by Amanda Quick
“My dear, by virtue of your status as a widow, you are a woman of the world, whether you feel like one or not. I would not presume to give you advice.”
“Hah. You know perfectly well you will not hesitate to do so.”
“Quite right. As I was saying, I would not presume to give you any advice, but I would suggest you keep one fact in mind.”
Madeline was instantly wary. “What is that?”
“You say he agreed to the bargain you offered because he wants Winton’s journal.”
“Yes.”
“He is a master of Vanza.”
“That is precisely why I employed him.”
Bernice gave her a pitying look. “Really, Madeline, you are an intelligent woman. How can you overlook the obvious? “
“What is so bloody obvious?”
“Mr. Hunt had no need to accept your bargain in order to get hold of the book. Don’t you recall? You said yourself that with his skills he could have helped himself to that journal without so much as a by-your-leave.”
“Hah.” Triumph surged through Madeline. “That is where you are wrong. I have done some more thinking on that point, and it occurs to me Mr. Hunt knows perfectly well that any attempt on his part to steal that journal would involve a serious risk for him.”
“What risk? “
“Why, that I might retaliate by exposing his ownership of the Dream Pavilions, of course. He cannot take the risk of having the ton discover that he is in trade. You see? He had no choice but to make the pact with me.”
Bernice studied her for a long time. She said nothing.
Madeline began to fidget. “What is it now? What are you thinking?”
“You know as well as I that, had he wished to do so, he could have found a way to ensure that you did not spill his secrets to the world.”
Madeline stilled. A tiny shiver set her nerves to tingling.
She glanced down at the cryptic little volume she had been working on. She gazed blankly at the red calf binding for a long time, her thoughts in chaos.
Bernice was right.
After a while she pulled herself together and looked up to meet Bernice’s concerned eyes. “You may be correct when you say that he is not helping us because it is the only way he can get hold of the journal. But if that is true, then we have an even more uncomfortable problem on our hands, do we not?”
Bernice gave her an inquiring look. “What is that, dear?”
“If he is not assisting us because of that bloody journal, then why is he doing so?”
“I just told you, dear. He is attracted to you. I expect it pleases him to play the hero.”
“If he is attracted to me, it is entirely beside the point,” Madeline said steadily. “It does not explain why he has come to our aid. After all, a Vanza master is trained not to allow himself to be ruled by his physical passions.”
Bernice looked briefly amused. “I would not assume that the training is always entirely successful, if I were you. Physical passions can be extraordinarily powerful.”
Madeline shook her head slowly. “Artemas would never allow himself to be controlled by his sentiments. If he is not assisting us because of Papa’s journal or because he wishes to keep me silent, then that can only mean that he has some other, very dark reason for agreeing to our bargain.”
“But what other reason could there be?”
Madeline grimaced. “Who can say? He is Vanza.”
“My dear—”
“I really do not want to discuss this, Aunt Bernice.”
“I see.” Bernice paused. “Very well, then, are you all right? “
“Of course I’m all right. Why shouldn’t I be perfectly fit?”
“I do not wish to be indelicate, but I am well aware that last night was a somewhat novel experience for you.”
“It was not quite what I expected, but there was no harm done,” Madeline said briskly.
“Not quite what you expected?” Bernice pursed her lips. “That surprises me. I would have thought that Mr. Hunt would be as skilled in his lovemaking as he appears to be at everything else.”
“Really, Aunt Bernice, I thought I made it clear that I do not want to discuss the subject.”
“Of course, dear.”
“If you must know,” Madeline muttered, “Mr. Hunt proved to be exactly as I described him at the start of this affair. Mature yet agile.”
Chapter Twelve
He was being followed.
Artemas came to a halt in a doorway and listened. The footsteps were light and muffled in the swirling fog, but he caught the pattern.
They stopped.
He moved out of the doorway and continued down the street. After a few seconds he heard the occasional brush of a shoe on the pavement behind him. The footsteps did not move closer or fall too far behind. He knew that if he turned his head he would see nothing except an indistinct shape because of the thick gray mist.
For most of the distance from his house, there had been enough street clatter to conceal the quiet steps. But even then he had sensed that he was being followed.
He turned left at the corner. There was a large park across the street. The trees were only vague skeletons looming in the fog. A carriage went past cautiously, as though feeling its way in the murk. The horse’s hooves rang with an eerie, hollow sound. He took advantage of the covering noise of the wheels to move into another doorway.
He waited.
The carriage rattled off into the distance, and then he heard the footsteps again. Slower now. Very hesitant. The follower had no doubt sensed that the quarry had gone to ground.
After a few seconds of uncertain silence, the footsteps abruptly picked up speed. The follower was moving quickly now. All attempt at stealth had been abandoned.
From the doorway Artemas watched a cloaked and hooded figure move through the mists directly in front of him. The hem of the garment whipped out as the follower hurried down the street.
Artemas glided out of the doorway and fell into step beside his pursuer.
“Lovely afternoon for a stroll, is it not?” he said politely.
“Artemas.” Madeline’s voice rose on a tiny shriek. She whirled around and came to a halt. Beneath the hood of her cloak, her eyes were very large. “Good God, sir, kindly do not startle me like that again. It is very hard on the nerves.”
“What are you doing here? I told you that I would handle this business of searching Pitney’s house on my own.”
“And I made it equally clear to you that I had no intention of allowing you to do so. Searching Pitney’s home was my plan, if you will recall.”
He studied her out of the corner of his eyes. She was thoroughly annoyed, but he wondered if some of the anger was merely an attempt to cover up deeper, more disturbing emotions. He reminded himself that although she was a widow and quite possibly a murderess into the bargain, until last night she had also been an innocent. He thought about how she had blushed at breakfast.
“How are you feeling this morning? “ he asked gently.
“I am in excellent health, sir, as usual,” she said impatiently. “Yourself?”
“Wracked with guilt. But thank you for asking.”
“Guilt?” She halted again and swung around to confront him. “What on earth have you to feel guilty about, sir? “
He stopped, too. “Have you forgotten last night so soon? I am devastated to learn that I made such a tepid impression.”
She fixed him with a bristling expression. “Of course I have not forgotten last night. But I assure you that there is absolutely no reason for you to be mired in guilt about the events that transpired in your library.”
“You were an innocent virgin.”
“Rubbish. I was a virgin but I was hardly innocent.” She adjusted her gloves. “I assure you, no woman who went through what I did while I was married to Renwick Deveridge could possibly remain innocent.”
“I take your point.”
“As I told you last night, nothin
g has changed.”
“Mmm.”
She cleared her throat. “Furthermore, there was nothing the least bit tepid about the impression you made.”
“Thank you. You cannot know what your kind if somewhat lukewarm compliment means to me. At least I can retain a shred or two of my manly pride.”
She scowled. “Humility does not sit properly on you, sir. You may as well save yourself the trouble and effort.”
“If you insist.”
“If you wish to feel guilty about something, I suggest you experience some severe pangs of remorse for sneaking out of the house without me a short while ago.”
He contemplated the fog-cloaked street. There were not many people about, and those few who were making their way through the thick mist could see very little. It was highly unlikely that anyone would take note of Madeline. If he employed a few precautions, she would be reasonably safe. It was not as though he had much choice, he reminded himself. If he refused to accept her company, he could easily envision her attempting to follow him into Pitney’s mansion.
“Very well.” He took her arm and started forward. “You may come with me. But you will do as you are told once we are inside the house. Understood? “
He could not see her roll her eyes because the hood of her cloak shielded her face, but he was quite certain she was doing precisely that.
“Really, sir, I despair of your attitude. You do not seem to be able to grasp the very simple notion that you are supposed to follow my instructions, not vice versa. You are involved in this endeavor solely because of the business arrangement I suggested to you. Why, if it were not for me, you would not even be aware of this problem concerning Renwick’s ghost.”
“Believe me, madam, I never allow myself to forget for so much as a moment that this is all your fault.”
———
The high wall that surrounded the gardens at the rear of Eaton Pitney’s big house proved no obstacle to Artemas’s skills. Madeline held the small, unlit lantern he had brought along and watched impatiently as he ascended the stone barrier. When he reached the top of the wall, he lowered a length of rope that had been knotted with a loop for her foot.
She seized hold of the rope, thrust the toe of her half boot into the knotted circle, and held on tight while Artemas hoisted her lightly up to the top of the wall. A moment later they descended into the fogbound garden.
“Do you know, Artemas, this is really quite exhilarating.”
“I was afraid you would think so.” He sounded glumly resigned.
The mist was so heavy that the looming mansion was only a great, hulking shape. No light glowed in any of the windows. Artemas found the kitchen door and tried it.
“Locked,” he said.
“Just as one would expect, given that the owner of the house is in the country.” Madeline studied the shuttered window. “I trust you can pick the lock.”
“What makes you think I can pick locks?”
She shrugged. “You are Vanza. In my experience, men who are trained in the ancient arts are very good at getting through locked doors.”
“Obviously you do not approve of such skills,” he said. He took a set of lock picks out of the pocket of his coat.
Scenes from her nightmares fluttered through her mind. She saw herself crouched in front of the door of the bedchamber, probing the lock with a key that kept slipping from her fingers.
“I will admit that such skills have their uses,” she said bleakly. “And I can hardly object to your abilities with the picks. My father was very good with them, too. Indeed, he taught me ... Never mind. It does not signify now.”
Artemas gave her a quick, searching look before he set to work, but he did not comment.
Madeline grew anxious as the seconds ticked past. “Is something wrong? “
“Pitney’s concern with the so-called Strangers he believes are stalking him apparently made him invest in specially designed locks.” Artemas’s face was set in lines of intense concentration. “These are not the ordinary sort one gets from the average locksmith.”
She watched him probe delicately with the picks. “You will be able to manage them, won’t you?”
“Perhaps.” He bent closer to the heavy iron lock. “If you cease distracting me.”
“Sorry,” she mumbled.
“Ah, there we go. A clever device based on a classic Vanza pattern. I must remember to ask Pitney which locksmith crafted it for him.”
The professional interest in his voice worried her. “Don’t be absurd. You cannot ask Mr. Pitney about his locks without admitting that you broke into his house.”
“Thank you for pointing out that small oversight.” He dropped the picks back into his pocket and opened the door.
Madeline found herself gazing into a narrow, gloom-filled hall. No housekeeper or footman appeared to demand explanations or sound the alarm.
She stepped gingerly over the threshold. “The house does seem to be unoccupied. I wonder where Mr. Pitney went?”
“With any luck we shall find something to indicate his destination.” Artemas followed her inside and closed the door. He stood quietly for a moment, examining the darkened corridor. “If we do discover a clue, I will send Leggett after him to ask him some questions. I would very much like to know precisely why Pitney felt it necessary to leave town.”
“Indeed, I—” Madeline halted in the doorway of the kitchen and stared at the wedge of cheese and the half-eaten loaf of bread that sat on the trestle table.
“What is it?” Artemas came to stand behind her. He looked at the food over the top of her head and went still. “I see.”
Madeline went to the table and picked up the bread. “Mr. Pitney must have left in a great hurry. And quite recently. This bread is fresh.”
Artemas’s eyes narrowed. “Come, we must move quickly. I do not want to spend any more time here than necessary.”
He turned away and disappeared down the hall. Madeline followed swiftly. She caught up with him when he paused at another door.
“The library?” she asked as she came up behind him.
“Yes.” Artemas did not move. He gazed intently into the chamber. “Either Pitney is in need of a housekeeper or someone else got here before us.”
“What do you mean?” She stood on tiptoe to look over his shoulder and caught her breath at the sight of the tumbled books and papers that littered the faded carpet. “Good heavens. Surely Pitney did not create this mess. This goes far beyond eccentricity. In any event, Vanza eccentrics tend to err on the side of too much order and precision. Clutter disturbs them.”
“An excellent observation.” Artemas stepped back and continued swiftly down the hall.
“Wait,” she called softly after him. “Aren’t you going to search this room?”
“I doubt that there is any reason to bother with the effort now. Whoever went through the place ahead of us will have taken anything of interest that might have been in there.”
“Artemas, maybe Mr. Pitney was right all along. Perhaps he was being watched by someone.”
“Perhaps.” He sounded more than a little noncommittal.
A thrill of dread went through her. “You’re thinking that it was no Stranger who did this, aren’t you? It was Renwick’s ghost.”
“I suggest we cease referring to the man as a ghost. It only complicates the matter. Whoever he is, he’s flesh and blood.”
“And Vanza.”
He did not respond to that.
She trailed after him, halting once more when he paused briefly at the entrance to the drawing room. Inside, the furnishings were covered with heavy, protective cloths. The thick drapes were drawn shut across the windows.
“It does not look as if Pitney did much entertaining,” Artemas said dryly.
“A very strange man,” Madeline agreed. “But then, he is—”
“Don’t say it. This is not a good time to remind me of your sentiments on the subject.”
She closed her mouth.
Together they made a quick survey of the upstairs floors. Chaos reigned. Clothes had been pulled out of wardrobes. Dressers had been emptied of their contents. Trunks had been pried open and overturned.
“What was he looking for, do you think?” Madeline asked.
“The same thing he was looking for when he searched Linslade’s library, no doubt. The Book of Secrets perhaps, although how any sane man could believe it actually exists is beyond me.”
She paused. “I think I have already mentioned the fact that Renwick Deveridge was not sane.”
“Yes, you did say something along those lines.” Artemas glanced at the narrow, cramped staircase at the end of the hall. “We may as well go back down that way.”
“What of the basement? There will surely be storage rooms and such,” Madeline said as she followed him down the rear stairs. “Perhaps the ghost, I mean the intruder, did not think to examine them.”
“I suspect he was very thorough, but we may as well have a look.”
In the hallway outside the kitchen, Artemas found the door that opened onto the basement staircase. He paused long enough to light the lantern, and then he started into the depths of what proved to be a series of dusty storage rooms.
Madeline studied the still-sealed chests and locked trunks. “It does appear that the intruder did not bother to search these chambers. Perhaps he did not discover the basement.”
At the bottom of the steps, Artemas came to a halt and raised the lantern. “He was here.”
She stopped behind him. “Why do you say that?”
“Footsteps in the dust on the floor. Two sets.” He angled the light. “One stops there at that wall. The second returns to this staircase. Two men came down here recently, but only one left.”
Madeline stared at the place where the first set of footsteps ended. “It would seem that one of them is able to walk through walls.”
“Mmm.” Artemas crossed to the stone wall and studied it for a long while. Then he ran his fingers along a crack. He pushed cautiously. There was a faint, muffled whine.
Madeline hurried forward. “There is some mechanism inside the wall? “