by Amanda Quick
“Get outta the way, Jake,” the driver shouted.
Ambrose got to his feet in a quick, twisting move and leaned over to scoop up the gun. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the driver reach into his heavy leather boot. A second knife. Should have thought of that.
He dodged behind the back of the hackney.
The hurtling blade missed him by inches and thudded into the side of the vehicle.
The second man was on his feet, running toward the front of the hackney.
“Bastard’s got my gun,” he yelled at the driver. He grabbed the handhold on the side of the vehicle and hauled himself up beside his companion. “Get away from that bloody cove.”
The driver loosened the reins. The horse, in a complete panic now, surged forward. The carriage swayed precariously but remained upright.
Ambrose stood in the mist-draped street, aware of the cold thrills of dark energy still flashing through him. He listened to the clatter of hooves and carriage wheels until the sound faded into the night.
EMPLOYING HIS CUSTOMARY tactic to find a cab late at night, he walked to the nearest tavern and chose a hansom at random.
Twenty minutes later he ordered the driver to stop in a pleasant little square lined with handsome town houses. There were no lights on in any of the residences.
He made his way around to the alley that lined one row of houses, unlatched one of the gates and walked through the well-tended garden.
He used the head of his cane to rap lightly on the back door.
A short time later the door opened. The sandy-haired man in a dressing gown who responded was approximately his own age, albeit somewhat taller.
Ambrose knew from past experience when he and Felix Denver had put the question to a scientific test in a wide-ranging variety of venues, including several taverns, two theaters and an assortment of public houses, that women considered Felix to be the better-looking of the two.
“I trust this is important, Wells. I’ve got company.”
Ambrose smiled slightly. It was the great misfortune of the ladies of London that Inspector Felix Denver of Scotland Yard was not interested in women in anything more than a friendly, social way. Whoever was upstairs in his bed tonight, that individual was of the masculine gender.
“Sorry to disturb your rest, Felix.”
Felix raised the candle in his hand to get a better look at Ambrose’s face. He grimaced. “I would reconsider the whiskers and mustache, if I were you. They do nothing to enhance your appearance.”
“No, but they do conceal it and that is all that concerns me. I came here because I wanted to let you know that the situation has become more complicated.”
“It always does when you’re involved, Wells.”
He told Felix what had happened in the street in front of Cuthbert’s office.
“All this blood and mayhem merely for the sake of transforming four respectable young women into high-class courtesans doesn’t seem logical,” he concluded. “Larkin is a businessman at heart. He prefers not to take unnecessary risks. There is something else going on here. I can sense it.”
“I suspect that the four girls you and the teacher rescued may be part of a much vaster trade in young women that is being carried on by Larkin and his new gentleman partner,” Felix said. “If the business is sufficiently lucrative, it would explain why the proprietors are willing to kill to protect it.”
“Have you learned anything new from your inquiries?”
“The responses I got from the telegrams I sent merely confirm what you already suspected. All four of the girls at the castle supposedly died in various tragic accidents. None of the relatives appear to be in deep mourning.”
“Phoebe Leyland’s aunt may be the exception. She evidently made some inquiries of various orphanages after her niece disappeared. I suggest you send someone to speak with her.”
“Do you have an address?”
“Yes.” Ambrose gave it to him and then stepped back. “I am going home. It has been a long night.” He glanced up at the darkened bedroom window. “There is someone waiting for me.”
Felix smiled a little. “Makes a change for you, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” Ambrose said. “It does.”
27
Concordia gripped the lapels of her dressing gown, turned and paced the length of the library again. She had lost count of how many times she had walked this path in the past hour. Her anxiety increased with every step.
Ambrose should have been home by now. Something terrible had happened. She could feel it in her bones. He should not have gone alone. He should have allowed her to accompany him.
The big house was silent and still around her. The girls had gone upstairs to their rooms hours ago. Mr. and Mrs. Oates and Nan had vanished to their quarters after checking all the locks. Dante and Beatrice had wandered in to join her when everyone else had taken to their beds and were now dozing in front of the low-burning fire.
She came to a halt in front of the old Cabinet of Curiosities and looked at the clock. The hands had only advanced five minutes since she had last checked the time. Another shiver flickered through her. The room was comfortably warm, but the heat from the fireplace was not at all effective against the small frissons of dread that had been disturbing her nerves all evening.
Ambrose should have taken her with him when he went to meet with Cuthbert. When he returned she would make it very clear to him that he was not to leave her behind again. She was his client, his employer. She had rights in this matter.
Dante raised his head and regarded her intently. She knew that he had sensed her anxiety.
“Has your master told you his secrets?” she asked the dog.
Beatrice opened her eyes.
Both dogs rose and padded across the carpet to where she stood. She bent down and rubbed them behind their ears.
“I’ll wager that neither of you cares a jot about your master’s secrets,” she said. “When this affair is concluded, I will probably never see him again, so why am I obsessed with discovering whatever it is he is intent upon concealing?”
Dante lowered himself onto his haunches and leaned blissfully against her leg. Beatrice showed a number of teeth in a vast yawn. Neither beast bothered to respond to the question.
The clock ticked into the heavy silence.
She opened the front doors of the cabinet and looked at the beautifully decorated box of secrets. The design of the exotically painted and inlaid woods was distinctive, quite unlike any pattern she had ever seen. The carefully worked, exquisitely detailed triangles and diamond shapes had clearly been intended to deceive the eye.
“You are just like this cabinet, Ambrose Wells,” she whispered. “For every compartment that is discovered, there is another one that remains hidden.”
Phoebe, Hannah, Edwina and Theodora had amused themselves by trying to locate all of the secret drawers. She unfolded the drawing they had left inside the cabinet to mark their progress. It was clear from the diagram that thus far they had identified only twenty-three compartments. The location of each one was carefully marked on the sketch.
She studied the picture for a long moment. Then she examined the interior of the cabinet. There were a lot of drawers left to find.
She drew the tips of her fingers along the surface of one of the intricately inlaid panels, feeling for the invisible crevices that marked some of the drawers, pressing gently to test for the hidden springs and levers that opened others.
Experimentally she opened some of the compartments that Phoebe and the others had explored. Most were empty. A few contained small relics that had evidently been stored in the chest and then forgotten. There was a little unguent jar with Roman markings in one drawer, a ring set with a red carnelian in another.
It would be amusing to discover a drawer that the girls had not yet succeeded in locating, she thought. The search would pass the time while she waited for Ambrose to return.
She set to work.
Twenty minutes later she had fa
iled to find a single new compartment.
“This is a lot harder than one would think,” she informed the dogs.
Dante and Beatrice had returned to the hearth. They twitched their ears but did not open their eyes.
She walked around the cabinet, examining it from every angle, intrigued by the puzzle of the thing. Then she returned to the front and took a closer look at one of the drawers that had already been discovered.
A sudden thought occurred to her. To test it she inserted her hand inside one of the compartments and felt around very carefully with her fingertips.
Nothing.
She went on to explore some of the other drawers. When she came to the one labeled number fifteen on the sketch, her fingertips skimmed across a tiny depression at the very back of the compartment.
She pressed tentatively and heard the faint, muffled squeak of tiny hinges and springs.
Without warning, an entire section of drawers swung open to reveal a second, interior cabinet that had been concealed within the outer one.
“Very clever,” she murmured to the dogs. “I will not tell the girls. They’ll have more fun if they discover this secret for themselves.”
She probed with her fingertips, her curiosity heightened by her small success. When she pushed a series of triangles-within-triangles, a long, narrow compartment slid open.
A faded newspaper, folded in half, was inside. It had no doubt been tucked away in the cabinet years ago and forgotten.
She removed and unfolded it. Several columns on the front page were taken up with a lurid report of a suicide and a financial swindle.
The date of the paper was nearly twenty years old.
She started to read the report. The body of a gentleman believed to have been engaged in a number of remarkably clever financial swindles was found in his house in Lexford Square on Tuesday.
Evidently consumed by remorse for having brought ruin upon so many innocent investors, Mr. George Colton put a pistol to his head and took his own life sometime during the night. The housekeeper discovered the bloody scene when she arrived to take up her duties the following morning.
The distraught woman was unable to supply many coherent details, but she did express grave concern for Mr. Colton’s young son who is missing. . . .
Dante and Beatrice bounded to their feet, dashed toward the door and disappeared down the hall.
Ambrose was home at last.
She listened for his footsteps in the hall while she closed up the cabinet. When the outer sections were shut, she realized she was still holding the old newspaper. She put it down on a nearby table and turned toward the door of the library.
Ambrose appeared in the opening, the dogs at his heels. He had removed the false whiskers and beard. She sensed the dangerous energy that crackled invisibly in the air around him. She had been right, she thought, something terrible had happened.
“Imagined you’d be in bed,” he said from the doorway.
“Are you all right?” she asked. She took an anxious step forward, wanting to go to him, to touch him and make certain that he was not injured. “I’ve been very worried. Were you hurt?”
“Do I look that bad?” He walked into the room, shrugging out of his coat.
“For heaven’s sake, Ambrose, tell me what happened.”
“Cuthbert is dead.” He slung his coat over the back of the sofa. “I never got a chance to speak with him.”
“Dear Lord.” She sat down very suddenly on the arm of a leather reading chair. “I knew something dreadful had happened.”
“There were two men at the scene.” He went to the table where the cut-glass brandy decanter stood and picked up the bottle. “Got the impression they were waiting for me, perhaps hoping to follow me after I left Cuthbert’s office.”
She watched him down a considerable amount of the brandy in a single swallow. A fresh jolt of alarm swept through her. “You were hurt.” She sprang to her feet and rushed toward him. “Shall I send for a doctor?”
“I am not hurt. The very last thing I need is a doctor.” He downed another large dose of the brandy.
“There is dirt and grime on your clothes. Did those two men assault you?”
He considered that briefly and then inclined his head. “Yes, I believe they did assault me. I tried to assault them right back, mind you. I regret to say that I was not quick enough.” “Ambrose.”
“Sorry to report that they got away.” He frowned. “They took Cuthbert’s body with them. I expect they will have dropped it into the river by now.”
“This is terrible. What are we going to do?”
“Well, for starters, I suggest we both go to bed.”
“Are you mad?” She swept out her hands. “You can’t just walk in here, announce that you found another dead body and then tell me to go upstairs to bed.”
“I think it would be best if we saved this discussion until tomorrow morning.”
“We will discuss this now.”
Something dark and dangerous moved in his eyes. “This is my household. I give the orders here.”
“Really, sir?” She raised her chin. “I was led to believe that this was Mr. Stoner’s household.”
He shrugged. “In Stoner’s absence, I am in command.”
“How very convenient for you.”
“Not at the moment.” He glanced at the table where she had placed the newspaper. “What is that?”
She followed his gaze. “An old paper. I found it in one of the drawers in the Cabinet of Curiosities.”
“Bloody hell.” He crossed the space with two quick, gliding strides, picked up the newspaper and looked at the front page. “I had forgotten about this.”
He started toward the fire. Brooding anger and old anguish etched his hard face.
“Ambrose, wait.” She launched herself forward and grabbed his arm. “Why do you wish to burn it? What is so important about that newspaper?”
“There is nothing important about it. Not anymore.” He reached over with one hand and pried her fingers loose from his sleeve. “It is merely old news, Miss Glade.”
“Stop.” Unable to restrain him physically, she stepped directly into his path. “I have had enough of secrets and cryptic remarks. I want answers, sir. I mean to have them before this night is over.”
“You want answers?” He halted, inches away, raised his hand and captured her chin with his fingers. “What an astonishing coincidence. As it happens, I want something, too, Miss Glade.”
She could scarcely breathe. She would not let him intimidate her, she vowed.
“And what is it that you want, sir?”
“You,” he said.
By rights his wintry smile should have iced her blood. But for some reason she was suddenly unbearably warm.
“You are trying to frighten me,” she whispered.
“Yes, Miss Glade, I am, indeed, trying to frighten you.”
“Well, you won’t succeed. I’m not leaving this room until you answer some of my questions.”
“You want answers. I want you. It is an interesting dilemma, is it not?”
“I am quite serious about this.”
“So am I. The good news is that, unless you run, not walk, to that door and take yourself straight upstairs to bed, one of us is going to get what he wants tonight.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The bad news,” he continued very deliberately, “is that it won’t be you. Do I make myself clear, Miss Glade?”
Comprehension struck her with the force of a lightning bolt. She stared at him, disoriented with shock. Then a thrilling anticipation sparkled through her.
She could insist upon getting answers later.
“Are you threatening to ravish me, sir?” she asked. “Because if so, I think it would be best if I removed my glasses first. You know how they tend to fog up when you become passionate.”
He closed his eyes, bent his head and rested his forehead against hers. She heard the newspaper drop to the carpet b
ehind her.
“What am I going to do with you, Miss Glade?” he whispered.
She slipped her arms around him. “I thought you intended to ravish me. It sounds like an excellent plan.”
He threaded his fingers through her hair. Pins popped free and dropped to the carpet.
“I am lost, aren’t I?” he murmured.
“I don’t know. Are you?”
“Yes.”
He raised both hands and removed her eyeglasses with great care. She felt him reach around behind her to set them on the mantel. There was a soft clink when he put the spectacles down on the marble.
In the next moment his mouth was on hers. The aura of dark energy that she had sensed in him was suddenly transformed into another kind of force. It flooded her senses, igniting a dizzying response. “Ambrose.”
She pressed herself against his solid chest.
He reacted to the small, muffled cry and the tightening of her embrace by scooping her up into his arms. Without breaking off the kiss he carried her across the room toward the door.
Dante and Beatrice, evidently assuming that everyone was about to depart the library, got to their feet and bounded ahead so as not to be left behind. She heard the dogs’ claws on the polished wooden floorboards in the hall.
When Ambrose reached the opening, however, he did not go through it. Instead he used one booted foot to shut the door.
“Lock it,” he said against her mouth.
“What? Oh, yes. Right.”
She reached down and fumbled with trembling fingers.
“Hurry,” he whispered.
“Sorry.”
She finally managed to get the door locked. The instant Ambrose heard the unmistakable click of iron against iron, he carried her back across the room to the sofa.
He set her on the cushions, straightened and turned down the gas jet so that the library was lit only by firelight.
She watched, fascinated, as he unfastened his shirt with quick, impatient movements. He left the garment hanging loosely and sat down on the edge of the sofa. She heard one boot hit the floor with a soft thud and then the other.
He turned and leaned over her, caging her between his arms. For a moment he just looked at her, as though he needed to commit her to memory because she might vanish at any moment.