by L. L. Muir
“Ten seconds, gentlemen.”
Finally, and calmly, Lord Anonymous’ man stepped to the book and held out his hand for the pen. When the duke pulled it back, the gasp from the onlookers made him reconsider and he handed it over.
A hasty X was followed by a one and three zeros just before the book slammed shut on the still-wet ink. The man doing the slamming was a tall nervous rat of a man in spectacles. His pitiful moustache hairs grew horizontally, giving him a decidedly rodent quality. It was a quandary why such a man wouldn’t choose to shave twice daily.
The rat ceremoniously picked up the ledger as if his life savings might be contained therein.
“Wait a moment,” said Redmond. “I would like this delivered with the book.” He tucked a hastily written note inside the cover.
“A note that reads, ‘a hundred pounds more than the last bid, plus my best riding horse?’” Leland couldn’t help but guess. “That’s hardly fair I think.”
Redmond laughed in a manner that dropped Leland’s stomach to his feet. Would the man take issue with being called a cheat in public? If the prince got wind of it and sent them to The Tower, even for a week or two, Stromberg’s tenants would suffer.
“No, Wescott. Perhaps Lord Anonymous will have her first, but second is surely up for grabs.” He moved close to Leland and whispered, “Or perhaps I was warning her guardian that the little minx knows what he’s up to and should be closely guarded. You were warning her this morning, were you not? That is why you didn’t bid. You didn’t believe she’d be around to enjoy the festivities.”
The only reason Redmond was left standing was because even now Lady Aphrodite was busy putting her plan into action.
At least she’d better be. The way Redmond’s men surrounded him, he knew he’d not be allowed to leave White’s for quite some time, just in case.
Run, Aphrodite! Run!
CHAPTER THREE
Tempest took one last look in the mirror, searching for a hint of the confidence she needed to go forward. A fool looked back. She should have begged the Duke of Stromburg to help her escape the park that morning, before Big John could collect her, but she hadn’t been thinking clearly. Although the duke seemed quite relieved she had a plan and would have no need of his aid, she was certain he would have helped if she’d but asked.
Lord Fool some called him, though never to his face of course. Some nonsense about the war. But one look in the man’s eyes proved he was no coward. Were people blind?
Lady Fool blinked like an idiot in the mirror. She had no business lurking about, drumming up courage, when the women of the staff were risking all below stairs, likely quaking in their boots, as anxious to get her away as she was to be gone.
She shook her head and reached for the door. The evening was slipping away. It was past time.
Back in her old clothes, she appeared little more than a servant as she made her way down the staircase. She wore a drab lavender gown she’d purchased while in mourning for her mother. A paisley pattern of slightly darker lavender made the fabric appear more like wallpaper than cloth, especially in comparison to the lovely lemon ensemble now stuffed into a carpet bag and hidden in the carriage house.
Tempest paused at the bottom step to cough, signaling her crew of accomplices to man their stations.
She would wander through the kitchens to check on supper preparations, then walk out the servant’s door. Penny would toss pig’s fat on the fire for the first distraction while Tempest retrieved her sack. Hilde would run to the end of the block to flag down a hack. Maude was prepared to scream rat the second Ledford began looking for her. If Hilde failed to have a hack waiting, Tempest was quite prepared to walk out of her stepfather’s life if need be. She had money, forged letters of recommendations, and a country destination where she might lay low for a month or so before looking for some sort of employment...as anything but some man’s Mistress.
But first she needed to get out of the house.
“Tempest, my dear, is that you?” Ledford called from the large sitting room to her right. Chills snaked up the back of her neck and fanned out into her hair. He would never have spoken to her so cordially unless they had company. He usually called her Temper Temper.
But she had no time for company.
The kitchen lay down the hallway to the right. Indecision froze her until she took a deep breath. She would not let another opportunity get away from her. She turned right.
“Tempest? Join me won’t you? I’m afraid I must...insist.”
It was the sing-song manner in which he’d said ‘insist’ that stopped her. She’d been caught. She knew it. But surely none of the household would have given her away!
As long as her sack was well hidden, her plan could still work. Later, after Ledford had gone to sleep, she’d try again. She’d crawl out a window and shimmy down a pipe if necessary, but she would leave tonight, help or no help.
She pulled back her slumped shoulders and turned toward the drawing room, stopping in the doorway and curtsying to the man who deserved no such respect. Blank faced, she waited for him to speak.
He sat in her mother’s overstuffed chair smoking a cigar and allowing the ash to drop onto the beloved floral arms. She believed he’d stop smiling if she pretended not to notice. She was wrong. He merely nodded toward the mantle.
Her yellow gown hung there--the gown that had been in her precious sack!
If there’d been a fire on the grate, it would have been nothing but a larger pile of ashes than that on her mother’s chair.
She didn’t dare look at the man until she had her wits back. If he had her gown, he had her money, her forged references, her destination. He’d know Hilde’s family was prepared to hide her. Hilde would be made to pay. But she wouldn’t allow that to happen, no matter what it took!
Finally, she looked back at Ledford. And waited.
“You hurt my feelings, Temper, stuffing this perfectly good dress into that filthy sack. It really should be...allowed to hang.” He laughed. “Allowed to hang. Don’t you see? Allowed to hang...like a forger.” Again, he laughed.
Tempest allowed the words to blow past her like a harmless wind. Ranting and railing at her luck would hardly serve her at the moment. When she still offered no reaction, he went on.
“In any case, you’ll need to the gown tomorrow night, when you meet your...intended. You should look your best, don’t you think?”
“My intended?” She allowed only the barest hint of curiosity to affect her expression.
“Yes, my dear. You’re going to be wed. It’s all arranged. You must have suspected something. Wedding jitters had you attempting to run away, is that it?” He rose and walked around his chair. He bent, and when he stood once more, he was holding the sack, presumably with the rest of her precious belongings. Her mother’s jewels, bequeathed on her deathbed. A small portrait of the woman, though poorly rendered. Sensible clothes. Precious letters her mother had penned on special occasions, to remind a young girl of a dead father she was certain to forget. A small china angel safeguarded in one of her mother’s old shawls. The wrap still smelled of the woman’s favorite perfume.
“John. Take her.”
Before Tempest realized they weren’t alone in the room, the sure grip of Big John’s hands wrapped around her upper arms. She knew better than to struggle; she’d only end up bruised for it.
“To the kitchens, I think.” Ledford walked out of the room, gaily swinging the large sack, leaving John to bring along his prisoner.
When they entered the kitchens, there were no signs of her would-be accomplices, but the fire was well-stoked.
“No supper tonight, I fear.” Ledford nodded to John to bring her closer. “But at least one of your plans should be successful, don’t you think?” With his free hand, he took up a bowl of liquid from the mantle. “Pig’s fat, I assume.”
He looked to her for a reaction. She rolled her eyes and looked away. When he tossed the bag onto the fire and it made a sma
ll clink, she couldn’t help but wince.
The angel.
She turned her head, refusing to watch, refusing to feel. The angel had a chip on her wing. Tempest should have tossed it out long ago. The portrait hadn’t been a good likeness. The letters were all but memorized. The shawl had needed a good wash. It might have been her imagination, but she thought she’d caught just a whiff of perfume through the smoke.
Imagined or not, she choked on it.
Under the wave of emotion that could not be restrained by her bit of reasoning, her knees began to give way, but John held her upright. She was almost grateful. A heartbeat later, her ragged breathing was interrupted by a loud whoosh, and though her eyes were closed, she felt the heat of flashing flames, smelled the burning fat. Still, she refused to watch.
But Ledford’s scream got her attention. The man was on fire!
John pushed her aside to get to his master. He removed his coat and swung it toward the flames licking up Ledford’s pant leg, but the older man kept dancing about in a circle. John stood back, giant coat at the ready, waiting for Ledford to complete his turn.
Go!
Tempest didn’t know if it was her own thought or a prompt from a guardian angel, but she moved as if she, too, were on fire. She skirted around the room, keeping the large tables between herself and her enemies. When she reached the door, Ledford was still dancing about, shouting at John.
“Put it out! Put it out!”
Big John noticed her then. He shook his head as if in warning. But why would he be warning her? He turned his attention back to his master, finally pushed the man to the ground, and began beating him with his coat.
Tempest pushed the door and ran outside and through the small garden, spurred on by her stepfather’s screams. If the flames were out, Big John would be right behind her.
She shouldered her way through the rear gate and turned left. Each choice, each turn, would be the opposite of what she had planned, just in case her stepfather knew all. It was dark, but the evening was young. There’d be far too many witnesses of her every move once she made it to the street. She’d have to hide for a few hours. With the busy road in site, she stopped and pushed at a pain in her side, then prayed for inspiration.
To her right, a small gardener’s shack stood just inside the gate to the Osbournes’ garden. A perfect place for hiding! She only hoped she could get inside, and that John wouldn’t notice the small roof when he came by.
She glanced behind her and reached for the gate, but it opened of its own accord and a grubby dark-skinned man emerged.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, mum.” He looked up and down the alley, then back at her. “How may I be of service?”
Tempest had no time to compose a story and hoped the truth might suffice. She was brief. Less than a minute later, she was tucked up nicely inside the shack, a sturdy stool beneath her, a dim lantern at her elbow, and a relatively clean blanket around her shoulders, which she hardly needed on such a moderate evening, but she appreciated it all the same. The hero gardener vowed to keep watch all night if need be and would not be dissuaded.
Once the door was closed, Tempest counted her blessings and waited for Big John to come looking for her.
Only he didn’t come.
It wasn’t as if she’d run for miles. He couldn’t have tired and given up. And he was hardly a quiet man in spite of being mute. No one that size could have come searching down the alleyway without her hearing at least his large footsteps.
Tempest considered that her stepfather might have been more badly injured that she’d suspected. But she refused to fret over the monstrous man’s health. Besides, the fire couldn’t have done too much damage with all the dancing he’d done. Like as not, John’s great coat did the most harm, since the more sincere screaming began after the big man had knocked Ledford down.
She tried to think Christian thoughts about the man’s current state, but failed. She hoped it hurt like hell. If only his face would have been affected instead of his leg, he’d not be so easily able to woo future widows into his lair.
Growling echoed through the walls of her sanctuary and she deduced her hero had fallen asleep with his back to the shack. Surely an hour had passed. The noises from the roadway had diminished considerably. A bit longer perhaps, then she’d go.
Why hadn’t John come looking for her? Was he lazy? Had he shaken his head to discourage a footrace?
No. She remembered it clearly; it had definitely been a warning.
A warning of what? Retribution? What retribution could match the horror of her stepfather’s plans for her? The auction was likely taking place at that very moment. If Ledford had to cancel due to her escape, would he be so humiliated he would hunt her down and kill her? Nonsense. Her stepfather never suffered from humiliation. Anger? Yes. Humiliation? Never. And his anger would fade once his next scheme commenced brewing in his greedy little mind.
She’d seen the man at his worst, when he’d learned he wouldn’t inherit all her mother had. He’d murdered no one then, though perhaps he’d begun to invent the scenario that now led Tempest to a gardener’s shack in the middle of the night.
But why hadn’t John come?
If Penny had sent for a doctor, John would be free to search her out--
Penny! Hilde and Maude! She’d seen none of them since lunchtime!
John hadn’t come because he knew she’d come back...to help the others.
He’d warned her not to go. Did he worry what might happen to the other women if she escaped? Was there something warm and alive in that large soundless chest after all?
She should find out...since she was going back anyway.
***
At half past midnight, there was a knock at the door. Tempest gave up trying to guess what might happen next.
The doctor was already with Ledford. John acted as butler. Tempest sat on a chair in the hallway, waiting for her stepfather to grant her an audience. She had to discover what he'd done with the servants and what she must do to ensure their safe return and continued employ.
It was all pretense of course. She knew precisely what he would demand.
John led two men up the stairs, held up a hand to indicate they should wait in the hallway, and entered Ledford's bedroom.
The first wore spectacles and carried a red book as if it were the pillow for the Crown Jewels. When he noticed Tempest, he bowed his head politely, then choked, then blushed profusely. By the low light of the lamps, he appeared purple as he shook and sputtered and stepped away from her--as if she'd brought on his personal plague. The reverence he'd shown the ledger was gone. The book disappeared behind the man's back.
Then she knew.
The auction. The results of it were no doubt contained within the pages.
She considered retiring to her room, but thought better of it. Who was she to be embarrassed by the lurid actions of men? Let them be mortified.
She lifted her chin and looked the man in the eye. Or, rather, she would have if he were again capable of looking in her direction. Instead, he cowered behind the second man, who was confused by the actions of the first until he noticed Tempest's presence. Instead of blushing and looking away, he strode over to her, took her hand, and bowed as if just presented to the Prince Regent.
"Miss MacIntyre, I presume?" He gave a warm smile, as if truly pleased to have stumbled across her in the hallway.
"Yes. I am."
"I am...hmm." He frowned at the floor.
Had he forgotten who he was?
"I am...Mister Gordon, miss. Keep a stiff upper, that's a good lass. Nearly finished with all this nonsense--"
The first gentleman cleared his throat rather pointedly.
Mister Gordon dropped his chin to his chest and gave the other man what could only be called an evil eye from beneath his white brows.
The first man shook his head and turned expectantly to the door.
Gordon gave her fingers a little squeeze before stepping away.
&nbs
p; What an odd man. And if his business with her stepfather had anything to do with the auction, why would he not be embarrassed to face her?
Had the Duke of Stromburg been wrong? Was there really to be a wedding after all? Did she indeed have an appointment to meet her intended the following evening?
If she dared hope, if she dared believe such a thing, wouldn't it be wonderful if this warm man was in her intended's employ? Surely this kind gentleman wouldn’t work for a monster.
The door opened. John stood back to allow the doctor to exit the room.
"How is he, Doctor?" Tempest's concern was real, but it wasn't for her uncle.
"He'll be fine, fine. In a bit of pain, though. Let him drink himself numb, says I. Burns cause tremendous pain, you know. But it's just the one leg, and a bit of his hand. I've left some balm. Apply more in the morning and wrap him in clean dressing once a day." The doctor took a few steps and turned back. "He said it was pig's fat."
"Yes, sir. He tossed it on a fire."
"Well, I'm sure he learned a lesson there."
I'm sure he didn't, she was tempted to say, but she smiled and nodded.
“Murray, are you there?” Ledford called from inside the room. “Come in, man! Come in!"
John gestured the men inside. While he waited to shut the door after them, he shook his head at Tempest, just as he'd done earlier.
She jumped to her feet, to ask him where the women were, but he firmly closed the door in her face.
Alone in the hallway, she pressed her ear to the door.
“Who's this, then?" Ledford bellowed.
"This is...the man with the highest bid, sir. Or rather, he represents the man with the highest bid."
"The book! Hand me the book!"
Dear Heavens! It had only been an action after all. As her stomach plummeted, it nearly pulled her to the floor, but she hadn't the leisure for self-pity. She must discover what they had planned for her!
Ledford laughed in surprise, then laughed himself silly. The others made no sound while they waited for the baron to compose himself.