He climbed the long curve of the staircase to his room, hardening his heart, reducing his hunger and need to a mere physical act. That’s all it was. That’s all he’d ever let it be.
The summons from Harry Richardson several hours later came as a surprise. Geoff hadn’t expected to hear from him for several days. Information packets from Tangier were slow in coming—at least during the summer months.
When he opened the door of the rented room, Harry jumped to his feet. “Glad you could come so quickly, Morgan.”
Geoff glanced at the small wooden table where charts, maps, pen and ink were laid out in waiting. “El-Daibul is on the move?” he guessed.
“We think so,” Harry replied.
“Think? You don’t know?” Geoff crossed to the table and looked down at the charts. Tangier, Gibraltar, Spain, Portugal. What was going on?
Harry shrugged. “We’ve lost him.”
Geoff fastened the man with an asking stare. How could an experienced operative lose a man of el-Daibul’s infamy and importance?
“He has disappeared,” Harry explained, looking a bit pale from Geoff’s study.
“When?”
Harry went to the small table beside the cot where the whiskey bottle was waiting. He poured himself a glass and quirked an eyebrow at Geoff.
Since he’d only risen an hour ago, that would be like drinking whiskey for breakfast. He hadn’t sunk to that level yet. “Too early,” Geoff said, though he had no doubt the male half of London was drinking by teatime.
After a swallow, Harry met Geoff’s gaze again. “We don’t know when, exactly. It just came to our attention that no one has seen el-Daibul for a month or more.”
“Christ! A month! Where can he have gone?”
“Don’t know. We haven’t been able to pick up his trail. We’ve got operatives searching Algiers to see if he went back there. So far, no luck.”
“Any word from the desert?” Geoff pointed to the Sahara on the map.
“No one has reported him moving overland.”
“Has the political climate changed? Any clues there?”
“Nothing new. The Americans are still harrying the Corsairs, but the underground market is still good for white slavery.”
“Always,” Geoff murmured. “Have you tried tracking his men?”
“They are all in place. Nothing unusual there, and one of the reasons it took us so long to realize that el-Daibul himself had not been seen for quite some time. It looks as if he went to considerable trouble to lull us into complacency.”
Geoff ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing a stray lock. Damn! What could the man be up to? Geoff could only hope this latest development was not a prelude to increased activity. Unless… “Harry, what’s the news from the docks? Any increase in reports of missing women?”
“Not in London.”
“Send men to Liverpool, Portsmouth and Dover. Contact Culver in France, Groton in Hamburg and Peters in Venice. Verify with them that the traffic is quiet. If there’s an increase, no matter how small, and no matter where, I want to know immediately.”
“What are you thinking?” Harry asked. His eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“I’m not certain. Just…verify. He’s up to something, Harry, I can feel it.”
Harry shook his head. “We’ll need evidence to get help from the Foreign Office.”
He sat and studied the maps. “Last time…when he was quiet, it was because the demand for Englishwomen was high enough to warrant certain…risks. Educated women of a higher social standing were in demand. Virgins.”
Harry nodded. “I remember. ’Twas 1816. The year Auberville nearly lost his wife. The year Constance Bennington was killed.”
Geoff said nothing. He still couldn’t talk about the horror and pain of finding Constance’s body in a pile of discarded rags. She’d come too close to learning the truth about the disappearing women, and she’d fought her attackers. Oh, God, if she just hadn’t fought! He could have gone after her. She might still be alive.
But Mustafa el-Daibul had wanted retribution in retaliation for their systematic closing down of the white slavery trade. And he hadn’t cared what form it took.
“So.” Harry exhaled. “You think this may be the same thing? You think he’s stepping up activity?”
Lord, Geoffrey almost hoped so. That might be better than the possibility of retaliation. He, at least, did not have a woman to worry about this time, but Auberville would have to be warned. He’d have to set guards over his wife and children.
Damn! Why did these things have to happen when he could ill afford the division of his attention? He’d give anything for a two-week respite—just long enough to get Miss Lovejoy off his hands. Or to get rid of Miss Lovejoy long enough to deal with el-Daibul.
“What is it, Morgan?” Harry asked. “Isn’t this what you’ve been hoping for? Haven’t you been trying to force el-Daibul’s hand? Flush him from hiding?”
Geoff nodded. “There are complications. If I didn’t have…a personal obligation at the moment, I’d be halfway to Gibraltar right now. I wish I knew where the hell the blighter was.”
“If you were to guess?”
“I’d say he’s gone back to Algiers. Or Tunis. That’s where the buyers are. Most likely, Tunis. The Dey of Algiers blamed him for the Bombardment in 1816. I think el-Daibul has been out of favor since then, which is why he shifted operations to Tangier. He blames Auberville and me for that particular debacle. El-Daibul’s wife and children were killed in the Bombardment, and that has given him another reason to hate me.”
“You make it sound personal, Morgan.”
“It is personal.” In point of fact, he suspected Constance had been killed as much for her place in his heart as for the fact that she’d fought her kidnappers. He could easily imagine el-Daibul ordering a “dead or alive” order to take Constance. Hide and seek. Cat and mouse. Attack and retreat. They’d played out all the stratagems. There wasn’t much left that hadn’t already been done. He and the white slaver had been engaged in a global duel to the death for the past five years, and nothing was sacrosanct, no rules inviolable.
Wisely, Harry remained silent. He went to the window and stood gazing out while Geoff made a few marks on the maps and a notation at the bottom.
What was it? What piece of the puzzle was just out of his grasp? A message? A taunt? There was a clue somewhere, something he should see and understand.
“Bloody goddamned hell!” He slammed his fist down on the table, rattling the ink bottle and miscellaneous pens.
“Easy, Morgan,” Harry soothed. “I hate it when you get this way. You’re too hard on yourself. Ease up a bit and let it come on its own.”
Geoff pushed back from the table. “Send for word from the ports, Harry, and get news to me the minute you have any. Steer clear of the Foreign Office. They’d have our heads if they thought we were compromising the uneasy peace they’ve forged.”
Harry nodded. “Where are you going?”
“To warn Auberville.”
Chapter Five
Dianthe sat at a dressing table in Madame Marie’s back fitting room and made a tight coil of her pale hair before pinning it at her crown. She watched Madame lower the black wig over her head and snug it into place.
“Ah, chérie! This is the mistake, no?”
Dianthe stared at her reflection. With every strand of blond hair covered, she had taken on a foreign look. Pale skin with a hint of pink on her cheeks, clear blue eyes and a beauty patch on one cheekbone made her virtually unrecognizable.
“Mistake?” she asked. “You think the beauty patch is too much?”
“Mais non, chérie! But the idea was to make you less noticeable. This—” she waved at Dianthe’s reflection “—will turn ’eads.”
“I do not care about that, Madame. More to the point is if I will be recognized.” Indeed, Dianthe was nearly desperate to change her appearance. She hadn’t been outside without her bonnet and veils since takin
g refuge at Lord Geoffrey’s house. Anything to evade the killer who, according to Nell, would come for her next.
Madame Marie stepped back to study her critically. “Never!” she said.
Dianthe pulled one curl down and watched as it sprang back into place. She rather liked the way she looked, and she certainly felt safer.
Madame Marie arranged the style in an artful manner and stood back to observe her work. “I did not think you could be more beautiful, chérie, but I was wrong. You look so…à la française.”
Just the thing she wanted. Her French was very good, and she knew she could fake a believable accent. She’d worn a veil to Marie’s shop but she wouldn’t wear one when leaving. She wouldn’t need it.
Best of all, this disguise would be perfect for her new plan. With the wig, an accent, a sophisticated attitude and a new name, she would be worlds apart from Dianthe Lovejoy of Little Upton, Wiltshire. Soon. Very soon.
“Là!” Madame Marie exclaimed. “I do not like that look, chérie. You are ’atching some plot, are you not?”
Dianthe blinked. “I am sure I don’t know what you mean, Madame. I am just pleased that I will not have to go about veiled and shrouded. ’Twill be nice to see where I am walking. Would you have a few cosmetics to further disguise me?”
Madame Marie rummaged in a small kit. “You do not need it, chérie, but I ’ave a powder that will warm your pale complexion and lip rouge and kohl for the eyes and lashes.”
A knock at the door drew Madame Marie’s attention away. “That will be François,” she said. “’E said there are matters to discuss with you.”
Francis Renquist opened the door a crack and called in. “Are you decent, Miss Lovejoy?”
“But of course she is decent, François.” Madame Marie smiled at her husband. She let him in and went around him, speaking over her shoulder. “She looks just like ma mere, Lizette Deauville. I ’ave an appointment, chérie. I shall see you tomorrow when the ladies come, eh?”
“Oui,” she called, turning from the mirror to face Mr. Renquist. “Do you have news?” she asked.
Mr. Renquist looked dumbstruck. His eyes widened and he stared at her with his mouth agape. “I, ah. You…are Miss Lovejoy?”
She smiled. “Then you do not think I’d be recognized on the street?”
He shook his head, his eyes never leaving her. “But do not let that make you reckless, Miss Lovejoy.”
“And once I shed the disguise and go back to being Dianthe Lovejoy?”
“No one would link the two of you together,” he confirmed.
Thank heavens. Now she was free to proceed with her plan. But first, she asked, “Did you learn anything, Mr. Renquist?”
He shook his head as if to clear it. “No. The men I interviewed are well-respected family men. All have alibis for the night of the murder.”
Dianthe wondered how any man who’d dallied with a courtesan and had been fond enough of one to attend her funeral could be a “family man.” “And the others?” she asked. “Did you learn their names?”
“Yes, miss. Nigel Edgerton and Lord Geoffrey Morgan among them. I have not interviewed them yet.”
“As it happens, Mr. Renquist, my cousin and aunt are well acquainted with Lord Morgan. If you will speak with Mr. Edgerton, I shall interview Morgan.” The last thing she wanted was for Mr. Renquist to question Geoffrey Morgan. If he should slip and give her whereabouts away, Mr. Renquist would call him out.
“I am not certain that is a good idea, Miss Lovejoy. Lord Morgan has a reputation as the worst sort of rake.”
“But he owes my cousin a favor. He will not harm me in any way. Set your mind at ease on that, sir. But I wonder if you might indulge me in a few questions. You see, there is no one else I can ask.”
Mr. Renquist frowned. “What sort of questions?”
“About the demimonde, sir. And their…well, practices.”
“Here now. You ought not to be concerning yourself with such things.”
“I fear it is too late for that. Miss Brookes was of the demimonde, and therefore certain elements of it are of grave concern to me. They may have bearing on her murder. Perhaps her killer was a patron, or a jealous competitor.”
Considering her words, Mr. Renquist went to the door and peeked out. He shut it again and turned the lock. “If Marie catches me talking about such things, I’ll be hard-pressed to find supper or a bed tonight.”
Dianthe nodded in understanding.
“Ask, then,” he instructed with a nervous glance over his shoulder.
“I think it would be helpful to know how a woman of the demimonde goes on.”
Mr. Renquist looked bewildered. “Goes on?”
“Conducts herself,” Dianthe clarified, covering her embarrassment. “I assume that, if she has a protector, he would escort her places and see to her business and needs. But what if she does not have a particular protector, as Miss Brookes did not? Did Miss Brookes go to events alone? In groups with other ladies of the demimonde? Or would she always have an escort? The possibilities are bewildering, you see, and they could make all the difference in why Miss Brookes was where she was, and in what happened to her. I would ask you to investigate that for me, Mr. Renquist, but I know Madame Marie would have your…hide pinned to a wall should you spend time with that sort of woman.”
A hint of fear passed through Mr. Renquist’s eyes. “I quite agree, miss. Well, not that I am knowledgeable about such things, but the rules of polite society do not apply to the demimonde. Miss Brookes could have gone wherever she wanted, excepting in society.”
“Alone?”
“If she chose.”
“What sort of places would she have gone?”
“Public places, mostly. The theater. Vauxhall Gardens. Her escort the night of her murder was never found. Likely she went alone to meet friends.”
To meet her, Dianthe thought. But the theater? That was an idea. She could purchase a ticket and observe the goings-on. “Where else would a courtesan go?” she asked.
“Where she could meet men. Where ladies do not. Such women would not be admitted to Almack’s or balls and soirees.”
Then what of hells and public houses? Hells. A woman could expect to meet a better sort there than at a public house. Men who had enough money to gamble would be men who could buy an expensive woman’s favors. Nell Brookes had seemed the sort who would prefer men with money, and she’d been pretty enough to attract them. Her friends would have frequented the same places and have known the same men.
And they were the women whose trust Dianthe must win. Only then would she get the answers to her questions. You would have to be one of us….
Precisely what she had in mind.
Dianthe dropped her brush on the dressing table and went to pour herself another cup of tea from the pot on her bedside table. She couldn’t believe she felt so lonely. Her brother, Bennett, was abroad with a schoolmate’s family for the summer, Afton was in Scotland with her husband, and Aunt Grace was on her wedding trip. Dianthe had thought she’d be quite merry with the Thayers until autumn. She wished, now, that she’d gone to stay with Afton and the McHugh in the Highlands. Instead, she was now homeless, bereft of family and at the mercy of a man she had always believed was completely ruthless.
The mantel clock struck the hour of ten and Dianthe rolled her eyes. Hortense and Harriett would be frisking through the salons of the ton at this very minute, with nary a thought of bed for many hours to come, and dozens of young swains in pursuit, while her only company was the monotonous tick of the clock. Tedium coupled with unease made her nerves jangle.
She glanced down at the leather-bound volume on her chair. She’d finished The Taming Of The Shrew, and hadn’t brought anything else upstairs with her. Perhaps she should go down to the library and find something more interesting to read. Something on the upper shelves, perhaps. Yes, something not fit for delicate female eyes. She’d like to know that there was something more shocking than her own life at the m
oment, and she longed for anything that would distract her.
Without distractions, her mind always returned to Vauxhall Gardens and her cousin dying in her arms. Tears welled in her eyes and she dashed them away with the back of her hand. Every day that she delayed taking action was a betrayal of her promise to Nell.
Dianthe hadn’t heard anyone stirring for quite some time, and figured Mrs. Mason and Pemberton had undoubtedly retired for the night. They would have extinguished the lights in the library, so she picked up a lit candle to take with her. Anticipating the library ladder she would have to negotiate to reach the higher shelves, she kicked off her slippers. She’d be more sure-footed on the treads without them.
Despite the pervasive silence, there were a good many lights left burning—one in the foyer, one in the back hallway and another in the sitting room. She’d never known anyone to use the sitting room. Still, the running of the house was none of her business. Perhaps Lord Morgan’s orders had been to be prepared for his arrival at any and all times.
The ornamental umbrella stand in the foyer was tipped over, and she paused to right it and replace the umbrellas. How had that happened? She glanced around but could find nothing else out of place.
With a shrug, she continued to the library. One lamp by the desk was still lit and the fireplace still glowed, the embers a bright orange-red. She closed the door to ensure her privacy should Pemberton come to make one last circuit of the house. She had no desire to explain her taste in reading materials while standing in a nightgown.
She placed her candle on the desk and returned the volume of Shakespeare to the shelf. With heightened anticipation, she climbed the library ladder to read the titles on the top shelf. Oh, for an illicit copy of something naughty—just the very thing to chase worry from her weary brain. Perhaps something by the Italians. Dante or Ovid’s Ars Amatoria, Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis, or some other “indecent” work.
But she found nothing to titillate or even raise an eyebrow. She descended the ladder and pushed it along the shelves to a new position. The sound of a footfall outside the library door stopped her. Was it Pemberton coming to lock up for the night?
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