by Deb Marlowe
Tru reached out to clasp his shoulder. “Aldmere? He didn’t. Marstoke’s men took me from the house in Clapham.” He frowned at the other man. “This one I haven’t seen before.”
“Well, I have.” Remembered fury and frustration tightened his grip on his weapon. “Perhaps he wasn’t the one to drag you away, but he chased me all through Kennington, and delayed me so I wasn’t there in time to stop them.”
“Oh.” Tru frowned. “Well, then, shoot him and let’s go.”
“Wait!” The man raised his arms. “I did give chase, but only because I wanted to speak with you. I was searching for information. I’m investigating this scheme of Marstoke’s.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Stoneacre. I’m the Regent’s man, appointed by the Privy Council to look into this mess. We’ve had only the vaguest hints of what Marstoke has been up to, and I tell you, I’ve had the devil of a time tracking down anything specific.”
Aldmere bristled at the look the man leveled at him.
“I couldn’t see, at first, if you stood with Marstoke or against him. You certainly did a better job of uncovering his plotting than I did. You impressed me tonight. I’m glad to find you are on our side.”
“You were listening? Tonight?”
“As best I could from the floor above. I couldn’t get any closer.”
Aldmere frowned. “I could have used a helping hand.”
“You did well enough on your own. I can help you now. But first I have to ask again: How did you know it was Haymarket?”
Aldmere tucked his gun away. “I’ve got a man—or a boy, to be precise—on the inside.”
Twenty-Two
And thus began a battle of wills that continues to this day. I was a captive, held under lock and key while Lord M— used every method in his arsenal in an attempt to break my spirit.
—from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
Hatch directed the hack to Suffolk Street. Brynne stumbled a bit as she stepped down, made awkward by her bound hands. Her shoulders ached. Her hands had long since gone numb. She shivered in the evening air without her cloak—yet none of those discomforts troubled her as much as her thoughts of Aldmere.
She wished she knew how he had fared with Marstoke. She had every faith that he could best the marquess—and every reason to try to do the same with Hatch. This was not how she’d envisioned the culmination of her own adventure. Her success this evening had been meant to be a symbol of her triumph over helplessness and fear. She’d meant to offer it as proof to Aldmere that she was strong, resilient, worthy of being a helpmate, a partner rather than another burden.
Behind her the hack’s springs groaned as Hatch stepped down. The other woman laughed nastily as she gave Brynne a push toward a darkened alley—and into a puddle of muck.
“Through there, and we’ll find the courtyard at the back of the theater.” She turned at the sound of a heavy tread. “Ah, here you are.”
Rent emerged from the dark. She handed him the cloak-wrapped bundle.
“’Bout time, too,” the big man grumbled. “You know I don’t like to wait in the dark.”
Hatch ignored the comment. “Did you deliver the message?”
“Aye, to Marstoke’s fancy, new foreign man.”
Hatch cursed and stepped away a bit. Brynne glared at the pair as they conferred in whispers. Determination swelled inside her. Discomfort was nothing. She would not be beaten—not by this woman, who preyed on the helpless, who lived by violence and ruled by fear.
“Let’s go.” Hatch shoved Brynne ahead of her into the alley. They stepped through unknown filth and past piles of unidentifiable refuse. A couple of times Brynne picked out a strange object—half of a Roman chariot, or a mock mountain range—the detritus of performances long past. Then the narrow passage opened into a wider courtyard. More barrels and crates were stacked here. A rickety set of stairs led to a wooden platform placed before a door.
Pain blossomed as Hatch gripped her arm. “Stick close,” the pimp ordered.
Rent’s bulk pressed in close behind her as she followed Hatch up the stairs. A loud rumble emanated from him as she reached for the door.
“Good God,” the other woman griped. “I want your mind on the girl, not your stomach.”
“Can’t be helped,” the lackey protested. “I ain’t eaten yet!”
“Just forget it for now and keep a sharp eye out,” Hatch ordered through clenched teeth. She opened the door.
Together they entered a small antechamber. As her eyes adjusted to the new shade of darkness, Brynne saw that odd pieces of furniture were stacked haphazardly about. On and about them were shoved boxes overflowing with fabrics so brightly colored she could discern them in the dim light, as well as lengths of feathers and lace.
Hatch paused. “This is perfect.” She snapped her fingers. “Hand me that cloak.” Brynne took note as the pimp snatched the bundle from her henchman and shoved it into a spot in the corner, beneath a chaise. Before it Hatch stacked a box and on top of that she draped a flowing red satin skirt trimmed at the bottom with golden embroidery. “That should keep my insurance policy safe,” she said with satisfaction.
Brynne stared, taking notice of the placement of the thing, as well as the objects surrounding it. She had to turn her head, though, when Hatch opened the anteroom door.
Chaos lived on the other side. A great many people rushed past even more doorways and through a warren of tiny passages.
“One day!” A woman scurried by, her arms full of fabric, her exasperation vented past a mouthful of pins. “He asks too much! A Grand Spectacle to be readied in one day!” She pushed past a girl singing quietly as another corrected her lyrics. Further on, Brynne could see two men trying to maneuver a large piece of background scenery around a tight corner.
“Hurry!” The woman with the pins had stopped a few feet away. She sewed quickly, adding a sash to the military-flavored costume worn by an anxious performer. “Can’t you go faster?” the girl asked plaintively. “I want a peek at all of the grandees just like everyone else!”
“Back!” Hatch ordered. She left both doors open and ushered Brynne and Rent back out onto the wooden unloading platform.
“There’s no help for it,” she said to the lackey. “You’ll have to stay here with the girl while I go and speak with Marstoke.”
“Stay out here?” Rent’s words had taken on a querulous tone. “Hatch, you know how I feel—”
“Damn you, I don’t have time for your delicate sensibilities!” She nudged Brynne toward the stairs. “This one is tricky. I thought getting her through without running into the toffs from the audience would be the difficulty—she’s likely acquainted with half of them and someone would be bound to interfere. Now it will be damned near impossible to get her past that crowd and through the lower levels, bound as she is.”
“Let her loose, then. I’ll watch her close.”
Hatch considered. “No. She’s too quick. You’ll have to stay here with her.”
“But Hatch—”
“Damn it!” Hatch pushed Brynne down to a sitting position on the unsteady stairs. Reaching past her and around the railing, she picked up a broken cask and used it to prop open the door into the building. A dim square of light filtered through from the bright passageways, through the anteroom until it centered on the wooden platform. “There! Stay in the light and you’ll see if anything creepy or crawly is heading for you.”
Brynne glared daggers as the pimp wagged a finger in her face. “Don’t get any ideas, girl. Run, and you’ll break your neck in that alley, or Rent will when he tackles you from behind. Shout and I give him leave to do his worst on anyone who comes at your call. Do you understand? Stay put and stay quiet until I return for you,” she ordered.
Brynne didn’t watch as the other woman disappeared into the building. She did watch Rent take up a spot smack in the center of the square of light. What was the behemoth afraid of? And could she put it to us
e? She glanced down the alley and cursed Hatch for being right. She wouldn’t get far. Rent aside, the alley was dark and narrow and her bound hands made her awkward.
She cast about, trying desperately to come up with an idea. Her best chance would likely come inside, and while Hatch was gone. Surely someone inside would help? She needed to get into the building, now, before the pimp returned. But how?
She wracked her brains. The tumult continued in the theater behind them. Rent’s stomach rumbled loudly. And then again.
She straightened, struck by an idea. It wasn’t much, but she determined to take inspiration where it was offered. She opened her mouth to address the man, but paused as a surreptitious scrape sounded nearby. She and Rent both stilled. Had it come from behind the pile of stacked casks?
“What is it?” Rent asked.
“I don’t know,” she answered, peering through the railing. “A rat, perhaps?” Maybe his fear was of rodents.
“They do grow big ’round here,” he said complacently. “Lots o’ good pickings.”
No, not afraid of rats, she thought with a sigh. Another small sound had her looking again. Rent had not appeared to hear this one. She craned her neck—and saw Francis Headley’s face looking back at her from the midst of the discarded casks.
Her gasp of surprise caught the lug’s attention. “Must be a big one,” he said, starting to move toward her.
“Spiders,” Francis whispered.
Brynne instantly understood. “No, not a rat at all, it would seem, but a spider!” she quickly exclaimed.
Rent stopped in mid-stride.
“Good heavens, I’ve never seen one so enormous! It must be bigger than my hand.”
Now he made an odd, strangled sound and edged carefully back into the square of light.
Francis held up a small blade. Brynne twisted around, no small feat in her skirts. She climbed to her knees and gripped the rough-edged stair railing while she pretended to peer down into the dark. Francis reached up and began to saw at the leather.
“Can you still see it?” the lackey asked. “Keep your eye on it.”
“Oh, yes, I’m watching. I’ve never seen such a thing. Wait,” she said. “It appears that something is moving on it’s back. Do spiders have wings?”
“No!” Rent exclaimed.
The girl cut through one strap, then another. Brynne grimaced silently as the bonds loosened and blood began to rush painfully back into her numb hands and fingers. Francis reached for another loop, but Brynne shook her head. She thought she could wiggle her way out of the knots now, when she was ready. She didn’t want the whole thing gone and alerting her captors before she was ready.
Francis nodded understanding.
“Can you get in?” Brynne mouthed, shifting her head toward the theater.
Another nod.
“Ten minutes,” she said under her breath. “Largest dressing room, lower level.”
The girl melted back into the shadows.
“Goodness,” Brynne exclaimed. “It is difficult to see in this poor light, but I believe it’s not a set of wings moving upon the spider’s back, but baby spiders! Hundreds and hundreds of baby spiders!”
Rent let out a moan.
She pretended interest for several more minutes, until she was sure Francis had made it sufficiently far away. “It’s gone now, into the shadows,” she said with a sigh. She turned back around, her hands still before her, but all of the feeling now restored. Quiet settled over the courtyard. It took Brynne a minute to realize how quiet it had grown.
She turned around to look through the open door. “What’s happened to the hustle and bustle?” she asked. It appeared the rabbit warren inside had emptied out.
“They’ll be preparin’ fer the Grand Spectacle,” Rent answered. “I saw the Playbill. It listed damn near every performer in the Haymarket for the number.” He shrugged. “I daresay the rest o’ them wish to see the fancy foreigners arrive.” He sounded aggrieved. “Can’t say as I’d mind a peep at ’em. Seems as if everyone in London done seen ’em up close.”
“I was to meet the Tsar. Before . . .” Brynne let the words trail off. “Nice enough, I suppose, but it’s the thought of all that food on just the other side of that wall that grieves me the most just now.”
“Food?” Just as she’d thought, she’d caught his interest.
“Yes. I’ve had nothing since this morning. One of Hestia’s girls makes the most heavenly meat pies, but even flaky crust and rich gravy can’t fill you for the entire day.”
His stomach loudly growled its agreement.
“I’m not all that accustomed to going without meals.” She said it with a certain, delicate petulance.
“Nor me either!” Rent rose nicely to the bait. “Hatch pays well and I eat regular nowadays.”
“I went backstage in a theater once,” she said dreamily. “My father wished to congratulate the principal pair of actors. We saw the Green Room, where they occasionally have biscuits and wine for the visitors.”
Rent looked over his shoulder at the quiet corridors. “What sort o’ biscuits?”
“All sorts. But the performer’s dressing rooms are where the real spreads are set out. And the higher their status, the more pampered they are. The lead actress had in her room enormous baskets, piled high with fruit, fresh bread and croissants, lovely cheeses and a whole platter of tiny little frosted cakes.” She sighed.
“All of that?” He sighed too.
“Perhaps I should have run away to the theater,” she said doubtfully.
“P’rhaps we should go have a look now, while everyone is busy,” he suggested. “We’ll just grab a loaf or two. Or a tiny cake.”
She frowned. “But Hatch—”
“Will never know. It’ll take forever for her to get to the marquess, if he’s even got here yet. I’m getting’ me some o’ that spread right now—and I ain’t plannin’ to leave you here so you can run off.”
Still balancing her bound hands in front of her, she got to her feet. “I wouldn’t mind a a nice, fresh loaf,” she said hopefully. “Or some cheese.”
“Go ahead o’ me,” he ordered.
They moved through the antechamber and into the deserted corridor. A rush of footsteps sounded above their heads. Brynne worked the bonds at her wrists until she thought she could get free with one good wrench. She jumped when a small boy darted from an intersecting passage and ran toward a set of stairs at the end of the corridor, dragging several false firearms with him.
“The primary performers will have their dressing rooms on the next level up. There should be a few down here, though,” she whispered. “We should look for the largest one, it will likely have the best selection.”
They turned a corner and passed an empty carpenter’s hall. A wardrobe room lay beyond. Inside a woman sat, frantically sewing. She didn’t look up as they passed.
Another corner and Brynne sighed in relief. “Here they are. Look, that must be the one we want.” The door furthest away had a larger, gilt-lettered sign instead of just a painted label on the door. Mrs. Sherman, it said.
Rent turned the knob and peered inside. Brynne peeked in, too. The place was a mess, covered in old newspapers and discarded clothes. Several half-ironed gowns lay abandoned on an ironing table.
“There’s the wine!” she said brightly, pointing toward a bottle on the vanity.
“Aye.” Rent surged forward. “But where’s the—”
He went sprawling as Brynne stuck out her foot and tripped him. He landed heavily just beyond the door.
“Francis!” Brynne hissed. She jerked her hands apart and twisted until the leather bonds gave way. She tossed the tangled straps to the floor.
The big man groaned and braced his arms to pick himself up.
The girl dashed out from behind the changing screen. She carried the heavy iron from the table in her hand. Before Brynne could get out a word, she’d darted over and thunked it over the back of Rent’s head. With a moan, he coll
apsed flat.
Brynne caught Francis’s hand as she raised the iron again. Gently she held the girl’s arm and shook her head. It took several long seconds for her tight grip to relax enough to remove the heavy object. A tremble went through the girl’s small frame. Without a word, Brynne gathered her in close and held her.
Francis allowed the embrace—for about half a minute. It was like holding a wild thing, all frantically beating heart and shaking limbs. Then the girl twitched and pushed away. “Come on, then,” she said gruffly. “Let’s go before he wakes up.”
Together they shifted his feet so that the door would close and lock. Brynne retraced her steps. Francis followed until they reached the intersection with the first corridor. To the left lay the antechamber and the door into the courtyard. To the right lay the stairwell that led to the upper level. Francis turned to the left and tugged Brynne’s hand.
“Wait a moment.” Brynne knelt, grateful when the girl allowed herself to be gathered in close. “You must go,” she said quietly. “I don’t want you hurt.” She looked toward the stairs. “But I have to do what I can to stop Marstoke.”
“Don’t be daft. You can’t stop him.” Impatient, she pulled Brynne’s sleeve. “C’mon. I know a safe place.”
“You must go there, dear, as fast as you can, but I cannot. I have to try. Hatch was right; there are people up there who know me. Someone might help.”
The child looked at her with old, sad eyes and laid a calloused little hand on her bare arm. “They won’t help,” she said bluntly. “Ye ain’t one o’ them any more.” Her tiny hand gripped tight. “I’m sorry, but yer no better’n a whore in their eyes. They won’t listen to ye.”
Behind them, a stair sent forth a creak of protest. They froze.
“But you should listen to the girl.” It was a man’s voice, accented and faintly amused. “For she is exactly right.”
Twenty-Three