by Liz Carlyle
“That’s the last of them,” whispered de Rohan confidently.
As if on cue, a hired hackney rolled up the street, and David felt a surge of excitement. The jangling harnesses and heavy hooves sounded muffled and strangely distant in the dampness, but the carriage had drawn up before the tavern. Silently, a slender figure in a long black cloak dropped to the ground and vanished into the murk of the alley.
“Edmund Rowland?” asked de Rohan out of the side of his mouth.
In the darkness, David drew his coat a little closer. “Yes...” he responded uncertainly. “I think.”
Suddenly, he felt de Rohan jerk fully upright, as if he’d heard something. Carefully, David listened. And then, he heard it, too. The faint slice of oars through the water. Followed by the gentle thump of wood against stone.
Down the alley, something which looked like a huge lantern or torch flared briefly, vanished, then flashed again. Obviously, a signal of some sort. At once, de Rohan jerked to his feet, tugged his shirttails partially loose, then began to fumble at the close of his trousers.
“What the devil are you doing?” hissed David.
“Staggering drunkenly into the alley to piss,” he answered, running a disordering hand through his hair. “No magistrate will convict a man of Rowland’s background without a reputable eyewitness. I want no doubts on this one.”
Before David could protest, de Rohan quietly commanded the dog to stay and then darted across the street. He had no sooner vanished into the passageway beside the Prospect than the rumble of a heavy cart could be heard echoing in the distance—summoned by the lantern, perhaps?
The heavy dray loomed out of the fog, drawing up in front of David’s hiding place, blocking his view of the alley entrance. Only one man—but a big one—sat upon the driver’s seat, his face shadowed by a broad-brimmed hat. With amazing stealth, he climbed down and strolled into the alley with a familiar, rolling gait. A seaman’s gait, David thought. And then a name sprang to mind.
Grimes!
David was almost sure of it. And now de Rohan was trapped between Grimes, who was entering the alley, and the landing lightermen on the river beyond. And the cart, David suddenly realized, was the means of transporting the chests back to the brothel. De Rohan had explained that under cover of night, the goods would have been offloaded onto a lighter and rowed upriver. That boat was undoubtedly the one now moored at the base of the stairs. In the second phase, the mangowood chests would be brought up Pelican Stairs and carried to the street through the alley, which was so narrow two men abreast could scarcely pass down it.
And de Rohan had no way out. Quietly, David rose and withdrew one of his two loaded pistols. Glancing up and down the murky street, he made his way around the dray toward the alley entrance.
Though the moon was nearly full, and the alley made almost a straight shot down to Pelican Stairs, David could still see little through the fog. With a quick prayer, he stepped into the alley and pressed himself against the wall opposite the Prospect, leading with his armed right hand. He could feel the damp wall behind him, the thick, wet air before him, and he could hear the soft crunch of sand and gravel beneath his boots.
It felt disconcerting to make his way blindly into a situation which was dangerous. But surprisingly, he felt no fear, only cold certainty. He could not leave de Rohan without his back covered. A few feet ahead, he heard the rattle of a loose stone beneath someone’s feet. Grimes, he hoped. But would the man, by some small miracle, make his way past de Rohan without seeing him?
Good God, he thought, how many of Rowland’s people were in the alley now? Mentally, he tried to count. Certainly, there was Rowland himself—or the man who had dismounted from the hackney. Grimes. At least two lightermen coming ashore. So, four at a minimum.
Of de Rohan’s men, there were more. But four of them were on the water, and would only now begin to close in. De Rohan’s assistant, Otts, had been told to place himself on the other side of the Prospect. All of them were to await de Rohan’s signal—save David, who’d been told to stay on the street. Yet, it seemed obvious he could not now do that. They had the smugglers trapped, yes. But de Rohan was caught in the middle.
But then, just a few yards deeper into the alley, something went horribly wrong. David heard an authoritative voice carry inland from the water. “Halt in the name of the Crown!” came the booming cry. “River Police! Secure your cargo and stand!”
Too soon!
Damn it, the police launches had moved in too soon! A gunshot rang out. De Rohan’s? Almost certainly. David’s blood ran cold, then froze.
At once, Grimes burst out of the fog, plowing past David in his haste to escape. Ruthlessly, David blocked him with a low blow to the left shoulder, then caught him quickly across the ankle with his boot. Grimes almost sprawled facedown into the alley. But he somehow recovered and scrabbled away.
“Otts!” shouted David, praying the constable stood in the darkness behind him. “Take him!”
“Right, m’lord!” Otts’s voice rang out, then David heard the thud of human bodies colliding. With a loud series of grunts and curses, the two men went down, boots thumping and scraping against the walls. And then, Grimes cried out in pain—his voice unmistakable.
Hoping Grimes was seriously injured, David continued to feel his way down the alley. Confusion rang through the narrow passage now, echoing off the damp walls and carrying across the water. In the darkness, he heard a splash, followed by the sound of wood striking wood. The boats in the water, no doubt. A loud crack! like an oar striking water rang out.
Another few feet, and still no de Rohan. A second muttered curse, the thud of a man’s skull against stone. The sound of a body smacking the water. David could see nothing. But at the embankment beyond, all hell could be heard breaking loose. Somewhere, a window shattered. Another gunshot boomed off the walls. Glass tinkled down upon the cobblestones.
Suddenly, a flying black mass of muscle and bone came hurling out of the darkness behind David, launching itself at something in the depths of the alley. With a surprisingly steady hand, David jerked up his weapon, thrusting it into the murk. A horrific, bloodcurdling snarl brought him to his senses in the nick of time.
Lucifer!
And then, through the gloom, he could see the writhing and snarling black mass rise up onto its hind legs. In the fog, two men fell apart, the first throwing himself against the wall, the second collapsing to the ground beneath the thrashing bulk of the huge mastiff, arms and legs flailing as the dog mauled him into submission.
Roughly, de Rohan shoved himself away from the wall. “Let’s go,” whispered David, jerking his head toward the river. “Otts has the entrance. We have them trapped like rats in a drain pipe.”
They neared the opening which gave onto the water. A distant lamp reflected weakly off the river, casting a hint of light at the end of the passageway. Behind them, the sound of Lucifer’s gnashing teeth fading in the thick fog. Suddenly, David could see the stone stairs. They loomed up from the water rising some three feet above the alley. Cursing, splashing, and shouting still rang through the air.
At the top, the man in the black cloak stood, staring down into the fray in the water below.
“De Rohan!” someone shouted up. “Got one!”
At once, the man in black spun toward de Rohan. He lifted his arm, a hint of moonlight reflecting off the pistol in his hand. De Rohan stepped forward and aimed his gun. In that moment, a second man burst from the shadows, taking David down with a bone-shattering blow.
David’s weapon flew from his hand. It struck the wall, discharging with a deafening roar. Ruthlessly, the two men thrashed. But David was both heavier and quicker—and probably more desperate, for it suddenly occurred to him just how much he had to live for.
With one last blow, he jabbed an elbow beneath the lighterman’s chin, driving his head backward into a stone abutment. The resulting crack of bone was horrific. A twitch, and the man lay still.
Staggeri
ng to his feet, David was dimly aware of de Rohan still pointing his weapon up at the cloaked figure. But it was empty—wasn’t it? Certainly, someone’s gun had fired first.
But de Rohan meant to bluff it out. “River Police,” he shouted up for the second time, his voice rock-steady. “Drop your weapon and stand down!”
“No,” came a surprisingly soft voice from atop the stairs. “I don’t think I shall have to do that.”
Just then, another figure slid from the alley into the light. David blinked to clear his vision. In amazement, he stared at the newcomer. Walrafen? What the hell?
“You cannot very well shoot three of us,” Lord Walrafen shouted up, lifting his hand to reveal the pistol he carried. “Drop your weapon, whoever you are.”
In that moment, David was seized with a swift certainty. Remembering, he slid one hand into the pocket of his greatcoat and drew out his second weapon, primed by the efficient Otts. The man in the hooded cloak was not watching David but, instead, was desperately jerking his aim from de Rohan to Walrafen and back. Apparently deciding that Walrafen presented the greater threat, the man shifted again and yanked the trigger—but not before David fired.
The echo of his pistol shattered the darkness. With an awkward, collapsing motion, the man crumbled, falling headlong off the platform and onto the cobbled alley, returning fire with a deafening roar. Walrafen stumbled back, one leg collapsing beneath him. De Rohan came swiftly forward, catching him under one arm, easing him to the ground.
“Walrafen, you are hit?” demanded David, rushing forward.
De Rohan’s hand went to his cravat, yanking it free to bind the leg. “Only nicked, thanks to you,” said Lord Walrafen, jerking his head toward the wounded man. “Who is he? Is he dead?”
Swiftly, David closed the distance to the man on the ground, rolling him over to feel for a pulse. With a soft, draping motion, the loose hood of the cloak slithered back to reveal the wide, bitter eyes which stared up at him.
“Just my... bloody luck,” rasped Anne Rowland weakly. “For once in your useless life... you had to do the... right thing.” Then her body heaved once more, arched back against his arm, and went limp.
Kneeling there in the mud and sand, David stared into her eyes, which were open yet horrifically sightless. Good God! Anne. Never would he have guessed... and yet, it made perfect sense. He could hear de Rohan’s words of warning echoing in his head.
The really good criminals never appear to be what they are...
Cold water was soaking through the knees of his trousers now. Behind him, he was dimly aware of de Rohan hefting Walrafen to his feet while shouting orders to his men. He heard Grimes spewing obscenities at Constable Otts as the latter marched him back down the alley. Two sodden Chinese sailors were cuffed and dragged past. And still, David could not tear his eyes from Anne’s.
After seemingly interminable minutes, a gentle hand came to rest lightly on his shoulder as a puddle of gold satin and black velvet settled about his feet.
“David...?” Cecilia whispered as she knelt in the filth and the blood beside him. And then the warm, comforting scent of her flooded his senses, bringing back sanity with it.
Epilogue
In Which a Joker Deals the Final Hand
“All Fools’ Day!” muttered the Reverend Mr. Amherst as his eyes drifted over the ebullient throng which spilled from his withdrawing room and into the parlor. “Really, Jonet! What sort of people get married on All Fools’ Day?”
From her chaise beside him, Jonet reached up and clasped her husband’s hand, lightly pressing her lips to his knuckles. “The sort who cannot wait, I daresay,” she slyly murmured, her lips warm against his skin.
The new Lady Delacourt chose precisely that moment to rise unsteadily from her seat by the hearth, and make a surreptitious dash for the ladies’ retiring room.
Critically observing her retreat, Cole entwined his fingers with Jonet’s and sank down into the chair by her chaise. “She seems rather more nervous than I would have expected.”
Jonet leaned a little nearer and grinned mischievously. “Oh, Cecilia’s problem isn’t nerves, my love—it’s nausea!” she whispered. “Really, darling, sometimes you are still shockingly naïve.”
“And how I have remained so whilst wed to you is quite beyond me,” Cole grumbled good-naturedly. “Do you mean to say we can expect yet another happy event in our not-too-distant future?”
But his wife was no longer listening. Instead, she had pulled her fingers from his grasp and was extending both hands forward in a gesture of welcome. An elegantly dressed middle-aged man had crossed the room toward them.
“Mr. Kemble!” Jonet exclaimed. “At last! May I introduce my husband, Mr. Amherst?”
The man drew himself up proudly. “A pleasure, my lady. And Mr. Amherst, what a lovely service you conducted! Most inspiring! Almost enough to make me contemplate matrimonial bliss!”
“You’re very kind, Mr. Kemble,” murmured Cole, rising from his chair. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must have a word with Lord Walrafen.”
Jonet cut a glance in that direction. Lord Walrafen looked rather wan, and bore much of his weight on a crutch. He was accompanied by a tall, striking stranger, and as Cole approached, the three men fell at once into a deep discussion. Returning her gaze to Kemble, she patted Cole’s empty chair.
“Come, Mr. Kemble, do sit down. Such excitement! And you in the midst of it. You must tell me all, for no one else will. I believe they make an excuse of my condition, but the truth is, I am perfectly blood-thirsty.”
Mr. Kemble looked flattered. “I confess, my lady, I was not there to see Lord Walrafen shot,” he whispered. “However, the tall, very angular-looking gentleman at his elbow—that is Chief Inspector de Rohan. I have recently made his close acquaintance through Lord Delacourt, and he has told me the whole of it.”
“Really?” said Jonet appreciatively. “And what does the inspector believe will happen to that horrible man—Grimes, the one who murdered the two girls from my husband’s mission? Will he hang?”
“Oh, from a very high tree, de Rohan says!” confirmed Kemble ghoulishly. “Moreover, the fellow has obligingly revealed everything about Anne Rowland’s smuggling operation.”
Lightly, Jonet lifted her brows. “So do you think it is true, then? About Cousin Edmund? He really knew nothing of his wife’s activities?”
Kemble hesitated. “Nothing de Rohan can prove.”
“Perhaps the inspector is being circumspect.” Jonet smiled grimly. “Of course, we’d all known that Anne kept Edmund under her thumb. The mission is fortunate that Anne did not succeed in worming her way inside, or poor Kitty O’Gavin would likely be dead, too. I think Anne wanted very desperately to find her.”
Kemble cut a quick glance toward Lord Walrafen. “Well, there is a vast deal of wicked gossip floating about the Home Office, you know,” he said. “I have heard it whispered that Anne Rowland was also possessed of some rather shocking habits—habits which she privately indulged at the house in Black Horse Lane.”
Jonet was quiet for moment. “Tell me, Mr. Kemble, the madam who kept the house—did she know Anne after all?”
Kemble lifted his elegant shoulders. “De Rohan thinks that only Grimes knew Mrs. Rowland’s identity. From all indications, Mrs. Rowland visited the house without revealing precisely who she was. Perhaps she found it interesting to spy on her own behalf. Or perhaps she merely sought a discreet place in which to indulge her—” He jerked to a halt, glancing again at Jonet. “Her personal inclinations,” he tactfully finished.
“And so Edmund either did not know of her illegal activities,” mused Jonet, “or he simply did not care. They both craved wealth and status—so much so that she greedily resorted to smuggling. Still, one wonders that he did not guess the truth.”
“From time to time, I collect that Mrs. Rowland asked her husband to make business arrangements which perhaps a wiser man might have found suspicious. But it seems he did not quest
ion her activities too closely.”
“I daresay you’re right.” Jonet laughed rather bitterly, then surrendered to her usual good humor. “So, what now, Mr. Kemble? My friend Lord Delacourt clearly means to get on with his life at last. But now that this dreadful matter has ended, what of everyone else?”
“Well, Edmund Rowland has gone abroad, but I daresay you knew that.” Discreetly, Kemble lifted his glass in the direction of Lord Walrafen. “And as a political ally of Mr. Peel, Walrafen has persuaded Mr. de Rohan to accept a post within the Home Office—a very discreet sort of post, I might add.”
“Oh?” Jonet drew back incrementally. “It all sounds perfectly thrilling.”
“Oh, it is!” whispered Kemble knowingly. “He’s to hold something of a special office, I understand. It all has to do with the Parliamentary Committee on police reform, which everyone believes will be resurrected.”
Jonet was intrigued. “I thought the House had finished with that issue.”
“Eventually, Peel will have his way,” Kemble said confidently. “Still, there is a vast amount of corruption to be ferreted out. And de Rohan is said to be eminently qualified. Indeed, I hear that he’s worked not just for the River Police but at Bow Street and in Queen Square as well. It should all prove most interesting.”
“Most interesting!” agreed Jonet. “And what of yourself, Mr. Kemble? Will you relent, and join Rannoch in the country after all? Or will you accept Delacourt’s generous offer?”
“Oh, that.” Kemble looked suddenly far away. “I am thinking,” he said slowly, “of giving it up altogether.”
Apparently noting Jonet’s shocked expression, he swiftly added, “Of course, I’m exceptionally fond of Rannoch. And of Delacourt, too. Unfortunately, all my gentlemen do seem to marry, and then vanish at once into the dull depths of rural greenery and marital bliss. But I should much prefer the excitement of town, and so I am thinking that a little shop would suit me.”
“As in a haberdashery?”