by Amanda Quick
Just as well, she told herself. If he considered her a thief simply because, under extraordinary circumstances, she had stolen some small items that did not belong to her, what would his opinion be if he were to learn of her unconventional past?
Try to maintain some perspective. Petty thievery was the least of her sins tonight. She had killed a man.
Her mouth went dry. A vision of Rimpton lying facedown, blood leaking from the grievous wound, rose in front of her like a scene from a nightmare.
She pushed the image out of her mind. A suitable case of shattered nerves would have to wait for a more convenient occasion. She had other, more important things to concern her now. She must concentrate on taking care of Phoebe, Hannah, Edwina and Theodora.
She entered the small chamber quietly, trying not to disturb Hannah and Phoebe, who shared the room with her.
“There you are, Miss Glade.” Phoebe sat up in the shadows, clutching the bedclothes to her throat. “Hannah and I were quite worried.”
“Yes.” On the other side of the bed, Hannah stirred and pushed herself up on one elbow. “Are you all right, Miss Glade?”
“I am perfectly well, thank you.” She lit the candle on the washstand and started removing the pins from her hair. “Why on earth would you think otherwise?”
“Hannah said that Mr. Wells might try to take advantage of you,” Phoebe explained in her usual forthright manner.
“Take advantage of me.” Concordia swung around, wincing slightly when she heard her skirts clink against the side of the washstand. “Good heavens, Hannah, whatever were you thinking? I assure you, Mr. Wells was a perfect gentleman.” Aside from that odious remark comparing her cleverness to the tricks of pickpockets and prostitutes, she added silently. But perhaps she was a bit oversensitive tonight.
“Are you certain that he did not try to take any liberties?” Hannah asked anxiously.
“None whatsoever,” she assured her. And immediately wondered why she found that fact oddly depressing.
“Oh.” Hannah sank back against the pillows, evidently disappointed. “I was afraid that perhaps he might expect you to kiss him.”
“Why would he do that?” She unfastened the front hooks of her tight-waisted gown. “We are barely acquainted.”
“Hannah suggested that Mr. Wells might play on your gratitude to make you feel that you owed him a kiss,” Phoebe explained.
“I see.” Concordia stepped out of her gown, relieved to be free of the confining bodice and the weight of the items sewn into the skirts. “No need to concern yourself on that point, Hannah. I am quite certain that Mr. Wells is not the sort to attempt such an ungentlemanly tactic.”
“How can you be sure of that?” Hannah queried.
Concordia considered the question while she hung her gown on one of the hooks set into the wall. Why was she so certain that Ambrose Wells would not try to take advantage of a woman?
“For one thing, I doubt that he would find it necessary to impose himself on a lady,” she said eventually. “I cannot imagine that there is any shortage of females who would be more than willing to kiss him quite freely of their own accord.”
“Why would they do that?” Hannah sounded genuinely baffled. “He is not the least bit handsome. Quite fierce-looking, if you ask me. Like a lion or a wolf or some other dangerous beast.”
“And he is old,” Phoebe pointed out, matter-of-factly.
Concordia stared at their candlelit reflections in the mirror, momentarily bereft of speech. Were they talking about the same person? Ambrose Wells was far and away the most compelling man she had ever met in her life.
“Mr. Wells no doubt appears to be entering his dotage to you, Phoebe, because you are only fifteen years old,” she said, striving to keep her tone light. “I assure you, he is not that much older than me.”
Only a few years at most, she added silently. It was that air of grim, worldly experience combined with cool self-mastery that added the age to his eyes, she thought.
Phoebe drew up her knees beneath the covers and wrapped her arms around them. “Perhaps. But I agree with Hannah. I cannot imagine ladies lining up to kiss him willingly.”
Concordia sat down at the foot of the bed and unlaced her scuffed ankle boots. “Wait until you are a few years older yourself. I have a feeling that you will discover that men like Mr. Wells are not only quite attractive, they are also extremely rare.”
Phoebe’s mouth opened in astonishment. Then she burst into giggles. She clapped one hand across her lips to muffle the sound.
Concordia gave her a quelling glare. “And just what are you laughing at, young lady?”
“You would kiss Mr. Wells if he asked you, wouldn’t you?” Phoebe was barely able to contain herself. “I’ll wager you would be one of those ladies standing in line to let him embrace you.”
“Nonsense.” She blew out the candle. “I would not stand in a line to kiss any man, no matter how attractive he happened to be.”
“You really do think that Mr. Wells is handsome,” Hannah said, intrigued now.
“But what if there was no line?” Phoebe asked, methodical in her questioning, as usual. “What if you were the only lady Mr. Wells wished to kiss? Would you allow him to embrace you in that case?”
“Enough.” Concordia used the moonlight to guide her toward the bed. “I declare this ridiculous conversation to be at an end. I refuse to discuss the subject of kissing Mr. Wells any further. Good night, ladies.”
“Good night, Miss Glade,” Hannah whispered.
“Good night, Miss Glade.” Phoebe settled down onto the pillow.
Concordia reached out to pull the quilt aside and slid beneath the sheets.
She sensed the girls drift immediately into sleep. She envied them.
As she had taught herself to do long ago, she forced her thoughts away from the past and concentrated on the future. Circumstances had changed on her tonight. This was certainly not the first time in her life that such a thing had happened. She needed a new plan. As long as she had a plan, she could keep going forward.
But how was she supposed to incorporate Ambrose Wells into a new scheme? His knowledge of the mysterious Alexander Larkin could prove invaluable. It was clear that he had his own goals in this affair, however. What, exactly, did a private inquiry agent do? Who had hired him? Should she continue to entrust the safety of the girls to his care? And if so, for how long?
The soft, hoarse cry from the other side of the bed brought her out of her moonlit reverie.
Hannah sat up suddenly, gasping for air. “No. No, please don’t close the door. Please.”
Phoebe stirred sleepily. “Miss Glade?”
“It’s all right. I’m here.” Concordia was already out of bed.
She moved swiftly around to Hannah’s side, sat down and gathered the nightmare-shocked girl into her arms.
“Calm yourself, Hannah.”
“So dark,” Hannah whispered in the disoriented voice of one who is caught between the world of dreams and full wakefulness. “I’ll be good. Please don’t close the door.”
“Hannah, listen to me.” Concordia patted the girl’s trembling shoulders. “You are not inside the dark place. Look, you can see the moon. There is plenty of light. Shall I open the window?”
Hannah shuddered. “Miss Glade?”
“I am right here. So is Phoebe. All is well.”
“It was the dream,” Hannah mumbled.
“Yes, I know,” Concordia said. “I expect it was brought on by all the excitement tonight. But you are safe now.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Glade.” Hannah blotted her eyes with the edge of the sheet. “I didn’t mean to disturb you and Phoebe.”
“We understand. There is nothing to be concerned about.”
She continued to soothe and calm Hannah until the girl’s breathing returned to normal.
Eventually Hannah lay down on the pillows. Concordia rose and went back to the other side of the bed.
“Miss Gla
de?” Hannah whispered into the shadows.
“Yes, dear?”
“When we get to London, may I send a message to my friend Joan at the Winslow school? I am very concerned about her. She did not respond to any of the letters I wrote while we were at Aldwick Castle.”
Concordia hesitated, thinking of what Ambrose had said earlier concerning the murderous threat of Alexander Larkin.
“It may not be wise for any of us to contact anyone for a while, Hannah,” she said gently. “Don’t worry, as soon as it is safe to do so, you may contact Joan.”
Phoebe shifted on the pillows. “Are we still in great danger, Miss Glade?”
“We must be careful for a while,” Concordia said, choosing her words. “But we have the assistance of Mr. Wells now and he appears to be extremely competent at dealing with situations such as this.”
“What sort of situation is this, exactly, Miss Glade?” Phoebe asked, predictably curious.
I only wish I knew, Concordia thought. “It is somewhat complicated, Phoebe. But we will manage, never fear. Now try to get some sleep.”
She lay quietly for a long time, listening to the steady, quiet breathing of her companions. When she was certain that Hannah and Phoebe were both asleep again, she closed her eyes.
. . . And saw Rimpton on his knees, trying to get back to his feet. He still held the gun. There was something very wrong with the back of his head. . . .
She awakened with a start, aware that her pulse was pounding.
There was someone in the corridor outside the room. She was not certain what had alerted her, but she could feel the presence on the other side of the closed door.
Ambrose, she thought. It had to be him.
About time he came upstairs to bed, she thought. She hoped he had not spent the past hour getting drunk on the innkeeper’s sherry. But even as the notion occurred to her, she set it aside. She had seen enough of him tonight to be quite certain that he was not so lacking in self-restraint. In any event, he had not had so much as a single glass of the stuff earlier when he had served it to her.
She waited for the opening and closing of his bedroom door, but there was only silence. What was he doing? Why didn’t he go into his room?
What if she was mistaken? Perhaps it was someone else hovering out there in the hall. Another guest? Edwina or Theodora?
Perhaps one of the men from the castle had managed to follow them, after all.
Fear knifed through her with the force of an electrical shock. She stared very hard at the razor-thin crack of grayish light beneath the door.
For a second or two she was frozen, unable to move or breathe.
With an effort of will she managed to slide out from under the quilts. Neither of the two sleeping girls stirred.
The room had grown very cold, but she could feel the icy trickle of perspiration under her arms. She found her eyeglasses and put them on. Then she made her way to her cloak and fumbled briefly in one of the pockets. Her fingers finally closed around the handle of Rimpton’s revolver. She withdrew it quietly.
When she reached the door, she paused again. Whoever he was, he was still there. She could literally feel his presence.
It had to be Ambrose, she thought. But she would not be able to relax until she made certain of it.
Easing the bolt aside, she opened the door a bare inch.
Moonlight spilled from the window at the end of the corridor. Through the narrow opening she could just barely make out the top of the staircase. There was no sign of anyone about. She realized that from her vantage point she could not see around the edge of the door to examine the hallway to the right.
“I take it the sherry was not effective.” Ambrose spoke very quietly from the darkness.
She jumped a little and then drew a shuddering breath of relief. Lowering the gun, she opened the door a little wider and put her head around the corner.
At first she could not see him at all. Then she realized why. He was not standing at eye level in the hall; he was sitting cross-legged on the floor, hands lightly curled on his knees. There was a great stillness about him.
“Mr. Wells,” she said softly, “I thought I heard you out here. What on earth are you doing sitting there on the floor? You should be in bed. You need your sleep as much as the rest of us.”
“Do not concern yourself, Miss Glade. Go back to bed.”
She could hardly demand answers at this hour. The last thing she wanted to do was awaken the girls, to say nothing of the innkeeper and his wife.
“Very well, if you insist.” She did not bother to conceal her doubts.
“Believe it or not, I do know what I am doing, Miss Glade.”
Reluctantly she closed the door and slid the bolt back into place. She made her way to the bed, removed her eyeglasses, put the gun down on the table and got under the covers.
She watched the crack of light beneath the door for a time, thinking about Ambrose’s odd behavior. She did not require an answer to her question. She knew why he was out there in the chilly hall, why he had not touched the sherry earlier. He was keeping watch.
She chilled beneath the heavy quilts.
The fact that he felt it necessary to guard them through the night told her just how dangerous he believed Alexander Larkin really was.
6
Ambrose listened to the almost inaudible snick of the bolt of the door sliding into place.
He waited a moment longer, cataloging the sounds of the slumbering inn. That part of him that had been trained to listen for the smallest dissonant note concealed within the natural harmony of the night detected nothing that gave cause for alarm.
He allowed himself to sink back into the quiet place in his mind. There would be no sleep for him between now and dawn, but in this inner realm he could obtain a semblance of rest. Here, too, he could contemplate problems and consider possibilities.
At the moment none seemed quite as pressing or as disturbing as Concordia Glade’s words a moment ago. I thought I heard you out here.
That was not possible. He knew that he had made no sound. He was equally certain that he had done nothing to disturb the shadows beneath the doors when he made his way down the hall. He knew how to move in the night. He had a talent for it. I thought I heard you out here.
He let himself drift into the memory of another night. . . .
The boy hovered, shivering, in the deep shadows at the top of the stairs. He listened to the angry, muffled voices emanating from the study. His father was quarreling with the mysterious visitor. He could not make out all the words but there was no mistaking the rising level of rage in both men. It was a dangerous, dark tide that seemed to flood through the house.
His father’s voice was tight with fury.
“. . . You murdered her in cold blood, didn’t you? I can’t prove it, but I know you did it. . . .”
“She wasn’t important.” The stranger spoke in low, angry tones. “Just a chambermaid who learned more than was good for her. Forget her. We’re on the brink of making a fortune. . . .”
“. . . I won’t be a party to any more of this business. . . .”
“You can’t just walk away. . . .”
“That is precisely what I’m going to do.”
“You surprise me, Colton,” the visitor said. “You’ve been a swindler and a fraud artist all of your life. I believed you to be far more practical.”
“Fleecing a few wealthy gentlemen who can well afford to lose several thousand pounds is one thing. Murder is another. You knew I’d never go along with that.”
“Which is, of course, why I did not tell you,” the stranger said. “Had a feeling you’d be difficult.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t suspect what had happened? She was just an innocent young woman.”
“Not so innocent.” The stranger’s laugh was mirthless. It ended in a harsh cough. “Rest assured, mine was not the first gentleman’s bed she had warmed.”
“Get out of here and don’t ever come back
. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Colton, I understand very well. I regret that you feel this way. I shall be sorry to lose you as a partner. But I respect your wishes. Rest assured you will never see me again.”
A sudden, sharp explosion reverberated through the house.
The roar of the pistol shocked the boy into immobility for a few seconds. He knew what had happened but he could not bring himself to accept the truth.
Down below, the door of the study opened abruptly. He stood, frozen, in the shadows at the top of the stairs and watched the stranger move through the light of the gas lamp that burned on the desk behind him.
In spite of the boy’s horror, some part of him automatically cataloged the details of the killer’s appearance. Blond hair, whiskers, an expensively cut coat.
The man looked toward the staircase.
The boy was certain that the stranger was going to climb the stairs and kill him. He knew it as surely as he knew that his father was dead.
The stranger put one booted foot on the bottom step.
“I know you’re awake up there, young man. Been a tragic accident, I’m afraid. Your father just took his own life. Come on down here. I’ll take care of you.”
The boy stopped breathing altogether, trying to make himself one more shadow among many.
The killer started up the steps. Then he hesitated.
“Bloody hell, the housekeeper,” he muttered on another hoarse cough.
The boy watched him turn and go back down the steps. The killer disappeared into the darkened hall. He was going to check Mrs. Dalton’s rooms to see if she was there.
The boy knew what the killer did not. Mrs. Dalton was not in her rooms because she had been given the night off. His father did not like any of the servants around when he conducted his illicit business affairs.
When the stranger discovered that he had no need to worry about an adult witness, he would come hunting for the one person who could tell the police what had happened tonight.