Never Mix Sin with Pleasure

by Renee Ann Miller

  Today, more than any other day in the past, the fear of getting caught almost overwhelmed Olivia. She reminded herself of what Cline, whose uncle worked at Scotland Yard, had mentioned at breakfast. That they were almost positive that the Phantom was a person who had attended all the gatherings—an invited guest. That the commissioner and his detectives had compiled a list of suspects and would be keeping an eye on those men and following them if they left the ballroom.

  The information the footman relayed should have eased Olivia’s fears, yet she couldn’t shake off the feeling of doom hanging over her.

  A cold drop of rain landed on her cheek.

  Curses. It appeared her good fortune as far as the weather was concerned would not continue. That knowledge added to her sense of apprehension.

  When she reached the roof of the last town house on the street, she carefully grasped the drainpipe. Normally they were already slick from the mist that clung to them from the damp night air, but drizzle made them even more treacherous to climb or descend from. Clasping the pipe, she leaned over the edge of the roof. For a minute, she dangled over the side, until her thighs clamped around the pipe, allowing her to press the heels of her shoes into the cast iron to slow her progress downward.

  When her feet touched the ground, Olivia released a gusty breath, then scurried across the terrace to the iron gate that led to the mews. As she lifted the latch, she sent up a silent prayer that the wet hinges wouldn’t send a shrill sound into the dark night. Inch by inch, she pulled it open. The hinges were well oiled and didn’t make a sound. When she had just enough room for her body to squeeze through, she slipped to the other side of the gate.

  Seeing no one, she briskly walked across the street. From here, she would travel mostly by the alleys that ran behind the clusters of stately homes. Though she would need to cross two more streets before reaching the mews that ran behind the duke’s residence.

  Several carriages rumbled by her as she made her way, but none took much notice. Dressed as she was, while wearing a knit cap, along with her head angled downward, she looked like a young man, perhaps even a groomsman, making his way home after a night at a local pub or after a game of chance played in a back alley.

  She reached the square where the duke lived but needed to cross to the other side. Staying in the shadows of the trees in the center garden, she made her way around. Rows of polished black carriages lined the street, looking even shinier with the translucent drops of rain that dusted them.

  She’d just started to cross the street when she spotted a uniformed policeman under the portico of the corner town house. Her heart beat double time. Stopping and turning around would draw more attention. She pulled the collar of her sweater up higher on her neck and tipped her face downward.

  “Where you off to at this time of night, lad?” the constable asked, stepping out from the shadows and moving toward her.

  The sound of her heart beating loud in her chest echoed in her ears. She swallowed the fear that threatened to close her throat. “Just making me way ’ome, sir,” she replied, forcing her voice to sound deep.

  “Well, get along with you, then. A storm’s brewing.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll do that, sir.” As she continued on her way, she felt the bobby’s gaze on her and forced her quaking knees to not buckle.

  Her heart was still beating fast when she reached the alley behind the square where the duke lived. She glanced behind her to see if the policeman still watched her. Not seeing him, she ducked into the mews. More carriages were lined up there.

  Coachmen, wearing oilcloth jackets, gathered around a lit brazier, warming their hands. The fire inside the metal cage sent puffs of gray smoke into the dark sky as the drizzle threatened to douse the flames. A flash of lightning, followed by a rumble, forewarned of the viciousness of the approaching storm. Though frowned upon, Olivia watched as several coachmen took refuge inside their employers’ carriages.

  Like a mouse trying to avoid the watchful gaze of a cat, she stayed in the shadow of the brick wall that surrounded the gardens of the first town house. At the gate, her fingers curled around the handle and turned it. It swung inward—the sound of the hinges barely audible.

  Instead of being relieved, that she’d gained entrance so effortlessly, a frisson moved down her spine. Everything was happening too easily.

  For a minute, she thought perhaps Cline had been misinformed. That his cousin at Scotland Yard had given him misinformation. Perhaps Scotland Yard realized it was an uninvited guest.

  As she slipped into the yard, closed in by the six-foot brick wall, she peered into the shadows. Though she saw no one, an almost tangible apprehension moved through her body as if any minute a detective would materialize and handcuff her.

  Unable to shake her discomfort, she nibbled her lower lip, while she contemplated returning to Trent House.

  No. It was only her nerves making her feel this way. And her guilt over lying to Anthony. She was almost at the Duke of Wharton’s town house. She needed to see this through. Trying to calm herself, she drew in several slow breaths of the night’s cooler air.

  On the tips of her toes, she moved to a lean-to off the back of the house. Most likely a storage shed or an old privy. She pulled herself up onto its roof and crawled, almost on her belly, to the drainpipe. She set her foot atop the decorative molding that ran up the corner of the brick home and, holding on to the pipe, hoisted herself up.

  By the time she’d shimmied up the pipe and was on the rooftop, the drizzle had turned into a downpour. A bolt of lightning briefly lit the sky like fireworks, followed by the rumble of thunder. Cold drops of rain pelted her face, causing rivulets to stream down it. She pulled her knit cap lower, dashed over to a chimney, and leaned against it, partially shielding herself from the wind that blew the rain sideways.

  For a minute, the moon disappeared behind a cloud, sending her into almost complete darkness. When the orb appeared again, she surveyed the roofs. They were only slightly varied in height, making it easier to cross from one to the other, but the heavy rain made the surfaces slick, and her sweater absorbed the water like a sea sponge, making the garment heavy on her shoulders.

  Taking extreme care, Olivia jumped from one slick rooftop to the next. When she reached the Duke of Wharton’s residence, she moved to the first of the four attic windows. Normally they were open to relieve the oppressive heat that rose inside a town house during gatherings, when hundreds of people crammed into the elegant ballrooms, but because of the weather, Olivia noticed all four attic windows were closed. She tried the first and found it locked. So were the next two. Her fingers felt cold and numb as she pressed against the lower sash of the last window.

  Her breath came out in a relieved puff of air as it slid upward.

  She poked her head inside and, seeing no one, crawled through the opening.

  As usual, it was the maids’ quarters. Beds lined the walls. As Olivia surveyed her surroundings, water from her wet clothes created a puddle on the floor. Now the detectives from Scotland Yard would realize that it was not a guest that had committed the crimes but an intruder. They would start watching the rooftops, but after this, she was done. And if she made it back to Trent House, they would be left wondering whatever happened to the Phantom.

  Her shoes made a squishing noise as she walked farther into the room. She could not move about the house, leaving a trail of water and shoeprints of rooftop muck. Spotting a tall, white cupboard, Olivia moved toward it. Inside, she found several dark maid’s uniforms and white aprons. Quickly, she removed her sopping knit hat, sweater, trousers, and shoes, then put on the uniform. The dress was long enough that she could move around without shoes. She shoved the wet garments under one of the beds and tugged a white cotton mobcap she found in a drawer over her damp hair.

  She took the servants’ stairs down two flights to where she presumed the Duke of Wharton’s bedchamber was, then slipped inside the first door. It took a minute for her eyes to adjust to the dim l
ight, but she could make out the large tester bed with frilly bedcovers and a woman’s vanity with perfume bottles.

  Not the duke’s room.

  On the tips of her toes, she crossed to a door on a sidewall and opened it.

  Immediately, the odor of tobacco filled her nose. The scent so strong it was as if the furniture had spent years absorbing the smell. A massive four-poster bed with velvet cranberry curtains was centered on the far wall. On the opposite wall was a massive fireplace with an oil painting of a man in almost life-size proportions. Olivia walked up to it.

  The opulence of the bedchamber, along with this painting of a gentleman wearing a coronet with eight strawberry leaves, left no doubt that this was the Duke of Wharton’s room.

  Olivia peered at the painting. She had thought she would see the reflection of evil in his face, but the older, gray-haired gentleman didn’t look like the devil’s minion. The word regal came to mind. His shoulders were broad, his jaw square, and eyes a warm shade of brown.

  The man was strikingly handsome. And she could see the resemblance to Helen and the duke’s son, whom she’d met at the ball.

  How unfair life could be. An evil man should look depraved, so unsuspecting women would not be drawn in, thinking he posed no harm when, in truth, they should be leery. Frightened.

  The rain pelting against the window drew her from her thoughts. She should not be contemplating the unfairness of it. She needed to find the man’s coin box, then make haste.

  She spun around and surveyed the furnishings—a highboy, an armoire nearly as large as a carriage, several dressers, a desk, and a gilded display cabinet with a glass top and sides. Curious what was inside the display cabinet, she strode toward it. Even in the dim light, she could see the antique snuffboxes, some with painted scenes on them, others pewter and silver. One even looked gold. No pawnbroker would want the painted ones, especially after the newspapers reported the robbery. Scotland Yard would send men out to scour the shops. However, the metal ones could be melted down. The stones that encrusted a few of them could be removed and set into new pieces of jewelry if she could find a dishonest jeweler to purchase them. And there were always dishonest people to be found if one looked hard enough.

  If she found nothing else, she would take them. She moved to the desk and rifled through the drawers. Finding nothing, she settled her gaze on the armoire. With silent steps, she walked to it. On one side of the massive wardrobe were shelves. The other side contained hooks where clothing hung. She knelt before the armoire and knocked on the bottom of the piece. It sounded solid—not as though it had a hidden compartment or false bottom. She stood and begun rifling through the neatly folded clothes. Once again, finding nothing, she spun around.

  The moonlight from the bank of windows highlighted the picture, drawing her to it like a beacon in a dark night. Olivia picked up a small gilded chair and set it in front of the hearth. Then gathering the skirt of the serviceable dress she wore, she stepped onto the chair. Slowly, she ran her fingers over the sides of the massive painting, searching for a set of hinges.

  Olivia couldn’t help her smile as she touched them on the right side. She grabbed the lower corner of the frame and swung it outward.

  Moonlight highlighted the hollowed-out area behind the frame and the ornate silver money box. She removed it, stepped down, and set it on the chair. Of course, it was locked. She removed a hairpin and wiggled it in the keyhole. After five minutes, with no success, she moved to the desk and found a silver letter opener. Quietly, she returned to the box, sat on the floor, and set the box in front of her, determined to pry off the two back hinges. She shoved the pointy edge of the letter opener into the first hinge and twisted. It popped free. The second one was more stubborn. With all her strength, she attempted to pry it off.

  She could not have come this far to fail. She jabbed the letter opener under the hinge and twisted it again. The hinge broke loose. The end of the letter opener slid, ripped through the dress, and dug into her thigh. Olivia pinched her lips tight to stifle a scream.

  The ache was so intense, for a minute, her vision went black. Sweat prickled her brow, and she prayed she wouldn’t swoon. Trying to contend with the pain, she drew several deep, slow breaths into her lungs, while she lifted the skirt of the dress. In the dim light, the blood oozing from the gash on her leg looked almost black against her pale thigh. She gritted her teeth and pressed her palm against her skin, hoping to stem the flow of blood.

  A minute later, she tugged off one of her woolen stockings and wrapped it around her wound. She could not afford to dally much longer. She needed to move fast, or she would find herself in Newgate Prison.

  With hands that shook, she lifted off the lid of the money box. Her already pounding heart sped when she saw the number of banknotes inside. Olivia stuffed them into the side pockets of the dress, along with the coins. She scrambled back onto her feet and winced at the throbbing pain in her thigh. Hobbling, she returned the broken money box to its hiding spot, then swung the massive painting back against the wall.

  As she limped toward the door, she clamped a hand against the pocket holding the coins, so they would not jangle as she moved back into the connecting room. Each step caused the pain in her thigh to ratchet upward. More sweat beaded her forehead. But she could not stop and linger. She’d already spent more time in the house than was wise.

  She poked her head into the corridor, and not seeing anyone, stepped into the servants’ stairwell, right into a maid, holding a brass coal scuttle.

  “Watch where you’re going,” the woman snapped, steadying the bucket with both hands.

  Olivia stared at the woman’s face. Her stomach clenched. She knew the maid. Penny had worked at Lady Winton’s but left to take another job on Olivia’s second day.

  “Sorry,” Olivia said, trying to scoot by her, while keeping her face cast downward.

  “’Ey, I know you. When did you start working here?”

  “I’m sorry, I need to get something. Please let me by.”

  “You were Lady Winton’s companion.” Her gaze swept over Olivia as her mouth twisted into a sneer. “Working as a maid, are you? What happened? Did that old windbag sack you?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know a Lady Winton.” Olivia lifted her hand to push by the woman.

  The maid’s eyes bulged. “Blimey! What happened to your hand?”

  It was then Olivia realized that the hand she’d pressed against her cut thigh had blood on it. “I’ve cut it and need to bandage it.” She scooted by the maid and forced herself not to limp as she made her way up the stairs.

  As soon as Olivia stepped into the maids’ sleeping quarters, she removed the uniform and dressed in her sopping clothes and shoes. The cold and wet leg of the trousers felt good against the burning sensation in her thigh. Trying to move quickly, she transferred the money to the pockets in her trousers, then, thinking it best to take the damaged maid’s uniform with her, she gathered it up and moved to the window.

  She needed to get out of there fast.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Breath sawing in and out of her lungs, Olivia made her way over the rooftops. The rain was like a torrent now, pummeling her body with as much force as her thoughts battered her brain.

  She had been recognized.

  When the Commissioner of Scotland Yard and his detectives discovered the Duke of Wharton had been robbed, would Penny speak up when she realized Olivia didn’t work there? Surely, they would question the staff. And though she believed that the Phantom had become a kind of hero to many of the lower classes and servants, the duke might even offer a reward. Money could turn any admirer into a bounty of information.

  When she returned to Trent House, she needed to gather her belongings and leave. Posthaste.

  As she maneuvered the incline of a rooftop, a jolt of pain burrowed into the cut on her thigh. She stumbled and slipped on the slick surface. Both knees hit hard. The air in her lungs exited on an explosive breath. She slid dow
nward. One hand still clutched the maid’s uniform, while the other clawed at the roof, trying to stop her downward trajectory.

  Her heart pounded against her ribs as she slipped closer and closer toward the edge. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a pipe protruding from the slate roof and clasped it with her almost numb fingers, stopping her downward descent.

  Heart still beating fast, she lay there, allowing the rain to wash over her as if it could remove her sins and wash away the past couple of hours. She wanted to be at Trent House. She wanted to be dry and warm. She wanted to be in Anthony’s arms. And she didn’t want to leave him.

  When her heart stopped thundering inside her, she finally scrambled to her feet and continued over the roofs—the pain in her leg a constant reminder of her torn skin.

  By the time she reached Trent House on Park Lane, the intense pain in her thigh burned as if hot coals were pressed against the tender skin. Her gaze traveled up the drainpipe. Climbing it would be almost impossible with the throbbing pain afflicting her leg. Earlier in the day, she’d unclasped the lock in the office window just in case she needed to use it to get back into the house. Staying in the shadows, she kept her back to the wall and moved to the bank of windows. From the outside, they looked as dark as pitch with the curtains drawn closed and not a stitch of light shining outward.

  Olivia set her palms to the lower sash and pushed. Silently the bottom pane of glass slid upward. She hoisted herself onto the sill. The hard surface of the wood pressed into her thigh, sending a spike of acute pain down her leg. She bit her lip to stop herself from crying out and slid through the opening.

  For a minute, she lay on the floor, biting back her discomfort. When she thought she could move again without bringing tears to her eyes, she bent forward and unlaced her sopping shoes that would squeak as she made her way to her room.

  While holding the shoes and maid’s uniform, she pressed her free hand to the sill and leveled herself up and onto her feet. A fresh wave of pain caused her already damp brow to prickle with sweat. She closed the window and slipped the lock back into place. After her eyes had fully adjusted to the gloom, her gaze settled on the divan where a woolen blanket lay folded over the back. Teeth chattering, she bundled it around her to absorb the water in her clothes so she wouldn’t leave a trail.