by Kris Tualla
“What is it?” he whispered once they were alone.
“I think Vincent is in trouble.” Leif pointed at a door that looked like all the other doors.
Nicolas leaned close to listen, but jumped back when something—or someone—hit the panels from the inside. He tried the handle, but the door was locked. He pounded with his fist.
More scuffling and muffled curses. The door jerked open and Vincent, disheveled and with one eye swelling shut, stood in the frame.
“Mister Hansen! Oh, God!” He looked back over his shoulder. “Things are not as they might appear, sir!”
Nicolas pushed into the room. “What’s going on? You?”
Rodger Merrick stood panting on the other side of the room. His similarly battered face was painted like a woman’s, a red-hued wig lay on the floor by the bed, and the dress he wore was ripped down the front. Dress?
“What’s happened here?” Nicolas thundered. Leif followed him into the room and closed the door.
“This, this sodomite tried to seduce me!” Vincent pointed at Rodger. “And when I assured him that I have no interest in such despicable activity, he grew belligerent and attacked me!”
Nicolas shifted his gaze to Rodger. The man stood straight, silent, defiant. Nicolas turned back to his secretary.
“I have no reason to doubt your story, Vincent, and every reason to believe it. Leif, will you see that Mister Barr receives treatment for his eye?”
“Yes, Sir.” He tugged on Vincent’s sleeve. “Come with me, sir. We’ll go to the kitchen and get a beefsteak for you to put on that.”
Vincent stalked from the room, shoulders back and head high. Leif pulled the door firmly shut. Nicolas folded his hands behind his back and circled the unmoving Rodger.
“Are you going to kill me?” he rasped.
Nicolas stopped. “Whatever I am, I am not a murderer.”
“No?” Rodger challenged. “You killed Edward in cold blood.”
“Edward Macken?”
“Stop it,” Rodger hissed. “Playing the fool does not suit you.”
Nicolas stopped circling.
“Edward Macken threatened me and held my wife at gunpoint, demanding a ransom.” Nicolas’s low voice was far more powerful for its softness. “He tried to kill me.”
Rodger’s gaze jumped to his. “That’s not possible!” he cried.
Nicolas folded his arms across his chest. “Are you calling me a liar? Shall I bring her in for you to question yourself?”
Rodger shook his head, seeming to try and clear it. “But guns were never part of the plan…”
Nicolas clenched his fists, then. “The plan? It was you all along? It was your idea?”
“No!” He paled and swayed, then sunk to the floor in an incongruent cloud of pink organdy. “It was Edward’s plan. I told him how you treated Devin and he said we should extort money from you.”
Nicolas raised one brow.
“I swear it, Hansen. I never meant for anyone to be hurt. I only meant to ruin your relationship with that woman the way you ruined ours.”
“You raise my gorge, you queer,” Nicolas sneered.
A shadow of fear passed over Rodger’s brow.
Nicolas pointed with his chin. “Is that why you’re passing as a woman? To attract men?”
“No.” Rodger pulled a deep breath. “I misjudged.”
“Misjudged? Misjudged what?”
“Vincent,” he whispered.
Nicolas was stunned. “You believed him to be a sodomite?”
Rodger shrugged. “I am usually correct. This time I was not.”
Nicolas shook his head disgusted. “Thank God for that. So what is your purpose?”
Rodger chewed his lower lip.
“Answer me, Merrick. I’m not a patient man where you are concerned!” Nicolas warned.
“Herbert Q. Percival.”
“What!”
“I’m he.”
“Gud forbanner det all til helvete!” Nicolas bellowed. He grabbed a post on the bed and rocked it back and forth. If it had come loose he would have hit Rodger with it. Red filled his field of vision until all he saw were his own hands. “Skitt, skitt, SKITT!” he shouted.
Facing the storm of Nicolas’s fury, Rodger rose to his knees and tilted his head to the side, displaying a long, white neck. His eyes were on the dagger on Nicolas’s belt. “Go on then. All I ask is that you kill me quickly.”
Nicolas spun to face him. “What?”
“Have mercy, Hansen.” Rodger’s voice broke. “I beg this of you.”
Nicolas was shaking. He would have loved nothing more than to release his frustration by thrusting his knife into this man’s belly and ramming it up into his chest. He stood still, fists clenched, heart pounding, and gathered his grit.
“I told you, Merrick! I am not a murderer,” he said when he was able.
Rodger’s brown eyes lifted slowly to his. “You have the motive, Hansen. And the right.”
Nicolas moved away from the temptation, his hand dropping to his dirk’s hilt nonetheless.
“You are not threatening my life, nor the lives of my wife or children. And you won’t again.” He ran his other hand through his hair. “Taking a man’s life is no small thing. I’ll not do it on a whim… I am not a murderer,” he repeated.
Rodger melted to the floor, limp. “Nothing is as it seemed,” he moaned. “I am ruined! What am I to do?”
Nicolas’s gaze swept the room, looking for paper and something to write with. He crossed to a desk and scribbled an address on a slip of paper. He thrust it at Rodger.
“What is this?” Rodger sniffed, his make-up-smeared eyes lifting to meet Nicolas’s gaze.
“Both Beckermann and his secretary, Sam Stafford, use this apartment for illicit assignations,” Nicolas stated. “With both genders.”
Rodger’s eyes widened under a lowered brow. “How do you know?”
“My apartment is across the hall. I’ve seen them both. And who they were with.”
Rodger shook his head. “What do you expect me to do with this?”
“Leave me the hell alone!” Nicolas barked. He opened the door and quit the room, slamming it behind him.
Chapter Twenty Eight
April 10, 1822
St. Louis
Sydney laid the garnet earrings and pendant on a soft, thick cloth. She folded it into an envelope and tucked the jewelry into her bag.
“So ‘Dark Skinny’ is Herbert Q. Percival?” Sydney used the nickname she had for Rodger before she knew his name or his connection with her first husband. “Did he ask you not to tell?”
“He did not, as I think of it.” As Nicolas undressed, he hung his clothes in the wardrobe. It was Leif’s job to check them in the morning and clean them.
Sydney presented her back to Nicolas. He untied her laces and loosened them for her. “What will you do?” she asked.
“For now, nothing. My knowing is a bit of insurance against future mischief.”
“I suppose that is true,” Sydney commented. She shrugged out of her dress and stepped out of her underskirt. She remained in her corset and shift, and sat at her dressing table to brush her hair. She kept an eye on Nicolas in the mirror. When his back was turned, she lifted her breasts so they all but fell out of her clothes.
“How long will you and Vincent be gone this time?” she asked, twisting a little so the profile of her body was at its most alluring.
“Uh…we… that is, about a week, after we drop you in Cheltenham.” His eyes were not on her face.
Sydney lifted her arms over her head and twisted her hair into a bun. “How far is it?”
“It’s a full day to Manchester.” Nicolas turned away and stepped from his trousers. “And a full day each in Ellisville, Fox Creek, Glencoe, Sherwin and Kirkwood.” He hung them on a hook and grabbed his nightshirt. He slipped it over his head before he faced her again. “Kirkwood is but six or seven hours’ ride from Cheltenham.”
Though i
t reached his knees, his nightshirt did not hang straight down in front. Sydney ran her tongue over her lips and stood to unhook her corset. She dropped it on the rug, and began to massage her ribs through her thin linen shift, pulling the fabric tight over her bosom as she did so. She moved to the hearth and stood in front of the fire.
“It always feels so good to take that dashed thing off!” she moaned. She ran her hands over her body and then stretched. She knew very well that the fire’s light would enable Nicolas to see her silhouette through the flimsy undergarment. “Might you hand me my nightgown?”
Nicolas moved toward her, the gown gripped in one outstretched hand.
“Thank you,” she whispered. She pulled her shift over her head and stood, naked, in front of the flames. She made no move to accept the gown.
“Sydney…”
“Love me, Nick.”
His jaw clenched. His dilated pupils erased the blue in his eyes. His nightshirt tented in front of his hips.
“It’s time, Nick.” Sydney stepped to him. She held his gaze and ran her fingers up his thigh, under his clothes, and stroked low on his belly. “It’s past time.”
He still did not move, though his breath quickened. She saw the beat of his pulse in his neck. She lifted his hand to her breast. She felt the heat of him through his shirt.
His eyes dropped to her parted lips. Slowly he bent to her will.
They made love as if it was their first time.
Hesitant, afraid of hurting her, afraid of what might come, Nicolas held back. Sydney dug her nails into him, rolled on top of him, pushed against him with such force that he was swept away. When he gave her all of himself once again, he left her wet, breathless, tingling. His climax was raucous and unrestrained. Weeks of self denial dissipated in a masculine fountain of released pressure.
Panting, he lay on the bed, limbs tangled with hers, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat.
“You are a witch,” he groaned. “I said it before, but I am convinced of it now.”
“I missed you, Nicolas.”
“And I you, min presang.”
“Do not leave me again.”
His kiss answered her. An hour later, he took her once more, without any hesitation.
***
Lesley daubed at Rodger’s face with a cloth and warm water, washing away dried blood and make-up. He had not yet asked for details, and Rodger was grateful for that. How could he face what had happened?
The rattle of the tea kettle on the stove pulled Lesley away. Rodger used that time to remove his corset and underskirt. He threw them on the bedroom floor, uncaring. He pulled a nightshirt from his dresser and slipped it over his head, then donned his wrapper.
Lesley returned with tea and biscuits with honey. “This will help, Merry,” he cooed.
“Food always makes you feel better?” Rodger teased. He sat in front of his dressing table.
“Something in your mouth always makes you feel better!” Lesley countered, and winked.
Rodger made the mistake of laughing, causing his lip to bleed again. He held the cloth to it while he dipped a biscuit in honey.
Lesley picked up the corset and skirt. He tucked them into the wardrobe. “Will you tell me, Merry?”
Rodger’s throat constricted; he swallowed his biscuit with difficulty. He spilled some tea into the saucer, blew on it, and drank it. Lesley served himself and waited, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“I misjudged a man.”
“Oh, no! Oh, Merry! And he beat you?” Lesley paled. “Does he know you? Are you in danger?”
Rodger put up one hand. “Lesley, please. This is humiliating enough.”
“Of course, love. I shall be still. Only tell me everything.”
Rodger nodded. He ate another bite of honey-dipped biscuit and sipped more tea. He was stalling on purpose; he needed to get up his grit.
“I had seen the man several times before. He has the look, you know? Slender, delicate, thinning hair but still in his twenties… Not married. Not attached. Dresses well.”
Lesley nodded his understanding. “His vocation?”
Rodger felt his face grow suddenly hot. “Secretary.”
“Another indication, perhaps?”
“I thought so.” Roger winced. “He is Hansen’s secretary.”
“Good Lord on toast!” Lesley blurted. “What came over you?”
“Lust.” Rodger shrugged. He could be honest with Lesley.
“So when you got him alone, and revealed what you believed would be good news?”
“He went berserk and attacked me.”
Lesley had already seen the torn dress and spoiled wig. “Will he tell anyone? Or did you give him the ‘I will incriminate you’ speech?”
“I didn’t have time.”
“He bolted?” Lesley shook his head. “That might be trouble.”
“It’s worse, Lesley. So much worse…” Rodger’s breath came in unsteady gasps.
“Merry?” he whispered. “Tell me, love.”
“It seems he was being followed, watched. By Hansen’s valet.” Rodger huffed spastically a few times. “He brought Hansen. They pounded on the door—”
“Merry! No!”
“Vincent opened it. Hansen stormed in. Vincent told him everything. And there I was…” An explosive sob shook Rodger’s shoulders. “Oh, God, I had the torn dress, the wig on the floor, make-up smeared everywhere.”
Lesley moved to the dressing table bench and wrapped his arm around Rodger’s shoulders. “Let it out. It’s for the best.”
“Nothing about tonight was for the best, Lesley,” Rodger groaned.
“Is that all that occurred?” Lesley squeezed.
“That was only the beginning.” The rest of the story came out in a torrent that Lesley could not staunch. The horrible truth about Edward, the attempted kidnapping of Siobhan and the attempted murder of Hansen. Then Hansen’s refusal to take revenge on Rodger and his repeated assertion that he was not a murderer. Finally Hansen’s revelation concerning the apartment across the hall from his.
“Why did he give you that?” Lesley asked, surprised.
Rodger put one hand over his eyes. “Because I told him I was Herbert.”
“What?” Lesley exploded. He jumped from the bench. “You did what?”
“I know, Lesley. I cannot say what came over me.”
“You will be ruined, now!” Lesley ranted. “He’ll not keep that delicious tidbit to himself!”
Rodger stood, swaying. “I’m going to sleep.” He stumbled to the bed and climbed under the quilted covers.
He heard Lesley collect the teacups and tray, rattling everything he could, as loud as he could. Rodger pulled the pillow over his face and curled into a ball. He did not relax until Lesley shut the chamber door. Emphatically.
Now he could think.
Hansen was disgusted by him. There was no mistaking that on any occasion they had met. But when faced with the legitimate opportunity to dispense with him for good, Hansen did not do so.
Why not? Was he playing a role? Or—and this thought nearly choked Rodger—was he truly a man of honor?
Rodger flopped onto his back. “He gave me the address. He told me about Beckermann,” he whispered into the dark. “And Stafford.” Rodger already knew about Sam Stafford. Their only encounter, under an assumed identity on his part, was both energetic and satisfying.
“Why did he tell me?” Rodger muttered. So I would ‘leave him the hell alone,’ of course. It was pretty clear that if he didn’t, Herbert Q. Percival would be exposed.
But Hansen never said it. He merely offered the information, and left. At the end of the day, Rodger wondered, what sort of man was he?
***
Sleep eluded Rodger that night. Frustrated, he dressed and headed for the Enquirer. He let himself in and stood in the darkened office, inhaling the soothing scents of paper, ink, and tobacco.
By the yellow gaslight seeping through grimy windows, Rodger made his w
ay to a wood bench against the back wall, behind the neat rows of desks. He stretched out on it, clasped his hands across his chest, and began to craft his thoughts into coherent sentences.
The thunk of the front door jolted him awake. Instinct warned him not to move. He breathed deeply through his mouth and tried to slow his racing heart. Boot heels scraped across the planked floor.
“Lift it higher, will you?”
That’s Van Doren’s voice.
Lamplight danced against the wall above Rodger. He heard the soft whir and click of the safe’s lock. A screech of metal signaled its opening.
“Here’s your hundred. Count it if you want.” Van Doren.
“I’m going to need more than that.” I don't recognize that voice.
“We had a deal.”
“Setting the fire was one thing. But he killed two of my men.”
“Your men were fools. I can’t help that.”
There was a pause.
“Either you pay me, or I talk. You thought those other things sold papers? Nothing like letting on that the Enquirer editor wanted a candidate frightened out of the race!”
Another pause.
“Here’s a hundred for the men, and a hundred more to ensure that I never hear from you—nor lay eyes on you—again!”
A dry chuckle.
The safe door squealed and clanked closed.
Rodger held still while the men left the building. He counted to two hundred before he dared to sit up. His thoughts twisted like laundry in high wind with the second astounding shock of the night.
What do I do now?
April 10, 1822
Cheltenham
Lily slumped on the settle in the Atherton drawing room and stretched her legs in front of her. The child strained constantly, pinned between her corset and her bladder. She was so tired of going to the privy.
Bronnie entered the room, Glynnis on her hip. “Oh! Good morning, Lily. I didn’t realize you were up.”
“How can I sleep? Between the chamber pot and the child’s acrobatics?” she groused.
Bronnie smiled politely and spread a blanket on the floor. Glynnis was six months old and about to crawl. Bronnie placed her on the blanket and pulled a rattle from a nearby basket. With a drooly grin, Glynnis reached for it and promptly began to bang it on the floor.