Slightly Shady

by Amanda Quick

  “I pray you will make allowances,” Emeline continued. “In addition to all of the other difficulties tonight, we are obliged to leave her books of poetry behind. That was a very difficult decision for her. She is very fond of poetry, you see.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake.” Lavinia swung her cloak around her shoulders and strode briskly toward the door. “I refuse to listen to any more of this ridiculous conversation. One thing is certain, I am suddenly quite eager to be free of your unpleasant company, Mr. March.”

  “You wound me, Mrs. Lake.”

  “Not nearly so deeply as I could wish.”

  She paused on the staircase and looked back at him. He did not look wounded. Indeed, he looked magnificently fit. The ease with which he hoisted one of the trunks testified to his excellent physical condition.

  “Personally, I’m looking forward to going home.” Emeline hastened toward the stairs. “Italy is all very well for a visit, but I have missed London.”

  “So have I.” Lavinia jerked her gaze away from Tobias March’s broad shoulders and stomped down the stairs. “This entire venture has been an unmitigated disaster. Whose idea was it to travel to Rome as companions to that dreadful Mrs. Underwood in the first place?”

  Emeline cleared her throat. “Yours, I believe.”

  “The next time I suggest anything so bizarre, I pray you will be so kind as to wave a vinaigrette under my nose until I come to my senses.”

  “It no doubt seemed quite a brilliant notion at the time,” Tobias March said behind her.

  “It did indeed,” Emeline murmured in very neutral tones. “ ‘Just think how delightful it will be to spend a season in Rome,’ Lavinia said. ‘Surrounded by all those wonderfully inspiring antiquities,’ she said. ‘All at Mrs. Underwood’s expense,’ she said. ‘We shall be entertained in grand style by people of quality and taste,’ she said.”

  “That is quite enough, Emeline,” Lavinia snapped. “You know very well it has been a very educational experience.”

  “In more ways than one, I should imagine,” Tobias said rather too easily, “judging by some of the gossip I have heard concerning Mrs. Underwood’s parties. Is it true they tended to evolve into orgies?”

  Lavinia gritted her teeth. “Granted there were one or two minor incidents of an unfortunate nature.”

  “The orgies were somewhat awkward,” Emeline allowed. “Lavinia and I were obliged to lock ourselves in our bedchambers until they ended. But in my opinion, matters did not become truly dire until we woke up one morning to discover that Mrs. Underwood had run off with her count. That course of action left us stranded and penniless in a foreign clime.”

  “Nevertheless,” Lavinia continued forcefully, “we managed to come right again and we were doing quite nicely until you, Mr. March, chose to interfere in our personal affairs.”

  “Believe me, Mrs. Lake, no one regrets the necessity more than I,” Tobias said.

  She paused at the foot of the stairs to take in the sight of the shop full of shattered pottery and statuary. He had destroyed everything, she thought. Not a single vase had been left unbroken. In less than an hour, he had ruined the business it had taken nearly four months to establish.

  “It is inconceivable that your regret equals my own, Mr. March.” She tightened her grasp on her reticule and walked through the rubble toward the door. “Indeed, sir, as far as I am concerned, this disaster is entirely your fault.”

  It was not yet dawn when Tobias heard the shop’s rear door open at last. He waited on the unlit stairs, pistol in his hand.

  A man carrying a lantern turned down low emerged from the back room. He came to a halt when he saw the wreckage.

  “Bloody hell.”

  He set the lantern down on the counter and crossed the room swiftly to examine the shattered remains of a large vase.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered again. He swung around, studying the ruined objects. “Bloody damn hell!”

  Tobias went down one step. “Looking for something, Carlisle?”

  Carlisle went very still. In the weak, flaring light of the lantern, his face was a mask of chilling evil. “Who are you?”

  “You don’t know me. A friend of Bennett Ruckland sent me to find you.”

  “Ruckland. Yes, of course. I should have anticipated this.”

  Carlisle moved with blinding speed. He raised his hand, revealing the pistol he held, and prepared to fire without a second’s hesitation.

  Tobias was ready. He pulled the trigger of his own gun.

  The explosion was all wrong. He knew at once the pistol had misfired. He reached into a pocket, grabbed his second gun, but it was too late.

  Carlisle fired.

  Tobias felt his left leg go out from under him. The impact threw him back and to the side. He dropped his unfired pistol in favor of grabbing the banister. Somehow he managed to keep himself from falling headfirst down the stairs.

  Carlisle was already preparing to fire his second pistol.

  Tobias tried to scramble back up the staircase. Something was very wrong with his left leg. He could not get it to move properly. He turned onto his stomach and hauled himself up the steps using his hands and right leg in a crablike movement. His foot slipped in something wet. He knew it was the blood seeping from his thigh.

  Down below, Carlisle moved cautiously toward the foot of the stairs. Tobias knew the only reason the other man hadn’t fired the second gun was because Carlisle could not see him clearly in the shadows.

  The darkness was his only hope.

  He made it to the landing and more or less fell through the doorway into the unlit room. His hand struck the heavy urn Lavinia had left behind.

  “Nothing so annoying as a misfire, is there?” Carlisle asked pleasantly. “And then to drop your second gun. Clumsy. Very clumsy.”

  He was coming up the stairs now, quickly, more confidently.

  Tobias gripped the urn, pulled it onto its rounded side, and tried to breathe very shallowly. The pain had started to burn in his left leg.

  “Did the man who sent you after me bother to tell you that you probably would not return to England alive?” Carlisle inquired from halfway up the stairs. “Did he tell you that I am a former member of the Blue Chamber? Do you know what that means, my friend?”

  He would have only one chance, Tobias told himself. He had to wait until the right instant.

  “I do not know how much you were paid to hunt me down, but whatever it was, it was not enough. You were a fool to agree to the bargain.” Carlisle had almost reached the landing. There was hungry excitement in his voice. “It will cost you your life.”

  Tobias shoved the large urn, using most of what little strength he had left. The plump vessel rumbled toward the staircase.

  “What’s that?” Carlisle froze on the top step. “What’s that noise?”

  The urn crashed into his legs. Carlisle yelled. Tobias heard him clawing at the wall in an attempt to regain his balance but to no avail.

  There was a series of dull, jolting thuds as Carlisle tumbled down. His scream stopped with awful suddenness near the bottom.

  Tobias yanked the sheet from the bed, ripped a long strip from it, and bound up his left leg. His head swam when he hauled himself to his feet.

  He swayed and almost fainted halfway down the staircase, but he managed to stay upright. Carlisle lay sprawled at the foot of the steps, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle. The shards of the urn were scattered around him.

  “She chose the Apollo, you see,” Tobias whispered to the dead man. “In hindsight, it was clearly the right decision. The lady has excellent intuition.”

  one

  The nervous little man who had sold him the journal had warned him that blackmail was a dangerous business. Some of the information in the valet’s diary could get a man killed. But it could also make him rich, Holton Felix thought.

  He had made his living in the gaming hells for years. He was well acquainted with risk and he had long ago learned that
there was no reward for those who lacked the resolve and the sheer bloody nerve required to roll the dice.

  He was no fool, he told himself as he dipped his quill in the ink and prepared to finish the note. He did not intend to pursue a career in blackmail for long. He would abandon it just as soon as he collected enough money to pay off his most pressing debts.

  He would keep the diary though, he thought. The secrets it contained would be useful in the future should he ever find himself in dun territory again.

  The knock on the door startled him. He stared at the last line of the threat he had just penned. A blob of ink marred the word unfortunate . The sight of the ruined sentence irritated him. He took pride in the wit and cleverness of his notes. He had worked hard to tailor each message to the appropriate recipient. He could have been a famous writer, another Byron perhaps, had circumstances not obliged him to support himself in the hells.

  Old rage shot through him. Everything would have been so much easier if life had not been so damnably unfair. If his father had not got himself killed in a duel over a disputed hand of cards; if his desperate and despairing mother had not died of the fever when he was but sixteen; who knew what he might have achieved? Who knew how high he could have risen had he been given even some of the advantages other men possessed?

  Instead, he was reduced to blackmail and extortion. But someday he would finally reach the position that should have been his, he vowed. Someday . . .

  The knock sounded again. One of his creditors, no doubt. He had left his vouchers in every hell in town.

  He crumpled the letter in his fist and stood abruptly. Crossing the room to the window, he eased aside the curtain and peered out. There was no one. Whoever had knocked a moment ago had abandoned the attempt to make him respond. But there appeared to be a parcel on the step.

  He opened the door and stooped to pick up the package. He caught only a glimpse of the hem of a heavy greatcoat when the figure moved out of the shadows.

  The poker struck the back of his head with killing force. For Holton Felix, the world ended in an instant, canceling all of his outstanding debts.

  two

  The stench of death was unmistakable. Lavinia caught her breath on the threshold of the firelit room and hastily fumbled in her reticule for a hankie. This was the one possibility for which she had made no allowance in her plans tonight. She placed the embroidered square of linen over her nose and fought the urge to turn and flee.

  Holton Felix’s body lay sprawled on the floor in front of the hearth. At first she could see no sign of injury. She wondered if his heart had failed him. Then she realized there was something dreadfully wrong with the shape of his skull.

  Evidently one of Felix’s other blackmail victims had arrived before her. Felix had not been a particularly clever scoundrel, she reminded herself. After all, she had managed to determine his identity shortly after receiving the first extortion note from him, and she was quite new and inexperienced at this business of making private inquiries.

  Once she had learned his address, she had talked to some of the maids and cooks who worked in the neighborhood. Satisfied that Felix had a nightly habit of taking himself off to the gaming hells, she had come here tonight intending to search his lodgings. She had hoped to find the diary he claimed to be quoting in his notes.

  She surveyed the small room, uncertainty twisting her stomach. The fire still burned cheerily on the hearth, but she could feel icy perspiration trickling down her spine. Now what was she to do? Had the killer been satisfied with Felix’s death, or had he taken the time to go through the villain’s possessions to discover the diary?

  There was only one way to learn the answers to those questions, she thought. She must carry on with her original scheme to search Felix’s rooms.

  She forced herself to move. It took an effort of will to push through the invisible wall of dread that curtained the hellish scene. The flickering light of the dying flames cast ghastly shadows on the walls. She tried not to look at the body.

  Breathing as shallowly as possible, she considered where to start her search. Felix had furnished his lodgings in a simple manner. Given his fondness for the hells, that came as no great surprise. He had no doubt been obliged to sell the occasional candlestick or table to cover his debts. The servants she had questioned had assured her that Felix was rumored to be forever short of the ready. One or two had implied he was an unscrupulous opportunist who would stoop to any means to secure money.

  Blackmail had very likely been only one of a number of unpleasant financial schemes Felix had concocted in his career as a gamester. But evidently it had been a losing stratagem.

  She looked at the desk near the window and decided to start there, although she suspected the killer had already gone through the drawers. It was certainly what she would have done in his place.

  She circled Felix’s body cautiously, keeping as far away from it as possible, and hurried toward her goal. The surface of the desk was littered with the usual paraphernalia, including a penknife and an inkstand. There was also sand for blotting and a small metal dish for melting sealing wax.

  She bent down to open the first of the three drawers on the right side of the desk. And froze when a shiver of premonition stirred the fine hairs on the nape of her neck.

  The soft but unmistakable scrape of a boot sounded on the wooden floor behind her. Fear crashed through her, stealing her breath. Her heart raced so swiftly she wondered if she was about to faint for the first time in her life.

  The killer was still here in these rooms.

  One thing was certain. She could not afford the luxury of a swoon.

  She stared at the items on the desk for a horrified instant, searching for a weapon with which to defend herself. She put out a hand. Her fingers tightened convulsively around the handle of the small penknife. It looked so tiny and fragile. But it was all that was available.

  Clutching the tiny blade, she whirled around to face the murderer. She saw him at once, looming in the darkened doorway that opened onto the bedchamber. She could see the outline of his greatcoat, but his face was concealed by the shadows.

  He made no move to close the short distance between them, however. Instead he lounged there, one shoulder propped negligently against the frame of the door, arms folded across his chest.

  “Do you know, Mrs. Lake,” Tobias March said, “I had a feeling that you and I would meet up again one day. But who could have guessed that it would be under such interesting circumstances?”

  She had to swallow twice before she could speak. When she did eventually manage to utter a few coherent words, her voice sounded thin and it easily cracked.

  “Did you murder that man?”

  Tobias glanced at the body. “No. I got here after the killer, just as you did. From what I can determine, Felix was killed on his front step. The murderer must have dragged him back into this room.”

  The news did little to reassure her. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was about to ask you the same question.” He contemplated her with a considering air. “But I have a hunch I already know the answer. You are obviously one of Felix’s blackmail victims, are you not?”

  Outrage temporarily overcame fear. “The horrid creature sent me two notes this week. The first arrived on Monday. It was delivered to the kitchen door. I could not believe my eyes when I read his ridiculous demands. He wanted a hundred pounds. Can you imagine? One hundred pounds to ensure his silence. Of all the unmitigated gall.”

  “On what point did he promise to maintain silence?” Tobias watched her intently. “Have you been into more mischief since we last met?”

  “How dare you, sir? This is entirely your fault and yours alone.”

  “My fault?”

  “Yes, Mr. March. I blame the entire affair on you.” She gestured toward the body with the tip of the penknife. “That wretched man attempted to blackmail me over that business in Rome. He threatened to reveal everything.”

  “Did
he indeed?” Tobias straightened with an oddly stiff movement. “Now, that is most interesting. What, precisely, did he know?”

  “I just told you, he knew it all. He threatened to make it known that I had operated a shop in Rome frequented by a band of villains. He implied that I was an accomplice to their schemes and had allowed the cutthroats to use my establishment as a communications post. He even went so far as to infer that I had very likely been the mistress of the gang’s leader.”

  “Was that all he said in his note?”

  “All? Isn’t that enough? Mr. March, in spite of your best efforts, my niece and I managed to survive your assault on our business in Rome. Barely.”

  He inclined his head. “I rather thought you might come about again. Yours is a spirit that does not sink easily.”

  She ignored that. “Indeed, things are going rather well at the moment. I have every hope of giving Emeline a taste of a real Season. With luck, she may even meet an eligible gentleman who can support her in the manner to which I wish to see her accustomed. This is a rather delicate time, if you see what I mean. I cannot allow her name to be tainted by the least hint of gossip.”

  “I see.”

  “If Felix had bruited it about that she had at one time been involved in a shop that catered to villains in Rome, the damage would be incalculable.”

  “I suppose gossip to the effect that she was the niece of the mistress of a notorious criminal lord would complicate your scheme to launch Miss Emeline into the social whirl.”

  “Complicate it? It would ruin everything. This is all so very unfair. Emeline and I had nothing to do with those villains and the man you called Carlisle. I don’t see how any person possessed of even a small measure of refined sensibilities could leap to the conclusion that my niece and I consorted with thieves and murderers.”

  “I leaped to that conclusion for a short time at the start of the affair, if you will recall.”

  “I do not find that particularly surprising,” she said grimly. “I was referring to persons possessed of refined sensibilities. That group would hardly include you, sir.”