Then he went to the maid’s room.
The quarters were furnished simply with a bed, wardrobe, and small table. Given Lisette’s hurried departure, she hadn’t had much time to pack, leaving behind most of her belongings. In the dresser, he found a spare set of clothing and grooming products, his gut clenching when he saw the bottle of black hair dye.
On the table was a folded, day-old newspaper and a stub of a pencil.
“I know you’re behind this, Lisette-Marie-whoever you are,” he said under his breath. “Where did you take Beatrice, what are you planning?”
Part of being a successful negotiator was the ability to step into another’s shoes. He tried to think like the maid. If Lisette’s motive was revenge, then she could have killed Beatrice long ago. She had access; a few drops of poison would have done the trick. Instead of murdering her mistress, however, she’d engaged in nefarious activities designed to inspire fear and uncertainty.
The woman was like a cat toying with a mouse. She enjoyed the game, the suffering she was causing. Perhaps she saw Beatrice’s torment as her true retribution. And there was no doubt Lisette was a show-off: using the surname Collier, indeed. It was as if she needed to flaunt her cleverness, to rub their noses in the fact that she, the coal miner’s daughter, had outwitted them.
Which meant she probably had some grand finale in mind. A reckoning that would have some specific significance in her twisted mind—poetic justice, perhaps, for the father she’d lost. Something that she’d taken the time to plan, something that she’d been dreaming about, perhaps obsessing over…
He picked up the newspaper, unfolding it. The front page had the story about his failure to close the deal for GLNR. It mentioned Miss Beatrice Brown of Staffordshire, and his pulse leapt when he saw the circling of her name in pencil.
Had Lisette put that mark there?
At the bargaining table, it was what he’d call a “tell”: an unconscious betrayal of one’s private thoughts. Here, by circling Beatrice’s name, emphasizing it, Lisette was communicating something.
This woman is my target, perhaps. Or she’s getting what she deserves.
He continued turning the pages, scanning each one thoroughly. He saw no other marks until the last page. In the margin, next to an advertisement for a colic remedy, were numbers printed in pencil:
6:00
2:00
10:00
Heart thudding, he snatched the paper, bringing it downstairs. His partners were in his study, pouring over a map of London, marking out areas to search next. Richard, he knew, had gone to join the foot search for Beatrice. Surprisingly, Hadleigh was still there. The duke sat with a glass of Wick’s whisky, his expression brooding, his walking stick tapping to some agitated internal rhythm.
“I found something.” Wick slapped the paper down on the desk next to the map, the men gathering around to see. “I think Lisette wrote these numbers. They’re times, possibly.”
“A schedule, perhaps? For train, coach, or ship?” Kent mused. “Do you think she plans to make an escape with Lady Beatrice through one of those means?”
“Bringing a kidnapped woman on public transport doesn’t seem like the cleverest of plans,” Garrity said. “How would she escape unnoticed?”
“My gut tells me that she doesn’t intend to leave London with Beatrice.” Starkly, Wick shared his hypothesis. “Lisette’s been toying with us, but she knew we were getting too close to discovering her identity. She’s going to end the game—it’s a matter of where and how she’s going to do it. These times…they mean something.”
“Six o’clock, two o’clock, ten o’clock.” Kent drummed his fingers against the blotter. “The times are spaced eight hours apart. What operates that regularly and at nighttime?”
The moment he said it, his bespectacled gaze widened, colliding with Wick’s.
“As constant as coal,” they said in unison.
Wick’s heart thundered. “It makes sense that Lisette would want to take her revenge there. At the site of her father’s greatest innovation.” He looked at the clock on his desk. “Devil take it, it’s eight. We have no time to spare.”
He took off running, Kent and Garrity behind him.
“Where are we going?” Hadleigh asked, scrambling to catch up.
“To the coal drop by Regent’s Canal,” Wick shouted.
39
Bea was exhausted from trying to escape her bonds. Each time she heard a rumble, she trembled, wondering if her end was approaching. Lisette had delighted in telling her just how she would die.
“Because of you, dear Papa didn’t live to see his idea for a coal drop brought to fruition. This warehouse should have been his—and my—legacy. But, never fear, I will leave my mark on this place. An hour from now, the next train will come. Do you know how a coal drop works?”
Bea had stared at her numbly.
“You’re in the part of the warehouse known as the hopper. When the train passes above, the bottoms of the wagons will open, dropping its cargo directly into the hole over your head. Rather efficient, don’t you think? The coal is going to bury you alive…that is, if it doesn’t crush you to smithereens first. You might not even be recognizable when the coal sorters open the hopper in the morning and find you beneath the pile.”
Bea fought back the clawing panic. Lisette and Palmer had left maybe ten minutes ago, to prepare for their imminent departure. They planned to watch Bea get crushed by coal before heading to Gretna Green.
Apparently, she was to be the starting point of their unhinged wedding trip.
She stared at the flickering shadows cast by the lamp on the ground. Lisette had left it there, wanting Bea to see the moment of her death, the avalanche of coal as it fell upon her…
“Psst.”
Bea stilled like a bird hearing the wings of a predator. Where had that sound come from?
“Psst, up here. Don’t worry, milady. I’m coming down to get you.”
She looked up—and saw a small, shadowy figure coming through the hole in the ceiling. The boy had a rope tied around his waist and was being lowered smoothly and swiftly until his boots hit the floor. He untied the rope and ran over to Bea, cutting her free.
She shook off her bonds. Stared at the familiar round-cheeked face, mop of brown hair, and tattered cap.
“You’re the boy,” she said in wonder. “The one who’s been watching me—why?”
“Long Mikey’s the name. But we ’aven’t time to palaver. We ’ave to make ourselves scarce afore that stinkin’ bitch returns.”
He had a point.
“Tie this around your waist, milady.”
He handed her the rope; she quickly did as he instructed.
“Now ’old on tight.”
As soon as her fingers closed around the rough twine, the boy gave a whistle. A distinctive sound like a bird call, one note high, two notes low. She felt tension on the rope and then she was pulled from above, her feet lifting off the ground. She clung on as she soared through the darkness toward the opening in the roof, her rescuer becoming smaller and smaller below.
When she reached the top, hands helped her through the hole. More children, dressed in the same tattered uniform as Long Mikey. As soon as she rolled onto the roof, next to the tracks where the train would soon pass, she gasped, “Long Mikey…”
“Don’t worry, milady. ’E’s coming next,” a pretty amber-skinned girl said.
They tossed the rope down again. The children—six of them—hauled Long Mikey up to safety, their small hands pulling the rope with coordinated efficiency, Bea helping as best as she could.
“I can’t thank you all enough,” she began.
She froze as she heard voices, the door to the hopper opening below.
“You can thank us later,” Long Mikey whispered. “For now, we’d better run!”
Wick and his group arrived at the coal drop yard at a little after nine.
The moon streamed through the fog, bathing the yard in an eerie
silver glow. The compound was situated next to Regent’s Canal, a viaduct soaring over the walled yard and the warehouse where the coal would be dropped from the train. At this time of night, the workers would be gone, but guards would remain on the premises.
Wick ran toward the entrance, the others following him.
The iron gate was ajar. He entered cautiously. A guard stall took up the entryway, necessitating that workers and visitors past through the lanes on either side of it. He passed to the right of the stall…and froze when he saw the bodies.
The guards, two of them, lay on the gravel just beyond. They had dark blooms on their shirts, their sightless eyes telling him they were beyond help. The warehouse, a long, three-story brick building with the track running over the uppermost floor, sat fifty yards behind them.
Wick took out his pistol; Garrity and Kent did the same. Hadleigh gripped his walking stick.
“We’ll split up, surround the warehouse,” Wick said in a low voice. “Garrity, you and your men take the north side, Kent the east. Hadleigh you go south, and I’ll take the west. Any questions?”
“Who’re they?” Kent whispered.
Following the direction of Kent’s finger, Wick saw a line of shadows descending the side of the brick building. They moved with ant-like precision. One by one, the figures dropped to the ground and began scurrying toward the gate. Wick’s hand tightened on his weapon as they neared. The first one spotted him, letting out a whistle that brought the rest to a halt.
Christ, mudlarks…what were they doing here?
“Wick? Oh, Wick, is that you?”
Relief slammed into him as Beatrice emerged from the group, running toward him. He got to her first, drawing her to him fiercely. For an instant, he just held her to his pounding heart.
“I was so afraid I’d never see you again,” she said in a muffled voice.
“I’m here, love.” He pulled back to look at her. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, thanks to Long Mikey and his friends. They got me out of the warehouse,” she said breathlessly. “Lisette is back there with Ralph Palmer. She’s—”
“Grigg’s daughter, I know.” Wick cupped his beloved’s cheek. “Go and wait in the carriage. Garrity, would you and your men keep watch over her and the mudlarks?”
“Of course,” Garrity said.
A clearing of the throat. “Hello, Beatrice.”
Bea looked beyond Wick. “Hadleigh? What are you doing here?”
The duke, Wick noticed, didn’t quite meet her eyes.
“You’re my sister,” Hadleigh said, his voice strained. “Did you think I would not help?”
Footsteps neared—Lisette and Palmer. Wick had an instant to see the shocked rage on Lisette’s face when she registered that Beatrice was no longer alone.
“Shoot ’em, Ralph!” she cried.
Palmer raised his pistol.
“Everyone, down,” Wick shouted, tackling Beatrice to the ground.
The shot went wide, the bullet blasting bits off the entry stall.
Wick jumped to his feet, returned fire. Kent did the same.
Lisette and Palmer turned tail and ran back into the yard.
“Garrity, take Beatrice,” Wick said as he reloaded.
“Come, my lady.” Garrity offered Beatrice his arm, his men forming a protective circle around her and the mudlarks.
“Be careful, Wick,” she called.
He jerked his chin in acknowledgement. Then he, Kent, and five men headed back into the yard. To his surprise, Hadleigh followed.
Wick spotted the dark figures entering the warehouse. “They’re headed back inside. You four,”—he gestured to three guards and Hadleigh—“cover the exits. The rest, follow me.”
He entered the ground level of the warehouse. Wall sconces illuminated the empty bays where wagons could be parked, coal dropped into them from the floor above. He heard a scuffling to the left of him—saw Palmer racing up the steps.
“Lisette went to the other end of the building,” Kent said. “I’ll take her. You go after him.”
Each accompanied by a guard, he and Wick raced in opposite directions.
Wick pounded up the steps, Wilcox behind him. Reaching the next floor, he motioned for the guard to go clockwise around the room, while he went the other way. The smell of coal was suffocating in the hopper. The hole in the ceiling let in patches of moonlight, shadows dancing over the walls, causing Wick to aim his pistol this way and that. The columns were disorienting, easily mistakable for a man in the dimness. Wick crept along the room’s perimeter, his weapon at the ready, when a movement caught his eye.
Palmer—coming out from behind a column, his pistol pointed at Wilcox.
“Look out!” Wick yelled as he took aim.
The shots went off simultaneously, two bodies hitting the ground.
Wick headed to Palmer, even as he called out, “Wilcox?”
“Fine, sir,” came the guard’s panted voice. “Bullet just grazed my arm.”
Wick stood over Palmer; the brute was sputtering, his hands clutching the gushing wound in his chest. Even as Wick knelt to see what could be done, Palmer’s hands slid lifelessly to his sides.
Gunfire exploded above them.
“Get away from me, you bastard!” Lisette’s screech came from overhead.
Wick raced for the steps. They took him to the uppermost floor: this third story was fully exposed to the night, the yard below dizzily distant through the drifting fog. Moonlight glinted off the tracks spanning the opening where the coal would be dropped. Spotting a figure doubled over on the platform next to the tracks, Wick ran over, pistol drawn.
It was Kent.
“Are you hurt?” Wick crouched.
“Not…permanently,” the other gritted out. “She kicked me.”
Comprehending where Lisette’s kick had landed, Wick winced in sympathy.
“Hadleigh went after her,” Kent said between pants. “They’re up ahead.”
At that instant, the ground rumbled.
“Christ, the train,” Wick bit out. “Stay here. I’ll get them.”
He straightened, squinting in the darkness. He saw them twenty yards ahead: two figures struggling dangerously close to the edge of the opening to the floor below. Locked in their struggle, they seemed oblivious to the locomotive heading toward them, the widening disk of its headlamp as it crossed the viaduct, barreling toward the warehouse. The ground vibrating beneath his feet, Wick was sprinting over, shouting out a warning, when he saw Lisette stumble backward, her feet slipping on the edge. She lost her balance, falling through the hole—but Hadleigh lunged forward, somehow grabbing her by the hand.
Lisette hung, suspended by that perilous connection.
The duke was trying to pull her up, calling to her, ignoring the blasting horn of the oncoming train. As Wick reached them, Lisette turned her head and looked at him. Her lips curved in a triumphant smile…and she let go.
“No.” Hadleigh’s shout could be heard above the roar of the train.
Wick dragged the duke to the safety of the platform. An instant later, the train whipped by. The pounding thumps of coal filling the warehouse echoed through the night.
40
Seeing Wick emerge along with the others, Bea pushed through the ring of guards and ran to him. Wick caught her, crushing her against him, surrounding her with his reassuring strength.
“I was so worried,” she said, her voice hitching. “What happened in there?”
“Lisette and Palmer are both dead. I shot Palmer.”
At his statement, she tilted her head back to look at him. His expression was stark, but she saw no conflict on his handsome face. He’d done what had to be done, and he accepted it.
“And…Lisette?” she asked.
Wick drew her close, murmuring in her ear, “She fell to her death. Hadleigh tried to save her—risked his own life to do so.”
Bea’s eyes widened at the news. She pulled away, her gaze searching for he
r brother. He hung away from the group, his shoulders hunched, his eyes fixed on some distant point. Drawing a breath, she went over to him.
“Hadleigh?”
Although she spoke softly, he flinched, as if he hadn’t noticed her approach.
“Beatrice.” His voice was gruff. “You are well?”
It was absurd, exchanging niceties at a time like this. Equally absurd was the fact that he was her brother, her only surviving kin, and they’d not spoken for years. The chasm caused by pain, betrayal, and pride had once seemed impassable. It was still vast, and she didn’t know if they could ever heal that breach…but she took the first step.
“I’m fine. And you?”
Surprise flickered in his eyes. “I’m fine as well. Thank you…for asking.”
God, this really was ridiculous.
“Hadleigh, you just tried to save a woman’s life. A woman who fell to her death. How are you feeling?”
“I failed you.” His words, wholly unexpected, made her jerk in shock. As did the volcanic emotion in his eyes. “I should never have gone after Grigg. I was angry—at so many things. I blamed him, targeted him…but I never meant for him to die.” His throat worked above his cravat. “It doesn’t absolve me of anything, but I want you to know that, Beatrice. I never meant to kill him.”
Hearing her brother’s gut-wrenching remorse, seeing the torment in his eyes, she took a step closer. Touched his quivering arm. “I believe you.”
A sheen appeared in his eyes, and he quickly looked away. She gave him the space to gather himself and, in truth, she needed it too. The emotion roiling inside her—the amalgamation of past and present—was overwhelming. She felt Wick behind her. His arms closed around her waist, and she let herself lean into his solid warmth.
After a few moments, Hadleigh cleared his throat. “Am I to congratulate the two of you?”
“Yes,” Wick said, the firmness of his tone giving her a thrill.
“I don’t expect I shall be invited to the wedding, but perhaps, in the future, at your convenience…I might call upon you, Beatrice?”
The Duke Redemption Page 30