Enemy's Kiss

by Jun, Kristi

  “They could be on their way to Portsmouth or Dover. I would think Dover myself since it is the shortest passage to the north of France.”

  “Or they could be hiding somewhere in London,” Michael said. A flicker of hope ignited in him again.

  His comrade put his mug down and pulled out a leather glove and placed it on the table. “Tomkin tossed it into the Thames.”

  Michael studied it and noticed red coloring on the glove.

  “I found it on the bank of the river. It’s dried blood,” Row noted. Crossing his arms, he leaned back.

  “My prisoner was murdered just about the time Tomkin left Chatham Hall.”

  “So that’s where he was off to. He’d been missing for a few days and I thought maybe he’d wound up dead and floating in the Thames, so I’d been scouring the river for a few days at night. Low and behold, I saw a man standing over the Thames, tossing something into the river. I didn’t know who it was at first, but when I realized it was my target, I kept walking and continued on my way. I returned once he left and found the glove.”

  Michael turned the glove inside out and saw the handiwork of Howell & Co. in Bond Street. “See the lining of the interior?” He showed Row the handiwork. “They line it with wool for their premiere customers, one of which happens to be Tomkin.” He took a whiff. Nothing but the stench of Thames and dried leather.

  “He must have been desperate to get rid of the evidence.”

  Michael nodded. That bloody bastard killed the prisoner and covered his trail. “What have you found out about Hansford and Jimmy?”

  “Not much so far,” Row said. “I’ve gone to Lord Hansford’s residence and to his club. No one has seen him in days. As for Jimmy….” He frowned, “He was stabbed to death and found early this morning in Rosemary Lane at East End.”

  Rosemary Lane was a place where discredited gamblers went as their last resort to find a reprieve. A dustman, he was from the start. “I see,” Michael said. “Have you questioned Hansford’s staff? His friends?”

  “Sorry to say, his house has been closed up. The opening of Parliament isn’t for several more weeks. Maybe he’s still in the country?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Or he could be dead,” Row noted.

  “That is a possibility, but until his body is found, I would like to believe he’s alive. He’d been working with Geoffrey, and I intend to find out what he knows,” Michael noted. “Anything else about Tomkin?”

  “Nothing unusual. He went to Bond Street to shop and then to White’s before he returned home.”

  “I need you to go back and watch Tomkin’s townhouse.”

  “Will do,” Row said, but paused as if he had more to say. “You could obtain a search warrant. It would be a lot faster. You know the right people to influence.”

  “We must not forget that Tomkin is still a powerful man—they trust him. Who knows what other tricks he has up his sleeves? If word gets out that we have a traitor deep in our government, the public will surely panic. Besides, I want him to think he has successfully duped me into thinking he’s left the country with Emma. For now, we need to find Hansford and find out what he knows.”

  “There is an unoccupied townhouse across the square. Number 5. I’ve been watching them from the second floor. I will have to leave the premises soon considering the Season will start,” Row said.

  Michael nodded. “I’m going to White’s to see what I can find out. I’ll join you there in a few hours.”

  Soon after, both men separately slipped out of the tavern and into the dark alleys of East End.

  * * *

  Tomkin didn’t have much time.

  Leaving Emma alone in the cell was a risk, but it had to be done. It would be nearly impossible to find the secret passage to where Emma was kept. If all went well, this would be the last meeting with Shaw before the ball in two days’ time.

  He closed his eyes. Everything must proceed as planned.

  A few minutes later, the large crowd began to filter out of the Royal Opera House. From his unmarked carriage, he watched for familiar movement. There in the crowd near where he ordered the jarvey to park, Shaw and Lord Byron chatted away.

  Idiot. There was no time for this. The man had no notion of how critical things were. Tomkin drummed his fingers on his knee. It was several more minutes before Shaw bid his farewell and stepped into the carriage.

  The Home Secretary ordered the driver to steer on. “You’re late,” he snapped. “It amazes me how little you understand that everything must go smoothly.”

  Shaw looked squarely at his partner. “I quite understand, but I can’t very well offend Lord Byron, not that you understand such delicacies. I am risking everything, so don’t you dare lecture me. What was so important that I had to meet you here?”

  “My men will be arriving tomorrow morning. They will pose as French diplomats: Dubois and Fournier. Make certain they are on the guest list as the Regent’s personal agents will be checking the list before the ball begins.”

  Shaw waved his hand in dismissal. “Fine. Is that all?”

  Tomkin nodded. He contemplated revealing more, but surmised that would only cause his partner to question his methods and lose focus.

  Shaw watched his partner for several seconds. “As long as I get what is owed to me, everything will be just grand.”

  Tomkin grimaced at Shaw as he fought a headache. When he noticed the carriage had circled around the Royal Opera House, he tapped the roof twice. The carriage slowed and came to a full stop. “Get out.”

  “No, not just yet.” Shaw leaned in and observed his ally. “What is wrong with you? Has something happened?”

  “I have a bloody headache,” Tomkin said. “Now, get out.”

  Shaw narrowed his eyes and his mouth pulled into a thin line. “I’m warning you, if I don’t get what is promised to me, you will be very sorry, indeed.”

  “I am well aware of the agreement,” Tomkin said.

  “You better be.” With that Shaw opened the carriage door and stepped out.

  The carriage continued on. Tomkin rested his head on the squabs, allowing his mind to go numb. Instead of a few minutes of reprieve, a headache slowly swelled into a throbbing pain behind his eyes, as if someone was jabbing a knife into his skull. He pressed his palm on his left eye, massaging it gently. It had been years since he’d had one as bad as this.

  In the quiet of the night, he formulated his next move. Clearly Michael knew more than Emma let on. The fact that the Foreign Office was suspecting him of treason meant someone had been watching him. Thank God the missing letter had contained none of the information regarding his plans for the masquerade ball. Unfortunately, however, it meant he had to abort traveling by day and get the hell out of the country as soon as possible.

  Once the carriage halted in the back alley of his townhouse, he opened the door and peeked out. Seeing no one about, he stepped out of the carriage and glanced around the perimeter for good measure. Satisfied, he gave a few shiny coins to the jarvey and the driver happily hitched on.

  Quickly, he walked on until he came to a wooden door that led to the mews and the coachman’s living area of his townhouse. Right below the door on the ground was a cover of what looked to be a coal chute, but it was a secret passage, one that led to the underground tunnel where Emma was kept.

  He leaned down, grabbed the handle and removed the cover. It revealed steps leading down to the passageway. Descending downward, he made sure to pull the cover back in its place before continuing down the steps until he came to an iron door. Reaching into his inside coat pocket, he pulled out a large key and proceeded to unlock it.

  Time to find out what Emma knew.

  * * *

  In the pitch darkness, Emma’s senses were heightened. The stink of sewage saturated the stale air around her. She heard the sound of rodents going from corner to corner of the room in intervals. Just then something climbed onto her leg and she screamed. She shook her leg and the awful cre
ature fell off and scurried away. There must be dozens of these awful creatures in here.

  Gathering her feet close to her, she tried to loosen the rope tied around her already sore wrists. After a while, it stung and she stopped from the sheer pain. It was useless.

  Utterly useless.

  Hot tears formed in her eyes. The faith she had in defeating Tomkin seemed to drain away as each minute ticked by. She’d tried to get herself free for the last hour, fighting fatigue and hunger. All the while, the reality of what he had revealed to her about her parent’s demise had time to settle, and her resolve grew.

  She would not allow him to see her defeated. You mustn’t give up. Michael was still out there, and she was certain he’d do everything to find her.

  The door squeaked open, then quickly shut again. Heart pumping, she scooted close to the cold stone wall behind her. The torchlight became bright, as the person approached her cell.

  Footfalls were getting close.

  And closer.

  She bit her lips and braced herself for whatever might come her way. A few seconds later, her captor appeared on the opposite side of the cell bars. He put the key into the hole and turned it to unlock the cell door before slipping inside the tiny space.

  “I don’t enjoy seeing you like this,” Tomkin said.

  “Then let me go,” she said. Emma felt a chill running up and down her spine when his gaze grew ominous.

  “On my way back here, I had some time to think about you and what we discussed earlier, and I am certain you weren’t completely honest with me.”

  “I already told you everything I know.”

  He watched her. “Nice try.”

  She said nothing.

  Tomkin lowered and looked squarely at her. “If you think disobeying me will—”

  Creeeak. Both of them froze and looked in the direction of the sound.

  Someone just opened the secret door from Tomkin’s study. Quickly, her captor killed the torch light and everything became pitch black. Her captor cupped her mouth and she felt the barrel of a pistol on her temple.

  “Be quiet,” Tomkin hissed at her. He swiftly freed her from the knot and yanked her up. They exited the cell together in the dark and he pulled her along with him away from the intruder. Pointing the pistol at her, he cupped her mouth so tight she couldn’t get a word out for help.

  The sound of soles slapping on the wet ground were getting closer. The torch light held by the stranger lit the tunnel as he neared them.

  “Tomkin,” the man said, and pointed a pistol at them. “Let her go.”

  It took a moment for her to realize the man approaching them was Lord Hansford. Sudden relief washed over her.

  “If you come any closer, I’ll shoot her. Put your weapon down,” her captor warned.

  Lord Hansford kept the pistol aimed at Tomkin. “I know you murdered Miss Willoughby’s parents. There is nowhere to hide.”

  She pinched her eyes shut in sheer respite.

  “Let her go, Tomkin.”

  P-taff

  With the sound of the pistol blaring in her ear, the air was imbued with the stench of gun powder and smoke. “Nooo,” she yelled out. Lord Hansford dropped his pistol and braced the wall in pain before he fell to the floor. The torchlight slid off his hand and onto the ground. There she saw crimson slowly spread outward and his breeches marked in blood.

  “You didn’t have to shoot him,” she said reaching out to Lord Hansford.

  “I don’t want him following us. Come, we must go before anyone shows up,” Tomkin yanked her to him.

  She reached for the wounded man, but her enemy pulled her up and yanked her back to him.

  “He can bleed to death for all I care. Let’s go. Or I’ll—”

  “What?” she snapped. “You will shoot me as well?”

  “Don’t you see? Hansford is our enemy. Not me. They are the ones who are preventing me—preventing us—from going home.”

  “You’re insane.” Lord Hansford’s breath became ragged. Oh, God, there is so much blood. She fought her captor, struggling to free herself from his grip to help Lord Hansford, but in the end her enemy put a pistol against her neck and pressed her to walk away.

  “Time to go, my dear girl.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Michael stepped into the unlit bedroom on the second floor of number 5. The three tall twelve-paned sash windows gave enough moonlight to sufficiently illuminate the large elaborate bedroom. There by the tall window Row stood looking through the spyglass.

  “Any new development?” Michael said, tossing his greatcoat on the floral settee nearby.

  Row turned to face him. “You look like hell,” Row said.

  Michael gave no reply.

  “It’s been quiet. Want a look?”

  Rubbing his stubbled chin, Michael approached the window. Looking through the spyglass, he saw the exquisite facade of Tomkin’s townhouse. The sash windows above the master bedroom with its curtains drawn did not even flicker. No movement.

  “Servants are still inside but I suspect they are all sleeping by now.”

  “A good opportunity to take a look around,” Michael said, still looking through the spyglass. Through the crack of the thick curtains, he saw a faint flicker of candle light appear and disappear, but nothing else. “Someone’s inside, but I can’t tell who the hell it is. I’m going to check it out.”

  “Be careful,” Row said.

  Michael nodded, swiftly retreated from the room, down the stairwell, and exited through the rear of the house that funneled out to the back street.

  Pulling up his coat collar, he swiftly walked past the silent street and inspected the perimeter and the nearly empty streets. Looking for any movement or anything that caught his eye, he walked past the front facade of Tomkin’s townhouse again.

  When done, he quickly made his way to the mews. As he approached, he carefully studied the batten door that led to the service room and mews. From the corner of this eye, he noticed something strange. The cover to the coal chute was ajar. Leaning forward, he pushed it open and looked into the dark pit. Stairs.

  He pulled the knife from his boot, and slowly descended the stairs and into the dark tunnel. A whiff of a faint burnt smell reached him—gunpowder.

  As he entered deep into the dark tunnel, Michael heard a faint grunt, then again, as if someone was in pain. As he neared, a faint light revealed a shadow flickering in the tunnel.

  “If you came back to finish the job—”

  He stopped dead in his tracks. The man’s voice was very familiar. “Hansford?”

  Lord Hansford looked at him, blood everywhere. Quickly, he made his way to the injured man.

  “Good God, man, it’s good to see you. The bastard shot me in the leg and took Miss Willoughby with him.”

  “How long ago?”

  “I’d say about ten minutes ago, but I fear it’s too late. The bastard is gone by now.”

  Damn it. Disappointment ensued. For now, Hansford needed a doctor and fast before he bled to death.

  * * *

  Three hours later, sleep deprived and tired, Michael arrived at his townhouse in Mayfair. He always kept a skeleton crew at his townhouse in London. Before he reached the top step of his front door his Indian butler, Bali, opened the door.

  “Welcome home, Sir,” Bali said and stepped aside.

  “How is Lord Hansford?” Michael asked as Bali took his grimy greatcoat and inspected it. “Be easy on me now, I haven’t slept or changed in days.”

  “I can see that, sir.” Bali’s brows quirked. “Would you like me to order a bath?”

  “No time. Is the doctor here?” Michael walked to the parlor where Hansford was resting, Bali trailing behind him.

  “Yes. He arrived an hour ago.”

  “Good,” Michael stopped at the parlor door. “Have breakfast brought to Lord Hansford in the parlor. I don’t want him moved just now. Have the maid ready the guest room sometime today. Oh, and please have breakfast prepared
for the doctor as well since he most likely hasn’t had time to break his fast.”

  “Very well, sir. And will you be taking breakfast as well?”

  In the last twenty-four hours, he could think of nothing but Emma and getting her to safety. Since he wasn’t certain what the day was going to bring for him, he’d better take time to eat something while he had the chance. “Yes, but just black coffee and eggs. I’ll be in my study.”

  “Of course,” Bali replied, then quickly walked away to take charge of his duties.

  Michael intended to find out what Hansford knew. For now, Row was still watching the house just in case the traitor decided to come back. As he entered the parlor, the doctor stepped out to meet him at the threshold.

  “Oh, good, you’re here,” the doctor noted as he pulled off the spectacles perched on his nose. “Is there a place we can talk?”

  Michael nodded. “This way,” Michael escorted the doctor to his study down the hall.

  “Well…,” Michael said impatiently, shutting the door. “What is the prognosis?”

  The doctor precariously gazed at him. “I don’t suppose you are going to tell me how he managed to get shot in the leg and ended up in your home?”

  Michael ignored his observation. “The prognosis, doctor?”

  The doctor sighed. “Very well, then. I have managed to clean the wound and patch him, but he has lost a lot of blood. He will require supervision around the clock for at least a few days.”

  “Fine,” Michael said. “I will arrange for someone to keep an eye on him.”

  The doctor shook his head. “I know Hansford well. It’s highly unlikely he is going to listen to my advice. You mustn’t allow him to ignore my counsel.”

  “I won’t.” Michael knew the basics. He’d taken multiple shots during the war and played a field medic on multiple occasions when skilled surgeons and doctors were scarce in the battlefields, which was too often. “I’ll call on you if there is any change.” The doctor opened his mouth to interject and Michael cut in, “I will tie him to the bed if I have to. He will get the rest he requires. You have my word.”