by Jenna Ryan
Careful now, mustn’t be observed. Toss the gun. No prints to identify, no darts or poison. Not that the gun was likely to be found, but stranger things had happened. Look at Victoria Summers. She’d fallen right on top of the thing at Myrtle’s. It could have gone off easily, discharged straight into her backside. But up she’d jumped unharmed, and the sweep had been forced to beat a hasty retreat.
Time for a new disguise, a more visible, less noticeable one. Now, there was a dichotomy. More visible, less noticeable. And there was that other matter, as well. The bomb. It must be procured tonight and all the bits and pieces checked. Too bad an innocent life would be sacrificed, but justice must be served. A noble end to an ignoble existence.
The former sweep eased back into the usual routine. All would be well very soon. But, oh, how gratifying it would have been to see Lenny Street die. That pleasure must not be missed with Victoria and Torbel. Perhaps the event should be videotaped. Old Augustus would view such a tape with relish.
So, thought the one-time sweep with a vengeful chuckle, would the perpetrator.
Chapter Eight
Poison. Lenny Street had been shot with a poisoned dart. That’s what had pricked him when he’d stomped on her foot at Myrtle’s.
Inside Zoe’s Baker Street flat above Gooseberries, Victoria sat with the lights out, hugging an overstuffed cushion and struggling with the morbid sense of guilt that threatened to consume her. This whole nightmare had started with her. Now a man was dead.
Try as she might to lock the picture away, it kept returning: a distant reel, flies droning against the pub windows, the smell of river water and old wood, Torbel trying to pound life into Lenny’s constricted chest…
Torbel…
She hugged the cushion closer, focusing on the uneven collection of London chimneys and rooftops. He’d taken his old comrade’s death with seeming equanimity, but that lack of expression on his face had been a sham. He cared. Not as deeply as if it had been Keiran lying there at his feet, but he cared. And so did she.
One thing she knew: Torbel would never admit it. That stony exterior of his hid—she didn’t know what yet. But it was no heart of ice.
Damn! She closed her eyes to the patchwork London night. Why hadn’t she done something this afternoon? Put her arms around Torbel and kissed him. Why hadn’t he turned to her?
“Because we’re both pigheaded idiots, that’s why,” she said out loud.
The walls didn’t respond, and Zoe wasn’t home. As far as Victoria could tell, she hadn’t been home since early afternoon, which was when the note she’d scribbled said she’d left to follow a lead on her current case.
A chill feathered along Victoria’s spine at the thought of notes and cases. Lenny Street’s note had had all the earmarks of insanity about it: a childish rhyme, altered in the most gruesome fashion. Plus, according to Boots, who’d glimpsed the original, the words had been comprised of large, poorly cut letters. Whoever the perpetrator was, his or her mind must be deteriorating. Victoria’s threats had been neatly cut and pasted.
Resting her forehead against the cushion, she tried for a less disruptive train of thought. Her mind kept calling up images of the Rag Man. With his dark, satyric features and penetrating eyes, he was undeniably the most compelling man she’d ever met, and that included the thieves, con artists and murderers she’d once helped Lord Hobday to convict.
So, knowing that, why did she keep dwelling on him? Sexy and appealing he might be, but she wanted no part of him, or shouldn’t if she was smart.
Determined, Victoria fastened her mind on Prudie and the Florida bayou where she’d spent so many happy years. She missed Prudie. She missed America and Taco Bell and pizzas with panache. But if she left London now, she’d miss her da. She might also come to miss Torbel, but, of course, any feelings in that area must not be allowed to develop. A child would have understood that from the start.
“Any child but me,” she mumbled into the cushion.
He knew virtually nothing about her or she about him. It was galling. He thought she came from a wealthy background; she’d bet on it. He probably believed she loved her job, loved her flat, her car and her dog. Well, she loved Rosie, all right, but as for the other things—she just didn’t know anymore. Maybe she never really had.
The sound of the door creaking open intruded on her thoughts and brought her head up swiftly.
“Zoe?”
It looked like Zoe; however, the woman on the threshold clad in black pants and a tight black cotton T-shirt froze at the sight of her. She carried a flashlight and hadn’t bothered to switch on the apartment lights. Her sharp intake of breath spoke as eloquently as words.
Victoria came to her feet. “Clover,” she said, uncertain how to handle this.
“I knocked,” the woman said stiffly. Definitely Clover’s rigorously controlled voice. But had it not been for that, Clover Hollyburn could have passed for Zoe in a minute. She was even dressed like a cat burglar. Come to think of it…
Victoria’s eyes landed with open suspicion on the flashlight. “What are you doing here?”
“I did knock,” Clover repeated. She sounded like a robot, no emotion, no change of expression.
Keeping her distance, Victoria crossed to the wall and flipped the light switch. Clover blinked at the glare, started to edge away, then thought better of it and lifted her chin. “I thought you were out with Torbel.”
“He had something to do.” Victoria studied Clover’s face feature by feature. The makeup was different, but they had the same small beauty spot on their right cheeks. The similarity was so strong as to be almost eerie. “Obviously you didn’t expect to find anyone,” she continued, “so why did you come if not to see Zoe?”
Clover’s jaw tightened. “I knocked,” she said for the third time.
Victoria’s temper rose. “And I didn’t answer. Most people would have turned around and left, but you came in. Why?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“I think it is since I’m staying here.”
“It’s between Zoe and me, then. We’re twins, after all. Maybe I just wanted to be here when she got home.”
Victoria arched a skeptical brow. “For a sisterly chat?”
“Why not?”
“Well, for one thing, you’re carrying a flashlight and wearing gloves. For another, the door was locked. You had to pick that lock in order to get in. I don’t know your habits, Clover, but that seems a bit extreme to me just for the sake of having a few words with your estranged sister.”
“Who said we were estranged?”
“Zoe implied as much.”
Clover balled her free fist. “Zoe and Grandfather are at odds. I happen to value our relationship more than that. Now, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll go.”
“Shall I tell Zoe you stopped by?”
Clover whirled. Her lips were thin and white; her eyes flashed blue fire. “Tell her any damned thing you please, Victoria Summers. You’ve allied yourself with the man who murdered my brother. All of you in the crown attorney’s office were on his side from day one. So don’t come the saint with me, lady. You jumped on the devil’s bandwagon. You’d better be prepared for one hell of a ride.”
Victoria stared in disbelief. She’d never seen such hatred. “You’re crazy,” she said softly. She realized her mistake instantly. Never call a spade a spade when dealing with sorely strained emotions.
She could almost see the wire in Clover’s brain snap. Emitting a snarl, the woman came for her, shoving her hard with both gloved hands, then pouncing on her like a mad tiger.
Thank heaven for the years she’d spent with her da, because there was no way to avoid the attack except to throw her arm across her face and thrust her knee up hard into Clover’s stomach.
Clover made a choked noise and fell to the side. Victoria scrambled away, first on hands and knees, then, using the table for support, on foot. She yanked open the door, rushed through—and crashed full bore into a black wall.<
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Her first thought was that it was a wet wall, her second that it was moving and therefore not a wall at all. She jerked her head back and, when her eyes focused, wasn’t sure whether to hit him or hug him. She settled for a glare followed by an apprehensive glance over her shoulder. “What are you doing here?”
The faint bark that emerged from under his jersey answered her question and brought a smile to her lips. “Rosie!” she exclaimed, forgetting for the moment the woman behind her.
A little mop-top head poked out to peer around in wonder. With more gentleness than. Victoria thought he possessed, Torbel extricated the tiny Yorkshire terrier and handed her over.
“Is that Clover?” he asked, sounding displeased. “What’s she doing here?”
“Ask her.” Victoria let Rosie lick her face. “All I got was some gibberish about wanting to see her sister.”
“Bull.”
It was as good a response as any, but it incited Clover’s rage all over again—although seeing the object of her hatred probably hadn’t done much to defuse it. She faced him resentfully, breathing hard and glowering.
“I don’t have to explain myself to you or your new client,” she growled. “This is between Zoe and me.”
“Did you attack Victoria just now?”
“Stick to your own business, Torbel. You’ve more than enough of it these days.” She fixed Victoria with a furious stare. “Did my sister say when she’d be back?”
“I haven’t seen her all day,” Victoria answered. She couldn’t resist adding a barbed “I could have told you that earlier if you’d bothered to ask.”
“I knocked,” Clover said through her teeth.
Odd, Victoria thought, how some people could rationalize any crime they chose to commit.
“Go home, Clover,” Torbel said without inflection. “And tell your grandfather, if he’s involved in this mess, to back off. His age won’t stop me from squeezing the life out of him the day I find his hand in any of it.”
Clover trembled with suppressed fury. “How dare you,” she declared in a raw voice. “You, a murderer, accusing my grandfather of conspiracy. He has class, Torbel. He wouldn’t sink to your level for a minute, not for a million pounds and a knighthood guaranteed.”
“No, he’d leave that chore to you, wouldn’t he, his faithful dogsbody. You’d sacrifice Zoe, yourself, your official oath, everything and anything to get me, wouldn’t you? To hell with the legal system, you’re a bloody one-woman crusade, a vigilante with a single aim in life—to see me dead.” He began to advance on her, his manner slow and intimidating. “Did you send the notes to Victoria or Street? Did you kill Lenny today on the docks? Were you in Myrtle’s when the fight broke out? Or maybe you instigated it by suggesting that git of a man make an offer for Victoria.”
Her lithe body coiled like a spring, Clover snapped, “The word’s been out on that incident for hours, Torbel. You took your client into Myrtle’s. What did you expect? Did you think your high and mighty legal lady could just sashay in and out without having her delicate sensibilities disrupted?” Her eyes glittered in the overhead light. “Now, if you two will excuse me, I’m on early watch tomorrow.”
“I’ll give your regards to Zoe,” Victoria remarked as Clover brushed past.
A muffled hiss was the only answer she received. Five seconds later, the rear stairwell door clicked shut and Clover was gone.
Victoria sighed into the silky fur of Rosie’s head, then arched a meaningful brow. “She broke in, Torbel. That bulge in her pocket was probably lock picks.”
He went to the window, holding back the curtain with two fingers and gazing out. “She’s a cop with a former cat burglar for a sister. She knows plenty about breaking and entering.”
“So do I, but I wouldn’t go around using the knowledge.”
He slid her a steady look. “Come again, Victoria?”
She backpedaled hastily. “Breaking into a place like this would be child’s play, Torbel.” She deposited Rosie into an easy chair. “I didn’t mean to imply that I knew how…”
“The hell you didn’t.”
His words were softly spoken, but Victoria recognized a potential explosion when she heard one. He started menacingly toward her, yet for the life of her she couldn’t back away.
“What are you?” he demanded in that same low voice.
“I’m a lawyer,” she replied with false composure. “Not born to this life exactly, but not pampered, either. My mother’s a poet-painter. She lives in a cabin with no bathroom and few other conveniences. I lived with her for a while when I was very young, but my Aunt Prudie, who’s really my great-aunt, thought my mother’s life-style was too Spartan for a child. So she took me to Florida. Prudie has a house in the bayou. I can catch and gut fish and make a terrific stew out of them—if that’s of any interest to you, which I’m sure it isn’t.
“My da’s English, Yorkshire born and bred. He lives in London now. He’s a hawker with a barrow that he uses to sell everything from cabbages to corn flour. He has a one-room flat in Whitechapel, not the better part, but it isn’t a council flat. He pays full rent, helps his friends when he can and bought Rosie from a Southampton breeder for my birthday last fall. He also sent money to help pay my tuition at law school in New England. He has scruples and morals, and if you make one nasty or sarcastic remark about either he or Prudie, I swear, Torbel, I’ll use the fireplace poker to give you a matching scar on your other cheek.”
Her hands had planted themselves on her hips during her tirade. Her voice had firmed up, as well, ending now in a direct challenge. Just let him disparage the two people she loved most in the world. That would stop any attraction she felt for him dead in its tracks.
To her surprise, and perhaps relief—she was reluctant to analyze the second feeling—he halted less than a foot in front of her. She thought for one heart-stopping moment that he was going to kiss her. Instead, he stared into her eyes, his own dark and unfathomable. She saw the scar on his cheek at close range and felt a now-familiar flutter in her stomach. The heat and humidity pressed in with suffocating potential. Dark, dangerous and sexy. She might have been a fly trapped in the Rag Man’s web.
His presence filled not merely the room but the entire apartment. Victoria experienced a moment of breathlessness, but fought it. This was no time for attraction. He hadn’t responded to her challenge yet.
Lifting a hand, he cupped her cheek. The callused texture of his skin against hers felt strangely erotic. His eyes, deep blue flecked with green, continued to hold hers. Would he deride her da and Prudie as others in her profession had done so subtly in the past?
She waited, not breathing as he ran his fingers along her cheek and jaw. The kiss that he unexpectedly dropped on her startled lips demanded nothing in return. In fact, it was over before she even realized he’d moved.
“Your da and Prudie sound like good people” was all he said. “You’re a very lucky woman.”
Then he was gone, and all Victoria could do was stare after him with a blend of bemusement and suspicion. She hadn’t thanked him for bringing Rosie here tonight. She’d have to do that tomorrow. Because she certainly wasn’t about to follow him into the street, not feeling the way she did at this moment. Rosie aside, she still didn’t trust him an inch. More important, she didn’t trust herself.
And that, she reflected with a deep, consuming shiver, might just be the most frightening discovery of all.
ZOE STUMBLED IN near dawn, yawning and distracted. The sound of the door closing roused Victoria from a fitful sleep.
Zoe’s clothes were smudged and smelled of burned matches. “I had a tussle with a group of teens lighting fireworks,” she explained, then headed off toward the bedroom, coffee and a piece of raisin toast in hand.
When Victoria mentioned Clover’s strange visit, she’d offered no comment. The news agitated her, though; Victoria could see that by the way her slender shoulder muscles bunched beneath her shirt.
She liked Zoe
and wanted to help, but there was little she could do until Zoe told her the exact nature of the problem between herself and Clover. So she fell back into bed for three hours, then got up for good, showered, dressed and went out to buy some proper food for Rosie.
London in late spring contained its own brand of magic and charm, most of it rooted in centuries of history. The earlymorning markets drew her like a magnet. Soon she was laden with parcels and bags.
Boots hailed her from his post outside the bake shop. He had half a baguette in one hand and a spoon covered with raspberry jam in the other. “I heard it again in me dreams last night, pretty lady,” he said gravely.
She didn’t understand. “Heard what, Mr., er, Boots?”
“’Sweep the soot away,’ it said. ‘Sweep it clean.’” He peered at her face from every angle. “You look Gypsy. You got Gypsy blood in you? No? The Welsh, then?”
“I don’t think so,” Victoria said politely. Despite his close scrutiny, something about the old man appealed to her. Maybe he reminded her of her da thirty years from now. Or maybe he resembled a character in a book. Dr. Watson, or Mr. Doyce from Little Dorrit. At any rate, she found herself digging through her wallet while he talked.
“Torbel, he’s got the Welsh, you know. Oh, yes, the Welsh and the Irish. You can never tell about a mix like that. Gets it from his mam. She was a beauty, that one. Came to London for a time in the late fifties. A vision she was, and a visionary.”
Her curiosity piqued, Victoria set her parcels down. She had to kneel, because Boots had settled onto his case to eat his baguette. “So Torbel’s mother was a fortune-teller, a clairvoyant?”
“She saw things in her head, aye. But that wasn’t all she could do when up against it. I saw her once make a man start to choke who was pushing around his wife and sister. The man was an M.P. He tried to have her charged with assault. He got laughed off the block in the end, but she did it to him, no mistake about it, and he knew it. His wife left him after that, and he never got reelected, so it was a good ending all around. But only a few would believe if you told them the story.”