by Amanda Quick
The boy looked over the railing and knew that he could not possibly make it down three flights of stairs to the front door and out into the safety of the night before the killer returned.
He was trapped. . . .
7
Ambrose’s feat of magic went remarkably smoothly the following day. Concordia was more than merely impressed with the timing and the coordination, she was awed. Surely there were very few men in the world who could have organized such a vanishing act.
“The trick is to keep it as simple as possible,” Ambrose explained when he saw them off at the train station. “And to remember that people see what they expect to see.”
The next thing she knew he had disappeared himself. But just before the train pulled out of the station, she caught a glimpse of a scruffy-looking farmer climbing into one of the crowded third-class carriages. Something about the way he moved told her that the man was Ambrose.
A few hours later, after a number of stops in small towns and villages along the way that afforded the passengers the opportunity to stretch their legs, four well-bred young ladies and their teacher descended from a first-class carriage into a busy London station. They immediately got into a cab. The vehicle melted into the swollen traffic and the afternoon haze.
An hour later, four working-class youths emerged from a thronged shopping arcade. They were dressed in caps, trousers, mufflers and coats. They sauntered in the wake of a flower seller in a tattered cloak.
The small group drifted through a busy vegetable market and climbed into an empty farmer’s cart. A tarp was stretched over the back of the wagon to conceal the passengers.
Through an opening in the canvas, Concordia caught occasional glimpses of the neighborhoods through which they traveled. Within a short time, the bustle and clatter of the market gave way to a maze of tiny lanes and cramped, dark streets. Scenes of prosperous shops and modest houses followed. That view, in turn, eventually gave way to one of a neighborhood of elegant mansions and fine squares.
To Concordia’s amazement, the farmer’s cart eventually passed through the heavy iron gates at the back of one of the big houses and rumbled to a halt in a stone-paved yard.
The canvas was whipped off the back of the cart. Ambrose, wearing a farmer’s hat and rough clothing, looked down from the driver’s box.
“Welcome to your new lodgings, ladies.” He tossed the reins to a tall, lanky middle-aged man dressed in a gardener’s attire. “This is Mr. Oates. Oates, allow me to introduce Miss Glade and her four students, Phoebe, Hannah, Theodora and Edwina. They will be staying with us for a while.”
“Ladies.” Oates touched his cap.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Oates,” Concordia said.
The girls acknowledged him cheerfully.
Oates looked oddly pleased and somewhat embarrassed by the polite greetings. He mumbled something unintelligible and turned red.
Two large, sleek dogs with sharply pointed ears and well-defined heads bounded forward and stopped directly in front of the small crowd. Their cold, intelligent gaze stirred the hair on the back of Concordia’s neck. The animals reminded her of the portrait of a jackal-headed Egyptian god she had once seen in a museum.
“Meet Dante and Beatrice,” Ambrose said.
Concordia eyed the dogs uneasily. “Will they bite?”
Ambrose’s smile was not unlike that of the dogs. “Of course. What’s the point of having guard dogs that will not rip the throats of uninvited guests? But do not be alarmed. Now that you and the girls have been properly introduced, you are quite safe.”
“You’re certain of that?”
His smile widened. “Absolutely positive, Miss Glade.”
“I say, this was great fun.” Phoebe jumped down from the cart without waiting for assistance from one of the men and rubbed the place behind Dante’s pricked ears. “I very much enjoyed wearing these trousers. Much more comfortable than the skirts we sewed together.” She looked hopefully at Concordia. “May I keep them, Miss Glade?”
“I don’t see why not,” Concordia said. She relaxed when she saw that the dog appeared to be enjoying Phoebe’s attention. “They are quite practical in some ways.”
Beatrice trotted toward her and thrust her long nose into her hand. Concordia gingerly patted her.
“I want to keep my boy’s clothes, too.” Hannah stood up in the back of the cart, hooked her fingers into the waistband of her trousers and struck a jaunty pose. In the blink of an eye she metamorphosed into a youth who would not have looked out of place selling newspapers on a busy street corner. “They are ever so much more comfortable than skirts and petticoats. I feel like a different person in them.”
Edwina looked down at her own rough costume and wrinkled her nose. “They may be comfortable but they certainly are not very fashionable.”
“It was rather fun masquerading as a boy, though,” Theodora said, allowing Oates to help her down from the cart. “Did you see the way people got out of our path in the shopping arcade?”
“I think that is because they were afraid we might try to pick their pockets,” Hannah said wryly.
Ambrose looked amused. “You are correct, Hannah, and that is a tribute to your acting skills. I was very impressed.” He vaulted easily to the ground and surprised Concordia with a brief, wicked smile. “And that includes you, Miss Glade. I have never seen a more convincing flower seller.”
“He’s right, Miss Glade,” Phoebe said. “You look ever so much older in those poor clothes.”
Concordia sighed and unknotted the tattered scarf she had used to cover her hair. “Thank you, Phoebe.”
“How in blazes did ye come by this old cart and that broken-down nag?” Oates muttered to Ambrose.
“A helpful farmer loaned them to me.”
Oates looked skeptical. “Loaned them, eh?”
“No need to look at me like that, Oates.” Ambrose clapped him on the back. “I made it worth his while. He’ll be wanting his fine equipage back, however. Will you take care of the matter for me? I told the man I’d leave his horse and cart in Brinks Lane near the theater.”
“Aye, sir.” Oates climbed up onto the box and flapped the reins.
He did not appear even mildly astonished by the unusual nature of Ambrose’s arrival, Concordia thought. She got the feeling that Oates was accustomed to such eccentricities.
“Come, we will go inside and I will introduce you to Mrs. Oates,” Ambrose said. “She manages the household and will show you to your rooms.”
Before Concordia realized his intent, he took her arm and drew her toward the kitchen door. She was very conscious of the feel of his strong fingers. For some ridiculous reason she wished very badly that she was not dressed in such ragged, unfashionable clothes.
To distract herself from that depressing line of thought, she examined the exterior of the big house as they moved toward the door.
The mansion was a handsome building in the Palladian style with tall, well-proportioned windows and fine columns. It was surrounded by high stone walls and well-tended gardens. The effect was quite elegant, but she could not help but notice that the big house possessed, in a subtle, understated manner, the air of a secure fortress. Dante and Beatrice added the final touch.
The excited, chattering girls rushed enthusiastically into the back hall accompanied by the dogs. Concordia watched them, her insides tightening. Had she done the right thing by bringing them here? Had there been any better choice?
She hesitated briefly before stepping over the threshold of the mansion.
“This is a very grand home, Mr. Wells,” she said, keeping her voice low so the girls would not overhear. “I assume it belongs to you?”
“As a matter of fact, it does not.”
She stopped quite suddenly. “What on earth do you mean?”
“It is the property of a man named John Stoner.”
She frowned. “Is he here?”
“No,” Ambrose said. “As it happens, he is not in residenc
e at the moment.”
It seemed to her that he spoke a little too casually about the absence of the mysterious Mr. Stoner.
“Are you quite certain that he will not mind having us as houseguests?” she asked.
“Unless he returns unexpectedly, he will not even be aware that he is playing host to you,” Ambrose assured her.
She did not like the sound of that. “I don’t understand. Where is Mr. Stoner?”
“I believe that he is on the Continent at the moment. Difficult to say, really. Stoner is unpredictable in his habits.”
“I see. May I ask what your connection is to this Mr. Stoner?”
He thought that over for a few seconds. “You could say that we are old acquaintances.”
“No offense, sir, but that sounds rather vague.”
“Do not be alarmed, Miss Glade,” Ambrose said very softly. “You have my word that you and your charges will be safe here.”
A frisson of acute awareness fluttered across her nerves. Her intuition told her that the girls would come to no harm from Ambrose Wells. She was not nearly so certain about the safety of her own heart.
8
Concordia awoke to the soft plink, plink, plink of rain dripping steadily outside the window. It was a peaceful, comforting sound. She lay quietly for a moment, savoring the sensation. This was the first time in several weeks that she had not experienced a rush of anxiety and tension immediately after awakening—the first morning when she had not had to think about the escape plan.
True, things had not gone according to her original scheme, but the girls were safely away from Aldwick Castle. That was all that mattered this morning. Soon she would have to fashion a new plan for the future, but that could wait until after breakfast.
She pushed back the covers, found her eyeglasses and pulled on the wrapper that Mrs. Oates had managed to conjure last night. She gathered the few personal toiletries she had brought with her from the castle and opened the door.
The hall outside her bedroom was empty. Mrs. Oates had mentioned that the only other room in use on this floor belonged to Ambrose. The girls had been given rooms on the floor above.
Satisfied that she had the corridor to herself, she hurried toward the bath with a sense of cheerful anticipation.
She had discovered the wonders of the grand room the night before and was looking forward to repeating the experience. John Stoner might be mysterious in his ways, but he was evidently a firm believer in modern bathing amenities.
The bath was a marvelously decadent little palace graced with vast stretches of sparkling white tiles. All of the fixtures were of the latest sanitary design. Water taps set into the walls supplied hot as well as cold water brought up through pipes affixed to the side of the house. The basin gleamed. There was even a shower fixture over the tub.
The water closet, located in an equally impressive room next to the bath, was a magnificent blend of art and modern engineering. A spectacular field of yellow sunflowers had been painted on both the outside and the inside of the commode. One did not encounter that sort of refinement and elegance very often.
She could get used to this sort of luxury, she thought.
The door of the bath opened just as she reached out to grasp the knob. Startled, she halted and glanced back over her shoulder at the entrance to her bedroom, gauging the distance.
But there was no time to escape.
Ambrose emerged from the white-tiled bath. He was dressed in an exotically embroidered black satin dressing gown. His hair was damp and tousled.
“Mr. Wells.”
She clutched the front of her wrapper with one hand and her little bag of toiletries in the other. She was aghast at the knowledge that she must look as though she had just gotten out of bed. It was the simple truth, of course, but somehow that only made matters worse. She was violently aware of the fact that Ambrose was likely quite nude under the robe. And she had on only a nightgown under the wrapper.
He gave her a slow smile that scattered her senses to the four winds.
“I see you are an early riser, Miss Glade.”
“Yes, well, I assumed the household was still asleep.” She cleared her throat. “I did not realize that you were up and about.”
“I also tend to rise early. It appears we have something in common.”
Flustered, she took a step back. “I will come back some other time.”
“No need to retreat. The bath is all yours.”
“Oh. Thank you.” She looked past him into the gleaming interior, aware of the warm, steamy air flowing out of it. “I must say it is a very lovely bath.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Do you think so?”
“Oh, yes, indeed.” She was unable to restrain her enthusiasm. “Modern and sanitary in every particular. It even has a hot water shower device.”
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his robe and nodded seriously. “I did notice that when I used it a few minutes ago.”
She was beyond a blush now. Her face was surely bright red. If only there was a convenient trapdoor beneath her feet. She would give anything to be able to drop out of sight.
She sighed. “You must think me a perfect fool. It is just that I have never been employed in such a modern household.”
“You are not working here, Miss Glade.” The faint crinkles at the corners of his eyes tightened, giving the impression that he was irritated. “You are a guest.”
“Yes, well, it is very kind of you to say so, but we both know that the situation is highly irregular, to say the least, what with the master of the house gone—”
“And I am aware that you are no fool,” he concluded, as though she had not spoken. “By the way, if you elect to employ the shower fixture, I advise caution. The damned thing spits hot and cold water out like so many small bullets. In my opinion the entire concept needs a great deal more thought and considerable improvement if the device is ever to replace a proper bath in a tub.”
She cleared her throat. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He turned and walked away toward his own bedroom. “When you have finished indulging yourself in the pleasures of our very modern, extremely sanitary bath, I would like you to meet me downstairs in the breakfast room. I have some questions for you.”
“What is it you wish to know?” she asked warily.
“Among other things, I would very much like to learn a bit more about you, Miss Glade. You are something of a mystery to me.”
Her heart sank. “What do the details of my personal situation have to do with finding Alexander Larkin?”
“Nothing, perhaps.” He stopped at the door of his room and looked back at her. “But among my many lamentable failings is that when I have questions, I cannot seem to rest until I get answers.”
She gave him a repressive look of the sort that could quiet a room full of chattering young ladies. “I expect you spend a good many sleepless nights, sir.”
“Yes, but I do not consider that to be a significant problem.” He gave her a slow, devastatingly intimate smile. “I seldom have any difficulty finding other things besides sleep to occupy me at night.”
She did not doubt that for a moment. Aware that she was blushing furiously, she stalked into the glorious bath and closed the door very firmly.
9
Downstairs in the peaceful solitude of the breakfast room he drank tea and read the papers, as was his habit. But he was aware that a part of him was waiting for Concordia with a sense of mingled expectation and irritation.
It was such a small thing, but it annoyed him that she seemed so uneasy with the notion of herself as a guest in the household. It was as if she was determined to maintain as much formal distance between them as possible.
He thought about how she had looked in the hall a short time earlier, dressed in a cozy wrapper, her hair in a chaotic knot on top of her head, face still flushed from sleep. His imagination had run wild with a heated fantasy that involved scooping her up in his arms and carrying
her into his bedroom.
It was not hard to imagine how she would have reacted to a suggestion of a passionate interlude in his room, he told himself, wincing. She was already extremely wary of him as it was and he could not blame her.
He did not relish the prospect of pressuring her to give up her secrets when she came downstairs in a few minutes. She would resent his intrusion into her private life and that would make things even more difficult between them. But he had no choice.
The questions that he was grappling with had become more complicated of late. He needed answers. Concordia had spent a considerable amount of time at the castle, associating with Larkin’s employees. Whether or not she realized it, she was an invaluable source of information, Ambrose thought, turning a page of the newspaper.
He had been giving himself the same lecture from the moment he vaulted up onto the horse behind her and led the girls out of the stable. And he knew very well that he was lying to himself.
From that first instant when he realized that Concordia was the reason his plan had failed, he had known that he wanted more than information from her.
At the very least, it would be pleasant if she demonstrated as much enthusiasm for his company as she had for the damned bath.
“Newspapers,” Concordia exclaimed from the doorway. “Excellent. I have not seen any since I left for the post at the castle.”
The warm, bright sound of her voice sent a flash of acute awareness through him, tightening his insides and causing his blood to beat more heavily in his veins.
He looked up and saw her standing in the opening. Her dark hair was now pinned into a neat twist at the back of her head. The lenses of her spectacles sparkled. She had on the same severe, unadorned dress she had worn out of the castle. There was no bustle. When a lady prepared for a dangerous flight into the night, she had to make fashion choices, he thought.
He made a note to do something about the wardrobe situation. When one entertained a houseful of ladies who had arrived with only the clothes on their backs, one had to think about things such as gowns and gloves.