Vanquished

by Hope Tarr

  "That bad is it? Best take a deep breath and let it out."

  Hadrian took a bracing swallow of scalding coffee and then set it aside. These past weeks he'd been navigating such a web of lies, he scarcely knew where to begin.

  Gathering his thoughts, he recounted his and Callie's unplanned and as-then entirely innocent meeting in the park, the encounter shortly thereafter with Boyle's henchmen, and finally his desperate acceptance of Dandridge's devil's bargain.

  Heedless of the curling papers, Sally dragged a long-nailed hand through her hair. "Oh, Harry, why didn't you come to me? I've a bit set aside, not four hundred pounds surely, but enough to have gotten you out of London for a time until things blew over."

  "My mate, Rourke said nearly the same thing only he's been out of the country, and I didn't know how to contact him. As for Gavin, I've already taken so much from him; I didn't know how I could possibly ask for more, especially when I'd brought the whole bloody mess on myself."

  "So you agreed to ruin Caledonia instead. Oh, Harry."

  He hung his head. "I know, I know. When I first agreed to Dandridge's terms I meant to see the thing through only . . ."

  "You've gone and fallen in love with her, haven't you?"

  No point in denying it. He scraped a hand through his hair. "Christ, Sally, I'd gladly trade my life for the chance to make things right for her, keep her safe only it's too late. I confessed everything to her, and she never wants to see me again, not that I blame her."

  "Like as not that's the shock talking. Give her time. She'll come 'round."

  "Time is the very thing I don't have. Now that Dandridge knows I won't be providing any photographs, it's only a matter of time before he sends one of his henchmen after me." He looked up from tracing the mug's rim to regard her. "So you see, I may just have to take you up on that offer of going into hiding, for the near future at least."

  Expression thoughtful, she leaned in and dropping her voice said, "I've something for you. Something I meant to give you a long time ago but never got around to it."

  "What is it?"

  Rather than answer, she said, "Wait here. It's upstairs in my room. I'll just be a minute."

  No longer able to sit still, Hadrian got up to pace the slate floor, the scene in the hansom playing back in his head. He was no stranger to insults or pain, either for that matter. He'd been born in a brothel, a whore's son, and then spent his early years as a beggar and a thief. Yet never had he felt so low in all his life as when Callie threw her money at him and as good as called him a Judas, a betrayer, a whore. Not that he blamed her. Likely letting her go on hating him was the kindest thing he could do, and still there was a part of him that wasn't prepared to entirely give up hope, not yet. She had said she loved him after all, and though that frantic utterance had come in the heat of passion, he couldn't think Callie would say such a thing lightly. God alone knew how he'd longed to clasp her to him and say those magical and oh-so-true words straight back. I love you. Yet knowing that he wasn't free, that he hadn't the right, he'd held back even as he'd given her everything his body could give.

  Mired in his musings, he didn't hear Sally return until she cleared her throat. "Mind you don't wear out my floor."

  Standing in the doorway, she handed him a small square swathed in cotton wool and smelling of cedar. "This is my gift to you and Callie." He started to unwrap it, but her hand on his arm stayed him. "No, not now." She darted a worried look to the open doorway. "Wait until you're alone. Better yet, open it with Callie. You'll know what to do then."

  "Sally, is everything all right with you?"

  "Right as rain, now go on with you." A hand on his shoulder, she steered him out the door.

  Callie, he had to get to her, though what the devil he would say to her once--if--he got the chance was a mystery still. "But Sally, how can I begin to hope she'll forgive me, let alone take me back?"

  Sally leveled him one of her good, long looks. "So long as a body's still breathing, there's always hope. If you're lucky she'll take you back today; and if not today, tomorrow; and if not tomorrow, maybe the day after." A single tear tracked through the cake of rouge and powder. "Just love her, Harry. The rest will follow."

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  "Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken."

  --JANE AUSTEN, Emma, 1815

  Since leaving Hadrian in the hansom and going it alone on foot, Callie had spent the better part of the afternoon crying in her room. Eventually the wellspring of tears had run dry, temporarily at least. She'd risen from her sopping pillow, wrapped her still thawing body in an old quilt, and migrated to the parlor where the recently replenished sherry decanter called to her like a siren to a sailor lost at sea. That had been three glasses ago . . . or was it four?

  It was in that fragile state between acute misery and semi-intoxication that Lottie found her later that day. Smartly turned out in a princess-cut visiting suit of rose-colored wool, she breezed in. "Why darling, there you are. When you didn't come home for tea last night, I was a whit worried, I must confess, but then again I suspect I knew where you'd gone."

  The reference to confessions sent fresh tears welling. Looking away, Callie counted herself fortunate to manage a mute nod.

  Drawing closer, Lottie ventured, "How went the meeting with the PM?"

  Staring ahead into the fire lest her aunt see her puffy eyes and tear-streaked face, Callie tried for a normal tone and answered, "Better than I'd expected. Lord Stonevale has been most vocal in his endorsement, and his good opinion seems to hold considerable sway with the PM." She cleared her throat though she was so hoarse from sobbing she scarcely recognized her own voice. "I believe we may have a supporter in Salisbury though he will hold back to see which way the wind blows before casting his lot publicly."

  Lottie rounded the settee on which Callie sat. Slipping slender hands out of her muff, she set the bit of fur and lace aside and said, "Why darling, this is wonderful news. But why the long face?"

  Knowing that any further pretense was useless, Callie set her glass down on the gate-leg table and turned to meet her aunt's concerned gaze. "Oh Auntie, I've been such a bloody fool. I actually had myself believing he cared something for me, that perhaps he might even be on his way to loving me if only just a little."

  "Lord Salisbury?"

  "No aunt, Hadrian, or rather Harry Stone, if you must know."

  Eyebrows lifting to her hairline, Lottie asked, "Who is Harry Stone?"

  Callie shook her head, which was throbbing like a toothache. "He is Hadrian St. Claire, or rather, Hadrian St. Claire is he. Oh, Lottie, either way, it's the most dreadful mess."

  Slipping onto the cushion next to her, Lottie wrapped a comforting arm about her shoulders. "If we're to sort it all out, I think you'd best begin at the beginning."

  The compassion in her aunt's face was all it took to start fresh tears flowing. Hiding her face in her hands, she said, "In all honesty, I'm still struggling to sort it out myself."

  Pulling her closer, Lottie patted her back. "There, there, pet. If I've anything to give you, it's time."

  Sensing that time was of the essence, Hadrian left Sally's and took a hansom cab back to Westminster where his intention was to quickly shave and change before presenting himself at the Rivers' residence and begging both women's forgiveness. Although his hope that Callie might take him back was slim if not next to nil, as Sally had pointed out, it was hope all the same. But when he fit his key to the lock of his shop's entrance, the door swung ominously open.

  Icicles freezing his blood, he stepped inside, every fiber of his being on full alert. In one sweeping glance, he took in the smashed glass countertop, the overturned worktable and chairs, and the framed photographs wrenched from their wall hooks and heaped in the center of the room. Bloody hell!

  Feet crunching on glass, he bounded up the stairs. Like his studio, the flat do
or stood ajar, the room inside in utter disarray. His heart dipped when Dinah didn't materialize to meet him. Whatever his just deserts might be, the thought that yet another innocent might be made a victim in his stead was almost more than even he could bear. Sick with anticipation over what he might find, he went about calling for her. After several heartrending minutes, an answering meow emerged from the vicinity of the pantry. Weak with relief, he went down on his hands and knees and crawled over to where she crouched behind the meat safe, terrified but apparently unharmed. Lifting her into his arms, he stroked her small, trembling body, cooing soft words of comfort before continuing his inventory of the destruction. The door to his darkroom closet stood open as well. Ordinarily that would guarantee the ruin of any recent work, but the only photograph he'd made in the past twenty-four hours was the nude he'd shot of Callie. Eager to see the finished piece, he'd developed it before they'd gone back to bed.

  Callie! Heart in his throat, he set Dinah down and dashed into the darkroom. A cursory search confirmed the room had been picked bare. Unwilling to face what that must mean, he searched every nook and cranny, not once but several times, until there could be no doubt as to what had happened. The intruder had made off with the boudoir photograph of Callie.

  Dandridge! For the span of moments he stood in the center of the closet of a room and ran a shaking hand through his sweat-dampened hair. The MP must have hired someone to turn over his apartment. Whether that person had found the intimate photograph by accident or design scarcely mattered at this stage. Hadrian had carried out his Judas mission after all, delivering Callie to Dandridge on the proverbial platter.

  Shaky, he made his way back into the main room. Someone had slit the upholstering of his divan and hacked away. Sitting down amidst the stuffing, he considered what his next move might be. Call in the police? But no, if they wouldn't have believed him before, what chance had he now when admittedly he'd been a party to Dandridge's plan? Even if by some miracle they did credit his story, he would have to admit that such a photograph of Callie existed and that would never do.

  No, there was only one course of action that made any sense to him, and carrying it out called on the talents of Harry Stone, not Hadrian St. Claire. If Dandridge had ordered the photograph stolen, he would simply have to steal it back. He'd been a crack thief in his day and though snitching purses wasn't quite house-breaking, the same core skills applied. And if he were caught, and there was a good chance he would be, what of it? At this point, he really had nothing to lose. Dandridge had seen to that, stripping his fledgling life as bare as any wintertime tree. Whether he called himself Hadrian St. Claire or Harry Stone no longer mattered in the least. Either way, he was a man with no prospects and no future--and that made him a very dangerous man indeed.

  "For Chrissake, man, make your move, why don't you, and put us both out of our misery? I've taken your queen a'ready and your king is but one move away from being in my pocket. You've naught to lose at this point."

  Pointer finger hovering above the onyx chess piece, Gavin looked up from the board into Rourke's frowning face and admitted, "I'm distracted with thinking about Harry. I didn't care for the look of him when he left the other day. I think he may have gotten in over his head this time."

  They were at the Garrick, Gavin's club, sipping glasses of Madeira in the card room, its plasterwork walls flanked with portraits of playwrights and other past and present luminaries of the stage. A few other gentlemen had wandered in to play cards or talk quietly; otherwise the club had mostly cleared after the supper hour.

  An eye cocked on Gavin's finger, which for the past ten minutes and counting had yet to commit to any move, Rourke said, "Och, Harry's like a cat with nine lives. He's got through other scrapes before. He'll get through this one. Betimes, I've my man-of-affairs working on having that bank draft ready by noon tomorrow. As soon as he pays Dandridge back in full, he should be in the clear." He looked about, and dropping his voice, added, "Despite the blackguard's threats, I canna ken he'd go so far as commit murder over a vote on a wee bill."

  Gavin shook his head. During his short time as a barrister, he'd witnessed cases where murder had been done over as little as a coveted hat or a pie left to cool in a window well. When it came to mankind's capacity for committing acts of folly and senseless destruction, next to nothing surprised him. In this case, the "wee bill" to which Rourke referred had the capacity to significantly altar the landscape of the British electorate for centuries to come. It was no trifling matter.

  "I wouldn't be so sure of that, my friend. Even if Dandridge is bluffing, a great deal of mischief can be made in twenty-four hours time."

  "Are you suggesting we pay a call to Harry's shop and make sure he's tucked in safe and sound?"

  Finger still circling the piece, Gavin said, "I wasn't suggesting any such thing, but I must admit that sounds a capital plan."

  Rourke shifted in his chair, a straight-backed affair upholstered in hard leather that, Gavin privately admitted, felt easily as uncomfortable as his barrister's bench. "In that case, you maun as well make your move or forfeit; either way, your goose is cooked."

  Gavin felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as all at once the sought-after pattern emerged with crystalline clarity. "I wouldn't be so certain of that were I you. The old adage about patience being a virtue isn't without merit, after all." His hand settled on the piece, which he slid into place without hesitation. Looking up from the board to his friend's stupefied face, he said, "Checkmate."

  By the time Callie finished her story, her aunt had joined her in hitting the sherry. Seated side by side, glasses in hand and the near-empty decanter on the table between them, Lottie said, "I can't help but think there's more to all this than meets the eye."

  Setting her empty glass aside, Callie said, "Meaning?"

  "If Hadrian is truly the bounder we make him out to be, then why would he cry off with Dandridge and confess all to you knowing you might never speak to him again?"

  Callie shook her head. Despite the quantity of spirit she'd imbibed, she felt depressingly sober. The only tangible result of all that drinking was an aching head to match her aching heart. "Perhaps he's come down with a case of cold feet and was afraid he'd get caught or . . ." All at once, Hadrian's remark from the previous day came rushing back to her.

  "Well, Dinah, what say you to Paris next? Or maybe it's Venice you fancy, eh?"

  He'd been speaking aloud to his cat, as yet unaware of her presence upstairs. At the time she'd been too much passion's prisoner to give the statement a second thought, or even a first, but in the context of all she'd since learned, it stood out as an important clue indeed.

  "Or what, Callie? Pray don't leave me on tenterhooks." Sitting on the edge of the seat cushion, Lottie moved to top off both their glasses.

  Callie could no longer contain her misery. "I think Hadrian may mean to leave the country."

  Replacing the decanter's crystal stopper, Lottie said, "But dearest, if he cried off with Dandridge, surely that means he has to give back the money. If it was a dire want of funds that drove him to accept the villain's proposal in the first place, how could he possibly finance a trip abroad now?"

  "Take my picture, Hadrian. Make it as a remembrance of our beautiful night together, of how it was between us before the world and all its folly had the chance to intrude."

  Had Callie been standing rather than seated, the fist-grip on her heart would have sufficed to drop her to her knees. Sinking hard fingers into the sofa arm, she managed to choke out, "I'm not entirely certain he did cry off."

  Turning to her, Lottie's face formed a question mark. "What do you mean, Callie? I thought you said--"

  Dropping her head into her hands, Callie felt the sobs she'd struggled so hard to keep down pushing up the back of her throat. "Oh, Auntie, when I'd said I'd been a bloody fool before, I didn't know how true a statement that was."

  It was coming on dark when Hadrian made his way to Dandridge's house in
Hanover Square. The brass front doorknocker, aptly cast in the form of a serpent, was turned up, indicating that the MP was within and "at home" to callers. Dressed in all black, with boot blacking on his face, Hadrian slipped around to the back alley. Crouching behind the low stone wall, as yet unlit lantern in hand, he bided the time for full darkness to descend.

  While he waited out in the cold, recollections of Callie invaded his thoughts. That soft smile, those gentle hands, the habit she had of lifting her chin just so, the way her eyes lit up when she laughed. Odd how he hadn't fully realized just how much she'd come to mean to him, just how much he loved her, until now when she was as good as lost to him. Even so, the time they'd had together would always be a sweet gift to be treasured throughout the long barren years ahead.

  In the interim there was one last gift he could give her and that was the retrieval of the photograph. Stamping frozen feet, he waited for the last upstairs light to dim before heading for the tradesmen's entrance. The lock pick he pulled from his pocket was a rudimentary tool but one that had served him well in the past when, driven by hunger, he'd broken into a grocer's shop and gorged himself on raw vegetables and uncooked meats. That had been more than fifteen years before, and yet he trusted the touch hadn't left him entirely. A few tweaks had the door giving weigh, gaining him admittance to the slate-floored kitchen.

  Loud snores greeted him when he stepped inside, paralyzing him in place. He fell back into the shadowed corner, narrowly missing banging up against a peg from which a great many copper cook pots hung. Holding his breath, he craned his neck to see the source of the din, a fat woman in a stained apron slouched over the table, an overturned cup set by her dimpled elbow. The cook, he surmised, and relaxing fractionally, stepped softly past.