Unless…
No. It could not be. Surely that would be too easy. Too simple.
But still, the thought would not leave her, prodding her with the persistence of a swarm of angry bees. She rose from her chair and went to the hastily packed valise which had accompanied her the previous night during her flight from Lark House. Opening it, she discovered the map of London she had been utilizing in her research, one of the few documents in her possession which had not been thieved by the villains who had attempted to kill her.
She hastened back to the writing desk, map in hand, and unfolded it, spreading it out atop her list. Her forefinger traveled over the portion of map devoted to the London docks. She traveled over dozens of streets and lanes. Saint George, Pennington, High, Wapping, Cable and Betts, Princes Square, and so many more, until finally her finger connected with precisely what she had been seeking.
“Nightingale Lane,” she said aloud, as she took up the pen once more and drew a circle around the street upon the map.
If she was right, The Nightingale was not a person at all. Rather, it was a place. A street, to be specific, which meant it was the source for Fenian funding and dynamite. And if her instincts did not fail her, she had no doubt the conspirators would be found somewhere on Nightingale Lane, near the docks.
There was no time to waste.
Calmly, she located her pistol and tucked it inside a reticule, along with enough coin to see her about the city. Hired hacks would do, and she would worry about Lucien’s disapproval later.
He wanted to protect her, she knew, but she did not need his protection. If anything, she wanted to protect him. He had already suffered enough in his life. He had a sister who loved him, and a niece or nephew who would love him as well all too soon. She was no one, just as she had always been, with no family of her own. No place she belonged.
Yes, she decided with a bittersweet smile. If either of them was to invite danger into their lives and put themselves at risk, it would be her. But with a little luck and some clever sleuthing, she would not need to worry about danger at all.
At least, that was what she hoped.
Lucien arrived at Strathmore’s townhome later than he had intended. He had spent the bulk of the evening conferring with Scotland Yard and sitting in upon interrogations of his staff. At dawn, one of his youngest footmen had finally broken and confessed he had enabled entrance to a man with an American accent, who had claimed he was a family member of Miss Montgomery’s and that he wished to surprise her with a gift.
Conal, the lad in question, was vehemently apologetic. Not that it mattered one whit. He had allowed a stranger—and not just any stranger, but a Fenian madman who intended to harm Hazel—into Lark House. Lucien had been obliged to sack him, for in this climate of danger, he could not allow a domestic susceptible to outside interference to remain upon his staff. Conal had been a diligent worker by all accounts, so Lucien had cut him free with six months’ worth of wages and letters of reference.
Exhausted, he had fallen into his bed upon a pillow which still smelled faintly of Hazel. But he had been alone and miserable without her, and with the heavy weight of dread sitting upon his chest, he had tossed and turned, unable to obtain the rest his body required. When he had finally fallen asleep, it had been mid-morning, the sun streaming through a gap in the window dressings.
Upon waking, he had rung for his valet, only to discover an urgent summons had come for him from Strathmore. Fear and rage had locked his heart in a fervent, unrelenting grip for the entirety of his punishing ride to Strathmore’s address. He did not even bother to knock. Instead, he strode through the front door, much like a lion stalking its prey.
He had not far to roam, for Strathmore appeared instantly, his expression pinched with worry. Lucien’s gut clenched. “Where is she?” he demanded, not bothering to elaborate.
Strathmore knew. “Miss Montgomery is…missing, I am afraid.”
“Missing,” he repeated, his mouth going dry.
One word, his greatest fear. Hazel. Gone.
He could not speak.
Perhaps it was the lack of sleep. Perhaps it was the intensity of his feelings for her. But all of a sudden, he went dizzy, as if he had suffered a powerful blow to the head. He was not even certain he could stand on his bloody feet. He staggered under the weight of it. Nearly stumbled and fell.
Strathmore was there to catch him with a steadying hand. “Good God, man, are you ill?”
“Tell me,” he gritted, “how it is possible that she is missing. Did someone take her? Did she leave of her own free will? Was there a struggle? Did your domestics or any of the guards witness anything? Jesus Christ, man, I know you loathe me for what I put you through, but have mercy. I need answers. I need to know more.”
The world was still spinning. He focused on Strathmore with great care.
Strathmore had not looked this grim when he had been facing the prospect of prison and the hangman’s noose himself. “If I had answers, I would offer them. All I know is that she was already gone when her lady’s maid went to attend her this morning. Nothing is out of place, and there is no hint she left in any way other than of her own free will. No one saw her departure, I am afraid, but her chamber is immaculate, nothing but a map and a list on the writing desk.”
The notion of the Duke of Strathmore in Hazel’s chamber rankled, but he could not dwell upon it now. “Take me to her chamber,” he said hoarsely.
He ought to have known better than to leave her here while he remained at Lark House. He ought to have damn well never strayed from her side. Self-recriminations flooded him as he followed in Strathmore’s wake, striding through the entry hall and up the elegant, twisting staircase.
“Lettie and Aunt Hortense,” he asked of Strathmore as they walked down the upstairs hall, “they are well?”
“Perfectly.” Strathmore slanted a glance in his direction. “I know you do not wish to hear this, Arden, but all signs point to the lady leaving of her own volition. I have no desire to be the one to point out you are an arrogant, overbearing arsehole, but—”
“You have already done so on more than one occasion,” he interrupted Strathmore coldly. He had done his penance for wronging his brother-in-law, and if there was ever a day when he could not withstand Strathmore’s mockery, this, by God, was that bloody fucking day. “She would not leave me.”
He said the last with more conviction than he felt. In truth, Hazel Elizabeth Montgomery was a law unto her own. No one could tame her. Nor should any man dare. Least of all, Lucien himself.
“Leave you?” Strathmore asked pointedly, as they reached a door and he opened it.
Lucien stormed past him, ignoring the raised brow and the question both. He hadn’t time for games. He was single-minded now. He needed to find Hazel. Immediately.
The chamber was, as Strathmore had described, immaculate. No sign of disturbance. No overturned furniture, nothing out of place, nothing broken. Her valise lay at the foot of the bed, and the chamber still smelled faintly of her scent. He stalked to the writing desk situated by a window and found a map opened over its polished surface.
London was laid out in tidy streets and squares, the River Thames curving through it. She had drawn a circle around a street, he noted. Nightingale Lane. He lifted the map and discovered a paper beneath it bearing a list, written in her tidy scrawl.
Known Fenians
Thomas Mulroney
Sean Flannery
Drummond McKenna
The Nightingale
“Of course!” he said aloud, realization dawning on him. “The Nightingale.”
The code name for the English Fenian, who had been supporting the Emerald Club with funds and shipments of dynamite. It all made sense. They had all been convinced The Nightingale was a person. But, if what he suspected Hazel had surmised was correct, The Nightingale was not a person at all.
Rather, The Nightingale was a place.
More specifically, a street.
> And on that street, he would find Fenians. And on that street, he would find Hazel. Supposing he wasn’t too late. The thought made his blood run cold as ice and his gut clench. He let the list drift from his fingers, allowing it to flutter back to the desk.
He glanced up at Strathmore. “She’s gone to Nightingale Lane. I need to get there to find her. Now.”
But his brother-in-law blocked his path. “Stop, Arden. Miss Montgomery has been gone for hours, perhaps since first light. If she has not returned in all this time, the indication is strong that she has met with trouble. And if she has met with trouble, we will require all the reinforcements we can get. We need to summon Scotland Yard and all the League agents available to us.”
“Fuck you,” he growled, pushing at Strathmore’s chest. Nothing would stand in his way. He needed to protect his woman, damn it. He needed to be certain she was safe. To see her, touch her, hold her, kiss her, marry her.
Yes, damn it all, he would marry the woman. Just as soon as he upbraided her for doing something as foolish as attempting to take on a band of dynamite-loving criminals on her own.
But Strathmore had brute strength and gripped Lucien’s shoulders, fighting him for power. “Damn it, arsehole, listen to me for the first time in your life. If we want to give Miss Montgomery the best chance to escape these bastards’ clutches unscathed, we have to bring a bloody army and go to war. Do you understand me?”
The violent bloodlust coursing through his veins subsided enough for his brother-in-law’s words to penetrate Lucien’s mind. And damn it all, he had to admit Strathmore was not wrong in this. Rampaging into a den of Fenian vipers would likely only get both himself and Hazel killed.
If she hadn’t already been murdered by them.
Lucien refused to contemplate it.
He clenched his jaw so hard, his bloody ears popped. “I understand you perfectly, Strathmore. Let us assemble the damned army.”
“This can be easy and as painless as possible, Miss Montgomery, or this can be painful and difficult. The choice is yours.”
Hazel gazed down the barrel of the pistol Sean Flannery held trained upon her head, before meeting the cold, flat eyes of Thomas Mulroney. “Painless and easy for whom, Mr. Mulroney?” she dared to ask defiantly.
Defiance was an easy choice, when one was faced with the potential knowledge of one’s impending death. She had nothing left to lose. The implacable man before her was going to attempt to dredge all the information he could from her, before he lodged a bullet in her brain.
“Arrogance does you no credit, Mrs. Mulligan,” Flannery snapped. “Or should I call you H.E. Montgomery?”
They knew who she was. But Hazel was not surprised. Of course they did after their run-in at the hotel and then thieving her carpetbag and her notes. She knew who they were also, and having faced death on many occasions before, she had the advantage of facing Mulroney and Flannery without shock or fear.
She tipped back her head, the only part of her body she could move, aside from her fingers and toes. “You may call me whatever you wish to call me, Mr. Flannery, just as long as you stop pointing that pistol at my head. Until then, you can go to hell.”
The bitter sting of failure hit her. She had taken a hired hack to the area and directed her driver to leave her, before she entered Nightingale Lane. Although she had made her way painstakingly through the maze of massive warehouses lining the docks, she had been overtaken from behind by Mulroney.
One moment, she had been navigating a warehouse, and the next, the barrel of a weapon had been jammed in her back, and Flannery had appeared before her, pistol at the ready. She had been out-manned, outgunned, and essentially, helpless. Her training told her that her best chance was to prolong her interaction with the two men. Fighting back would likely result in her being wounded, or worse.
And truly, there had been no opportunity to defend herself. The two men had forced her deep into the interior of the warehouse, to a small store room which appeared to serve as an office. They had confiscated her reticule, discovering her pistol with ease. Her hands had been bound, and her limbs had been lashed to an uncomfortable chair. The warehouse was cold and smelled of tobacco, sea brine, and mildew. It was not the place she wanted to meet her end, but then, her life had never been one of choices, so perhaps it would be fitting.
“Brave and foolish to the last, Miss Montgomery,” Flannery said, his tone snide. “Both will prove to be your downfall.”
Mulroney approached her, grabbed a handful of her hair, and pulled with such force, tears stung her eyes. The cold barrel of his pistol jammed into her temple. “Where is the great H.E. Montgomery’s bravery now?”
“You can both still go to hell,” she bit out, refusing to give in or show her fear.
Mulroney slapped her. The pain was sudden, ferocious. “I warned you,” he growled. “This can be painful, or painless. It can be even more painful if you force our hands. The choice is yours.”
“You can start by telling us about the Special League,” Flannery demanded. “Beginning with Arden. What does he know?”
“He knows nothing,” she lied flatly. Her cheek stung. Already, she could feel her flesh swelling.
The pistol barrel dug into her temple harder, and Mulroney pulled on her hair a second time. “Try again.”
She decided to go on the offensive. “He knows you are both responsible for planting bombs on the railway. He has your names, and he has agents in New York investigating the Emerald Club as we speak. Indeed, I would be surprised if arrests had not already been made. When was the last time you had word from McKenna?”
“Just yesterday.” Mulroney slapped her again. “And that is how I know you are lying, Miss Montgomery. I will give you another opportunity to tell us the truth, and if you do not oblige me, I will start breaking those pretty fingers of yours, one by one.”
She would have to tide them over. Pacify them with information, even if it was wrong, and pray Lucien would somehow come looking for her. Pray he would find her. But as the thought hit her, she knew it was futile. Even if Lucien discovered her missing, he would have no way of knowing where she had gone.
If only she had left him a note. Or waited for him. If only she had never left the Duke of Strathmore’s townhome on her own that morning. If only she had not followed her instincts.
Her instincts, ever infallible, had not betrayed her. No, rather, her own pride had. And now she had no choice but to continue to distract the two men.
“What do you want to know?” she asked them, trying her best to pretend pain wasn’t blossoming from her cheek where she had been hit.
“Wise choice. I would hate for the Duke of Arden to find your dead body covered in hideous bruises.” Mulroney stroked her cheek, almost tenderly. His expression, however, was harsh. Murderous.
She struggled not to flinch away from his sickening touch, even as her stomach lurched at the thought of Lucien discovering her body much as he had his mother’s. He had already carried one lifeless woman. And because she had been too hasty and clumsy in her investigations, it was entirely possible he would now have to relive that horrible day from his past all over again.
This time, with her.
Instinctively, she fought against the ropes on her ankles and wrists, but they were tight. They held firm. She had no hope of escape, other than using her wits, and they were failing her fast.
“The Duke of Arden will not give a damn how my dead body looks,” she evaded.
“Lying again.” Mulroney gave her hair a violent jerk. “Do you truly believe we haven’t been watching Lark House and following you and your lover about town? How naïve you are. You have shown us your hand repeatedly.”
Though she had done her best to be vigilant at all times, she had never noted anyone trailing them. Fear, true and real, caught her heart in a cruel, icy grip. What if they intended to harm Lucien next?
“We had heard, of course,” Flannery added, “that a Pinkerton had been sent to London. But we
never would have known H.E. Montgomery and Mrs. Mulligan were the same, until that day in the hotel. And then to discover you are the Duke of Arden’s whore! Why, imagine our surprise.”
“I am assisting Arden in investigations,” she allowed coldly. “That is all.”
“There is more between you than that.” Mulroney’s smile was feral. “You ought to realize by now, that lying to us will only hurt you.”
He delivered another brutal slap to her face, but this time, her skin was already numb from swelling and previous pain. She was prepared for the blow.
“Tell me the names of his New York City agents.”
“I do not know,” she said honestly. And even if she did have that information, she would never betray a fellow agent and deliver them to certain death, even if it meant avoiding her own.
Before Mulroney could inflict further torture upon her, an explosion rocked the warehouse, jarring the walls and ceiling of the room they inhabited. Dirt rained from overhead, and the building itself gave a loud groan, almost as if it were a giant creature that had just been wounded.
“Damn it,” Mulroney cursed. “We have to go, Sean.”
“What will we do with her?” Flannery asked, jutting his chin in Hazel’s direction.
Mulroney’s lip curled as he cast a hateful eye over her. “Leave her to burn.”
With that ominous statement, Mulroney released his grip on her hair and withdrew his pistol from her temple. He lowered his face to hers. “I could have put a bullet in your head so you wouldn’t suffer, but I’m not going to.”
She had never felt the force of such anger, and it left her hollow, even in this grim moment, as the certain realization she was about to die hit her. She would not beg for mercy, because she recognized all too well he possessed none. Instead, she held her head high and maintained her silence. Creaks and groans sounded around them, and the building shuddered as the undeniable scent of burning wood reached her nose.
Shameless Duke Page 27