Tall, Dark, and Wicked (Wicked Trilogy)

by Madeline Hunter

  Thus far bringing him had not created any particular problems. By arriving by the mews behind the house, and entering along the alley on which the carriage house stretched, Lance had not even realized just where they were. They would be done here and he would be back in Langley House with him none the wiser.

  The lock clicked. Gareth straightened, removed it, and swung open one half of the carriage house door. They all slipped in.

  Windows allowed moonlight at least. The bulk of a carriage filled most of the space. “A groom has his chamber above,” Ives whispered. “He may be there, so move quietly.”

  “Move where? And why?” Lance asked.

  “We are looking for evidence of a cellar, and access to it,” Gareth said.

  They walked the perimeter of the room, then went through the door to the stables. The horses had been noisy and nervous, and became more so on their arrival. Lance walked to the stalls and calmed them. Ives paced the plank floor, evidence that this building once had had a different purpose.

  Suddenly his boots made different sounds. Hollow ones. He crouched and felt the floor. His hand found a ring. He gestured for his brothers, and pulled.

  A hinged door in the floor opened. Darkness gaped below. “Wait here,” he said.

  He lowered himself through the hole. There were no steps, so he dropped down. There was a cellar after all, one so low ceilinged he had to bend his shoulders to move about. A small window high on one wall must have been what Padua saw last night. The vaguest light leaked in, but it was enough to show the lamp on a table nearby.

  He went over, found the flint, and lit the candle in the lamp. The cellar took on form. Shapes and shadows stretched into view.

  “What is down there?” Lance’s loud whisper poured through the hole.

  “Stay there. It is not large enough for all of us.”

  Silence. Then a few scrapes, huffs, and boots landing on the cellar’s dirt floor.

  “I said to wait.”

  Lance ignored him. He looked around the cellar, then advanced on a corner. “What is this here? Some kind of machinery.”

  “It used to be an ironmonger’s or some such factory.”

  “This is iron, that is certain. Bring that lamp here.”

  Ives carried over the lamp. The machinery’s parts jumped out of the dark. He looked at it and knew at once what it was. “Shit.”

  Lance played with the wheel and poked at the roller. “Is it a press? It is rather small.”

  “It is a rather small cellar.”

  “You make a good point.”

  “How heavy is it?”

  Lance set his arms under it and tried to lift it. “Heavy, but not immovable.”

  Of course not. Men had to carry it in. Which meant men could carry it out. Ives set down the lamp. “Let us see if we can hoist it up to Gareth.”

  “You are going to steal it?”

  “I am. Since you insisted on coming, so are you.”

  Lance did not argue. “I hope you know what you are doing.”

  Together they lifted the press and carried it to the hole in the floor. Straining, they pushed it up through the opening. Gareth helped from his end, until the press rested on the stable floor.

  “There is a door to the garden, near the carriage,” Ives said. “Can the two of you take this out that way, and hide it? Just tuck it under some shrubbery for now.”

  Gareth gave him a direct but curious look. Then he extended his arm for Lance to use to get out.

  Up above, Ives heard them shuffling along the floor toward the carriage room. He returned to the lamp. He carried it back to where he had been, near the window.

  It cast its glow over the wall, and the two objects he had seen there when he first lit it. A good-sized wooden box sat on a large trunk. He set down the lamp and threw the box’s top back.

  It contained thin metal plates, stacked one atop the other. He ran his fingertips over one, and felt fine ridges and depressions. He lifted it and held it to the light. The ghostly image of a banknote showed.

  He lifted the whole box and set it on the table with the lamp. Then he opened the trunk. Its contents surprised him less. Paper filled it. Half was blank. The other half consisted of sheets with six banknotes, each sheet about the size of the bed on that press that had just been carted away.

  Padua had not only been correct, she had been completely correct, more totally than she guessed. The counterfeiters were not only connected to this house. They had worked here, right in this cellar.

  He gazed at the irrefutable evidence of that. Evidence that, if Hadrian Belvoir’s ownership of this property became known, would send him to the gallows for sure. It would be assumed he was not the dupe of a whale, but the whale himself.

  And Padua . . . He shook his head. He did not have to speculate how it would look. She had announced she was taking her father’s place. She lived in the house right now.

  He cursed under his breath. Cursed long and hard. This was all evidence in a serious crime. He was supposed to give it to the authorities. To ignore this, to turn a blind eye—that was not who he was. It violated all that he believed and would leave him without honor or integrity, even if it never came to light. And if it did . . .

  He closed the trunk. He blew out the candle. Steeling his strength, he lifted the box with the plates and carried it over to the hole. He lifted it over his head and slid it onto the floorboards, then jumped, grabbed the sides of the opening, and leveraged his weight up.

  Gasping for breath, he rose and carried the box to the next chamber, and out the door.

  “What have you there?” Lance’s whisper carried through the silent night as he and Gareth approached on the path.

  “Do not ask.”

  “Let me help you.” Gareth moved to take one side.

  “No. Go and wait for me near the door. I will join you in a minute.”

  They moved away. He lugged his burden to the back of the garden, and dropped it with relief on the ground. He looked for a place to stash it near the portal. A bench backed by low, thick boxwood seemed the best place. Lifting the box again, he carried it there, and shoved it under the bench, then back until the boxwood swallowed it.

  Spent from the effort, he stretched his arms, then found his way back into the garden and along the wall. Up ahead, near the door into the carriage house, he saw Gareth and Lance. And someone else.

  “But you know me, Hector,” Lance was saying. “I am a duke now. A peer. You really should not threaten one of us. It isn’t done.”

  “It really isn’t,” Gareth said.

  “I know you be a thief, not a duke,” Hector said.

  Ives walked up and joined them. He saw the problem. Hector had not merely confronted his brothers. Hector had brought a very, very big knife with him, that he brandished in the moonlight.

  “I told you we should bring pistols,” Lance muttered when he noticed Ives by his side.

  “You come with me now,” Hector said. “I bring you to Mrs. Lavender. You rob her, so she can decide what to do.”

  He gestured for them to go in front of him. They walked to the house.

  “Did he see you leaving with the press?” Ives asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Gareth said. “He appeared to have arrived just as we did.”

  When they got near the house, Ives looked up the long fire stairs. At the top, on the little terrace beneath the eaves, he saw a figure move. He hoped Padua had enough sense to stay up there.

  Into the house they marched. Into the dining room. Hector went to the doorway, and called a servant girl. He spoke lowly, then took position, arms crossed and monstrosity of a knife at the ready.

  The door opened and Mrs. Lavender hurried in, fussing. “I do not know what could be so important that you pulled me out of my—” She froze, and took in the three guests.

  The knife pointed at them. “I found them in the garden, up to no good. Near the carriage house. I think they were going to steal the horses.”

&n
bsp; She peered at the three of them. In particular she narrowed her eyes on Lance. He opened his arms and smiled.

  “Mrs. Lavender, it is such a joy to see you again. It has been too long. Surely you have not forgotten me?”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh! Ohhh.” She collected herself and executed an impressive curtsy. “Your Grace, we are honored.”

  Poor Hector looked confused. Mrs. Lavender glared over at him. “This gentleman is an old friend of ours from years back. Surely you remember Lord Lancelot. Only he is a duke now. You have threatened a duke, Hector. A duke.”

  Hector lowered the knife, and his head. Mrs. Lavender shooed him away. He left, much subdued.

  She returned her attention to her guests. “Gentlemen, why were you in my garden?”

  An awkward moment. Silence quaking.

  Lance stepped forward, all smiles. “I thought to revisit the site of my fondest hours of my misspent youth. I could hardly walk in the front door, however.”

  “Oh, goodness no, of course not. We are honored, Your Grace. The young ladies will be overwhelmed.” She peered at Gareth. “I do not recognize you.”

  “I have never been here before.”

  “He is my brother Gareth,” Ives said. “He is the youngest.”

  “How unfair that the duke did not see to your initiation too.”

  “Gareth took care of that himself long before my father would have thought of it,” Lance explained.

  “Well, he must finally enjoy the refinements of our entertainments.”

  “I must decline, generous though the offer is,” Gareth said. “I am only with Ives, who needed to show Lance where the garden entrance could be found.”

  “You will find that little has changed, Your Grace, except the faces. If you would wait just a minute, I want to prepare my young ladies, so they greet you properly.” She sailed out of the dining room.

  “I told you that you would make a mess of it if I were not with you,” Lance said. “Hector would have chopped you to pieces by now if not for me.”

  “And now you will fall on your sword to spare us yet again,” Ives said. “How good of you.”

  “That is what brothers are for.”

  The door opened, and Mrs. Lavender beckoned. “Your Grace, all is ready.”

  Lance squared his shoulders. “Gentlemen, enjoy your evening, and raise a toast to my sacrifice when you are in your cups.”

  “Your selflessness moves us both,” Ives said.

  “It should.” He sighed. “The things I do for the family.”

  * * *

  Ives shed Gareth once they left the house. He then circled back to the garden portal and climbed the fire stairs.

  Padua waited for him in her chamber.

  “I saw,” she said. “Did you get in before Hector found you?”

  “We did, and I found the cellar. It contained nothing of interest.” He hated lying to her, but he had not completely reconciled his mind to what he had just done. Nor what he would do tomorrow night, when he returned with a carriage and moved the box and the press from this property entirely.

  Hiding evidence was contrary to his sworn duty. It compromised his honor without recourse. No one would care that he did it to protect Padua.

  He had acted on impulse. It could still be undone. One note to the Home Office or the magistrate would set all to rights.

  With the choice weighing on his soul, he joined Padua in bed. He let her know through the kiss he gave her that there would be no passion tonight. He lay in the dark with her in his arms, assessing the fine mess this had become, considering his limited options and their unacceptable consequences.

  “After your father’s trial, what will you do?” He knew she did not sleep yet, but the question sounded stark in the way it broke the silence.

  “If I inherit—” She broke off. She would only inherit for one reason. “If I do, I think I will sell this house. Not to Mrs. Lavender. She can go elsewhere if she is determined to continue. I would like to see it become a school. I would accept much less if someone wanted it for that.”

  “It could be your school.”

  Her hair, so like fine silk, moved against his cheek when she shook her head. “I will take the money and go to Padua, and study. If by some mercy I do not inherit, I will make him give me the money you found in the books and go anyway, and find employment as a tutor while there.”

  “I may not allow that.”

  She kissed him, and he felt her smile. “You know you cannot stop me. I will have to go. I will be notorious here.”

  He was risking his good name, his reputation, and everything that mattered to protect a woman determined to leave him. He was either an ass, or . . . His embrace closed on her tighter as he acknowledged the truth behind what he did. Behind the desire and even the pleasure now. Behind the tightness in his chest.

  “If I cannot stop you, perhaps I will follow you.”

  “To drag me back? It sounds romantic, but I do not think I would like it.”

  “Not to drag you back. To join you.”

  Her head turned. “Why would you do that? Your life is here.”

  Tell her. She has a right to know. “So I can have my fill of you.” Coward.

  She nestled down. “I would be happy if you visited me for a while.”

  He pressed a kiss to her crown. “It might be a long while, Padua. A few months at least.”

  She nodded subtly, then yawned.

  He held her until she fell asleep. A few months. Perhaps a few years. Maybe forever.

  CHAPTER 21

  Two mornings later, Ives let himself out the door and began to descend the fire stairs of the house. A movement caught his eye and he halted in his tracks. Down below a woman strolled in the garden. He watched her a good while. Then, when she aimed toward the back portal, he retraced his steps to Padua’s chamber.

  She looked up from where she prepared to wash.

  “There is someone in the garden. A woman.”

  “They often take the air after they rise. She will not be there long.”

  “I find it hard to believe this woman is one of Mrs. Lavender’s young ladies. She is too old, for one thing.”

  “That must be Emily. I am told she is older, and works here on an itinerant basis. She lives elsewhere. Mrs. Lavender had complained of feeling poorly yesterday, so Emily took her place in the office. She does that too.”

  Ives went back to the door. He did not step outside again, but he watched Emily as best he could through its opening. When she turned toward the house again, the suspicion that had been nudging him was confirmed. He recognized her.

  “Has she met you? Does she know you are here?” he asked Padua, upon returning to her chamber again. He sat on a chair to watch her finish her ablutions. It charmed him, this simple, common task. She appeared domestic and fresh in the dawn’s light, with her nightdress down around her waist and her lithe back flexing softy while she washed her breasts and arms.

  “We have not met. I heard two of the servants complaining about her last night, however.”

  “I recognize her.”

  Padua looked over her shoulder. She grinned. “Is your past haunting you?”

  “Not the way you mean. If you saw her, you might recognize her too. She has rooms right below your father’s on Wigmore Street.”

  “She is that blond woman who likes to sit at the window?”

  He nodded. “Her name is Emily Trenholm. I prosecuted her husband.”

  “I expect she does not like you much.”

  “I thought her living below your father an odd coincidence. That she also has a connection here is one too many.”

  Padua slipped her arms back into her undressing gown. “Do you think Mrs. Lavender is involved after all? I hope not. I rather like her.”

  “We will not know until all is revealed. However, assume she is for now. Do not let her know we are suspicious.”

  “I have been waiting, expecting some kind of overture from her or someone else,
and nothing has happened.”

  Ives went over, kissed her. “It is time to fix that.”

  “How?”

  “By setting a trap.”

  * * *

  Padua tucked her mother’s blue wrap around her shoulders more snugly, and cast her gaze over Berkeley Square. On this overcast, chilled morning, most of the people dotting the paths and grass were governesses with small children.

  “Padua.” The voice behind her made her jump. She turned to see Jennie walking toward her, arms open.

  They embraced, then Jennie stood back and gave her a good look. “That is a new pelisse. It suits you.”

  It was one of the garments Eva had redone for her. “I wore it just for you, so you would know I am not starving.”

  “I feared you were, or that I would never see you again. What were you thinking, writing that you were leaving town for an indeterminate period, then never writing again? I have worried the whole time.”

  They locked arms and strolled along the path. “I have made some new friends, and learned some things about my family too. It has been an amazing few weeks, Jennie.”

  Jennie’s blue eyes glanced at the pelisse again. “Did one of your friends buy you that? I promise I will not scold.”

  “Yes, but not a man, if that is your insinuation. A very nice lady gave it to me. An artist.” She told Jennie about Eva and Gareth, and their recent trip abroad.

  “Such circles you have moved in, Padua. How did such doors open to you?”

  “It is all due to my father.” It was the truth. “There is much I cannot confide yet, but eventually perhaps I can explain everything. I wanted to see you mostly to know you are doing well, Jennie. Please tell me that you are.”

  “Little has changed, except I no longer have you to complain with. The woman hired to replace you knows little more than the girls. She has them doing the most basic problems. Mrs. Ludlow does not know, or does not care.”

  “London could use a proper school for girls,” Padua said. “One that taught them the way boys are taught. Girls are just as smart. Why should they have to tolerate teachers like this one you describe?”

  “Because the one who could do it better got herself thrown out?” Jennie’s eyes glistened with humor.