by Amanda Quick
Artemas had quietly excused himself from the table midway through the game because he could see that, in the end, they would all lose to the unknown gentleman. Eventually the stranger had picked up his winning vouchers and left the club. Artemas had followed him out into the street.
“What would it cost me to learn to play cards the way you do, sir?” he asked just as the man was about to climb into a waiting carriage.
The stranger examined Artemas with cool, considering eyes for a full moment.
“The price would be quite high,” he said. “Not many young men would wish to pay it. But if you are serious in your intentions, you may call on me tomorrow. We will discuss the matter of your future.”
“I don’t have much money.” Artemas smiled wryly. “In point of fact, I have considerably less now than I did earlier in the evening, thanks to you, sir.”
“You were the only one who had the sense to quit when you saw the way things were going,” the stranger said. “You might have the makings of an excellent student. I shall look forward to meeting with you in the morning.”
Artemas had been on the stranger’s doorstep at eleven o’clock the next day. The moment he had been admitted, he had realized that he was in the home of a scholar, not a professional gamester. He soon discovered that George Charters was a mathematician by inclination and training.
“I was merely experimenting with a notion I came up with a few months ago concerning the probability of certain numbers appearing in a series of card hands,” he’d explained. “I have no great interest in making my living at the tables, however. Much too unpredictable for my taste. What about you, sir? Do you intend to spend your life in the hells? “
“Not if I can help it,” Artemas had replied readily. “I would prefer a career that was rather more predictable myself.”
George Charters had been Vanza. It had suited him to instruct Artemas in some of the basic notions of the philosophy. When he had realized that he had a willing and adept pupil, he had offered to pay Artemas’s passage to the Isle of Vanzagara. Henry Leggett had agreed that he should seize the opportunity.
Artemas had spent a total of four intense years in the Garden Temples, returning to England every summer to visit with George and Henry, and with his lover, Catherine Jensen.
On his last visit, Artemas had arrived to discover that George was dying of a heart ailment and Catherine had been killed in a mysterious fall.
Henry had stood at his side during both funerals. When they were over, Artemas had announced that he would not return to Vanzagara. He intended to stay in England and make his fortune and seek his revenge. Henry had not been keen on the notion of vengeance, but he had approved of the fortune-making scheme. He had accepted his offer of a post.
Henry had proved quite brilliant, not only at managing investments with great discretion, but also at learning intimate details concerning the financial affairs of others. Henry provided Artemas with the sort of information that Zachary’s Eyes and Ears could not be expected to learn on the streets, the sort that only a respectable man of affairs could hope to discover.
But this morning, Artemas decided, it was not enough.
“Is that all you could learn about Mrs. Deveridge, Henry? Rumors, gossip, and secondhand scandal-broth? I already know most of what you have just told me. It’s common knowledge in the clubs.”
Henry looked up from his notebook. He peered at Artemas over the round gold rims of his spectacles.
“It is not as though you allowed me a great deal of time for the task, Artemas.” He glanced meaningfully at the tall clock. “I received your message at approximately eight o’clock this morning. It is now two-thirty. Six and a half hours is simply not sufficient for the sort of inquiries you wish to be made. I shall have more to offer in a few days.”
“Bloody hell. My fate is in the hands of the Wicked Widow and all you can tell me is that she has a habit of murdering her husbands.”
“One husband, not several,” Leggett said in his maddeningly precise way. “And the tale is based on gossip, not fact. I would remind you that Mrs. Deveridge was never considered a suspect in her husband’s death. She was not even questioned, let alone taken up on charges.”
“Because there was no proof. Only speculation.”
“Indeed.” Henry glanced down at his notes. “According to the facts that I was able to learn, Renwick Deveridge was alone in his house late at night when a housebreaker entered. The villain shot Deveridge dead, set a fire to conceal the murder, and made off with the valuables.”
“But no one in Society really believes that is what happened.”
“It was no secret that Deveridge was estranged from his spouse. Mrs. Deveridge had moved out of the house within weeks of the marriage. She refused to return to live with her husband as man and wife.” Henry paused to clear his throat. “She is said to be somewhat, ah, headstrong.”
“Yes. I can vouch for that.” Artemas tapped the letter opener against his boot. “What can you tell me about the unfortunate husband?”
Henry’s bushy gray brows bunched together as he consulted his notes. “Very little, I’m afraid. As you know, his name was Renwick Deveridge. No family that I could discover. He appears to have spent some time abroad on the Continent during the war.”
“What of it?” Artemas gave him a knowing look. “So did you.”
Henry cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I think it safe to say he was not gadding about spying on Napoleon. In any event, Deveridge returned to London approximately two years ago. He made the acquaintance of Winton Reed and soon afterward became engaged to Reed’s daughter. Madeline Reed and Deveridge were married a short time later.”
“Not a long engagement.”
“They were, in fact, married by special license.” Henry rattled his papers in a disapproving manner. “As I noted, the lady is said to be somewhat rash and impetuous. As it transpired, within two months of the wedding night Deveridge was dead and the gossip began to circulate that she had murdered him.”
“Deveridge must have proved a very disappointing husband indeed.”
“In point of fact,” Henry said deliberately, “there was talk that, before Deveridge was so conveniently dispatched, Mrs. Deveridge’s father, Winton Reed, had instructed his solicitor to make inquiries about the possibility of an annulment or formal separation.”
“An annulment.” Artemas tossed the letter opener onto the desk. He sat forward abruptly. “Are you certain?”
“As certain as I can be with the limited facts at hand. Given the great difficulty and expense of obtaining a divorce, an annulment, although time-consuming, no doubt seemed the simpler approach.”
“But hardly a flattering one for Renwick Deveridge. There are very few grounds for an annulment, after all. In this instance I would assume that the only ones that would apply would have involved an accusation of impotence against Deveridge.”
“Indeed.” Henry cleared his throat again.
Artemas reminded himself that Henry was something of a prude when it came to matters of physical intimacy. “But even with the aid of skilled solicitors, it would have taken years for Mrs. Deveridge to establish a case for impotence.”
“Undoubtedly. The assumption of nearly everyone in the Polite World is that she lacked the patience to go through the legal proceedings.” Henry paused. “Or perhaps she discovered that her father could not afford the cost.”
“So she took steps to end the marriage in her own fashion, is that it?”
“That is certainly how the gossips would have it.”
Artemas had seen enough of her last night to know that she was a lady of formidable determination. If she had been truly desperate to end her marriage, would she have gone so far as to murder Deveridge?
“You said Renwick Deveridge was shot before the fire was set? “
“According to the doctor who examined the body, yes.”
Artemas rose and went to stand at the window. “I must tell you that last night Mr
s. Deveridge displayed a certain expertise with pistols.”
“Humph. Hardly the sort of skill that is suited to a lady.”
Artemas smiled to himself as he gazed out into his high-walled garden. Henry held traditional views concerning female deportment. “No. Do you have anything else for me? “
“Mrs. Deveridge’s father was one of the very first members of the Vanzagarian Society. He held a master’s status.”
“Yes, I know.”
“He was considerably advanced in years before he married and fathered a daughter. It is said that after his wife’s death he doted on Madeline. Went so far as to instruct her in matters that most would not deem appropriate for a young lady.”
“Such as the use of a pistol, it seems.”
“Apparently. Reed had become something of a recluse in recent years. Devoted himself to his study of dead languages.”
“I believe that he was a noted expert in the old tongue of Vanzagara,” Artemas said. “Go on.”
“Reed died early on the morning after the fire. The scandalmongers claim that the knowledge that his daughter had gone mad and murdered her husband gave him such a shock that his heart failed him.”
“I see.”
Henry coughed discreetly. “As a man of business, I feel compelled to point out that, due to the series of unfortunate deaths in the family, Mrs. Deveridge is now in sole control of the inheritances of both her father and her husband.”
“Good God, man.” Artemas turned to stare at him. “Surely you’re not about to suggest that she murdered both men in order to get her hands on their fortunes? “
“No, of course not.” Henry’s mouth tightened with distaste. “It is difficult to believe that any daughter could be so unnatural. I was merely pointing out the, uh, results of the untimely events.”
“Thank you, Henry. You know that I rely on you for that sort of insightful analysis.” Artemas walked back to his desk and propped himself on the edge. “While we are on the subject of glaring facts, I cannot help but note another one.”
“What is that, sir?”
“Renwick Deveridge had studied Vanza. He would not have been an easy man to kill.”
Henry blinked several times behind the lenses of his spectacles while he absorbed the implications. “I take your point. Difficult to believe that a female could manage the business, eh?”
“Or a common, garden-variety housebreaker, either, for that matter.”
Henry gave him a troubled look. “Indeed.”
“I think,” Artemas said slowly, “that, of the two possible suspects in Deveridge’s death, his wife or an unknown footpad, I’d stake my wager on the lady.”
Henry looked pained. “I vow, the notion of a female resorting to such violence sends a cold chill down a man’s spine, does it not?”
“I’m not sure about the cold chill, but it certainly raises a few interesting questions.”
Henry groaned heavily. “I was afraid of this.”
Artemas looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“I knew from the moment I got your message this morning that there was something amiss about this entire affair. You are far too curious about Madeline Deveridge.”
“She presents me with a problem. I am attempting to gather information relating to that problem. You know me, Henry. I like to be in possession of all the facts before I take any action.”
“Do not try to fob me off with such watery explanations. This is more than merely another matter of business for you, Artemas. I can tell that you are fascinated with Mrs. Deveridge. Indeed, I have not known you to take such a keen personal interest in a female in an exceedingly long time.”
“I should think you would be happy for me, Henry. You have been telling me for some time now that I have become much too obsessed with my plans for revenge. At the very least, my association with Mrs. Deveridge will serve to broaden my range of interests and activities for a while.”
Henry gave him a dour look. “Unfortunately, I do not think they will be broadened in any positive way.”
“Be that as it may, I have some time to kill while I await the completion of my other plans.” Artemas paused. “I believe that I shall occupy myself with a more detailed investigation of Mrs. Deveridge.”
Chapter Four
He examined the small house at the end of the lane as he went up the steps. It was not large but it had well-proportioned windows to admit the light and provide a fine view of the park. The neighborhood appeared to be quiet and sedate, but it was not what anyone would call fashionable.
Mrs. Deveridge might control the not inconsiderable inheritances left to her by her father and husband, but she had not spent her money on a lavish mansion in a stylish neighborhood. From what Henry had been able to determine, she lived an almost reclusive life with her aunt.
The mysteries surrounding the lady grew more intriguing with each passing moment, Artemas thought. So did his anticipation at the thought of seeing her for the first time in the full light of day. Memories of eyes provocatively veiled by black lace had kept him awake for several hours last night.
The door opened. Latimer loomed in the small hall. He looked even larger in the daylight than he had last night in the fog.
“Mr. Hunt.” Larimer’s eyes brightened.
“Good day, Latimer. How is your Nellie?”
“Hale and hearty, thanks to you, sir. She don’t remember much about what ‘appened, but I expect that’s for the best.” Latimer hesitated. “I want to tell ye again, sir, how grateful I am for what ye did.”
“We made a good team, did we not?” Artemas stepped over the threshold. “Please tell Mrs. Deveridge that I am here to see her. I believe I am expected.”
“Aye, sir. She’s in the library. I’ll announce ye, sir.” He turned to lead the way.
Artemas glanced back at the shutters on the windows. They were heavily barred and fixed with stout locks and tiny bells that would tinkle a warning if anyone attempted to force them open. When they were closed at night, they would prove a sturdy defense against intruders. Did the lady fear ordinary housebreakers or some greater threat?
He followed Latimer down a long corridor to the rear of the house. The big man halted at the entrance to a room that was crammed from floor to ceiling with leather-bound books, journals, notebooks, and papers of every description. The handsome windows that looked out onto a well-tended but severely pruned garden were also fitted with barred shutters, locks, and bells.
“Mr. Hunt to see you, ma’am.”
Madeline rose from behind a heavy oak desk. “Thank you, Latimer. Do come in, Mr. Hunt.”
She wore a black gown cut in a fashionable, high-waisted style, but there was no lace veil to conceal her features that morning. Artemas looked at her and knew that Henry had been right about the depth of his interest in this woman. It went far beyond curiosity and into the dangerous realm of fascination. His awareness of her seemed to shimmer in the air around him. He wondered if Madeline sensed it.
There was a startling mix of intelligence, determination, and wariness in her clear blue eyes. Her dark hair was parted in the middle and bound at the back of her head in a neat, no-nonsense style. She had a soft, full mouth, a firm chin, and a self-possession that presented a subtle challenge to everything that was male in him.
Latimer hovered in the doorway. “Will you be needin’ anything, ma’am?”
“No, thank you,” Madeline said. “You may leave us.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Latimer let himself out of the library and closed the door.
Madeline looked at Artemas. “Please be seated, Mr. Hunt.”
“Thank you.” He took the japanned and gilded beech wood armchair she indicated. A glance at the rich carpet, heavy drapes, and elegantly carved desk confirmed Leggett’s assessment of Mrs. Deveridge’s finances. The house was small, but the furnishings were of excellent quality.
She sat down behind her desk. “I trust you have recovered your hearing, sir? “
; “My ears rang for a time, but I am happy to tell you that my senses all appear to be completely restored.”
“Thank heavens.” She looked genuinely relieved. “I would not have wanted to be responsible for an injury to your person.”
“As it happens, there was no permanent damage done, either to me or”—he raised his brows slightly— “to the villain you attempted to shoot.”
Her mouth tightened. “I am actually a rather decent shot, sir. But the carriage was moving and it was dark and you had seized my arm, if you will recall. I fear the combination of so many impediments took its toll on my aim.”
“I pray you will forgive me, madam. Violent solutions have their place from time to time, but as a general rule, I prefer to avoid that sort of thing.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I find that somewhat surprising, given your training.”
“If you know anything at all about the ancient arts of Vanza, you must know that subtlety is always stressed over the obvious in the philosophy. Violence is hardly subtle. When the occasion does call for it, the strategy should be crafted with precision and carried out in such a way that the results do not leave a trail that leads directly back to the one who initiated the action.”
She grimaced. “You are indeed a true student of Vanza, Mr. Hunt. Your thinking on such subjects is clever, crafty, and labyrinthine.”
“I realize the fact that I am Vanza does not elevate me in your opinion, madam. But allow me to remind you that shooting a man dead in the street last night could have produced a variety of complications that both of us might have found most inconvenient this morning.”
“What do you mean? “ Her eyes widened in surprise. “You assisted me in rescuing a young woman. How could anyone object to that?”
“I prefer not to attract attention, Mrs. Deveridge.”
She flushed. “Yes, of course. You no doubt fear that word might get out about your connection to the Dream Pavilions. Rest assured I will say nothing to anyone.”
“I appreciate the reassurance. As it happens, I have a great deal at stake at the moment.”