Lord Libertine

by Gail Ranstrom

  “Me? Me, what, m’dear?”

  She couldn’t think clearly. Scream? But she could barely raise her voice beyond a whisper. “You…let me go.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.” He held the glass to her lips and poured the remainder down her throat before he stood and pulled her up, supporting her with an arm around her waist. “Try not to worry too much, Bella. ’Twill wear off in a bit. You will have sufficient time to recover before the festivities.”

  “Cora.”

  “Ah, yes. Dear Cora. She was a gullible little thing. It took me a while to figure out who you were and why you seemed familiar. I finally followed you, and found where you lived. Cora’s house. I used to wait for her across the street in the park.”

  Mr. Biddle frowned as they passed him on their way out to the street.

  “H-Hunter,” she managed over the thickness of her tongue.

  She had no idea if he had heard or understood her. He turned away, as if he would go for her pelisse again, and then she was being pushed into Lord Humphries’s coach, landing on the forward-facing seat. Lord Humphries settled himself on the facing seat and fussed with the folds of his cravat.

  “I really must remember to send your mother flowers, Bella. How utterly thoughtful of her to bring three such delectable creatures as you, Miss Eugenia and Miss Cora to town. Hmm. I shall have to think of something equally entertaining for little Miss Lillian. I’ve always fancied sisters.”

  And with that, a deep darkness descended. Her last rational thought was that she wasn’t a virgin. She’d cheat Lord Humphries of that, at least.

  Chapter Twenty

  Leaving Jamie to wait for Charlie in the common room, Andrew went to Farrell’s private office. A bottle of excellent brandy waited on the desk between them, and Farrell poured them both a generous draught.

  “Easy,” Andrew told him. “I want to keep my wits about me.”

  “If you had your wits about you, Hunter, you’d keep as far away from this muck as possible.”

  Andrew grinned. “Then you’ve got what I want?”

  “Aye, but before I hand it over, I want to know what your plans are.”

  “To stop it. End it once and for all.”

  Farrell heaved a longsuffering sigh. “I gathered as much. But how?”

  “I cannot know that until we are in the midst of it. What we do will depend upon who, how many, where and what resources we have at hand.”

  Farrell accepted that explanation but did not look too pleased. “I’d advise going in armed to the teeth. Whatever you can carry in, do so.”

  “Planned on it.”

  Farrell retrieved a pouch from his desk drawer, Farrell tossed it to Andrew. “There’s your invitations.”

  “Invitations? Jaysus! Who sends invitations to a sacrifice?”

  “I do not know what is customary for such events. I only know that this one is rather exclusive.”

  Andrew opened the pouch and found two stylish invitations. They were printed on red parchment and folded in triangles. Inside the triangle was a circle, and inside that, a wyvern—confirmation that this involved the Blood Wyvern Brotherhood. He looked back at Farrell. “Only two?”

  “Do you think these vermin wouldn’t notice an army arrive? No, two, I think, is the most you can slip in. Choose your guest wisely. I’d take someone with a good right hook. And do you have any idea what those two invitations cost me?”

  Andrew could only imagine. Considerably more than Farrell owed him, no doubt. “How?”

  “I found the printer. Had him print those. He was terrified, but he, ah, saw reason. I found the others, too. Merchants with uncommon orders for wine and sulfur, tailors hired to make black robes to resemble those of monks, all paid in advance. I had them make two.” Farrell retrieved a paper parcel tied with string from a drawer in his desk and slid it across the desk to him. “But the most telling evidence was a large purchase of opium. The scum will be needing it to ensure compliance and a modicum of silence during the ritual. Too much screaming would alert the watch.”

  Bile rose in Andrew’s throat. He could not imagine the villainy required to conceive such a thing. He glanced down at the invitations. Eleven Thirty was printed in bold black over the emblem. “There’s a time, but no address.”

  “That!” Farrell chuckled. “That was a bit more difficult to come by. We were right about the neighborhood. I found an estate agent who recently let the old Ballinger manor on the outskirts of Mayfair. Do you know it?”

  Andrew nodded. He’d ridden by there many times. The gates and the house appeared to be in good repair, but the grounds were a bit overgrown.

  “There is a small chapel behind the manor, connected to the house by a tunnel, and I’d wager that is where the ritual will take place.”

  “Who signed the lease?”

  “The transaction was handled by mail. The rent was paid in cash, and the name is, no doubt, a sham—as was the name of the man ordering the wine and robes. Or do you know anyone by the name of Wyvernman?”

  Andrew snorted. “Not even subtle.”

  “Whoever your man is, he knows how to cover his tracks. Cash, enough of it, buys consciences and silence.”

  “Is that how you acquired the information?”

  Farrell shrugged. “A little cash and a lot of persuasion.”

  Andrew didn’t want to think about what sort of persuasion Farrell had used to come up with this information. Surely Wycliffe’s agents had tapped some of the same sources, but they had come up with nothing. Farrell’s complete lack of scruples had come in handy.

  “Is there anything else?” he asked.

  Farrell shifted his considerable size in his chair and took a deep breath. “I know I needn’t warn you that you are playing with some very nasty fellows, but I must caution you again that they could be close associates of yours. Friends, perhaps. Even…family.”

  Family? Good God! Did Farrell know more than he was saying? “Do not start holding back on me now,” he said. “If there is something I should know, I’d rather hear it from you than be blindsided when I can least afford it.”

  “I merely wanted to impress the need for discretion on you.” He shook his head. “You, of all people, know that the darkness in a man’s heart is often secret. How much do you trust those closest to you?”

  The man had a point. Andrew trusted very few men implicitly, but his brothers were among them. Lockwood, Jamie, Charlie—he would not hesitate to trust his life to any of them. Curious, he asked, “Whom do you trust, Farrell?”

  A sardonic, almost cruel, twist of his lips said what words did not. He took another drink and pushed his glass away. “Be very careful tonight,” he said again. “I’d hate to hear you’d been caught in your own trap. And have a care for those around you. In robes and cowls, you will not recognize most of them. ’Twould be a pity if you killed the wrong man, eh?”

  “A great pity,” Andrew agreed as he stood.

  Charlie had arrived at Farrell’s by the time Andrew made his way back downstairs. He found him and Jamie with their heads together in a corner of the common room, tankards of ale in front of them. He sat across from them and slipped the invitations across the table.

  “Two?” Jamie asked when he saw them.

  “That is all Farrell could safely get us. Along with two robes.” He patted the parcel in his lap.

  Charlie glanced at the parcel and back at the invitations. “Seems like extraordinary measures just to crash a party.”

  Andrew squirmed. He couldn’t ask his brothers to help him when their lives could be at risk. They had to know what they were facing, or they had to stay out of it.

  Jamie read his hesitation. “What’s behind this, Drew?”

  “Rumor has it that there is to be a human sacrifice tonight. Everything I’ve learned has led me to believe this,” he gestured at the invitations, “is it.”

  Charlie blanched. “By God, Drew. What have you got yourself into?”

  “More trouble t
han I can handle alone. Who’s in?”

  “Me,” Jamie said without hesitation.

  Charlie shifted his gaze from one to the other. “Me,” he said at last. “What is our game?”

  Andrew sighed in relief. “We are going to stop it. If possible, we are going to take the leaders into custody and turn them over to Lord Wycliffe at the Home Office.”

  Jamie smiled. “It won’t be that easy.”

  “I anticipate trouble. I would be surprised if there is not violence. Whoever is arranging this is a killer. So far, twelve women. Perhaps more that we do not know about. In addition, I believe he had Hank and Wilson murdered when I started asking questions. Farrell will be next if we do not stop him.”

  Charlie snorted. “Farrell can take care of himself.”

  “I thought the same of Wilson. Apparently our villain has a long reach.”

  “Do we have a plan?” Jamie asked.

  Andrew made a quick decision and hoped he wouldn’t regret it. “Jamie will come in with me. We shall bring whatever weapons we can secrete in our clothes or beneath our robes once we are there. Charlie, you will wait outside in the shadows. Watch who comes in or goes out. Do you have a piece of paper and a lead?”

  Charlie nodded and patted his waistcoat pocket.

  “Make note of those you recognize. If something goes amiss, send straightaway to Wycliffe.” Andrew handed him the whistle he had gotten from the Home Office.

  Charlie took the whistle and frowned. “This whole blasted affair is ‘amiss.’ Why do we not send for Wycliffe at once?”

  “Because they’d blunder in before we have the evidence. And there’s too damn many of them to disguise. Sometimes I think the watch could not find their left hand in the dark. I want to stop these bastards once and for all, not just foil them for one night.”

  “Aye, well, how will I know if something goes amiss?”

  “I am trusting your instincts, Charlie. Just have a care. If you call them too soon, we may not have the evidence we need to convict before the bench at Old Bailey. If you call them too late…” He shrugged.

  “Meantime, I’ve made sure Wycliffe is in his office, waiting for word from me. But if you cannot get to him, summon the nearest watch and send him after Wycliffe.”

  They stood to go and Charlie slipped the whistle into his jacket pocket. He frowned and took out a folded and sealed paper. “Damn. Forgot all about this. Biddle asked me to give this to you.”

  “Biddle?” Andrew turned the paper over in his hand. There was no writing. He recognized the seal. Byron Daschel, Lord Humphries.

  “Aye. He said Dash left it for you and that it was something you’d be pleased to have.”

  He popped the seal and unfolded the page. A red triangular parchment fell out. The design was growing all too familiar. An invitation. Dash’s usual scrawl darkened the inside of the folded paper. “I believe this is what you’ve been looking for. Enjoy yourself.”

  “Dash was not there?”

  “According to Biddle, he’d just gone. Ah, yes! That was the second part of the message. Something about Miss O’Rourke, if I recall correctly.”

  “What about Bella?”

  “Biddle said she was about to leave when Dash arrived but stayed to have a glass of wine with him. Evidently she became ill. Biddle said she was quite incapacitated when Dash escorted her out. Left her pelisse, too. He wouldn’t have bothered you with it, he said, if Miss O’Rourke hadn’t called your name just before—”

  But Andrew was beyond listening. His mind reeled with the possibilities. Bella had been hale and hearty when he’d left her. For her to become ill so quickly…

  God! Not Dash. Henley. Henley was the one who’d drawn Eugenia along, accustomed her to meeting him, trusting him. It was Henley who had taken her tonight. Henley who’d drugged the wine at the last ritual. Henley whose appetites were known to border on the bizarre. But not Dash. It couldn’t be.

  “Anything else you forgot, Charlie?”

  He looked wounded. “Of course not. Did you think you could spring a human sacrifice on me and expect that I’d take it in stride? The message has only been delayed a matter of minutes.”

  Andrew was torn between chasing Bella and Dash down and following through on his assignment. Yet how could he concentrate on the events tonight when he did not know what had become of Bella? “Charlie, listen carefully. Go to the O’Rourke home on James Street. Try to find out if Bella and her sister Eugenia are there without raising an alarm.”

  “What about you?”

  “Once you’ve determined that they are at home, come meet us. We will be at the Ballinger Manor on the outskirts of Mayfair. If they are not…” then they were in grave danger, and the gravest danger was where he would be. “Fetch Wycliffe and come meet us.”

  “Does she have something to do with what is happening tonight?” Charlie asked.

  “The sacrifice tonight is to be a woman,” Andrew told them. “To be precise, a virgin.” But no one would know that Bella was not a virgin. “Bella’s sister is missing. And if Bella is missing, too…”

  Charlie turned away and headed for the door without another word. Jamie threw some coins on the table and gave Andrew a grim smile. “One way or the other, we will find the O’Rourke girls. Do not doubt it. And do not let it distract you.”

  Nausea swept over Bella in waves as she opened her eyes. The smell of mold in the dank darkness compounded the sensation and made her roll to her side on the straw pallet. A single weak candle had been stuck in its own wax on the stone floor, revealing the small, square windowless room. A storeroom? A cell?

  The voices that had wakened her were faint, as if coming from outside the door or an adjacent room. Lord Humphries and another vaguely familiar voice. She could not hear all of it, but she caught enough to realize her danger.

  “…doubt she is virgin,” Lord Humphries was saying. “After all, Hunter has been at her like a stallion in rut and he rarely fails. But she will make a nice little surprise for him, don’t you think?”

  “Aye, but what if he doesn’t come? What if Charlie didn’t deliver the invitation?”

  “He will come, by hook or by crook. He’s been looking for us for weeks now, and he’ll finally join us tonight. He will be one of us again, just as we were in Spain.”

  The other man chuckled, sending a chill up her spine.

  Andrew. Had he lied to her? Was he involved in this? No, else she would not be a surprise. Was he in danger because of her? Did he suspect his friend was a murderer?

  “She hasn’t come around. How much did you give her?”

  “More than I ordinarily would, but I had to get her out of Belmonde’s without her raising an alarm. ’Twould be a pity if she doesn’t waken and we have to put her on the altar unconscious. I like them warm and squirming.”

  Bella shuddered, revulsion heightening her nausea. A key rattled at the door and she swallowed her rising bile. She closed her eyes and stilled her breathing, hoping to stall the time when she would have to deal with Lord Humphries.

  Hinges creaked as the door opened, and then a long pause. Remaining motionless, she prayed that they would go before she could no longer contain herself.

  “How much did you say you gave her?”

  The toe of a boot nudged her hip. “Hmm. She should have come around by now. I might have miscalculated. She is small, and this was her first dose. Hope it was not enough to kill her.”

  “She’s still breathing. What do you say we take her now? The others will not care as long as our little Eugenia is still virgin,” the other voice replied.

  Gina! Oh, it was true! They had her, and they were planning on killing her tonight. She felt a scream rising in her throat and struggled to keep it contained. Feigning unconsciousness was her only chance.

  “As tempting as that idea is, we have things to do. Miss Eugenia has to be prepared. The guests are starting to arrive. I’ve got a sewer rat guarding the chapel door, taking invitations and directing guests
to the vestry, but I cannot trust him to maintain order until the rites begin. You, Henley, will perform that service.”

  The door closed again but Bella did not hear a lock turn. Had they forgotten? Or had they been so confident that she was incapacitated that they had dismissed the possibility of escape? She remained still for another full minute before she moved and risked a peek.

  Yes, gone, thank heavens, and just in time. A clammy sweat beaded her forehead and she crawled to the chamber pot in one corner to void her stomach. Pray she had also rid herself of lingering effects. She felt better almost at once when she found a water pitcher near the pallet to rinse her mouth.

  She pressed her ear to the door but could hear no sounds, no trace of a guard. Cautiously she tried the latch. The door inched open with a faint squeak, and she peered into the corridor. She made out a staircase leading upward at each end of the dimly lit passageway, and another corridor intersecting this one, confirming what she had suspected. She was underground. Screaming would only alert her captors rather than summon help.

  She closed the door and leaned back against it. She could not just blunder out and risk encountering Lord Humphries or Mr. Henley. She had to think—and quickly. Had to form a plan. She had to find Gina. Had to get them both out of here. But how?

  With a muffled thud, the glass of a lower-story manor window cracked. Andrew pulled the fragments from the sash, dropping them silently onto the grass. Jamie, holding the parcel with their robes, waited while he climbed through.

  There had been faint lights in the small chapel, but none shone in the manor. Andrew had a legitimate invitation now, and Jamie could follow a few minutes later. But it would be an advantage if they could sneak in unnoticed. The best way was to find the tunnel leading from the house to the chapel.

  Jamie tossed the parcel through the window and followed a moment later. “Jaysus,” he cursed in a theatrical whisper. “I’d think it would be easier to simply ask Dash if you could bring me along.”