Her Husband's Harlot

by Grace Callaway

  "Yes, Papa?" But already she knew the answer.

  "I have been short of the ready lately. Just a temporary set-back, of course," her father added quickly. "The tenants have been deuced slow on paying the rents. And I've had a bit of a bad run on investments—speculations didn't come up as I expected. Nothing to do about it, of course."

  "I see."

  "Wouldn't want to have to cut back on the household expenses—keep your mother in her accustomed manner and all that."

  "How much?" Helena asked quietly.

  "Just a few hundred pounds—some blunt to float me over until the next ship comes in." Her father laughed, an awkward, braying sound. "Metaphorically speaking. Wouldn't have anything to do with trade myself, of course."

  "A few hundred pounds?" Helena said, aghast. "Papa, I do not have such funds."

  "Didn't I just hear you call Harteford the kindest, most generous of husbands? Ask him for it. The man's got more gold than Croesus."

  "I expect Nicholas to be home at any moment. Perhaps we might discuss this situation together, the three of us," Helena said, even as her stomach flipped at the notion.

  "Are you mad, gel? Haven't you been listening?" Northgate roared. "Your blasted husband is the cause of this whole mess. I can't ask him for the money!"

  "What do you mean Nicholas is the cause ...?"

  "The skinflint cut off my allowance! Not a shilling he said, if he caught me at the cards, and damned if the bastard didn't hold true to his word." Her father was breathing heavily now, so much so that despite her rising frustration, Helena placed a hand on his shoulder. He shook her off. "Now he's got word around that my vowels aren't worth ashes—no one will put me up, not even for a single bloody round."

  "Papa, Nicholas is trying to help you," Helena said.

  "Help me? The bastard has ruined me!"

  "You have ruined yourself." The truth, when spoken, lifted a weight from her chest. "You cannot blame Nicholas for your own wrong doing."

  "Wrong doing? How dare you!" Her father rose above her, his fist raised. For a moment, she thought he meant to strike her. He had not done so in the past, but never before had she the courage to oppose him.

  She sat up very straight, her eyes holding his. "Nicholas has the right of it. I will not interfere with my husband's wishes."

  Her father's fist came slapping down into his palm. Hazel eyes, so like her own, blazed at her. "By God, what kind of daughter are you? Thomas would have never allowed me to be treated this way. If your brother was alive, he would call out your bastard merchant and give you a beating for good measure. Thomas would—"

  "Thomas is dead and has been these years past," Helena said. "There is no changing that, or the fact that you are a degenerate gambler."

  "Why you insolent—"

  "What is more, I am glad Thomas did not live to see what his father has become." A tear escaped, but Helena held her voice firm. "You need help, Papa, and I am glad to give it, but not in the form of money. Neither I, nor my husband, will give you so much as a farthing if it is to buy your passage to perdition."

  Her father stared at her as if he had never seen her before.

  Perhaps he never had.

  "You are dead to me, do you hear? Dead!"

  When he slammed the door, the walls vibrated with the finality of his words.

  Helena remained sitting for a long time.

  So deep in thought was she that she was startled by Crikstaff's voice. "Is everything alright, my lady? Anything I can bring you—warmed milk, perhaps?"

  "No, thank you." She wiped away the last of her tears. "Have we heard from Lord Harteford?"

  "No, my lady."

  Disquiet flooded her. Something was not right. Nicholas ought to have been home almost two hours ago, and he always sent word when he was to arrive late. "Have the carriage readied," she said. "I wish to leave immediately."

  "Of course. Shall I inform the groom of your destination?"

  "I wish to go to the docks. To Lord Harteford's office."

  "Now? At this hour? By my lady—"

  "See that it is done, Crikstaff. That is all."

  Gathering her things, she prayed her intuition was wrong.

  *****

  As the carriage came to a stop, Helena pushed back the curtain. In the darkness, she could make out the outline of the warehouse. The building was plain-faced, with no ornament whatsoever. The door bordered the street and looked of solid wood, with no decoration save a slot for looking out. The rectangular structure stood three stories high, a slumbering beast resting on a street dotted with similar creatures marked for function rather than fashion.

  The door to the carriage opened to reveal the groom's tense face.

  "We're here, milady, and I can't but say again as 'ow I 'ave a bad feelin' about this. 'Is lordship's like as not to flay me alive for bringin' you 'ere."

  "Never you mind, Will. It's my orders that are to be obeyed in this instance; I will take full responsibility for the outcome."

  "Master'll still 'ave my 'ide," the groom predicted with dour certainty. "Dangerous place, the docks at night. Full o' cutthroats an' thieves. And it's too quiet by far—gives me the chills."

  All the talk of criminals fed into her unease and resurrected the anxiety of her dream.

  "You are, ahem, prepared, Will, for any eventuality?"

  "'Course I am. What do you take me fer?" The groom patted the pocket of his caped greatcoat, before letting down the steps. "I'm always prepared."

  "Excellent. Though I am sure there will be no need for it."

  But just in case, it occurred to Helena that it might be wise to secure her own instrument of protection. If only she had thought of it sooner. On impulse, she flipped up the cushions on the seat opposite, where her husband had once shown her a hidden compartment. She lifted the wooden door, hoping for a pistol or a blade. Nothing. With a sigh, she rearranged the cushions. As she did so, her fingers encountered a sharp edge.

  The Wollstonecraft volume. She had meant to return it to Miss Lavinia at the salon this week, but had forgotten it in the carriage. Nicholas' words suddenly floated into her head. A bludger ... you take a piece of cloth ... wrap it around whatever can do a man injury. She hefted the book in her hands—it was a solid weight. Stuffing it into her reticule, she alighted and followed the groom to the front door.

  "Probably's locked," Will said. "There's no light about the place."

  He twisted the knob.

  The door swung open.

  "Can't say as 'ow I like this," the groom said again, this time in a whisper. "Best be following close behind, milady."

  Helena did as the groom instructed, staying behind him as he scouted the seemingly infinite darkness. As her eyes adjusted, she began to discern mountainous shapes, like behemoths from a mystical land. Her pulse raced.

  No need for a fit of vapors. 'Tis just the inventory. 'Tis just crates full of the tea and coffee you drink every day. Imagine it in the pretty yellow pot, the one with the cornflowers around the rim—

  Was it her imagination, or was there movement in the shadows?

  She felt Will's hand on her arm, urging her down toward the ground. She crouched beside him, her back against a wall of boxes.

  "I think I see the stairs, milady, up to the first floor. Probably where we'll find the master, if 'e's 'ere." She could not see the expression on Will's face, but the grimness was evident in his hushed tones. "I would feel a sight better if you was to wait fer me 'ere. Master might be needin' help, and I can't be o' use with you hangin' on me coattails, beggin' your pardon."

  At the thought of Nicholas in danger, her heart clenched.

  "Yes, go. I will stay here," she whispered back.

  "Don't move from this 'ere spot, milady, 'til I tells you it's safe to come out."

  Helena watched as the groom crept stealthily forward, melting into the darkness. Alone, she huddled against the crates. Time passed in sluggish beats, minutes or hours she could not be certain. The stillnes
s became deafening. Every rustle, every creak increased her vigilance until she feared bursting out of her very skin. Her eyes flicked everywhere, her muscles trembled with anticipation. Something scurried over her skirts, and she jumped, stuffing her fist in her mouth to stifle the scream.

  It was then that she heard it.

  At first, she thought she had imagined the faint sound. But, no, there it was again. A thumping noise, from somewhere above stairs.

  A shot rang, shrill and piercing.

  She did not know that she had moved until she found herself racing up the steps.

  THIRTY-TWO

  "Did you get him?"

  "Aye. Bleedin' like a stuck pig, 'e is." The man nudged the fallen figure with a dirt-crusted boot. "You think there's more of 'em, sir?"

  "Likely so, Bertie. I'd wager he's one of Kent's men, so the rest are not far behind. Best we finish up here quickly. Tie up the body and bring it downstairs. We'll toss him to the tides before we leave."

  "Yes, sir."

  With impotent rage, Nicholas watched as the man called Bertie trussed the fallen figure. William—for he was sure it was his groom William—moaned as his arms and legs were bound. Nicholas strained forward; ropes bit into his wrists and ankles, keeping him prisoner in the chair. He looked on helplessly as Bertie dragged the groom out of the room. A crimson trail marked his departure.

  "No use struggling, Lord Harteford," James Gordon said, advancing upon him in an agile stride. His blue eyes danced with menacing mirth. "You can't move anymore than that poor sod."

  "Release him, Gordon. It's me you want, not him."

  "True, but we can't have loose ends trailing about." Gordon stopped a foot away, so close that Nicholas could see the freckles on the younger man's skin. But there was not a trace of youthful innocence on that smooth face now. No stammer in the confident drawl. Gordon's red hair gleamed in the lamp light, as did the pistol he held in his hands. "You have caused me quite a bit of trouble, my lord."

  "I would cause you a great deal more," Nicholas growled.

  Gordon laughed, a high boyish sound. "I don't think so. But before I put an end to your interfering ways, you must satisfy my curiosity: how did you know it was me who masterminded the thefts?"

  Keep him talking. Buy yourself time. Kent will pick up the trail and come.

  "I didn't, at first. I thought it was Bragg like everyone else." Nicholas saw the smugness enter Gordon's smile and added, "A clever ploy on your part."

  "Yes," Gordon said, "it was clever. To think, I was afraid the device was too transparent. After all, Isaac Bragg a criminal genius? My step-brother hadn't the brains to organize a party at the tavern, let alone the systematic robbing of every merchant on the dock."

  "So you used him. He was your stool pigeon."

  "My insurance, yes, should my plans be uncovered. Isaac was very good at following orders. At stirring up trouble with the workers. At appearing a suspicious, trouble-making sort. The little act worked quite well at the other warehouses. I used other men, of course, not just Isaac."

  "You used different aliases, different disguises," Nicholas said, "so no one would recognize you from one company to the next. Once you infiltrated a warehouse, you imported your own men, had them hired on your recommendation. And the stealing started, only so little at a time that it would take months to uncover the losses. By that time, you had moved on. Faked an illness, or, in this case, your own death."

  "I am impressed," Gordon said. "Tell me, how did you know it was me?"

  "There was no crutch next to your supposed corpse. Why would a life-long cripple be without his walking stick?" Nicholas paused. He thought he saw a movement from the door, a flicker of a shadow. Or was it just a trick of the light? He needed to stall Gordon. "When I realized this, I had the body exhumed and re-examined by the doctor. Even with the decay, it was obvious the limbs were equally developed on both sides. There was no evidence whatsoever of a limp."

  "Very good indeed." Gordon's white teeth gleamed in appreciation. "You alerted Kent to this fact, and he began to question all the merchants along the dock about an employee with an affliction of some kind."

  "Exactly. And there emerged the pattern—always a young man, timid, self-effacing, with a physical disfigurement: a blinded eye, a lame arm, a limp. Someone you felt pity for, whom you would never suspect capable of nefarious deeds."

  "So you have flushed me out," Gordon said. "But, to be fair, I know a bit about you, too. Remember my words to you that night in St. Giles?"

  Nicholas felt an icy twist in his gut. "It was you who shot me that night."

  "Isaac, the great fool, led you straight to my quarters. Another reason he deserved to die." Gordon's eyes narrowed. "I considered killing you that night, but you're worth more to me alive than dead. After all, it's not every nob who's born in the gutter and ends up a marquess, is it?" Gordon cocked his head. "How much are your secrets worth to you, my lord?"

  Keep him distracted. Let him talk. "How did you find out about Grimes?"

  "The fact that you stabbed him in the heart, you mean?" Gordon's teeth flashed again. "Let's just say I have it from a reliable source. But to be certain, I sent those little notes to gauge your reaction. To see if the Marquess of Harteford could be shaken up, if he truly had something to hide. And I must say, my lord, my test was quite effective: for anyone who knew to look, you wore your guilt as obviously as a priest wears his collar. I knew then that my information was true."

  "What do you want, Gordon?" Nicholas demanded. "Money?"

  The other man rolled his eyes. "But of course. It's always about money. The question is how much." He wagged his pistol. "How much would it be worth for a marquess to keep his ignoble past a secret?"

  "I'd go to jail for murder before I'd hand a farthing over to you," Nicholas snarled.

  For some reason, this made Gordon smile. "Ah, but there are things worse than murder, are there not, my lord? Let me illustrate with a little tale. We all had our heroes growing up, and Benjamin Grimes happened to be one of mine. He was a legend among the flash-house crowd. Cleaned out half of London—and I don't mean their chimneys. A master thief he was, known for his love of violence, gin, and, ah yes, one unfortunate vice." Gordon shook his head with mock regret. "Well, even the great Achilles had his weakness. Who is to judge that for Grimes it was young boys?"

  Nicholas felt his stomach give a greasy lunge.

  Don't let him get to you. Stay focused. Calm.

  "It was said Grimes enjoyed a game of bury of the bone." Gordon peered into his face; Nicholas cursed the betraying trickle of sweat that slid down his forehead. "How many times did he play it with you, my lord? Or make you play it with the other boys?"

  It's over. Grimes can't hurt you.

  "Did you come to beg for it, like a dog that will do anything for a few scraps from the table?"

  "Goddamn you!" With mindless rage, Nicholas flung himself at Gordon. He toppled to the floor, unbalanced by the chair he'd forgotten he was bound to. The side of his head slammed against the wooden boards. Before he could regain his senses, a boot crushed into his jaw, pinning him to the ground. He welcomed the pain, the rusty-sweet surge inside his mouth. It alerted him, brought him back to the present.

  "Unwise, my lord." Gordon ground his boot, and black dots danced before Nicholas' eyes. "I caution you against further retaliation. It will get you nowhere."

  Gordon was right. Nicholas needed to regroup. Think.

  The boot lifted. "From this little show, I have obviously hit a nerve. Ergo, my silence on the matter of your relations with Grimes should fetch a pretty price. Unless you want it bandied about London that you were buggered by the man?"

  You were a child, Nicholas. You are not blame. Like a beacon, Helena's words flashed in his mind. You are the finest man I have ever known. He saw her sweet smile, the one that lit all the corners of his soul. He felt the darkness retreating, banished by the golden fire of her eyes. The only man I could ever love.

  H
is breathing steadied. His strength returned.

  Gordon's voice came from above him. "As time is of essence, we will dispense with the formalities. You have a choice before you, my lord, so listen carefully. You may live a hero, or die a bastard who whored for his bread and murdered his master."

  "The price?" Nicholas said evenly.

  "Ten thousand pounds, my lord. A pittance against your estate, but I am not a greedy man. We will leave together this night, upon the barge I keep docked nearby. On the morrow, you will issue me a bank note. Once the funds are in my pocket, I will release you. You may tell one and all that you attempted to apprehend me, but were overcome by villainous means. You will be made a hero for your brave efforts."

  Not bloody likely. I'll be floating face-down in the Thames the moment you get your money.

  "If I refuse?" Nicholas asked.

  The boot descended out of nowhere, slamming Nicholas' head back to the ground. His vision splintered into bright shards.

  "You will die tonight, slowly and with a great deal of pain. Tomorrow, a story will be printed in all the papers. It will fuel drawing room gossip for decades to come. Your lovely marchioness will not be able to show her face again. Why, the shame of it might kill her on the spot. That is, if something else doesn't get to her first."

  Fury exploded, clearing Nicholas' head. He thrashed with renewed strength. "Leave her out of this, you bastard! She has nothing—"

  He gagged as a pistol jammed into his windpipe. The metal barrel bored deeper; he could feel the edge of it cutting into his skin. Lungs burning, he struggled for air, wheezing when the pressure was suddenly released.

  Gordon smiled down at him.

  "So, my lord, which will it be? Life or a slow, painful death?"

  THIRTY-THREE

  Calmness settled over Helena as she watched the man called Gordon cut the ropes loose. Nicholas stood, wobbling a little as his hands remained bound behind his back. She saw the trickle of blood on her husband's temple, and her hands tightened around her weapon. Her heart beat in steadfast rhythm as she readied herself in the shadows beside the doorway. Strangely enough, her earlier fear had vanished at the moment she'd witnessed Will being dragged through the hallway. Upon reaching the first floor, she'd hidden herself into one of the offices, flattening herself against the wall at the sound of voices. From her vantage point, she had seen a hulking brute of a man pass by, tugging a length of rope behind him and Will ...