“There was a gentleman there… hiding, watching us, I think. He intervened. We had no choice but to abandon the whole operation before the watch came,” Fenton explained. “We can still get her. But we’ll need help from the mystic and her pretty boy.”
An elegant hand slammed down on the top of the table, his ornate ring smacking against the wood with a sharp crack. “You will get her and you will not tell me how it is to be done! I know what is required. Have I not been issuing your orders for nigh on two decades? Was it not your own botched attempt to retrieve my property from Vale that spawned this entire scheme?”
Fenton ducked his head. “Yes, it was, sir.”
A soft chuckle escaped him, the sound echoing in the library and sending a chill up Fenton’s spine. It was like hearing the devil himself.
“Selling off that little towheaded brat was the most brilliant idea you’ve ever had in your life… you managed to show me just how profitable it could be to trade in human flesh,” he reflected. “It’s been, I daresay, as lucrative as blackmail ever was. Of course, it helps that if we sell to the right sort of individual, blackmail can still be a nice secondary income. Now can’t it?”
And he would burn in hell for it. “Yes, sir.”
“Where are your compatriots?”
“Albert is dead. I had to shoot him. Henry took off in another direction. We’ll meet up soon enough and plan our next attack.” He hoped Henry, for once in his life, had the sense to run and keep running. The big oaf had been roped into this mess the same as the rest of them, but Fenton knew it pressed more heavily on the soft-hearted giant of a man. It had always had.
“Meet up with Henry and get rid of him. He’s a liability and always has been. Too much brawn and not nearly enough brain. Do nothing else until you hear from the Irishman. I will be paying him and my dear Zella a visit. They may be required to take a more active role in this. It is very rare, after all, that we are asked to obtain a specific female rather than simply a type. Blond, brunette, redhead. They’re all the same in the dark, aren’t they?”
“Yes, sir,” Fenton agreed. His disgust was something he was long used to hiding. He agreed to save his own skin, because it was expected of him.
“I do like it when they have a bit of fight in them… not too much, but a little. Adds sport, doesn’t it?” the man asked, sipping his drink once more. He chuckled softly as he lowered the glass again, clearly amused by his own humor.
“That it does, sir,” Fenton agreed, the lie bitter on his tongue. He’d done a lot of things in his life that he wasn’t proud of, things that he’d pay dearly for in the next world, but he’d never stooped to raping women or, God help him, children. But that didn’t remove the stains from his soul, because he’d put many a woman and child into the hands of monsters who bought them for just that purpose. Might as well be guilty of it himself, he thought.
His employer picked up a letter opener from the desk. It was thin bladed with an ornate handle, a replica of a rapier. “It’s a fine piece isn’t it?”
“It is, sir,” Fenton agreed. He wasn’t oblivious to the only barely veiled threat of the man holding a wicked-looking blade in his hand. But acknowledging it or showing fear would only make matters worse for him. Despite his bravado, Fenton couldn’t prevent a flinch as his employer stopped before him, blade in hand, and pressed the tip of it to his gut.
“If you fail again, I’ll see you dead. Do you hear me? If you’re not of use to me, there’s no point in keeping you around… and given what you know, I can’t exactly just release you from service, can I? It’s hardly like pensioning off the butler! Remember that, Hardwick. You work for me and you work well or you die. The choice is yours. Dull as this blade may be, I’ll gut you with it. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Fenton agreed.
“Go back to your hovel, Hardwick… I’ll send word when you are needed again.”
Fenton bowed stiffly and moved toward the door. But as he touched the handle, the man called out again. Fenton stopped, turned back and faced him. “Yes, sir?”
“Your little light o’love… what was her name, again? Margaret?”
Gooseflesh raised on Fenton’s skin, prickling against the rough fabric of his clothes. “It’s been so long I can’t remember,” he lied.
His employer laughed. “I remember. I never forget. She’s no longer with Cavendish… he grew tired of her I believe. Lost her in a card game to Buckley. I remember, Fenton. And pretend as you might, I know you still yearn for her. I know that you’ve also been writing to her for the last decade. It’d be a pity if, now that she’s with a relatively kind man, her life were to abruptly end, now wouldn’t it?”
“I’ll do what you ask, as I’ve always done,” Fenton agreed. “But leave her out of it. She’s suffered enough for having had the misfortune to be tangled up with the likes of me.”
His employer shrugged. “She’s a tool, Hardwick. Something I can always use as a threat against your life to keep you in line. I’ll use her as I see fit. Remember that. Now get out of my sight.”
I could kill him, Fenton thought. He’d hang for it, but Margaret would be safe, or as safe as she could ever be. But even as the thought entered his mind, he shrugged it off. It required more courage than he possessed after years under the bastard’s thumb. Instead, Fenton nodded again, and walked out the door.
Chapter Eight
After his humiliating collapse the day before, Benedict had been more cautious and circumspect. He’d sat up in bed first. After managing to remain upright for a significant amount of time, he had stood and walked to the window before retreating to the bed and tucking himself back in like the invalid he had been for the last day. All the while, Miss Masters had slept on, blissfully unaware as she curled up in her chair.
She’d talked through the night it seemed, but most of the time he’d been too exhausted and insensible to understand her or take in the details of what she was saying. But he heard something behind her words, something that he responded to on a deep and visceral level. Loneliness. It was something he understood all too well.
Having tested his strength and still finding it lacking, Benedict tamped down his frustration and impatience and returned to his bed. Walking the few paces from the bed to the window and back had left him breathless and exhausted.
A soft knock sounded at the door and then Lady Vale entered. She paused and glanced at Miss Masters’ sleeping form. Then with a vindictive and petty gleam in her eye, she cleared her throat loudly.
Miss Masters let out a startled squeak and sat upright in her chair. “Forgive me, my lady, I must have dozed off.”
It had been more than a doze. At one point, she’d snored. Uncertain of the underlying animosity between the two women and where it was coming from, Benedict wisely kept his thoughts to himself. At this point, he needed Lady Vale’s assistance to locate Mary. Without it, all hope was lost. And Miss Masters… perhaps he didn’t need her, but he did want her. That was an unforeseen complication.
It left him in the very uncomfortable position of swallowing his pride and asking for the help he’d dismissed so carelessly only the day before. “Lady Vale, I must apologize for my less than gracious response yesterday when you offered the assistance of your investigators. It has become clear that I am in no condition to seek Mary’s return myself.”
Lady Vale clasped her hands in front of her and looked down at the carpet. “Mr. Mason, I want you to understand that the fault does not lie with those in my employ, but with my late husband. I was not permitted to hire those investigators to search for you—for my son—while my husband lived. It was more than a decade after my son was taken that he died and I was able to do what was necessary to try to find him—to find you. By then, any leads had grown cold and while most of the villains responsible were identified, they had already been hanged for other crimes and it was too late to question them. That is not the case with your… forgive me, but who is it you seek?”
He’d been reluc
tant to explain earlier, uncertain of Miss Masters’ curious response and worried that anything he said about how Mary had been brought into the Masons’ care would only further support Lady Vale’s belief about his identity. “My adoptive sister. She was brought into the same home where I was being raised by the Masons when she was a young child of no more than two… her name is Mary and she disappeared after visiting the same house your companion was nearly abducted in front of,” he answered.
Lady Vale appeared taken aback by that. “It appears that we have stumbled into something very dark, indeed. My previous assertion that nothing ever happens in Bath seems both naive and foolish now.” Her earlier animosity forgotten in the wake of such a revelation, she looked at her companion with concern in her gaze. “Miss Masters, you will not leave the house without at least two footmen to accompany you. Not even on your half-day!”
“Yes, my lady,” Miss Masters agreed with a jerky nod. “I had not thought to leave the house for any reason at all, frankly. I find myself quite reluctant to face the dangers outside these walls.”
*
The relief Elizabeth felt at knowing the woman he searched for was a relative and not a lover or a wife was utterly preposterous. She had no claim on him, nor did she want one, Elizabeth told herself. She’d had her brush with scandal in the past and inappropriate gentlemen to boot. It was not a road she meant to travel again. Just because it was impossible to ignore how handsome he was, she reasoned, did not necessitate that she act upon it.
From the first moment her gaze had lit upon him, she’d been unable to deny the fact. But handsome was such a passive thing and, while he’d been unconscious, it had been not easy to ignore, but easier to dismiss. Awake, the fierceness of his personality, the intensity that was simply a part of him, took what had been handsome and now made it compelling, magnetic even. He was invading her thoughts and her senses, as evidenced by the strange fluttering of her pulse whenever he glanced at her. But she was no longer an ignorant girl to be led by such things. She knew precisely what sort of ruin awaited her should she give in to baser feelings. And then there was the other thing, that ephemeral and yet inescapable knowledge that he was not at all what he appeared.
His angelic countenance concealed a hidden darkness in him. She sensed it swirling and eddying under the surface. There was violence in him. She’d seen glimpses of it while he’d lain senseless in the bed from striking his head. Strangely, she did not feel unsafe near him. Quite the opposite.
It wasn’t as if he’d threatened them. In fact, he’d been all that was noble and heroic if his actions were not orchestrated as part of some greater plot. A fact of which she remained unconvinced. Still, awake, aware and on alert, it was easy enough to recognize that he was a dangerous man. They’d brought the fox into the hen house, it seemed.
Lady Vale spoke again. “As for you, Mr. Mason, you cannot leave here… firstly, because you are in no condition to do so and, secondly, because I cannot let you leave without knowing the truth,” Lady Vale said. “I will put all of my resources at your disposal. My investigators are yours to use as you will, at no cost. And I will have Madame Zula and her manservant brought here so that you may question them. Regardless of Miss Masters’ skepticism, I cannot help but feel that Madame Zula was being quite honest when she professed that her skills were real even without the theatrical trappings.”
Elizabeth balked. It was not possible that he just remain indefinitely. Lady Vale was practically giving him carte blanche. Mr. Middlethorp would be furious which would, no doubt, result in her being sacked. More to the point, she couldn’t possibly remain under the same roof with him indefinitely. It was nothing short of a recipe for disaster. Every remaining hint of recklessness and wickedness that lurked within her responded to him in a fashion that was impossible to ignore.
“Lady Vale,” she began, “we can hardly hold the man here against his will. Once he is well enough, I am certain that he would want to be directly involved with the search for his sister!”
Lady Vale nodded. “Of course. And when he’s well enough, he will certainly do so. But how much better would it be to use my home as a base for your operation than to work out of some dingy inn?”
“I thank you, Lady Vale, but I—” he began, but Lady Vale immediately cut him off.
“Please do not reject my offer out of hand. I accept the possibility that you may not be the person I believe you to be,” she admitted tearfully. “But until we’ve exhausted every option, allow me the peace and comfort of that hope. I beg you. Please!”
His expression firmed. The indecision that warred in his gaze did more to soften Elizabeth’s stance on his character than anything else. It was clear that he did not wish to cause Lady Vale undue pain, but it was also just as clear that he was calculating how helpful her offer could be to him. Finally, he said, “I must say that I find the scenario of being your long lost son highly unlikely, but I will consent to remain here and operate my search for Mary from this home. The first course of action will be a meeting with Madame Zula and these investigators of yours. I hardly believe in mystics, but it cannot be coincidence that Mary went missing after having last been seen at that address and that Miss Masters was nearly abducted from the very same spot.”
Lady Vale seated herself on the edge of his bed. It was a very familiar gesture, something that a mother might do with her son. It made Benedict distinctly uncomfortable. He didn’t believe that she was his mother. If the truth were told, he couldn’t allow himself to believe it. But there was also an aching familiarity in the gesture, one that sparked his battered memory and made him question whether or not, at any time in his life, someone had cared enough to sit on the side of his bed and offer him comfort.
“I would ask you questions about your childhood and your adoptive family, Mr. Mason. If you would permit it,” she added softly.
“You may ask any questions you like, madame, but I cannot guarantee that I will answer them.”
She dropped her gaze to her clasped hands resting in her lap. After a short pause as she considered his reply, she gave a jerky nod. “That is fair enough, Mr. Mason. Be truthful with me and if you feel you cannot answer for whatever reason, simply tell me that.”
“Then ask your questions,” he agreed. The reluctance in his voice was quite obvious and he’d already stated once before that he did not wish to discuss his family.
“Do you know about how old you were when they took you? What is your earliest memory of being with them?”
He appeared to be considering his answer very carefully. Finally, after a long while, he said, “I can recall a church where we stayed. We didn’t have a home when we arrived in that village, wherever it was. There was no place to stay that we could afford and my adoptive father sought refuge there until he could find work and secure lodging for us. I remember the vicar guessing my age to be about five or six and asking me if I could read… I could, but only just. So he sat down with me and helped me practice my letters and read from a primer that he had.”
“You could read, but only a little,” Lady Vale answered, “when you were taken from me. You’d been tutored by Mr. Morris and would continue with him until you were old enough and would have moved on to Harrow. It was a tradition in your father’s—in my husband’s family,” she explained. “It’s very unlikely, don’t you think, that the son of a transient or nomadic mason would have learned to read at all by the age of six?”
“It’s unusual,” he agreed. “But it’s hardly proof that I’m the missing son and heir of a viscount.”
Tears glistened in her eyes, “Of course, it isn’t proof. It’s been two decades. Proof is not something I can hope for, when time has changed us both so much. But there is reason enough with that kind of information, with your appearance which is so very similar to my own, with the fact that you are close in age to what my son would be, that you were adopted by a rather unlikely pair—it’s the sum of these things, Benedict. Can’t you see that?”
“It’s not so unlikely. My mother adopted us so there would be someone else in the house for my sot of a father to take his anger out upon. The more children they acquired for him to beat, the fewer beatings she’d have to take herself.”
Lady Vale’s face went white. She lifted her hand and pressed it to her heart, almost as if he’d struck her there. Elizabeth had sat quietly during the interrogation to that point, but she couldn’t allow it to continue. She rose to intercede but Lady Vale stopped her with a glance. The older woman looked up at her and held up her hand in a staying gesture.
“I understand your need to lash out, but the truth must be—”
Benedict cut her off quickly. “You do not want to know the truth about where I have been, what I have seen and what I have done. Even if, on some strange and slim chance that I could be your son, you’re better off to go on believing me dead or missing. Can’t you see that?”
She took a calming breath and dropped her hands, once more, to her lap, folded them primly together and offered him a sad smile. “What I can see is that you’ve had a great deal of pain in your life… pain that I would have had you spared whether you are my son or not. I am sorry for that. But it doesn’t change anything for me. There is nothing in this world so painful as not knowing what has become of my child. And if you must lash out, then I will bear it, until the truth can be uncovered.”
“Lady Vale,” Miss Masters interjected, her tone both disapproving and concerned. “Perhaps it would be best to let Mr. Mason rest for a bit. He is quite tired, I’m sure, given his setback from yesterday. Perhaps, tomorrow he will be more amenable to continuing this vein of questioning?”
The Vanishing of Lord Vale Page 8