Wicked Widow

by Amanda Quick

  “Nothing to worry about, my dear. No one will be so foolish as to take him up on it.”

  “That is not the point.” Madeline could scarcely contain her panic and fury. “Good God, I cannot allow Hunt to risk his neck in such a ridiculous manner. And why didn’t anyone tell me about the wager in the betting books?”

  “I knew it would only upset you, my dear.” Bernice patted her hand. “You have had quite enough on your mind lately.”

  “But how did you come to hear of these things?”

  “I believe Mr. Leggett may have mentioned them,” Bernice said, cheerfully vague.

  “I vow, I shall have a few words to say to him about this,” Madeline seethed.

  “To Mr. Leggett?”

  “No.” Madeline narrowed her eyes. “To Artemas.”

  ———

  Artemas heard the key rattle in the door lock just as he finished searching the last drawer of Clay’s desk. Swiftly he put out the candle and stepped behind the heavy velvet drapery that cascaded down the side of the tall window.

  He heard the door open. Someone entered the library. Artemas caught the glint of a candle, but he could not see who carried it.

  “There ye are, Alfred,” a voice said from the hall. “They’re lookin’ for ye in the kitchens.”

  “Tell ‘em I’ll be along directly. I’ve got to make me rounds first. Ye know how anxious the master’s been about keeping an eye on his valuables since the robbery the other evening. He told me I was to be especially alert tonight on account of the house being filled with people.”

  “Huh. I’d hardly call it a robbery. The only thing that went missing was that jar of herbs he brought home from the apothecary last month. Good riddance, if ye ask me.”

  “No one’s askin’ ye, George.”

  That certainly answered the most pressing question of the evening, Artemas thought as he listened to the door close behind the retreating footmen. The sleeping herbs had been stolen. Another midnight visit from the mysterious ghost, no doubt. Lord Clay was evidently not involved in this affair.

  Artemas stepped from behind the curtain. He let himself out of the library and went down the hall to the stairs. A few minutes later he made his way through the crowded ballroom to where Madeline stood with Bernice.

  Some of the frustration that had resulted from his failure to gain any useful information in Clay’s library faded at the sight of Madeline. She looked glorious, he thought. She put every other woman in the shade, not because she was the most beautiful lady present, but because, as far as he was concerned, she was the most riveting of them all.

  He could not take his eyes off her as he walked toward her. He had been right about that particular shade of yellow, he thought. Sunlight was definitely her color.

  “Good evening, ladies,” he said easily as he came to a halt at Madeline’s shoulder. “Enjoying yourselves?”

  Madeline spun around. He was startled to see that her eyes were ablaze with anger.

  “How dare you do something so idiotic?” she demanded without preamble. “What on earth were you thinking? Have you no sense at all? What made you do such a stupid thing? “

  Mystified, Artemas glanced at Bernice for guidance. She merely raised her brows, gave a tiny shrug, and turned back to watch the dancers. He was on his own, he realized.

  He looked into Madeline’s irate eyes. “Uh—”

  “Did you think I wouldn’t discover the truth? “

  “Well—”

  “I cannot believe it.”

  “Believe what?” he asked warily. “If this is about my search of Clay’s study, you were aware that I intended—”

  “It is not about that and well you know it,” she snapped.

  He glanced around, taking note of the small group of ladies standing nearby. He reached for Madeline’s arm. “I suggest we repair to the gardens for a breath of fresh air.”

  “Do not think you will get out of this by changing the subject, sir.”

  “First I must discover what the subject is,” he said as he hauled her out through the French doors. “Then I will worry about changing it.”

  “Hah. Do not pretend ignorance.”

  “It is no pretense, I assure you.” He brought her to a halt in the shadows at the edge of the terrace. “Now then, what is this all about, Madeline?”

  “It is about what I am told occurred in your club.”

  He groaned. “Someone mentioned the wager.”

  “I do not give a bloody damn about the thousand-pound wager. One can only expect that sort of nonsense from rakehells who have nothing better to do than place bets on everything from flies on a wall to boxing matches.”

  He was truly bemused now. “If it is not the wager that has put you out of countenance, what the devil is it?”

  “I have just been informed that you have issued a challenge to every gentleman in your club. Is it true?”

  He frowned. “Who told you that?”

  “Is it true?”

  “Madeline—”

  “I would remind you, sir, that we made a pact not to lie to each other. Is it true that you intend to challenge to a duel any man who insults me?”

  “I think it highly unlikely that anyone will insult you in my hearing,” he said as soothingly as possible. “So there is nothing to be concerned about.”

  She took a step closer to him. “Artemas, if you risk your neck in something so foolish as a duel over my honor, I swear I will never, ever forgive you.”

  He smiled slightly. “Never, ever?”

  “I mean it.”

  He was aware of warmth unfolding inside him. “Do you love me a little, then, Madeline? In spite of my Vanza training and my connections to trade?”

  “I love you more than I have ever loved anyone in my life, you crackbrained idiot. And I will not tolerate any more of this sort of foolishness from you. Is that quite clear?”

  “Perfectly clear.” He pulled her close and kissed her hard before she could realize just what she had said.

  Chapter Twenty

  Short John pulled the warm woolen scarf Mr. Hunt had given him more snugly around his neck and watched the two men emerge from the tavern. The cove on the left was the one he’d been following all day. Zachary had told him that his name was Glenthorpe.

  “Devil take it, I feel a bit odd.” Glenthorpe staggered on the steps. “Didn’t think I’d had that much to drink tonight.”

  “You likely lost track, my friend.” The man with the golden hair laughed. “But don’t worry, I’ll see you safely home.”

  “Kind of you, sir. Most kind.”

  Short John watched Glenthorpe stumble again as he went down the steps. The gent would have fallen on his face if the other cove, the one with the walking stick, hadn’t reached out to steady him.

  Short John felt a rush of anticipation. Visions of a nice profit danced in his head. Zachary had told him to pay particular attention to any gentleman who accompanied Glenthorpe.

  The man with the walking stick had entered the tavern several minutes after Glenthorpe, but they were definitely close companions now. Short John did not take his eyes off his quarry as he finished the meat pie he had snatched a short time earlier. He had been thinking of making his way back to the snug room above a stable that he shared with five other lads, but now he was glad he’d stuck to business.

  The man who had come out of the tavern with Glenthorpe paused to put on his hat. Short John marveled at the way the cove’s hair glowed in the lamplight. It looked as if it had been spun from the finest gold floss. But it was the walking stick that drew his professional attention. Red Jack, the receiver, would give him a nice bit of blunt for it.

  Unfortunately, it did not look as if it would be a simple matter to make off with the stick. Glenthorpe might be foxed but the man with the golden hair looked fit and alert. Short John knew that his sort often carried a pistol.

  Not worth the risk, he decided. In any event, Mr. Hunt would give him just as much for sound inf
ormation as he could get from Red Jack for the stick. Furthermore, unlike the receiver, Mr. Hunt always paid promptly and well for services rendered. Short John believed in maintaining good relationships with customers who paid their bills in a timely manner.

  The man with the golden hair raised his walking stick to hail a passing hackney. He bundled Glenthorpe into the carriage and then went forward to have a word with the coachman.

  Short John inched out of his doorway and strained to listen as the golden-haired man gave instructions.

  “Crooktree Lane, my good man.” The rich, elegant voice echoed strangely in the fog.

  “Aye, sir.”

  Short John did not wait to hear any more. He knew Crooktree Lane well. It was near the river. At this hour of the night it would be a dark, dangerous place inhabited by the nastiest sort of rats: the kind that went about on two legs.

  ———

  Madeline was awake in her bedchamber, bent over the strange little book, but she could not focus on the gibberish on the page in front of her. All she could think about was the reckless manner in which she had blurted out her love to Artemas.

  Thank heavens he had been too much of a gentleman to mention the subject again. Or perhaps he had been as shocked as she had been by the wild words. Perhaps they were the very last words he had wanted to hear from her.

  He called himself her lover, but he had never claimed to love her.

  There was a knock on the door. Madeline looked up, relieved by the interruption. She glanced at the clock. It was after midnight. “Enter.”

  The door opened to reveal Nellie, dressed in her nightgown and cap. “Beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am, but there’s a lad at the kitchen door. Demands to speak with Zachary or Mr. Hunt, but neither of ‘em’s returned yet.”

  Artemas had gone out earlier to make the rounds of his clubs in another attempt to pick up rumors and information. Zachary had accompanied him in the guise of coachman.

  “A lad, you say?”

  “Aye, ma’am. One of them boys what runs errands for Zachary and Mr. Hunt. He says it’s important. Says he must speak to someone about a man he’s been watching for two days.”

  “Glenthorpe.” Madeline leaped to her feet. “Tell the lad to wait in the kitchens. I’ll get dressed and come down at once.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Nellie started to retreat.

  “Wait,” Madeline called from the wardrobe. “Rouse Latimer. Tell him to hail a hackney. There should be some in the street at this hour. Hurry, Nellie.”

  Nellie paused. “Ye don’t want him to horse yer own carriage, ma’am? “

  “No, it might be recognized.”

  Nellie’s eyes widened. “Is there some danger afoot, ma’am? “

  “It’s quite possible. Hurry, Nellie.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Nellie disappeared.

  Madeline dressed swiftly, stepped into a pair of half boots, and bolted for the door. Halfway across the room she stopped and rushed back to the chest that sat beneath the window. She flung open the lid and seized the box containing the pistol and balls that lay inside. Then she grabbed the ankle sheath and knife her father had given her.

  When she was ready, she let herself out into the upstairs hall, ran down the stairs, and arrived, breathless, in the kitchens. She recognized the scruffy boy with the eyes that were far too old for his face.

  “Short John. Are you all right?”

  “ ‘Course I’m all right.” The words were indistinct because he had half a muffin crammed into his mouth, but there was no mistaking the note of disgust. “Came to make me report to Zachary or Mr. Hunt.”

  “They’re both out. They are likely at one of Mr. Hunt’s clubs. Tell me quickly what you saw tonight.”

  He looked dubious. “What about me fee? “

  “I will make certain that you receive it.”

  He wrinkled his nose as he pondered that. Then he made his decision. “Saw Glenthorpe gettin’ into a carriage with a man. Glenthorpe was drunk as a lord but the other cove was right sober. Heard him tell Glenthorpe he’d see ‘im ‘ome but then ‘e told the coachman to take ‘em to Crooktree Lane.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Near the river. Not far from the south gate of the Dream Pavilions. I’ve been keepin’ me eye on Glenthorpe fer two days now and I can tell ye that’s not where ‘e lives.”

  Latimer loomed in the doorway, struggling into a jacket. “What’s this all about, ma’am? “

  Madeline whirled around. “Have you got us a hackney?”

  “Aye, but what’s the hurry? “

  “We must try to find Mr. Hunt at one of his clubs and go to Crooktree Lane at once. Glenthorpe has been taken there by a man who may be a—” She stopped short of uttering the word killer. She did not want to frighten Short John, although she doubted there was much that could alarm the streetwise lad. “He has been taken there by a man who may be quite dangerous.”

  Short John rolled his eyes. “She means the man what done in that gentry cove they pulled out o’ the river. Zachary told me all about it.” He reached for another muffin and took a healthy bite.

  “Mr. Hunt said something like this might happen,” Madeline explained. “He said it would give him a chance to catch the villain. But we must get word to him.” She turned to Short John. “You may stay here with Nellie until we return.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Short John said, reaching for another muffin. “I ain’t goin’ nowheres until I get me fee.”

  ———

  Artemas shrugged into his greatcoat as he walked swiftly toward his carriage. It occurred to him that this was not the first time he had been summoned from his club by Madeline. It was getting to be something of a habit.

  He opened the door and vaulted inside while Zachary scrambled up onto the box to join Latimer. The hackney Madeline had used to drive to St. James disappeared into the fog, the coachman in search of another fare.

  “Artemas.” Madeline looked at him as he sat down across from her. “Thank heavens we found you so quickly.”

  “What is this all about? “ he asked as the carriage clattered into motion.

  “Short John saw Glenthorpe go off with a gentleman, just as you suggested might happen. Their destination is Crooktree Lane. I gather it is a disreputable neighborhood near the river.”

  “It is certainly not a fashionable part of town,” he allowed. He studied the busy street through the window. “It is also conveniently close to the south gate of the Dream Pavilions.”

  “Convenient?”

  “Close enough to drag a man after one has shot him dead. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Oswynn was killed in Crooktree Lane before his body was left in the Haunted Mansion.”

  “First Oswynn and now Glenthorpe. I don’t understand, Artemas. Why is the villain doing this? It makes no sense.”

  He looked at her in the shadows, surprised by her comment. “Don’t you comprehend? He is determined to remove me from this affair. Apparently I am proving to be an obstacle.”

  “But how will killing your enemies get you out of the way?”

  “After his one rash attempt to dispatch me failed, he obviously concluded it was too risky to confront me again, so he has come up with another approach to the problem.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I believe that Oswynn’s death was meant as a warning. But tonight our ghost no doubt intends a more direct threat. Perhaps he has concluded that if he can involve the Dream Pavilions in a murder scandal, he will cause me enough trouble to divert my attention.”

  “Yes, of course. Your business could well be ruined if the public were to learn that a dead body was found in one of the garden’s attractions.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Artemas looked grimly amused. “It has been my experience that the public is inevitably lured by the most bizarre attractions. One can only speculate on the drawing power of a pleasure garden that was the scene of a prominent murder or two.”

  “What a ghastl
y notion. There really is no accounting for taste, is there? “

  “I suspect that the threat to my business is the least of his goals.”

  “But what else could he hope to accomplish? “

  He hesitated and then decided he might as well tell her the rest. “It’s possible that his real aim is to implicate me in the murders.”

  “You?” Her eyes widened. “Good God, Artemas, do you really believe that if a body is discovered on the grounds of the Dream Pavilions, you, as the proprietor, might be viewed as a suspect in the murder? Surely that is highly unlikely.”

  “Not so unlikely if it gets out that I consider the dead man to have been my mortal enemy and that I had been involved in a scheme to destroy him,” he said quietly.

  “Yes, I see what you mean.” She gave a visible shudder. “This villain obviously knows your deepest secrets. It is as if he really is a ghost who can walk through walls.”

  “He is trying to force me out of this affair so he can get to you,” Artemas said. “He must suspect now that you possess the key.”

  ———

  Latimer’s expertise with the reins and Zachary’s knowledge of the less reputable areas of the city enabled the carriage to make excellent progress. Artemas instructed Larimer to halt the vehicle two blocks away from the locked gates at the south entrance.

  “Why are we stopping here? “ Madeline demanded.

  “To cover all eventualities.” He cracked open the door and jumped down to the ground. “Listen closely, my friends. Latimer, you and Madeline will stay with the carriage. Find a place from which you can watch the south gate without being seen.”

  Madeline stuck her head out the window. “Why must we stay here?”

  “Because if Zachary and I are too late to prevent Glenthorpe from being killed, the villain will likely bring the body into the Dream Pavilions through this gate.”

  “I understand.” Madeline fumbled in her reticule and produced her small pistol. “Latimer and I are to stop the villain if he gets past you and Zachary.”

  “No, you will not try to stop him.” Artemas took a step that brought him very close to the window. “Listen to me and listen well, madam. You and Latimer are to watch him to see which direction he goes after he enters the park, but you are not to make any attempt to accost him. Is that clear?”