“All of these rooms contain wine?” He tried to keep disappointment from his voice.
“Aye. Well, the finest aged spirits, as well. You want a bottle of Scotch that belonged to Bonnie Prince Charlie himself? We got it. That’s why they’re locked up, see? If you want something from down here, only the Head Wine Steward has the keys.”
“What about that door, there?” Stephen pointed at the unlocked portal.
“Oh, that just goes down to the second level.”
His own pulse sounded loud in his ears. “Another level of wine cellars?”
“Nah, that’s the dungeons down there. For them as likes the weird stuff.”
Stephen swallowed. “How bizarre. I don’t suppose you’d show me?”
The barman shook his head. “Can’t, my lord. Madame’s very strict about privacy for those patrons. The bookings are timed so they don’t run into each other, and staff use a separate staircase.”
“Does that go to the staff stairs, then? I can’t imagine you’d have patrons wandering through the wine cellars.”
His guide grinned. “Staff neither. No, this staircase doesn’t get used much, but Madame hasn’t bricked it up in case there’s an emergency. Fire, or flooding. There’s access to the river from some of the dungeons, so if the water rises suddenly, they flood. People might need to get out in a hurry. Come on, my lord. I’ve got to get back.” He turned and started back through the maze of cellars.
Stephen took a last look at the unlocked door, memorizing its location, and followed, flicking open his gold watch. It was nearly time for the conspirators to meet and pool what they’d learned.
Maisie, with her inside knowledge of the establishment, tracked everyone down—except Abby, who could not be found—and herded them by ones and twos into an unused parlor on the first floor. “We should be safe enough in here, at least for a bit. Me, I’ll start. I don’t know which dungeon for sure, but it’s either going to be Number Three, Five, or Seven. That narrows it down.”
“His name is Cosgrove,” Charles said, slipping an arm around Sam. “The lads told me that. Time was, he wasn’t quite so bad, but he’s got worse and worse over the years.”
“Is there any way we can get a look at Madame’s books?” Rebecca looked at Maisie. “The girls say she’s very meticulous about her records. Now that we know his name, if we can see which dungeon he’s booked, we’ll know that’s where Jamie is. Or is going to be. Does anyone know if he’s here yet?”
There was a flurry of head-shaking.
“No,” Stephen said, “but if it helps, I’ve found a rarely-used entrance to the dungeons through the wine cellar. When the time comes, we can get down there without running into anyone on the staff or patron stairs.”
If only the others didn’t look so surprised that he had been able to contribute.
Maisie spoke up. “If you’re going to try for Madame’s office, now’s the time. She usually takes a break for a late supper about now. You should—”
The door opened suddenly, and they all started guiltily, each instantly groping for a reason for their curious assembly.
It was Abby Sawtell, who didn’t bother with any recital of where she’d been, whom she’d spoken with, or how she’d found them. “Lad’s here. Eight o’clock.”
Stephen swallowed painfully. “Jamie’s been here for over two hours? Oh, my God.”
“Cosgrove’s not. Yet.”
“That’s amazing, Abby,” Charles said. “Have you found out which dungeon?”
She hadn’t.
Maisie quickly gave directions to Madame’s office. “I’d show you myself, but if I’m gone from the kitchens much longer, I’ll be in trouble. If one of you can get to me there when you’ve found out which room, I’ll see if I can get the key.”
“Who’s going to the office?” Stephen asked. “I’m too well-known here. Charles?”
“Yes, Mr. Symmons and I can do it. We can pretend we’re lost if we get caught.”
“I have a better idea,” Rebecca put in. “I’ll go with you—then, if anyone sees us, we can say they’re trying to book my time.”
Maisie shook her head, looking toward the door. “Any of the stewards could arrange that—you wouldn’t need to go to the office yourselves.”
“But I’m new—I don’t know that.” Rebecca smiled. “Come on, lads, fancy a go?”
Stephen chewed on his fingertip. “Maybe the rest of us should just wait in the wine cellar. It’s too complicated to gather us up again.”
“Good idea.” Charles grinned through the gathering tension. “All right, ye piece o’ fancy,” he said to Rebecca. “Let’s just get us put down for a mite o’—how about Portuguese, with a side of Red Indian, Mr. S?”
Mr. Symmons coughed. “If that’s where your tastes truly lie, Mr. West. But I should think your Sam would be very surprised.”
Lady Matilda waited patiently in her coach outside Madame Novotny’s. Once her tame Runners had brought the surprising news that Julian’s dresser Bertie had escorted young Mr. Riley to the brothel, she had been quick to follow. Any reason Julian had for wanting Jamie in such a place could not be good.
At last, Mr. Hammond opened the door and leaned in. “Your nephew and Jeffries are here, but not together. Lord St. Joseph has been playing cards since just after nine, while Jeffries seems to be waiting for someone in a private parlor.”
“Another lover?” Lady Matilda’s eyes gleamed. “We may be able to kill two birds with one stone tonight. But the safety of the Riley boy comes first. Where is he?”
Hammond shook his head. “I don’t know, but he’s not with Jeffries’ dresser. Bertie Ellis is drinking alone in the second-class barroom. Looking very morose, if you ask me.”
Lady Matilda collected her gold-tipped cane. “Then it’s time you and I had a chat with Mr. Ellis, don’t you think?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The heavy, iron-banded door swung inward. Cosgrove shouldered Julian out of the way, eager to take the measure of his prey. The first impression was extremely favorable—young men, he had always found, are at their best chained to walls. Naked. Defenseless. Cosgrove moved closer, liking the way this one clung to defiance, his muscles taut as if poised for an escape that was not going to happen. It was so disappointing when they gave up too soon.
The subject gave a cry as he recognized Cosgrove’s companion. “You bastard!” It yanked at its chains. “Get me out of here. Your little joke has gone far enough.”
“Joke?” Julian smiled. “I assure you, you won’t be laughing for long.”
Cosgrove glared at the actor. Why wouldn’t the man shut up? “It’s a much better looking specimen than you led me to believe. Are you certain it won’t be missed?”
“No one will care, I guarantee it.”
“I’m not an it, sir. My name is James Riley, and—”
“Tell it to shut up, Mr. Jeffries, or the first thing I shall remove will be its tongue.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” The subject was struggling to keep his voice reasonable, but the stink of fear emanated from him. “Wouldn’t it be much more satisfying to hear me plead for mercy?”
Cosgrove was amused. Sometimes they even thought they could outwit him. “Jeffries—there was supposed to be a brazier. Where is my brazier?”
Julian waved a hand. “Bother the brazier. You can heat things up in the fireplace. Aren’t you going to get on with it?”
Cosgrove stalked over to the actor. “Mr. Jeffries. You will fetch my brazier, and you will do it now.”
The actor stiffened, then shot a glance at Jamie, chained to the wall, and his posture relaxed. It was clear that the entertainment he anticipated was worth a little pride. “Of course. I’ll be back shortly.”
Cosgrove inspected the room, liking what he saw. The thick stone walls afforded both the privacy he needed for his efforts and the forbidding atmosphere that proved so effective at dampening the spirits of his subjects. Speaking of damp… He frowned. D
ungeons should be cold and dank, he supposed, but at his age he really appreciated the fire warming the chamber. Hopefully, the subject wouldn’t find it too comfortable—but then again, the boy didn’t have the advantage of clothing. Cosgrove tugged at the sleeve of his sober black evening jacket, enjoying the discreet flicker of gold from the buttons on the cuff. It was these small achievements that made his climb to riches so satisfying.
Cosgrove turned his back to the boy on the wall as he lifted the towel from the tray on the cart, grunting in satisfaction at the implements he found there. They were honed to a perfect sharpness: some, he’d heard, appreciated the agony caused by a dull blade, but he preferred to err on the side of precision.
“That was a nice touch,” the subject said, still trying to engage him in conversation. “Covering the tray. Bit of a risk, though. If I were a man of little imagination, leaving me here for a few hours in plain sight of your tools would have been more terrifying. But for someone like me, it was much more effective to make me wonder.”
Cosgrove ignored the words, holding up a utensil to catch the firelight, angling the reflection so that the light hit the chained young man in the face. “Ah,” he said, and smiled. “So few can appreciate the many uses of a sharpened spoon.”
The chains rattled slightly as the young man shuddered. “It’s so ironic, that I spent all that time in my studies, only to fall into your hands.” A note of desperation was already creeping into its voice. Perhaps it was time to play along for a few minutes.
Cosgrove picked up a poker and poked the fire up, adding another few pieces of wood. At the last minute, he slid the iron implement into the coals, leaving it there, half-buried. A little something to keep in reserve until the brazier heated. “Studies? What do your studies have to do with me?”
“Not you precisely, but someone I fancy is very like you. Have you never heard of the Wolf of Wheldrake?”
“Wheldrake? Where’s that?” He moved closer, reveling in the young man’s increased tension as he neared.
“In Yorkshire. Did nothing make the papers down here?”
“I don’t read the papers. People tell me what I need to know.” Was there any chance this story was true? “If there is something I need to know, I suggest you tell me while you still can.”
“It…” The boy faltered, having to begin again. “It started about seven years ago. A boy was found with his throat ripped out, as if by a wolf or very large dog. I didn’t think it was an animal, but no one would believe me. They found and shot a big black dog, and considered it over.”
“But of course, it wasn’t.”
“No. He was perhaps the cleverest human monster to ever walk the face of the Earth.”
“Clever? How so?”
“It took a long while to realize the attacks were carefully timed, to build fear in the district. None for months, so that people would pray he was gone at last. Then, a body each month, and then every week, until everyone was terrified that he would strike nightly…”
Cosgrove licked his lips. “And then he’d stop, wouldn’t he?” Even as the fiction he took it for, it was an appealing story. He liked that this one was trying so hard. It would be that much more satisfying to break him in the end.
“Yes. For just long enough. Another curious thing—”
A rap sounded at the door, dimly heard through its thickness. Cosgrove turned his dead eyes toward the noise. “Do shut up now.” He crossed to the door, allowing Julian back in. The actor’s arms were full.
“Here’s the brazier, and a bag of extra charcoal that should keep it going for a good long time. Madame apologized in person, and threw in this bottle of wine for our trouble. Care for a glass?”
“No.”
“I’ll just help myself, then.” Julian uncorked the wine and poured himself a measure, carrying it over to enjoy the sight of Jamie, chained to the wall. “Look at you.” The lovely green eyes were filled with scorn as they appraised the naked body before him. “How Stephen could ever consider such a scrawny little thing, when he had me—”
“It might be slender,” Cosgrove said, “but it is very well made.” He ignored the actor’s pout. Tiresome man: grating in so many ways, from his preening vanity to the lack of taste evident in his bright yellow waistcoat. His only value was as another instrument to use against the young man on the wall—unless he could use them both against each other? Intriguing thought. “You’ve made me a rare find, Mr. Jeffries. Tell me, though. Why do you hate the boy so much? Did this Stephen you mention prefer him to you?”
“Prefer him?” Julian’s laugh was harsh. “A passing interest, I assure you. Look at him! No one who had ever seen me naked could prefer him.”
“Perhaps I’m at a disadvantage, then,” Cosgrove purred. “Remove your clothes, Mr. Jeffries.”
“What?” Julian froze, like an animal finally scenting danger when the wind turned.
“You so clearly hate this rival of yours. Wouldn’t you find it amusing to sport with him a little?”
“Oh.” The golden haired one relaxed. “You’d hate that, wouldn’t you, brat?”
“Of course I would, or he wouldn’t be suggesting it.” The younger man shrank against the wall, obviously disturbed by the thought of the actor touching him. “He’s a very perceptive man, haven’t you gathered that?”
Cosgrove narrowed his eyes at such flagrant flattery. Perhaps the tongue would have to go soon after all. “You tell me then—why is it that Jeffries hates you so much?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” the subject said. “I’m in love with his patron.”
“Ah. Stephen Clair, isn’t it? I heard the most interesting story the other day, about an outburst at a party…” He stood even closer, watching the boy’s face avidly. “Jeffries doesn’t hate you because you love his Stephen. Where’s the threat in that? He hates you because his Stephen loves you.”
Nice. The young body stiffened in pain, and he hadn’t even had to touch him yet. Time to turn the knife a little—figuratively speaking, at this point. “Oh, how wonderful. You didn’t know, did you? And that makes it so much worse. To die now, with such happiness just beyond your grasp.” He waved a hand at Julian. “It’s all this man’s fault. It was his idea to sell you to me, to wreck any chance you might have had to be with your love. Look at him, gloating at you. How you must despise him.”
The actor approached the chained man, smiling. “Shall I hurt him now?”
Cosgrove raised a brow. “You have no instinct for this. Sometimes I wonder if I have the right specimen in chains.” Oh, the looks on both their faces. The flare of hope in the one; the unease in the other. He smiled. “You have no instinct for this,” he repeated. “Hurt him? No, I want you to arouse him.”
“Arouse him?” Julian looked taken aback.
“Yes, you idiot. Don’t you understand how much more deeply that will wound him?”
Comprehension dawned in the sea-green eyes, and the actor reached out his hand. “Yes, I see. You’re really going to loathe this, aren’t you?”
“She’s still in there.” Charles barely breathed the words, peeking out through the door of the closet across from Madame’s office. He, Mr. Symmons and Rebecca had been able to get this far unobserved, but were now stuck waiting for the brothel’s mistress to leave for her supper. “Oh, bloody hell!”
“What is it?” Rebecca hissed.
“A girl is bringing a tray. Madame’s going to eat at her desk. No, wait! Here comes Maisie as well. She must have a plan.”
They all leaned forward to listen, barely able to make out every third or fourth word the housemaid spoke.
“…forgot…Jeffries…angry…insists…recompense?”
Madame’s voice was clearer, and only slightly accented after so many years in England. “Fob him off with a bottle of wine. Nothing too fancy. He insists on speaking with me? Very well. I can spare a moment.”
Charles strained to see the legendary proprietress as she passed their hiding place, but in the d
im hallway she was a creature of shadows in her dove-grey silk gown. “She’s gone. Come on, we only have a few minutes.”
The two men slipped into the unguarded office, leaving Rebecca to watch at the door. Charles was struck by how similar Madame’s office was to Lady Matilda’s, both of them no-nonsense places of business within a much more luxurious setting. The two greatest financial minds in London seemed to think alike.
“Cosgrove, Cosgrove. I don’t see it.” There was an edge of panic in Mr. Symmons’ voice as he scanned the ledger on the solid oak desk.
Charles leaned over the book and flipped the page. “Today’s the twenty-first, not twentieth. I still don’t see…”
“There!” Mr. Symmons stabbed his finger on the entry. “She spelled it with a K—look, Kosgrove. But damn it, what does this say? Her numbers are no better. It could be a three, or a five.”
“Five,” said Charles. “I think?”
“Hurry!” Rebecca hissed from the doorway. “She won’t be gone much longer.”
“Yes,” Mr. Symmons said. “It has to be a five. Let’s go.”
They paused briefly in the hallway. “I’ll get Maisie,” Rebecca said. “You two join his lordship and the others in the wine cellar, and wait for us to bring the key.”
Apparently, it wasn’t unusual for Madame’s girls to wander in and out of the kitchens, because no one seemed to give her presence there a second thought. She found Maisie quickly, and it was a good thing.
“He’s here!” Maisie was trembling. “Cosgrove. Mr. Jeffries is with him—he was just up here raising hell about a missing brazier, and Madame had to give him a bottle of wine to make up for it.”
“Brazier!” Rebecca felt her stomach lurch. “It’s Number Five, Maisie. Can we get the key?”
“Yes. Follow me.”
They retrieved the key to Number Five and flew through the utilitarian back corridors of the brothel, then down the stairs to the wine cellars. At first they didn’t see their colleagues in the darkness, until someone opened the cover on his lantern so that just a gleam showed through to guide them.
The Price of Temptation Page 23