by Anna Castle
He grabbed Sandy’s wrist, gripping it so hard the cabman winced in pain. “You’re my last hope. We have to get her out of there. I know she’ll never speak to me again. I don’t care about that. It’s no more than I deserve. I deserve far worse; but first we must save her!”
Sandy pried Moriarty’s fingers from his wrist. His expression was grim. “I’d do anything for Angelina, you know I would. I’ll settle with you once she’s safe. But what can we do? She’s all the way out there in Canbury, locked in an upstairs room, we’re told.”
Moriarty stared at him, struggling to bring his wits back to life. Then the solution came to him and he grinned, an uncheerful expression that made Zeke press himself away. “You’re burglars, aren’t you? What do you say we break into one last house?”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Angelina left the library in a daze. She needed air, a walk outside. A cup of tea with a trusted friend. But she had no friends in this house and they’d never let her out again tonight. Elsie dogged her steps. If she did nothing else, she would take back the playbill with Sebastian’s picture. She couldn’t bear to think of her brother forever smiling at that traitorous slut.
She climbed the central stair and walked almost to the door of her own bedchamber but couldn’t bring herself to go in. Not yet. They would lock the door behind her. She found her way to the long gallery and began to walk up and down the lavishly decorated room.
Lemon-yellow wallpaper and lime-green chairs. Tall Chinese vases with bright red dragons coiled on their lids. Paintings of long-nosed toffs in powdered wigs watched her from the walls, their disapproving gazes reflected in the tall gilt mirrors placed between the taller windows. Elsie slumped on a silk sofa near the door, stretching her weary feet before her while her prisoner paced.
Angelina turned again at the far end. This time, she caught a glimpse of Lady Rochford sitting placidly beside an unlit hearth with a needlework frame. Angelina angled across the carpet to stand beside her. “Won’t they light the fire for you?”
“I prefer a cool room.” She gave Angelina a knowing look. “I heard about the telegram.” She patted the sofa beside her.
Angelina sat and rested her hands in her lap. This wily old woman might not be a friend, but she could perhaps be a temporary ally. “Were you very much disappointed?”
“Not even surprised, my dear. No genuine heiress would suffer in last year’s gowns when Paris is so close at hand.” She lifted one lace-shrouded shoulder. “Why should I care? You paid me what I asked. That was our bargain. What will you do now?”
“I must escape this place. Tonight, if I can manage it. To be perfectly candid, my lady, I’m afraid of Reginald.”
“I can’t say I blame you. My great-nephew doesn’t like to be crossed. I never expected them to be able to hold you here for so long. And I agree, the telegram changes everything.” She gazed out the windows, where rain spattered against the darkened glass, lips pursed while she thought.
After a moment, she smiled. “The gardener and I have achieved a rapport over the years. He truly understands the composition of a parterre. I believe his son has begun delivering flowers to Cheshire House this past week, as well as to our London house. That was never part of his job before.”
“They’ve been helping me.” Angelina owed them all a week in Brighton. “If I could get a note out of the house, Lady Lucy would know where to send it.”
“Do you have someplace else to go? You can’t go back to Lucy.”
“Yes, for a little while. Long enough to book passage to the Continent. I have friends here and there.”
“I imagine you do, Miss Della Rosa,” Lady Rochford said. “My nephew may be a philistine, but I know something of the opera. You had quite a reputation.”
“Thank you.”
Lady Rochford picked up her needle and made another stitch in her work. “Why did you come here, if I may ask? Surely not for a titled husband; you could have found one of those in Italy.”
Angelina understood. Gossip was the lady’s stock in trade, and the deep shelves needed constant refilling. She gave her a much-abridged version of the truth, implying the source of the government secrets was a young lady and tiptoeing delicately around the specific agency which had been breached. She made a good story out of it in spite of the gaps, playing up the pathos of her brother’s plight and painting Oscar Teaberry as the blackest of villains. “Who knows how many honorable young men he’s driven to ruin?”
“I knew there was something going on. My nephew’s gains have been too big and too consistent. My investments never produce such reliable yields.” Lady Rochford’s gray eyes glittered. “Well, well. The viscount will learn to regret not sharing with his dear old auntie. Oh, how I despise that Teaberry, the loathsome little upstart. He offends me. I may not be overly fond of my nephew, but it galls me to see the way that jumped-up music hall impresario leads him by the nose. I’ll pay them both back with the same coin. Or rather, you’ll do it for me.”
She looked up and down the gallery, her gaze flicking past Elsie, who sat picking at her fingernails. Then she beckoned to Angelina to slide a little closer and lowered her voice. “One morning, I sat dozing over my needlework in the striped drawing room. There’s no fire in the morning, so no one else uses it then. No one notices me in my favorite corner, which happens to have a view of the comings and goings on the great stair. The mirror over the mantel reflects the mirror between the windows, you see, which is lined up with the door leading onto the landing. I see everyone that goes up or down.
“One day that sly secretary poked his head out of the door across the landing. I mean quite literally poked out only his head. He looked up and down and across, but he didn’t notice me in my little jungle of aspidistras. He ducked back and reemerged with a slim green book and a bundle of letters tied with a ribbon. He slipped across the landing and tucked them behind the portrait of that man with the spaniel my nephew always refers to as ‘the ancestor.’ Not his ancestor, of course. The portrait came with the house. I imagine you’ll still find those little items hidden inside the frame. I haven’t troubled myself to look, but why would Ramsay hide them if they weren’t something fairly damning?”
Hope rose in Angelina’s chest. She smiled at her benefactress. “Why would a secretary keep secrets from his employer?”
“Blackmail leaps to mind.” Lady Rochford wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like that fellow. He’s too earnest. So tediously middle class. I do like you, my dear. You’re never boring. And I should enjoy hearing you sing one day.” She patted Angelina’s hand again. “I imagine you’ll find something in those papers that will keep the hounds off your trail.”
“Lady Rochford, you are the most wonderful woman in the world!” Angelina planted a light kiss on her cheek. “How can I ever repay you?”
Her ladyship chuckled, a rich, fruity sound. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Angelina walked past her slatternly guard without a glance. She continued on down the corridor and up the stairs without faltering, as if she were going to bed in her own home. She ignored the scuffling steps behind her. Entering her room, she walked directly to the fireplace as if to warm her hands. In a single smooth motion, she picked up the poker, whirled around, and cracked Elsie over the head. The girl fell to the carpet without a sound.
Her first act of violence. Angelina looked down at the crumpled form. She hoped she hadn’t done her any lasting harm. Contradictorily, she hoped the lying whore would have a nasty headache for days.
She locked the door and bound Elsie’s hands and feet, using silk stockings from her trunk. She gagged her with a scarf, making sure the girl could breathe. She took off her shoes and raced down the stairs to the landing outside the striped drawing room. She saw no one. The men were probably in the billiard room plotting her destruction.
She held her breath while she tilted the big painting to peek behind it. Yes, the book and the letters were ther
e! She grabbed them and raced back to her room, heart pounding. She locked the door again and leaned against it, panting and trying not to laugh out loud from sheer excitement.
Then she changed into her burglar garb, which Peg had packed into the bottom of her big trunk. Lady Rochford had promised to speak with the gardener at once under the cover of an ongoing debate about the rhododendrons. She would direct him to set a ladder under Angelina’s window without delay. He would guide her out of the park; from there, she would be on her own.
As she shook it out, the overcoat seemed heavier than before. Angelina fingered the thick hem and sang a short cry of delight at the ceiling, bursting the cloud of despair that had hung about her since her professor had turned his back on her and walked away.
Peg, blessed Peg, thoughtful, foresighted, canny old Peg, had sewn money into the hem of the coat. Lots of money, in coins of varying sizes. Once Angelina escaped from the estate, she could pay for transportation back to the city.
Angelina was fastening her cravat when she heard a soft thump outside the window. The ladder was in place. She stuffed the book and the letters into her overcoat pocket. Thank goodness for the boy’s garb!
The only question now was whether to take the river or the road. The gardener decided for her. He held the ladder, then guided her wordlessly to a smallish gate, not the main entrance. He pointed up the lane outside the gate and said, “Turn right at the big road and go straight on to Richmond. You’ll find a public house about a mile along. God be with you, ma’am.”
Mercifully, the rain had worn itself down to a fitful drizzle. The Richmond road was only a few yards on and wider than the lane. She knew it at once. First turn, and all was well.
She walked down the middle of the road, as fast as she could without seeming to hurry in case anyone should happen to see her. But who would be out at this hour on a drizzly night? Still, her back tingled as if someone were aiming a pistol at it and she saw lurking shapes behind every tree. Frogs croaked all around, filling the night with their noisy chorus, masking any sounds that might warn her of pursuit. She wasn’t normally given to prayer, but tonight she prayed she would make it to the Royal Lion before Reginald discovered she had gone.
She’d settled into a steady stride when a pinprick of light appeared in the road ahead, blooming brighter as it approached. A coach! It couldn’t be Reginald; he’d be coming from behind and more likely be on a horse.
She whirled around, suddenly certain he was right behind her. Now she could hear the pounding hoofbeats of the oncoming coach. Friend or foe? A kindly stranger or one of Nettlefield’s henchmen, galloping down to Canbury Park to hatch some new swindle?
She didn’t know whether to duck into the woods or stand in the road and flag the coach down. The coachman drove his team at a breakneck speed, as if racing in the Derby Stakes. She waved both arms over her head, her fingers crossed for luck, then leapt to the side of the road in case he couldn’t — or wouldn’t — stop.
The coach thundered past her. She glimpsed a man hanging out the window and heard him roar, “Angelina!”
She knew that voice. James Moriarty! How was it possible?
She stumbled after the coach, tears stinging her eyes. The driver pulled at the reins, shouting, “Whoa!” The coach slowed, but before it stopped rolling, a man leapt out of the door and ran back to her.
“Angelina? Angelina!” Moriarty swept her into his arms, hugging her to his chest, whirling around and around, crying, “My darling, my darling, my darling!” She laughed and cried and kissed every part of him she could reach: his cheek, his ear, his high-domed forehead.
He set her on her feet again and clasped her face between his hands, peering into her eyes like a man desperate for salvation. “Forgive me, my beloved! I beg you to forgive me. I was a brute, a fool, a miserable —”
She stopped him with a kiss.
A lifetime later, Gabriel Sandy cleared his throat. “We must go. Someone might come after us.” He’d brought the coach around behind them. She hadn’t heard the horses’ hooves clopping or the wooden frame creaking. She’d thought the pool of light cast by its lanterns had been a glow created by that heavenly kiss.
Angelina and Moriarty broke apart, grinning unabashedly, like young lovers caught by Mother at the kitchen door. She rose on tiptoes to kiss Sandy on the cheek. “Thank you, Gabriel.” He grinned at his feet.
“I’ve never had a better friend,” she said, “excepting Peg.”
“Wot about me?” Zeke leaned out of the window.
“And you.” Angelina caught him by the ears and kissed him soundly on the forehead. She might kiss the horses next; in fact, why not? She skipped around to the front of the coach and gave the nearest one a peck on the nose.
The men laughed at her. What a lovely sound! She looked at her saviors in wonderment. “How did you know I would escape tonight?”
“We didn’t,” Sandy said. He glanced at the professor, who seemed incapable of anything beyond gazing at her as if she were the seventh wonder.
She could see him clearly now in the lamplight. The poor man was a mess! Hatless, with his fringe of hair sticking out at all angles, his forehead streaked with greasy mud. His trousers were stained and soaked to the knee. He’d torn off a coat pocket and gotten his tie all twisted. He looked like he’d been rolled down Drury Lane by a gang of ruffians.
“My darling professor, what on earth happened to you?”
He ran a hand over his head and grinned at her like a man waking from a long, strange dream. “I fear I may be a little untidy.”
“A little!”
Sandy opened the door of the coach and let down the step. “Let Zeke tell you about it on the way back. We really must go.”
Moriarty helped her into the cab. Sandy climbed up to his seat and clucked his horses into motion. Soon they were rolling at a respectable pace toward the city. The seats were well padded and covered with soft leather. Lamplight warmed the interior of the coach. Three of the best friends a girl could ever hope to have surrounded her protectively.
Angelina snuggled into Moriarty’s arms with a sigh. “Now tell.”
Zeke could barely speak for laughing. “You shoulda seen ’im, Missus! ’E were ’alf-mad, ’e was. My pal Rolly found ’im rampagin’ through the streets ’ollering ‘Sandy! Sandy!’ in a great boomin’ voice. Cursin’ and weepin’ and tearin’ ’is ’air. Wot there is of it. An ’orrible, piteous sight, said Rolly. ’E brought ’im to me ’n Cap’n Sandy, where we was havin’ a fry-up in our favorite caff. We poured tea down ’is gullet till ’e could talk sense. ’E told us you was in dire straits, and ’ere we are.”
Angelina sat up and turned to face Moriarty, shaking her head in mock dismay. “My cool, calm, unflappable professor of mathematics? What in heaven’s name got into you?”
He met her gaze, his dark eyes solemn. “I thought I’d lost you.”
* * *
Angelina hid behind the curtains while Mrs. Peacock’s kitchen maid brought up a kettle of boiling water and filled the bath in Moriarty’s dressing room. He made her wait in the sitting room while he bathed. She doubted he was so shy with his little prostitute, but she let him have his way — this time. He emerged with a dressing gown over his shirt and trousers, smelling like Pears soap. She remembered that smell from the Exhibition. He’d rescued her then too.
She met him at the door to his bedroom, wrapped her arms around him, and walked him backward to the foot of the bed. She nuzzled his neck, inhaling his clean scent.
He kissed her thoroughly, then held her at arm’s length. He frowned, as if contemplating an especially difficult mathematics puzzle. “I must advise you, my dearest, that I’ve never made love to a lady.”
“Really? Never?” She frowned at him. “You’re not an innocent, James. That house you were entering on the night we — that first night when we —”
“I will remember that night for the rest of my life with the greatest pleasure imaginable. But no, of course I
’m not an innocent. Nor am I ignorant, I assure you. I only meant I’d never made love to a lady. A woman who wasn’t —”
“Engaged in her employment?”
“Exactly.” He shrugged. “I’m a bachelor.”
“Even so. Were there never any bored wives at your university? Lonely mothers of students seeking a private consultation?”
She’d shocked him. “Certainly not!” Then he kissed her on the nose. “Saucy wench. A university is like a very small, very inquisitive town. Everyone would have known by the next morning.” He sighed. “On the other hand, it might have saved me a great deal of trouble.”
“Then you would never have met me.”
“True. And that result justifies every injury I’ve ever endured, every disappointment, every moment of doubt, because all of it led me here to you.”
She sighed happily. She felt the same way. She fluttered her lashes at him. “It is true, Professor, that making love to a lady is very different from making love to a whore.”
“I trust you will enlighten me.”
“Mm-hmm.” She untied the sash of his dressing gown, letting it drop to the floor. Then she started on the buttons of his shirt. “It’s a whore’s job to learn what you want, Professor. To please you and earn her fee.” She paused and tapped him lightly on the chest. “But it’s your job to please a lady, to earn the chance — if you’re lucky — of pleasing her again.”
Moriarty considered the lesson for one whole second. Then he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed. “I believe, Madam, that you’ll find me to be a rather quick study.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
They left the room only once that night to make a giggling foray to the kitchen for provender. Angelina wrapped herself in Moriarty’s best dressing gown, a gift from his mother that had lain unopened atop his wardrobe for a year. She pulled a pair of his wool socks over her bare feet and tied her disheveled hair up in his dress scarf. The costume was the most ridiculous, most enchanting thing Moriarty had ever seen.