by Amanda Quick
“Neither am I.”
He leaned back and rested his arm on the back of the seat. “I am aware of that.”
“It appears that, for the sake of our careers, we have each gone to great lengths to construct a curtain of privacy around our personal lives.”
He reflected on that for a moment and then inclined his head in a somber fashion. “What is your point?”
“My point, sir,” she said gently, “is that when one has lived with secrets for a long time it can be difficult to shed the habit.”
Shadows moved in his eyes. For a moment she thought she had gone too far.
To her surprise, he leaned forward and drew the edge of one finger along the underside of her jaw.
“Sometimes it is better not to break old habits,” he said.
“I broke mine when I told you about my past in the Crystal Springs Community.”
“Rest assured, I will keep your secrets.”
“I do not doubt that. But there has not been an even exchange between us, Ambrose. I have trusted you. Can you not trust me?”
He sat back in his seat again, drawing in on himself. She could almost hear the click of invisible locks.
“It is not a question of trust,” he said.
“Are your secrets so terrible, then?”
His brows rose in a subtle warning. “I am not one of your students, to be comforted with the offer of sympathy and a kind ear, Concordia. I have lived with my secrets a long time.”
She tensed at the rebuff. He was not going to confide in her and that was that.
“Very well.” She folded her hands together in her lap. “You are entitled to your privacy, sir. I will not press you.”
He returned to gazing meditatively out the window. The silence lengthened between them. When she could not abide it any longer, she tried to think of a way to break it.
“I wonder what Mrs. Hoxton would say if she knew what was going on at the Winslow Charity School for Girls,” she mused.
Ambrose frowned. “Who the devil is Mrs. Hoxton?”
“The benefactress of the school. Her picture was on the wall of Edith Pratt’s office, directly across from a photograph of the Queen.”
“Was it, indeed?” He raised his brows. “In that case, your question is a very interesting one. I wonder what this Mrs. Hoxton does know about the goings-on at the school.”
“Nothing at all, I expect.”
“What makes you so sure of that?”
Concordia grimaced. “Judging from what little the girls told me about her, Mrs. Hoxton is typical of many women in her position who engage in philanthropy. They do so only because they believe that a bit of charity work elevates their status in Society. The Mrs. Hoxtons of this world take no real interest in the schools and orphanages that they support.”
“Did the girls ever see this Mrs. Hoxton?”
“Only once. She made an appearance at Christmas and stayed just long enough to bestow a pair of mittens on each girl. Phoebe, Hannah, Edwina and Theodora said that all of the students were summoned into the dining hall for the occasion. Miss Pratt made a little speech along the lines of how fortunate they all were to have such a gracious, generous benefactress, the girls sang some carols and then Mrs. Hoxton took her leave.”
He shook his head in disgust. “That must have made for a memorable Christmas for the students.”
“I think it is safe to say that Mrs. Hoxton does not take a great deal of interest in the day-to-day operation of her charity school.”
“I believe you,” Ambrose said. “Nevertheless . . .”
“Yes?”
“It might be interesting to ask Mrs. Hoxton a few questions about her generous charity work.”
Concordia stared at him, astonished. “You’re going to interview Mrs. Hoxton?”
“Yes. It will have to wait until tomorrow. It is too late today.”
“Are you acquainted with her?”
“Never met the woman,” he admitted.
She widened her hands. “She is evidently a very wealthy woman who moves in Society. How on earth will you persuade her to allow you through the front door?”
“I intend to call upon a higher power.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He smiled slowly. “Society is composed of several ascending circles. Mrs. Hoxton will view any person who moves at a level that is higher than her own as a god of sorts.”
“I see. And do you happen to know one of these higher-ranking gods?”
“In Society, one is always outranked by someone.” Ambrose shrugged. “Unless, of course, one happens to be the queen. Something tells me that Mrs. Hoxton is nowhere near that particular circle.”
HERBERT CUTHBERT sat alone in his office and pondered his unexpected good fortune. There were two ways to play this new hand of cards he had just been dealt, he decided—two ways to turn a profit.
He would have to be very careful about how he handled the matter, of course. Larkin and Trimley were both extremely dangerous men. They would, however, be very eager to receive the information that he was in a position to give them. With luck, their gratitude would translate into a sizeable sum of money.
As for the second arrangement, that would pose no significant problems that he could see. He would simply sell a fraudulent name to Dalrymple, pocket the five hundred pounds and take himself off to his favorite gambling hell.
His luck had changed at last.
24
Whoever he is, the bastard managed to locate Cuthbert.” Trimley paced the hot room. “Do you realize what this means?”
Larkin lounged on the bench, a cup of cold water in one hand, and savored the satisfaction that was flowing through him. Trimley, he thought, was finally starting to show signs of strain. The man was actually sweating. His elegant Roman toga was slipping, too.
About time.
But then, he had always known that Trimley’s nerves would weaken sooner or later. Trimley was soft at the core. He lacked the hard, tempered steel that could only come from being raised on the streets.
“It means,” Larkin said, stretching out his legs in a leisurely manner as though ensconced in a comfortable club, “that we are in a position to set a trap. I must admit I am curious to find out just who this Dalrymple is.”
“It is obvious who he is. He’s the one who stole the girls from the castle.”
“Not necessarily,” Larkin said. “He may be working for someone else, someone who wants to take my place, perhaps.”
He never did his own dirty work anymore, he mused. Perhaps whoever was behind the theft of the young ladies kept a similar distance between himself and his business activities.
Trimley clamped a fist around the knot of his toga-style sheet, barely managing to keep it from sliding off his shoulder. “Either way, we will get him when he goes to see Cuthbert.”
“That would be very stupid.” Larkin drank some water. “I am not a stupid man, Trimley.”
“What the devil are you talking about? We have to stop Dalrymple before he gets any closer. Matters are slipping out of control. Can’t you see that?”
“Matters are still in hand, Trimley,” Larkin said patiently. “If this Dalrymple is, indeed, involved in this thing, he can lead us to the girls and the teacher. I want him followed after he visits Cuthbert’s office. Once we have recovered the young ladies and Concordia Glade, we will deal with him.”
Trimley’s jaw jerked once or twice but he did not argue. “Yes, that makes sense, I suppose. But what of Cuthbert? He expects to be paid for informing us of Dalrymple’s visit.”
“He will receive his reward.”
Trimley came to a halt. “Damn it to hell, don’t you understand? If this Dalrymple managed to track down Cuthbert, the police may well do the same.”
“There is no reason to think that the police have any interest in this affair. But be that as it may, I promise you that Cuthbert will not talk.”
“I would not depend upon that, if I were you.”
“Calm yourself, Trimley. Cuthbert will not give us any more trouble.”
25
Dorchester Street was drowning in a sea of fog and shadows. A row of gas lamps stood sentinel against the night, but the balls of glary light did not penetrate far into the dense mist.
Ambrose stood in a doorway at the corner and surveyed the scene.
The message from Cuthbert had reached him less than an hour ago. The urgency in the cryptic, scrawled note had been unmistakable.
I have news of interest. Meet me at my office. Eleven o’clock tonight. Come alone. Kindly bring a bank draft for the agreed-upon amount.
The shops on the street level were locked and shuttered. Most of the windows in the rooms above the ground floor were also darkened, but Ambrose saw a thin outline of light around the edges of the curtain that masked the window of Cuthbert’s office.
The street was empty except for a lone cab. The driver, shrouded in a heavy coat, his hat pulled down low over his ears, was slouched on his box. He looked as if he had gone to sleep. His bony nag stood waiting patiently, head lowered, no doubt lost in a dream of fresh hay and a warm stall.
Ambrose watched for a while longer. Nothing and no one moved in the shadows. The rim of light continued to burn steadily in Cuthbert’s window.
One thing was certain: He was not going to learn anything more if he remained in the shadows of the doorway.
He walked toward the entrance to Cuthbert’s office, allowing the heels of his shoes to echo hollowly on the pavement. Mr. Dalrymple was not the furtive sort. He was a respectable, prosperous gentleman who maintained a membership in an exclusive club and patronized an expensive tailor. He had come here on a matter of business tonight and he was in a hurry to conclude it.
The door of Cuthbert’s building was unlocked. Ambrose let himself into the dark hall and waited a moment, absorbing the feel of the space. When he sensed that it was empty, he climbed the stairs to the floor above and looked down the corridor.
The only light was the razor’s-edge glow that came from beneath Cuthbert’s office door.
He went along the hall, moving silently now. Methodically he checked the office doors on either side of Cuthbert’s. Each was securely locked.
Satisfied that Cuthbert was the only one present on this floor, aside from himself, Ambrose went to the office and checked the knob. It turned easily in his hand.
He did not bother to knock. Instead he thrust the door open very quickly, giving no warning of his presence.
The attempt at a startling effect was for naught. Cuthbert was not at his desk. The office was empty.
He studied the lamp on the desk. Why had it been left burning? Had Cuthbert gone off for some reason, intending to return shortly to keep the appointment with Mr. Dalrymple?
Or had the man of affairs become frightened and fled in such a great hurry that he had not taken the time to lower the lamp?
Ambrose closed the door and turned the key in the lock. He did not want to be unpleasantly surprised while he searched the premises.
He had spent a lot of time on this case dealing with files of various sorts, he reflected. Not like the old days when the object of his searches had been intriguing little items that glittered and flashed and gleamed in the light.
Ah, but the snap and crackle of the exhilarating energy was still as potent as it had always been. Pity he could not find a way to bottle and sell this intense experience. The potential for profit would have been enormous.
He made short work of the small filing cabinet. There was nothing to interest him amid the assortment of aged business papers. Judging by the names and addresses in the various files, most of Cuthbert’s clients were single women of modest means. There were a number of widows, retired housekeepers, governesses and others who survived on meager pensions and small investments.
He closed the last drawer in the filing cabinet and went to the desk, expecting little. He was not disappointed. Most of the drawers and cubbyholes were filled with the usual assortment of paper, business cards, pens, pencils and spare bottles of ink.
Inside the center drawer was a small leather-bound journal. He flipped through it quickly. The pages were filled with figures and sums. A journal of accounts, he concluded. One could often learn a great deal about a man by examining his finances.
He tucked the little journal into his coat pocket, closed the drawer and went to the window. Flattening himself against the wall, he peered through a crack in the curtain.
Down below in the street nothing had altered. Fog still veiled the gaslights. The dark shape of the cab with its dozing driver was still parked where it had been earlier. Ambrose detected no movement.
He went back across the office, unlocked the door and let himself out into the darkened hall. Once again he paused for a moment, using his excellent night vision to examine his surroundings.
Satisfied that there was no one else about, he went back downstairs.
Outside on the street he walked deliberately toward the hackney. His footsteps rang loudly in the fog-bound silence.
“Driver, I’d like a word with you, if you please,” he called, using his Dalrymple accent.
The driver stiffened and turned his head very quickly to watch Ambrose approach. His features were all but lost in the shadows cast by his high collar, heavy scarf and low-crowned hat.
“Sorry, sir, I’m not for hire tonight. Waitin’ for a fare.”
“Are you, indeed?” Ambrose kept walking.
“Aye, sir. If it’s a cab yer needin’ I expect you’ll find one in the next street.”
“I do not require a cab,” Ambrose said. “I merely want to ask you a few questions.”
He was less than ten paces from the vehicle now. The lights inside the carriage had been turned down. The curtains were drawn across the windows.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see a damp patch on the pavement directly below the crack at the bottom of the closed passenger door. Either the nag or the driver had relieved himself during the long wait for a fare, he thought. Not enough volume of liquid for a horse, though, and no taint of the familiar, extremely pungent stench.
“Rest assured, I’ll make it worth your while.” Ambrose reached into his pocket and withdrew some coins.
The driver shifted uneasily. “What is it ye want to know?”
“I’m looking for the man of affairs who keeps an office in that building that I just left. We had an appointment tonight but he failed to appear. Did you happen to see anyone come or go from that address before I arrived?”
He was closer now, only a couple of strides away from the cab. There was something quite troubling about the damp pavement. Why would a cabdriver relieve himself directly beneath the door of his own vehicle when there was an alley not more than a few steps away?
“I didn’t see no one,” the driver mumbled.
Electricity danced through Ambrose. His already painfully alert senses shifted into that intense, near-preternatural state in which even the slightest movement, sound or shifting of shadows took on great significance.
“What of your fare?” he asked. “You must have seen him recently.”
“Got himself a little doxy in this street. She lives in a room over one of the shops. He went up there about an hour ago. Told me to wait. That’s all I know.”
“Indeed,” Ambrose said, studying the dark pool on the pavement.
He was directly alongside the carriage now. He grasped the handle of the door and yanked it open.
An arm that had evidently been wedged against the door flopped down and dangled grotesquely in the opening. Ambrose saw the shadowy outline of the rest of the body crumpled on the floor of the cab.
There was just enough light from the outside carriage lamp to gleam on the blood that had flowed from the mortal wound in Cuthbert’s chest.
“It appears your fare finished his business somewhat earl
ier than he intended,” Ambrose said.
26
Yer a right stupid bastard, that’s what ye are.” The driver straightened and reached inside his heavy overcoat. “Should have minded yer own business.”
Ambrose already had one foot on the step beneath the driver’s box. He grabbed the handhold with his left hand, rose halfway up the side of the vehicle and rammed the tip of his walking stick into the driver’s belly.
The man grunted and doubled over in pain. The knife that he had just taken out of an inside pocket clattered from his hand and tumbled onto the pavement.
Footsteps pounded from the direction of the alley. Ambrose looked over his shoulder and saw a second man charging toward him. The glare of a nearby gas lamp glinted on the barrel of a revolver.
He jumped back down to the pavement and dove beneath the wheels of the carriage, rolling into the deep shadows on the far side of the vehicle.
The gun roared. The bullet thudded into the wooden panels of the four-wheeler.
Startled out of his dozing slumber, the horse snorted, tossed its head and lurched forward violently. The man on the box, still gasping for air, scrambled about and managed to seize the reins.
“Bloody stupid nag.”
Ambrose got to his feet and vaulted quietly up onto the back of the hackney. He crouched there. His training had taught him that people rarely looked up until they had searched everywhere else first.
“Where are ye, ye bloody bastard?” The second man turned nervously from side to side in an attempt to spot his quarry. He peered under the carriage. “If ye come out quietly with yer hands in the air, I’ll let ye live.”
The hackney jerked violently in response to another lunge from the horse.
“Get that damn nag under control,” the man with the gun shouted at his companion, clearly unnerved by the manner in which events had spiraled out of control.
Ambrose rose and dropped down over the side of the carriage, feetfirst. He struck the man below with his full weight. The impact sent them both to the ground.