mark, bouncing off the shingles near Catherine’s feet.
“You need to throw it harder,” she said.
Despite Leo’s desperation and bone-deep anxiety, he had to bite back a grin. “Will you ever stop telling me what to do, Marks?”
“I don’t think so,” she said after a moment’s reflection.
He gathered up the rope and tossed the loop again, and this time it caught neatly on her knees.
“I’ve got it.”
“Good girl,” Leo said. He fought to keep his voice calm. “Now, put your arms through the circle, and lift it over your head. I want it to go around your chest. Not too fast, keep your balance—” His breath quickened as she fumbled with the loop. “Yes, just so. Yes. God, I love you.” He let out breath of relief as he saw that the rope was in place, fitting just above her breasts and beneath her arms. He gave the other end of the rope to Harry. “Don’t let go.”
“Not a chance.” Harry quickly tied it around his own waist.
Leo’s attention returned to Catherine, who was saying something to him, her face drawn with a frown. “What is it, Marks?”
“You didn’t have to say that.”
“I didn’t have to say what?”
“That you love me.”
“But I do.”
“No, you don’t. I heard you say to Win that…” Catherine paused, struggling to recollect. “That you would only marry a woman you were certain never to love.”
“I often say idiotic things,” Leo protested. “It never crossed my mind that anyone actually listens to me.”
A window opened in the brothel next door, and an annoyed prostitute leaned out. “There’s girls what’s tryin’ to sleep in ’ere, and you’re shoutin’ fit to wake the dead!”
“We’ll be finished soon,” Leo called back to her, scowling. “Go back to bed.”
The prostitute continued to lean out. “What are you doin’ wiv a girl on the bleedin’ roof?”
“None of your business,” Leo said curtly.
A few more windows opened, and more heads stuck out, with incredulous exclamations.
“’Oo is he?”
“Is she goin’ to jump?”
“Gor, what a
filfy mess that would be.”
Catherine didn’t seem to notice the audience they had attracted, her squinting gaze fastened on Leo. “Did you mean it?” she asked. “What you said?”
“We’ll talk about it later,” Leo said, straddling the windowsill, holding on to the frame. “For now, I want you to put your hand against the side of the house and step onto the sill. Carefully.”
“Did you mean it?” Catherine repeated, unmoving.
Leo gave her an incredulous glance. “Good God, Marks, do you have to be stubborn now, of all times? You want me to declare myself in front of a chorus of prostitutes?”
She nodded emphatically.
One of the whores called out, “Go on an’ tell ’er, dearie!”
The others joined in enthusiastically. “Go on, luv!”
“Let’s ’ear it, ’andsome!”
Harry, who was standing just behind Leo, was shaking his head slowly. “If it will get her to come in off the blasted roof, just say it, damn it.”
Leo leaned farther out the window. “I love you,” he said shortly. As he stared at Catherine’s small, shivering figure, he felt his color run high, and his soul open with an emotion deeper than he had ever imagined could reside in him. “I love you, Marks. My heart is completely and utterly yours. And unfortunately for you, the rest of me comes with it.” Leo paused, struggling for words, when they had always come so easily to him. But these had to be the right words. They meant too much. “I know I’m a bad bargain. But I’m begging you to have me anyway. Because I want the chance to make you as happy as you make me. I want to build a life with you.” He fought to steady his voice. “Please come to me, Cat, because there’s no surviving you. You don’t have to love me back. You don’t have to be mine. Just let me be yours.”
“Ohhh…” one of the prostitutes sighed.
Another blotted her eyes. “If she won’t ’ave ’im,” she sniffled, “I’ll take ’im.”
Before Leo had even finished, Catherine had gotten to her feet and was creeping to the sill. “I’m coming,” she said.
“Slowly,” Leo cautioned, tightening his grip on the rope as he watched the movements of her small, bare feet. “Do it exactly the way you did before.”