Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage 01]

by One Wicked Night

  Mayburn frowned. “But it seems so…aggressive.”

  “We will not truly harm her. We must not harm my dear child.” If Lillian died, then the trust funds passed on to charitable causes, and unfortunately Kane was not listed among them. That was the only fact keeping her alive these past two years.

  Mayburn inched forward in his seat. “So what should we do?”

  “She needs to be frightened enough to toss Redford out on his ear.”

  “Should we send her a letter?”

  “Child’s play. You must be serious if you wish to see the matter properly done.”

  Mayburn stiffened. Then his eyes slid about the room. “Everything that you have said has come true, sir,” he whispered. “But there is something important that we have not yet discussed.”

  Kane had been waiting for the cabbage-head to figure it out. “Lady Langham’s demise?”

  Relief flashed across his features. “Yes.”

  “Terrible tragedy that one, and poor Langham is wrapped up in grief over it. The poor sod had no idea what would happen when his fury finally overtook him.”

  “What?”

  Kane could just see the clouds forming in the lad’s dull gaze. “He had confessed his anger to me, you see. His wife was having an affair, and he was distraught about the whole thing. But he loved her truly, and his distress was more than any man could possibly bear. You know about deeply committed love, don’t you?”

  Mayburn blinked, as if surprised he had been asked. Then his brow puckered. “I do,” he whispered, nodding sagely.

  “Hence, poor Langham’s anger overcame him. But he is so repentant that the archbishop of Canterbury, if he knew, would be the first to forgive him. The man’s practically beside himself with remorse. The only good thing to come from the wretched situation is helping Lillian.”

  Mayburn’s mouth opened and then closed as he scratched his head.

  Kane rushed on before the stupid sod’s mind might actually recognize the fabrication for what it was. “Thank heavens you had the foresight to deliver your brother’s personal items to me. Now we can save poor Langham and see about freeing Lillian from Beaumont’s damaging influence.”

  The clod blinked, bewildered.

  “So at the end of the day, you will have your Lillian, she will be free of your brother’s evil clutches, and I will finally have the funds that were mistakenly granted to her. Lillian will have no need for the money, as she will have yours. So you can sign those papers I gave you. Then the real Marquis of Beaumont takes his rightful place.”

  “Me,” he breathed, grasping the only point he was meant to.

  “And soon you will be the Duke of Greayston.”

  “Russell Mayburn, the Duke of Greayston…” He puffed out his chest like a rooster.

  “God willing. And all of that property, all of that money goes to you. Lillian will hardly need the funds that are my due.”

  Mayburn’s mouth opened, then closed, and then opened. “Yes, I suppose it is only right for good to come from evil.”

  “Exactly. Now we just need to ensure that Redford does not discover poor Langham’s part. The man is devastated, no use torturing him further. So here is what you will do….”

  Spotting Dr. Winner sitting at a table in the corner of Tipton’s Tavern, Nick wove through the crowd. The scent of beer, sweaty bodies and mutton filled the air. It was the dinner hour, and the crowd was thick, as was usual for this time of evening.

  The barkeeper, Joe, regularly had his wife cook the dinner, and Winifred scratched up the best mutton stew in town.

  It had been three days since Nick had last seen the good doctor. Three days since he had had his dramatic turnaround and assumed Beaumont’s case. It felt like a mere few hours, though, and time was running short. But Nick knew that he worked better when his eyes weren’t burning with tiredness and his belly wasn’t crying out for sustenance. His usual Thursday evening visit with Winner was the perfect excuse for a lift.

  He sat down with a grunt, setting his walking stick against his chair. One never knew when a cane might come in handy in a raucous bar. “Sorry I’m late. I am dog tired.”

  “You’re too young for griping, Nick,” Winner reproved. “You need at least another ten years on you before you’re entitled to grouse like an old man.”

  Nick rubbed his weary eyes. “Long nights turning into long days.”

  Winner sat up. “Miss Figbottom turned out to be more than just a retainer? It’s been three days and you have not bothered to come by and tell me. How dare you, Nick? But I can forgive if you make me forget. I want details, man. Down to the last sway of those wicked hips!” He waved to the serving girl. “Ursula, bring the beer!”

  Nick almost groaned from his loose tongue. “Miss Figbottom changed her mind about hiring me. I’m working for Beaumont now.”

  “Beaumont!” Winner cried, aghast. “The man’s positively drenched in blood.”

  “Things are not always as they appear.” Nick had certainly learned that lesson well.

  “But the papers—”

  “Do you trust me to do the right thing, sir?”

  Eyeing him, Winner leaned back. Slowly, a smile broke out on his face. “Oh, but this is going to be good. I can’t wait to see Dagwood fall flat on his overambitious arse.”

  “Don’t go betting against the odds yet, sir. Knowing something and proving it are worlds apart.”

  Flashing a saucy grin, Ursula ambled over. The young barmaid slapped a tankard down before each man, and froth dripped in rivulets down the sides, splashing onto the table. She was a plump maid with buxom breasts and what Mabel would have called “first-rate birthing hips.”

  Ursula sent Nick a wink and nodded to Winner. “How ya farin’, Redford?”

  “Fine, thanks.” Shifting his eyes away, he sipped his beer. Ursula did not need any encouragement. To Joe’s disappointment, his daughter was one to fish in the closest pond.

  “Hey, Doc, can I ask you a question?”

  “Certainly, Ursula.”

  “I’ve had this rash, see? For like a month.” She shoved a fistful of snarled brown hair behind her ear, exposing a bright red spot on her cheek. “And it itches.”

  From the wooden bar, Joe yelled, “Stop chatting, Ursula, and get back in the kitchen!”

  Adjusting the platter on her hip, she turned, shouting, “As if you never chat up the customers!”

  “Ursula!” the barman warned, laying his palms on the bar.

  Looking back at the men, she rolled her eyes. “The man’s more of a pain in the arse than ’e’s worth. If ’e weren’t my pap, I might just quit. Still, I get to meet some mighty fine fellas here.” She leaned her elbow on the table so that her loose blouse gaped open, giving Nick a generous view. “I can slip free around midnight, Redford. If yer interested.”

  Nick veered his gaze from the sight of her lush white breasts as suddenly a slighter figure with peaches-and-cream complexion came to mind. He cleared his throat. “I have a previous appointment.”

  “Give Basilicum a try, Ursula,” Dr. Winner suggested quickly. “That rash should clear up before you know it.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  Joe approached, anger exacerbating his limp. “Next time I ask ya to come over, Ursula, ya come. Yer mother’s working like a horse and the food is getting cold.” Grabbing Ursula’s arm, he pushed her toward the kitchen. “Now go!”

  Rubbing a hand across his bald head, Joe snorted. “Young ’uns these days make you just want to tear your hair out. Winifred thinks she’s going to marry off the lass. The sooner the better, as far as I’m concerned.” He tossed a folded note onto the scratched table. “This came for you a couple of hours ago, Nick. T’was a footman named Gillman. In Lady Janus’s service.”

  “Thanks, Joe. And thanks for getting his name.”

  Nick reached for his purse, but Joe waved him away. “It’s on yer bill, don’t worry.”

  “Thanks.”

  Nick slowly unfolde
d the foolscap. The script flowed with elegant curves, reminding him of its author.

  Mr. Redford,

  I appreciate that you must be engaged with the weighty demands of your investigation. Nonetheless, Dillon has asked me to solicit a report from you. Time grows short, and he is most anxious for intelligence of your progress. I must confess, I am eager for news as well.

  We can meet at Newgate, but if you prefer not to take the time to journey there, you may call upon me at my residence. If you intend to call today, please do so before five o’clock or after seven. If that does not suit, you may find me then at Litchfield Park in the gazebo by the eastern entrance. There, I will be visiting with my dear friend Lady Rece, as we are wont to do.

  Thank you for your efforts on Dillon’s behalf.

  Lady Janus

  “What’s wrong?” Winner asked. “You look as if you’ve already eaten Winifred’s mutton, and I know you haven’t even ordered yet.”

  “I love Winifred’s mutton,” Nick replied distractedly. He felt a twinge of guilt in his gut. He usually did a better job keeping in contact with his clients, but Lady Janus did not need him, not really, and his efforts were better targeted elsewhere. The lovely lady was smart enough to take precautions for her safety, and she had done well enough without him before now. Moreover, even with Beaumont out of the picture, Russell Mayburn was hanging about. Nick was busy with a time-sensitive murder investigation, for heaven’s sake.

  But the flimsy excuses rang hollow in his mind. He considered the last few days and recognized that despite her frequently invading his thoughts, Nick had been avoiding Lady Janus.

  Slowly, he realized that he was afraid of becoming diverted by her. The lady was too exquisite by far, and her character seemed to grow in his estimation with each moment that he spent in her presence. A dangerous combination for the man who had sworn never to touch her.

  Still, he should have checked in on her just the same. He was one of the few people aware of the menace against her. The idea of a threat to her tickled at his conscience. He reread the note.

  “‘I will be visiting with my dear friend Lady Rece, as we are wont to do,’” he murmured under his breath. Why did that bother him? Because if she did it on a regular basis, then others might expect her to be there.

  He stood. “I think I’d better go check on this.”

  “Where are you off to, if I may ask?”

  Classic Winner, curious as a cat. But where was the harm? “Litchfield Park.”

  “Don’t take a hackney. You’re better off on foot this time of day. Take Northland. And do you have an umbrella? It looked like rain.”

  Nick brandished his cane. “This will have to do.” Nick threaded his way through the customers, heading out the door.

  Through her thin muslin skirts, the stone bench in the gazebo was cold under Lillian’s bottom. She pulled her silk spencer more tightly around her neck, hoping to ward off the evening’s chill. The outer garment was probably filthy by now. What had she been thinking, putting on a thin white silk spencer for her meeting with Lady Rece in the park? Was I trying to appear chaste? she wondered, annoyed with herself. Hard to do when the eggshell muslin gown she wore underneath hugged her every curve. She did not fool herself; she had dressed on the slim possibility that Redford might show.

  Despite her insistence that nothing occur between them, gallingly, she still wanted to look her best when he was around. The problem was, most of her wardrobe was for a worldly high stepper. Even though she was no longer an innocent, she was hardly a Cyprian, either. It was like she was in a sort of sexual limbo, from which she doubted she would ever emerge. Fanny had explained that she had not really experienced the full act of sex, and she wondered if she ever would.

  Where was Redford, anyway? It had been three days, and she had not heard from him. She had spent most of the interim at the prison, and she had made it her business to be in residence in the evenings. Maddeningly, no one had called. Not even Russell.

  Dillon was growing anxious for word, and Lillian was almost ready to chew off her thumb from worry. Granted, Redford was probably very busy, with such a short time until the trial. Nonetheless…

  She wondered if he was avoiding her. Could she have been wrong about the truce between them? Still, he should have reported to Dillon at least. Lillian had been inordinately relieved when Dillon had asked her to contact Redford. She had not had the nerve to go to Redford’s office or Tipton’s Tavern herself, but she had sent notes. Calling on him would have felt almost like begging for attention, the last thing she wanted to do.

  Still, she seemed destined to have the man in her thoughts.

  Hence, her completely unseasonable garments.

  She peered out into the darkening evening. It seemed later than half-past five. There was no sound of a carriage approaching or even footfalls on the gravel nearby. Where was everyone these days?

  Was Redford at Tipton’s Tavern having a beer? Sitting with his cronies, laughing about how he had tasted Miss Lillian Kane’s bungling charms?

  Her belly flipped with mortification. Even though she knew that it was pure fantasy, the fear lingered. No. Redford was too honorable for that. Wasn’t he?

  Thank heavens Lady Rece had asked to meet for a visit tonight. The woman could talk sense into a looby with a loose screw. Not that she could really tell the lady anything about Redford. Lady Rece did not know her secrets. She was more like a supporter in the wings. But a cherished one. Lady Rece maintained their friendship despite her husband’s staunch disapproval of Lillian, which made Lillian fully aware of how much the lovely lady really cared.

  She and Lady Rece had met at the milliner’s one fortuitous afternoon. Over tea they had realized that they had not a blessed thing in common, yet they had seemed so similar it was astounding. They had become fast friends. Lillian and Lady Rece tried to get together about every week or two, but they’d missed their last visit because of the whirlwind events surrounding Dillon’s arrest. So they were due for a chat.

  Lillian realized that two of her dear friends in Town were significantly older than she was. Fanny had to be at least thirty (probably older, but who knew?), and Lady Rece was well into her forties.

  “I wonder if I should go fetch an umbrella, my lady?” Lillian’s footman Gillman stepped forward, his shoe heels clomping loudly on the wood-planked porch. “It looks as if it might rain.”

  Roused from her musings, Lillian finally took note of the impending storm. The air was thick with moisture, and leaves flashed agitated on a restless wind.

  “Yes, it smells like rain,” she observed, recognizing that it was not as late as she had assumed; the sky was simply darkening in anticipation of the storm.

  As if confirming her words, lightning flashed. Seconds later, thunder clapped overhead, fairly shaking the rooftop with a shuddering boom. Deadly quiet shrouded the gazebo, only to be broken by the pitter-patter of a shower.

  “Oh, dear,” she muttered as realization dawned. Paper-fine white silk and water did not mix. If her ensemble got wet, it would be like plaster. She wanted to groan from the ignominy of it. Thank the heavens Redford had not chosen to meet her here. Now she just prayed that he did not decide to await her at home.

  “It’s just a little rain,” she muttered to herself. “You’ll not melt.” No, but she wanted to. She had been a fool to try to impress an uninterested man. She was acting like a girlish ninny. A mistake she would not make again.

  She nodded to her footman. “That is a good idea, Gillman. Thank you. Also, ask Jon Driver and the other footmen to bring the carriage closer. I fear that Lady Rece has been delayed.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Nodding, Gillman stepped off the porch and into the darkening woods.

  The winds whipped the tree branches into frenzy. Darkness oozed up the stairs of the gazebo like spilled ink on a desktop. The rain intensified, hammering the rooftop like tiny pellets.

  Unease filtered through her. Lady Rece had not shown. Now Lillian was
alone, unguarded in an open gazebo in the woods. She stood, feeling the sudden urge to get out of there.

  Hearing a sound behind her, she turned. A man in black stepped out from the shadows and up the rear steps of the porch. She ran screaming for the stairs.

  Chapter 14

  In the gloom, Nick cursed under his breath as the rain lashed at his face and glazed his woolen cloak wet. This was ridiculous. Lady Janus had probably come, taken one look at the rain clouds, and left in her nice dry carriage before the storm. Why the hell was he out here risking a chill when the rest of the world was home safe and dry?

  His boot heel slipped on a rut in the path and he tripped, just barely catching himself. Still, he pressed on, knowing that he could sooner disregard that sinking feeling in his gut as ignore a ravenous stomach. They were both signals to him that something needed doing, and without delay.

  He shifted his heavy cape more fully around his shoulders, glad that he had thought to wear it tonight. He cursed the gods for mocking him so. “Couldn’t have the rendezvous on a cloudless spring morning, eh? That would be too convenient. Blasted fool’s errand.” He prayed it was so.

  A scream shattered the night, jolting his heart and raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

  He spun and tore down the path, heading toward the sound. Fear lent his boot heels wings. Coming out from the cover of trees, he spied a structure in the distance. The faint outline drew his racing steps, and he charged up the wooden stairs two at a time. The sight before him froze him in his tracks.

  A man swathed in black clutched Lady Janus tightly before him. His ebony arm snaked about her shoulders, and he held a glittering dagger perilously near her throat.

  Her face was as white as her coat, and her eyes were wide with terror. Fear gripped Nick so hard that he felt as if the knife were at his own throat. That would have been far preferable.