“Give me time to summon the watch.”
“To hell with the watch. Get Devlin and my brothers. Catch up with me at Miss Race’s.”
She’d known before they arrived where they were going. There it was, rising out of the fog. The Ballinger estate, the spire of its eerie chapel rising like a stake from the heart of the grounds. The very place she’d been going to come tonight with her little key after everyone had retired.
Would she find, at last, the door it opened? Missy guided her through the iron gate and to a path that curved around the house and led to the chapel.
The pistol in the pocket that lay against Gina’s thigh comforted her. “Do you think he’s here?”
“If he is not here now, he will come soon. He… Christina said this is his favorite place.”
She shivered with more than the cold. Christina, indeed! Henley loved this place because it was the scene of all his debaucheries. The scene of her disgrace. Her hand went to her throat as she paused at the chapel door.
“Come, Gina. It will be warmer inside,” Missy cajoled.
She stepped into a small vestibule, waiting for a memory or a feeling of familiarity, but nothing came. She must have been unconscious or heavily drugged when she’d been brought here.
Missy lit a candle, opened another door and nodded for Gina to precede her into the vestry. Black cowls hung on pegs and were scattered on the floor, and an overturned bench gave testament to the chaos of that long-ago night.
A bone-deep chill seeped through her. Anxious to dispel the aura of evil, she passed through the vestry to the nave. A barren altar lay ahead of her, and in front of that, a red rug thrown back from an open trapdoor.
Her stomach clenched. Though she had no memory of it, she knew she had been carried down those wooden steps into the inky darkness below. She slipped her hand into the slit in her seam to accommodate the pocket and gripped the handle of the pistol, taking comfort from the fact that, this time, she was prepared to defend herself.
Missy passed her and opened a door behind the altar—the sacristy, where vestments and sacred vessels were kept. She retrieved a pewter chalice and a bottle of sacramental wine. “I am parched, Gina. Mr. Henley is obviously not here yet. Shall we have a sip of communion wine?” She giggled as she poured the wine into the chalice.
Gina looked down into the chamber beneath the trap door. “Are you certain he is not here? He could be down there.”
“Nonsense. Had he heard us, he would have come up. We shall have time for a drink before we go below to wait for him.”
“How will he know to look for us there?”
“He… I have heard he lives down there.” She busied herself placing the chalice on the altar and pouring a generous measure of wine into it.
The list Mr. Renquist had found! Candles, tinderbox, blanket, wine. They’d suspected Mr. Henley was setting up new quarters, and so he had. Ah, but Missy had known it, too. And now Gina knew what she had to do.
Miss Race entered her sitting room, a look of astonishment on her pretty face and her parents behind her. “Mr. Hunter, Lord Wycliffe. What… How can I help you?”
Jamie wondered how much her parents knew about the events that had led them there. He had no wish to cause trouble for her, but he needed information quickly. No time to cozen or cajole. “Miss O’Rourke is missing, Miss Race. Do you have any idea where she might be?”
Her dark eyes widened and her hand went to her heart. “No! Oh, I pray he has not got her.”
“Who, Miss Race?” Wycliffe asked.
“Mr. Henley, of course. She was looking for him, but I have prayed that she would not find him. It can mean nothing but trouble for her if she does. Stanley said…”
Jamie remembered the list of names in Henley’s writing and finished for her. “He said Miss O’Rourke was in grave danger, did he not?”
Miss Race nodded. “Stanley said Mr. Henley considered her ‘unfinished business.’”
“Do you have any idea where he might have gone? Where she might have followed him?”
“I fear not. She called upon me yesterday, and I thought she was going back to Ireland. When Georgiana called today, she did not mention her. Well, but I asked Georgie to give Miss O’Rourke a message for me.”
Jamie tamed his sense of urgency. “What did it say?”
Miss Race blushed and glanced over her shoulder at her mother and father, then squared her shoulders in a way so like Gina that his heart twisted. “I told her that Stanley and I believed that Missy had become Mr. Henley’s secret lover, and that perhaps Missy would have the answers Gina so desperately needed.”
So desperately that she’d risk her life. He’d been a bloody fool to think he could spare her that pain. If only he’d had the sense to answer her question, perhaps she’d be safe in his arms this very minute. But then he realized that answer alone would never have been enough. She’d wanted justice for her sister, as well.
He sighed deeply. “Is that all, Miss Race?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” Wycliffe said as they turned to go. “Sorry for the interruption of your evening.”
Miss Race followed them to the door, and placed her hand on Jamie’s sleeve. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Missy came to call today, too. She asked ever so many questions about Gina—where she was going to be tonight, when she was leaving for Ireland, that sort of thing. I did not think much about it then, but…I wonder if she had something to do with Gina’s disappearance.”
Hell yes. “If she did, Miss Race, do you have any idea where she might have taken Gina?”
“No. But I keep thinking of what Stanley said about unfinished business. What do you suppose Mr. Henley wants with her?”
Unfinished business? And then it all fell into place. Where else would Henley conduct his lethal business? He leaned down and gave Miss Race a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Miss Race.”
Missy swirled the wine in the chalice. “I think it is a bit stale,” she said as she offered the untasted cup.
Gina closed her fingers around the folded packet in her pocket as she lifted the cup to her lips with her other hand. She pretended to drink and then jumped, as if something had startled her. “What was that?”
Missy frowned. “What?”
“I thought I heard something. In the vestry.”
A tiny uplift at the corners of Missy’s mouth betrayed her. “I shall see if anyone is here. Meanwhile, drink up, Gina.”
How foolish did Missy think she was? The minute she started for the vestry, Gina poured the contents of the chalice down the trapdoor and quickly dumped the packet of coarse powder into it. When Missy turned back, she lifted the chalice again and tipped it up as if finishing the last drop, then managed a look of chagrin.
“Oh, sorry. I drank it all. My thirst was greater than I thought, and you were right—the wine has turned. Quite fusty and bitter, but still drinkable.” She went to the altar and poured more wine into the chalice before handing it to Missy.
Missy hesitated as she looked down into the cup. “There is likely more wine below.”
“It is not that bad. Surely you will not make me drink alone.”
Missy shrugged and took a deep drink, making a face when she was done. “Ugh. Quite nasty. That should teach Henley to leave bottles lying about.”
Gina breathed easier. She wondered how long it would take for the drug to have an effect.
“Shall we go down?” Missy asked, taking the candlestick and joining her by the trapdoor.
Praying she wouldn’t slip on the spilt wine, Gina began to descend the uneven stone steps. She could smell the spilt wine, but couldn’t see it. Then other odors assailed her—dust, damp and faint traces of pungent incense—teasing the back of her mind, awakening the dim impression of foreign sensations.
At the bottom of the stairs, she found herself in a narrow antechamber with a small closed door to her right. The first uneasy stirrings of actual memories began to wrap their tend
rils around her. Ahead lay an arched opening, and she had a vague memory of a crypt beyond.
Behind her, Missy stumbled, caught herself by leaning against the stone wall and giggled. “Clumsy me. The wine must have gone straight to my head.”
Gina hoped something had, though she guessed it would be the contents of that packet. “Here, let me help you,” she said, taking the candlestick from Missy before she could drop it and plunge the antechamber into darkness.
“You? Help me?” Another giggle.
“Sit, Missy, before you fall.”
“What’re you say…say…saying?”
“If my experience bears out, Missy, you are about to have a nice long nap.”
Missy’s blue eyes widened with disbelief. “You…you…tricked me.”
“Yes, I did. Now sit down before you fall and crack your head.”
Missy sat with a soft thump. “He’ll kill you…for this.”
Or for any number of things, she supposed. For exposing him. For escaping him. For hunting him down. It didn’t matter why, because it didn’t change the facts. And he wasn’t going to kill her. Quite the opposite.
Missy’s heavy sigh told her the girl had surrendered to the drug. She wondered how long she had before Mr. Henley would appear. She would have to work fast.
She tried the latch to the side door. Locked. Of course it was. She reached inside her décolletage and plucked her corset string, pulling upward until the key appeared. She fit it to the lock and turned. The door swung open with a faint creak.
She could not seem to make herself take that first step over the threshold, so she held the candle high to illuminate the room. It was the room in her dreams—though small, the dark stone walls seemed to swallow the light. A cot stood in the center of the room and there was an empty sconce that would have held a torch. A cup lay overturned on the floor, and crumpled in one corner was the pink gown Gina had worn to meet Mr. Henley that night.
It was true, then. All of those vague impressions, those demivisions were true. She’d been drugged and stripped here, and dressed in that filmy thing that had been removed at the altar.
And more. The hands touching her, anointing her with some sort of oil. She remembered Mr. Henley’s face, leering down at her, leaning over her and saying something that still eluded her. And…and Missy, shrouded in one of the dark cowls, her eyes glittering with excitement.
And, still, the answer to her question eluded her.
Any remaining scruples she’d had about drugging Missy disappeared in the midst of those memories. She closed the door but did not lock it. There was nothing there to frighten her anymore. She paused to check on Missy’s breathing before squaring her shoulders and passing under the arched opening to the crypt.
The evil in that chamber struck her like an open hand. Gooseflesh rose on her arms and raised the fine hairs on the back of her neck. She touched her candle to an unlit torch in a sconce by the entry and the room danced to life in the flickering light. Each stark detail had been etched on her mind, just waiting for the right stimulus to bring it back in its full horror.
A row of vaults bearing past generations of Ballingers was set into the stone walls, and she wondered what they might have thought of the way their final resting place had been desecrated. A brazier was tipped over and long-dead coals lay scattered on the floor. Everywhere, the scent of cloying incense had permeated the stones and now bled out measured doses into the air.
Gina gagged, the odor pulling her deeper into her memories. She spun around, finding the stone altar, a pagan symbol rising behind it. She thought of Cora, splayed on that altar, her blood staining the stone beneath her. Was it still there? Cora’s blood? Her blood?
Fascination drew her to that slab, and she found dark stains upon it. Bile rose in her throat and she grew dizzy. The scar on her neck throbbed as if the dagger had only now pierced her. Her hands flat on the altar, she braced herself until the waves of nausea passed and a deadly calm overtook her.
She regained her balance as she heard a sound behind her. She turned to find Cyril Henley, dressed in the black cloak he’d worn each time she’d seen him, not ten feet away. He’d come down one of the tunnels that fed into the crypt. She backed against the altar, wanting something solid at her back.
“Mr. Henley,” she acknowledged in a voice so calm she smiled.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Miss O’Rourke. How convenient to find you here.”
“Convenient? Did Missy not tell you she would lure me to you?”
He grinned. “So you know about Missy, eh? Where is she?”
“The antechamber.”
A brief look of concern passed over his face. “What did you do to her?”
“I gave her the contents of the packet in the little wooden box you left behind.”
He circled her to the right, keeping distance between them as he edged toward the arched door and the antechamber to take a peek into the darkness where Missy lay. “All of it?”
She shrugged, matching his manner of unconcern. “I believe she drank it all.”
“You stupid cow! You could have killed her.”
“I really wouldn’t know. I just assumed it was the same dose you gave me in July. How much was in that packet?”
“She’ll be insensible until this time tomorrow.”
“Ah, well, then. A pity she will miss all the excitement.” She slipped her hand into her pocket and felt the butt of the pistol.
“Do you think you’ll escape this time, Miss O’Rourke?”
“I’m fairly certain of it.” She removed her hand from her pocket and pointed the pistol at Mr. Henley’s heart.
He laughed. “You don’t have the nerve for it. If you did, I’d be dead now.”
How odd that she felt so calm—as if everything for the past two and a half months had led her to this place and time. “You would be dead if I didn’t want something from you.”
“I have nothing of yours, chit.”
“You have answers. I have questions.”
He laughed, a manic sound that made her certain he was quite mad. “I thought you knew everything.”
“I want to know if you are the one who killed Cora.”
His grin spread. “Ah. Cora O’Rourke. Sweet thing, she was. Looked a bit like you.”
She would not be distracted. “Did you?”
“Hmm. There were several of us who held the knife. ’Twas Daschel who carved her up, but yes, I might have been the one to deliver the coup de grâce.”
Her finger twitched. Oh, how she wanted to pull that trigger. But not yet. Not quite yet. “You are a pig, Mr. Henley. Not human at all.”
He shrugged. “I’ve worked at it, little Gina. I may call you that?”
“No.” She braced her arm with her other hand as the pistol began to waver. “What of Mr. Metcalfe? Mr. Booth? Charles Hunter and the others?”
“Metcalfe was a personal delight—tried to talk his way out of it. Someone else took care of Mr. Booth for me. That idiot Artie Gibbons botched the job on Hunter and his brother. Still, there’s no escape for them. I’ve posted bounties on them all. Sooner or later, one of the Whitechapel scum will succeed.”
“Were I to guess, Mr. Henley, I’d say the threat will cease to exist when you do. Without the reward, there will be no incentive.”
“Canny little bitch, aren’t you? But that is supposing I cease to exist instead of you.”
“One more question, Mr. Henley, and I may let you live if you answer honestly. Did you rape me in the antechamber before the ritual?”
He blinked, then a salacious smile spread over his hateful face. “You don’t remember, Gina? How very amusing.”
“I frankly do not care what amuses you. Just answer me, Mr. Henley.”
“I am crushed you could forget our time together. Well, I wouldn’t call it rape, exactly. You did not put up much of a fight. You just lay there and let it happen. I rode you hard, you know.”
Her jaw clenched and
her hand began to tremble again when she lowered her aim to Mr. Henley’s crotch.
“Aye, when the others left, I had my way with you. What did it matter if you were virgin on the altar or not? I was to have first breach anyway.”
But his jovial, almost taunting manner had changed ever so subtly to carry an undercurrent of anger. And he would not be angry if he were telling the truth. Dear God! He was lying! He hadn’t defiled her! That was the unfinished business he had with her and the reason he had not simply killed her when he’d had the chance! He still wanted to rape her. She laughed at him.
His smile drew back to a sneer. “You weren’t laughing then, Gina. You bled like a stuck pig.”
She was almost weak with relief. “Poor Mr. Henley. Second best to Daschel, and a complete failure on your own. Why, you do not even lie well.”
They glanced toward the arch at the clatter of boots on the stone stairway. Jamie? Or Henley’s friends? He glanced at her and back at the door and she knew he was measuring his chances of escape. Her hand wavered as she tightened her finger on the trigger. “Do not move, Mr. Henley.”
“Gina!”
Jamie’s voice carried from the antechamber. They must have found Missy and feared the worst for her.
“Whore!” Mr. Henley cursed and lunged at her.
He caught her off guard, landing across her middle, driving her to the ground and rolling to put her on top to use her as a shield, the pistol locked between them. If she pulled the trigger now, she was as likely to shoot herself as Mr. Henley, who was now trying to wrest the pistol from her hand.
“Release her,” she heard Jamie demand in a cold voice somewhere near the entry to the crypt.
“Easy, Henley,” another voice soothed—Lord Lockwood, she thought.
“Back away,” Henley said, his voice muffled beneath her.
“You won’t get away this time, Henley,” Andrew told him. “Give up.”
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