by Amanda Quick
When her body clenched in release, Griffin went rigid.
“Hold me,” he said. “Don’t let go.”
They were the first and only words he had spoken since he had entered the room. She wrapped herself around him and held him with all of her strength while he shuddered through his climax.
The psychical fireworks dazzled all of her senses. Griffin finally collapsed beside her; she followed him into sleep.
SHE AWOKE SOME TIME LATER to discover that she was alone in the bed. But she sensed Griffin’s presence. She opened her eyes and saw him standing at the window looking out into the night.
“Griffin?” she said softly. “What is wrong?”
He did not take his attention off the darkness on the other side of the window. “Are you truly convinced that my dreamlight currents are stable?”
“Yes. You must trust me on this.”
“But how is it possible that I am able to control two different talents without driving myself mad?”
“I told you, I believe your second talent is not new at all. Rather it is a different aspect of your original ability. Furthermore, although you are a direct descendant of Nicholas Winters, his is not the only powerful bloodline you inherited.”
“You refer to Eleanor Fleming, the woman who worked the lamp for Nicholas.”
“She was an extremely strong talent, too. Perhaps it is the combination of bloodlines that makes it possible for you to control such a powerful talent. Or perhaps your ability is a result of the effects the lamp’s radiation had on your ancestor. I don’t know. All I can tell you is that you are completely stable.”
Griffin contemplated the night, not speaking.
Adelaide got up and went to stand beside him.
“I have some early memories of my father discussing his research with my mother,” she said. “One of those recollections is his opinion of the Jones family tree.”
“What did he have to say about it?”
“Papa speculated on more than one occasion that he would not be at all surprised to learn that Sylvester ran a few experiments on himself with some early versions of the formula before he set about producing offspring.”
Griffin was silent for a long moment. Then he turned to look at her. In the pale glow of the moonlight his smile was very cold.
“Not that any Jones would ever admit that the founder’s formula might have irrevocably altered the bloodline,” he said.
“Of course not. Such an admission would be tantamount to saying that at least one early version of the formula had been perfected and that it worked.”
“If the Joneses know or even suspect that their bloodline is living proof that the original formula was successful, they would have every reason to believe that the Burning Lamp was also effective.” Griffin’s hand tightened on the edge of the window. “No wonder they have always kept a wary eye on my family.”
“It would explain their long-standing concern with Nicholas’s descendants and the lamp, yes.”
“The Joneses no doubt fear the creation of another organization of strong talents that would rival the Arcane Society and its own power.”
She smiled. “Well, I’m not sure you can leap to that conclusion. Are all crime lords so suspicious of the motives of others?”
“Crime lords who are not steeped in suspicion generally do not survive long.”
“Are you suspicious of me?”
“No.” He turned to face her. “Never. I would trust you with my life, Adelaide.”
It was not exactly a declaration of love, she thought, but for a crime lord it was no doubt the next best thing.
49
AT THREE O’CLOCK THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, THE DOOR of the bedroom opened with such force that it crashed against the wall. It bounced so hard it would have slammed shut again had it not been for Griffin’s booted foot in the opening.
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Trevelyan murmured. She put the neatly folded silk nightgown into the trunk. “I had a feeling this was going to happen.”
“What the devil is going on here?” Griffin strode into the room and came to a halt directly in front of Adelaide. The heat in his eyes could have set fire to the bed along with everything else in the vicinity. “I just found Jed and Leggett in front of the Abbey with the carriage. They told me that you are leaving.”
Adelaide turned back to the wardrobe and took out a petticoat. “Mrs. Trevelyan and I are moving back to Lexford Square.”
“You can’t leave here yet,” Griffin said. “It isn’t safe. J-and-J hasn’t found Samuel Lodge.”
“You heard Mr. Jones.” Adelaide stepped around Griffin and carried the petticoat to the trunk. “Lodge has fled to the Continent and is unlikely to return. If he does, Arcane will be waiting. What’s more, Lodge knows that. I will be quite safe.”
“What if Caleb Jones is wrong?”
She placed the petticoat on top of her nightgown. “I understand that Mr. Jones is rarely wrong. Regardless, we both know that I cannot spend the rest of my life here at the Abbey. I have to return to my own house sooner or later. I think sooner is best.”
There was a sudden silence.
Mrs. Trevelyan cleared her throat. “I believe I’ll go downstairs and put the kettle on.”
She sailed out into the hall, closing the door quietly but firmly behind her.
Griffin looked hard at Adelaide. “What is this all about?”
“It’s time for me to leave,” she said gently. She swept back past him. The ruffles at the hem of her skirts drifted over the toe of one of his black leather boots. She went to the dressing table and picked up her silver-backed brush and comb. “I will admit that being the mistress of a crime lord has a certain, shall we say, exotic aspect. Nevertheless, a mistress is a mistress. She does not live in her lover’s house.”
“You’re not my mistress, damn it.”
“Really?” She put the brush and comb into the trunk. “What word would you use to describe my position in your life?”
“You’re my—” He stopped. “You’re mine.”
“I love you, Griffin,” she said.
He looked at her with his fevered eyes. “You must know that I love you.”
She smiled. “I hoped that was the case. Neither of us has had a real home for a very long time. It is up to us to make one for each other.”
“You want marriage,” he said, his voice very flat and cold.
“I think that is what we both want. Am I wrong?”
“It is the one thing that I cannot give you. Ask anything else of me.” His hands tightened at his sides. “ANythiNg.”
She touched the side of his hard face with her fingertips and smiled.
“There is nothing else I want,” she said.
“For God’s sake, Adelaide.” He clamped his hands around her shoulders. “Don’t you understand? Marriage to me would put you at risk. As my wife you would be in constant danger.”
“Surely you don’t think that I would betray you with one of your men as your first wife did.”
“No. Never. That is not the problem and you know it. But marriage to me will make you a target for all of my enemies.”
“Do you have that many enemies, then?”
“I have been in this business a very long time,” he said. “Things have occurred that cannot be changed. There are those who dream of vengeance. Yes, I have enemies. What is more, I have forged a certain reputation. There will always be some who will seek to prove themselves by trying to destroy me.”
“You are like one of those notorious gunfighters in the Wild West who must forever be prepared to defend himself against the hot- blooded younger males who wish to challenge him.”
“There are men who will stop at nothing in order to take what I have built. If they believe that you are important to me they will not hesitate to use you to try to achieve their objectives.”
“Would you give up your underworld kingdom for me, Griffin?”
He gripped her wrists. “In a heartbeat.”
She smiled. “Yes, of course you would, because you know that you could always rebuild it.”
“That is not the point, Adelaide.”
“I agree. Well, then, my darling crime lord, if you are willing to walk away from your empire and all that goes with it, including your formidable reputation, then I believe I have the solution to our dilemma.”
“There is no solution. That is what I am trying to explain to you. I created this nightmare for myself and now I have no choice but to live in it.”
“ ‘Better to reign in hell?’ ” she quoted offhandedly. “But you are not a devil, Griffin, and London isn’t exactly Paradise Lost.”
“I’m no fallen angel, either. I am what I am and there is no going back.”
“Ah, but I am not suggesting that we go back. We will go forward to a place where no one will even think of being so rude as to inquire about your past, because everyone there is far more obsessed with the future. It is a place where your reputation is unknown and will not matter. A place where we can forge a home and a family together.”
“Is this some dreamlight fantasy you have created?” he asked. “I am sorry, my love, but I learned a long time ago that dreams always evaporate in the light of day.”
“This one won’t. You have my word as a social reformer. I suggest you start packing, yourself.”
“Why?”
“Because we are going to purchase tickets on a steamship bound for America. There is much to be done before we sail, of course, but I’m sure you can have your business affairs settled in short order. You have a great talent for management and organization.”
50
“YOU’RE MOVING TO AMERICA?” CALEB ASKED. HE LOOKED first dumbfounded and then, almost immediately, intrigued.
“Our ship sails the first of the week,” Griffin said. “Mrs. Trevelyan, Jed, Leggett and Delbert are going with us. Oh, and the dogs, as well.”
They stood together in the park where they had met a few days earlier. But they were alone this time. The ladies had not accompanied them on this occasion.
“To say I am stunned would be the understatement of the year,” Caleb said. But he sounded thoughtful, not stunned. “America is a big place. Where will you live?”
“Adelaide seems to think that San Francisco would be a good location for us.” Griffin smiled. “She tells me that the fog will make me feel right at home.”
“What about your various enterprises here in London?”
“I am selling my most profitable businesses to Mr. Pierce. There is no lack of buyers for the others.”
“You will no doubt make a great deal of money from the sale of the Consortium’s holdings. You certainly won’t be destitute when you arrive in America.”
“I have always found that it is far more convenient to be rich than it is to be poor,” Griffin said.
“What of Adelaide’s social reform work?”
“Evidently London is not the only city on the face of the earth that is in need of some social reform. Adelaide seems to feel that there will be plenty of opportunity for her to carry on her work in San Francisco.”
“What will become of her charity house and the Academy?”
“Brace yourself, Jones. As we speak, she is making plans to turn over the responsibility for both charities to Arcane. Evidently some of the women of the Jones family are eager to assume the projects.”
Caleb’s smile was rueful. “No doubt. Keeping an eye on Miss Pyne will very likely prove to be a full-time occupation for you.”
“She will be Mrs. Winters soon. You and Mrs. Jones are invited to attend the wedding.”
“I am not generally keen on weddings, but in this case I will make an exception,” Caleb said. “It is not often that one gets an opportunity to see a notorious crime lord wed a social reformer. We must make sure that Gabe’s wife, Venetia, brings her camera.”
“Any word on the whereabouts of Samuel Lodge?” Griffin asked.
“Not yet. But I have put a hunter- talent on his trail. We will find him.”
“And when you do locate him?” Griffin asked. “What then?”
Caleb contemplated the sun- lit park with the air of a man whose dreams were troubled. “Adelaide and Lucinda are of the opinion that he is mad.”
“Yes.”
“I suppose we could arrange to have him locked up in an asylum. That sort of thing can usually be handled discreetly.”
“Lodge is not only mad, he is also a powerful talent. How long do you think it will take him to escape an asylum?” Griffin asked quietly.
Caleb met his eyes.
“I know what you are saying, Winters. There really is no option, is there? Lodge will have to be put down like the mad dog that he is.”
“And you will do what needs to be done because you cannot ask another to do it for you.”
Caleb said nothing.
“There will be others like Lodge in the years ahead,” Griffin said.
Caleb exhaled deeply. “I am well aware of that.”
“You cannot kill them all. I do not believe that you were born for the work of a professional assassin.”
“What is my role, then?”
“You are a general waging a war,” Griffin said. “Your task is to collect and analyze information, devise strategies and then select the most skilled agents to carry out those strategies.”
“And when I find myself confronting those like Samuel Lodge? What am I to do, Winters?”
Griffin reached into his pocket, took out a small, white calling card and handed it to Caleb.
“What is this?” Caleb examined the single name on the card. “Sweetwater?”
“It is an old family business. The members of the Sweetwater clan are all powerful talents of one kind or another. Very expensive but very discreet. The firm specializes in disposing of dangerous rubbish like Samuel Lodge.”
Caleb frowned. “Are you telling me that the Sweetwaters are assassins for hire?”
“One could say that. But in their own way, they are an honorable lot. They adhere to a strict code. Done some work for the Crown.”
“And for the Consortium?”
Griffin chose not to answer that.
“One cannot simply hire a Sweetwater off the street,” he said instead. “They work strictly by referral.”
“You are offering to make such a referral for Jones and Jones?”
“I will be happy to supply you with a character reference,” Griffin said. “Consider it a favor.”
51
IRENE BRINKS SAT AT A DESK IN FRONT OF ONE OF THE TEN typing machines arranged in the schoolroom. Her spine was straight, her shoulders were properly aligned and her fingers were poised over the keys in a graceful manner. “Just as if you are playiNg a piaNo,” Miss Wickford, the instructor, had said.
It was precisely that image, Miss Wickford had gone on to explain—that of a woman playing a piano—that had caused the public and employers, in general, to conclude that a career as a typist was a respectable profession for a female.
The vision of herself as a respectable, professional woman had inspired Irene. After three days at the Academy she had begun to imagine herself working in an office, gracefully producing elegant letters and neat reports for an employer.
But now, after several more days of instruction, her dreams had expanded. She was currently contemplating the possibility of opening a business of her own, an agency that supplied typists to firms and offices all over London. She would recruit from the Academy, she decided.
She was halfway through the sample letter, an order for fabric, needles and thread for a fictional tailor, when the door burst open.
A man strode through the doorway. He was accompanied by three other, much younger men, two of whom carried pistols. The third gripped a knife. There was a woman with the group as well. Irene recognized her as the social reformer from the charity house: Mrs. Mallory.
“You will all stay right where you are at your desks,” the man declared. �
�The first woman who moves will be shot. Do I make myself clear?”
Irene, Miss Wickford and the other nine students froze in their chairs.
“My name is Mr. Smith,” the intruder announced. He shoved Mrs. Mallory with such force that the woman stumbled and fell on the floor. “Get up,” he ordered. “Sit at one of the desks.”
Mrs. Mallory scrambled slowly to her feet and sat down. She was pale with terror.
“What do you want?” Miss Wickford asked Smith. She sounded as calm and unflustered as if she were giving a typing lesson.
“Nothing from you,” Smith said. “Whether you live or die depends entirely on Adelaide Pyne. She has two choices, you see. Either she comes here to give me what I want or she will flee, leaving you all to your fates.”
“Who is Adelaide Pyne?” Irene asked.
“I believe you know her as The Widow.”
Irene remembered the formidable lady who had descended on the charity house kitchen the morning after the brothel raid.
“The Widow will rescue us,” Irene said.
“Let us hope you are right.” Mr. Smith removed an object from his pocket. It looked like a large chunk of blood- red glass. “Because if you are wrong, you will be the first to die.”
52
THE FRONT DOOR OF THE CHARITY HOUSE WAS UNLOCKED. That was so unusual that Adelaide paused, one gloved hand on the knob, and opened her senses.
Jed, waiting patiently on the driver’s seat of the carriage, reached a hand inside his coat in a reflexive move.
“Something wrong, ma’am?” he asked.
There were layers upon layers of dreamprints on the front steps but nothing out of the ordinary.
“No,” she said, speaking over her shoulder. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
The constant presence of a bodyguard was decidedly awkward but she tolerated the inconvenience, aware that, until they sailed for America, it was the only way that Griffin could have some peace of mind. She had to admit that, as bodyguards went, Jed was a pleasant enough companion. Nevertheless, she could not wait until they were all aboard the ship and she would once again be free of the rigorous protection.