A Wild Justice

by Gail Ranstrom

  She hurried down the stairs and into the front parlor to find Lucy pacing and wringing her hands, while Gilbert slumped in a chair with a scowl on his young face. “Hello, Auntie. Gil. Is something wrong?”

  Lucy turned to her and threw her hands up. “This is your fault! I know it is!”

  Annica stopped in her tracks, her premonition fulfilled. Ellen had made her decision. Gathering her wits, Annica assumed an innocent air as she sat on the velvet settee and folded her hands in her lap. “What have I done, Aunt Lucy?”

  “’Tis Ellen! She is locked in her room and will not be allowed to leave until she comes to her senses. Thomas is beside himself.”

  “How am I responsible for that?” Annica asked.

  “Ellen would never think of this on her own.”

  “Think of what?”

  “She announced this morning over breakfast that she had decided not to marry Dennison after all—hoped it would not be too inconvenient making the announcement and nullifying the contracts. What can she be thinking?”

  “That she does not love Dennison?” Annica ventured.

  “Does not love him!” Lucy exclaimed. “Yes, that is just what she said!”

  Gilbert nodded. “And that’s how we know you are involved.”

  Annica squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Then I am proud to have been of service.”

  Gilbert catapulted out of his chair. “You see? I knew she would not help,” he told his mother.

  “Help? Did you come here to ask me to speak with Ellen? Change her mind? Persuade her to go through with a loveless marriage? Me?” Annica did her best to hold back a laugh.

  “My dear, you have made a brilliant marriage. Ellen is not so fortunate. She does not have your vibrancy, your wit, your humor, your—”

  “Unfortunate manners? Eccentricities? Reputation as a bluestocking?” she finished for her aunt. “Think, Aunt Lucy. Ellen, with her sterling reputation and flawless beauty, will have whoever she chooses. Whoever she chooses,” she repeated for emphasis. “And she does not choose Dennison.”

  “Who is behind this, Annica?” her aunt asked, intent on fixing the blame.

  She shrugged and suppressed her guilt—not on account of supporting Ellen, but guilt at defying her aunt and uncle. “I suppose ‘twas me. How many times have I said I would never marry without affection? If she has adopted my opinion—”

  “She has no right to make decisions,” Gilbert huffed. “Girls do as they’re told. They are not equipped to—”

  “Oh, Gil! Do not prove your ignorance with a parroted speech from Mr. Wilberforce.” She looked at her cousin and sighed. Would a man ever understand all that a woman gave up when she said her vows? Perhaps she could help them look at the problem in a different way. “If Ellen has come to the conclusion that she simply cannot spend the rest of her life lying beneath Dennison and submitting to his will and intimacies, I cannot wish it of her. And I am amazed that anyone who claims affection for her would wish it.”

  Lucy collapsed on the settee beside Annica, utterly defeated. “Dear child! How can you see malice in her parents wanting what is best for her?”

  “If she does not love him, Dennison is not the best.”

  “He will be furious!”

  “Then we should set our minds to finding just the sort of woman who could love him—one whom he can love in return.”

  Lucy wrung her hankie. “But Ellen—”

  “Ellen will prevail, Aunt Lucy. How could she not? She has the benefit of your excellent training and guidance. By the time she is done, Dennison will be thanking her. Meantime, Auberville and I will set out to find just the right woman for him. I promise, Aunt Lucy, he will be married before Ellen, and pleased with his good fortune.”

  “How?”

  “’Tis just a matter of matching interests and goals. We shall find a woman who adores horses and cannot wait to have children. One who favors slightly stuffy, humorless men with very old titles. We shall make him a brilliant match. Now, please go home and tell Uncle Thomas to unlock Ellen’s door. She will not disgrace the family. I promise, Aunt Lucy. That is not her style. ’Tis mine.”

  Tristan’s right arm slipped around the stranger’s throat and tightened. Only discipline kept him from snapping the neck. The old anger, the darkness, was very near to taking control again, and he had to remind himself that he was in Whitefriars, not Algiers. He lowered the unconscious man to the ground, easing him onto his back.

  “Sweet Jesu! I’ve never seen him before,” The Sheikh said when he finally got a good look at the man’s face.

  Tristan searched the unconscious man’s jacket pockets, looking for a clue. A wad of banknotes, a few coins, a watch, a match safe—nothing to give the man’s identity away. “A professional, I’d guess. He knows the tricks.”

  “Who would follow Wilkes?” The Sheikh asked.

  “An unlucky woman’s husband? An angry father?” Tristan pushed the items back into the man’s pocket. “Where is Lord Ian Hunter these days?”

  “Lady Sarah’s father? Thought of that, Auberville. He and his sons are in Scotland at their hunting lodge. No, this is not the work of Sarah’s family. As I understand it, they know nothing of what was done to her.”

  “If Wilkes knew we were following him, and hired this man to find out who we are…” Tristan speculated.

  “If he was following us, how could we have taken him by surprise? He was as dumbfounded as we were.”

  Tristan felt for the man’s pulse. “How the hell will we explain this to Kilgrew?”

  They dragged the stranger into the shelter of a dark alley. They couldn’t leave him alone in this part of town until he began to regain consciousness, so they prepared to wait.

  “We may as well pack it in,” the man continued. “Go home to your wife, Auberville. She must mark your absence. I am amazed she has not asked about your odd hours.”

  An unaccustomed tweak of conscience troubled Tristan. He regretted begging off on their rare dinner at home that evening. “She assumes I spend time at my club and Parliament. Chauncy covers for me. Still, I think I will not be able to deceive her once she is accustomed to marriage and my habits. She has a way of sensing trouble.” It helped that she was still miffed at him for the way he had coerced her into marriage. Withholding her favors was working to his advantage, if not suiting his disposition.

  The unconscious man moaned and moved his head from side to side. Tristan looked down at him. “He’ll be coming around soon. Time for us to disappear.”

  “Tomorrow night?”

  “I’ll meet you at the King’s Head Tavern,” Tristan said, pulling the collar of his coat up and scanning the eastern horizon, where a violet-pink dawn was breaking.

  “We are coming very close,” his companion informed him.

  Tristan smiled grimly. “We know everything but the name of the mastermind of this little scheme.”

  Annica’s heart thumped painfully. Her throat constricted and she glanced furtively toward the front of the book store to be certain they could not be overheard before she whispered, “Was it…could it have been Mr. Bouldin’s murderer? Dear Lord, is he onto you now?”

  Renquist rubbed the bump on the back of his head. “Doubtful, milady. Whoever hit me over the head last night had the opportunity to kill me, and did not.”

  “You must quit, Mr. Renquist!” Annica argued. “For your own safety. Leave town. I could not bear it if I were the cause—”

  “Stop right there, Lady Annica. Bouldin was my friend. Hired or not, I will find the filthy swine who—”

  “Enough, Mr. Renquist.” Anxiety churned in her stomach. How could the Wednesday League risk another life? Yet he swore to continue, whether working with her or not. “Very well, sir. But promise you will be careful. You…that is, when one shares certain perils and secrets, one grows attached, and—”

  “Say no more, Lady Annica. I have regard for you, too.”

  She hoped his sentiment would not cost him h
is life. Trying to cover her embarrassment at the awkward admission, she straightened her spine and assumed a brusque manner. “Did you have any news, Mr. Renquist?”

  “Quite a lot. Better sit down.”

  She perched herself on a sturdy box containing books and waited expectantly.

  “I asked a man I hire once in a while, a member of the gentry who has occasional need of extra, er, income, to make some inquires. He looked into Hellfire Clubs, milady.

  Young bloods who belong to such things are secretive about it. Still, we managed.” He paused dramatically before continuing, holding her in breathless anticipation.

  “No Wilkes,” he said at length. “No Taylor, Harris or Farmingdale. There may be more clubs than we found, but not likely. My man was intrigued by the problem, and was very thorough. He did uncover another possibility.”

  “What?” she asked, drawn into Renquist’s drama.

  “A regimental club. Wilkes, Farmingdale, Taylor and Harris all served in the same battalion years ago. They were all officers, all served in the same area, and all were discharged within months of each other.”

  Annica knew there was more by the way Renquist held his breath. She sat forward, anxious to hear it all. “Come, Mr. Renquist. All of it!”

  “They served in the Royal Navy. In the Mediterranean.”

  “That’s it!” Annica murmured. “That’s the connection.” And another connection Auberville shared with the villains.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Standing before his cheval looking glass, Tristan arranged the folds of his cravat. Chauncy stood by, holding his waistcoat.

  “She asked when I would be home?” he questioned his valet. “That is very wifelike of Annica. Did she say why?”

  “No, my lord. I gather she wished to speak with you.”

  Tristan glanced at the closed door that adjoined his room to Annica’s. “Hmm. I fear our schedules have been in conflict the past several days. Make no appointments for me on Saturday, Chauncy. I want to spend the day with my wife. Odd to say, but I miss her company.”

  Tristan smiled, glad that he had had Chauncy to rely upon. The man had been his aide in the Royal Navy and had served him ever since—as valet, confidant and messenger when required. “I require your assistance now, Chauncy. Lady Annica has made an enemy of Roger Wilkes. Should he call here, he is not to be admitted. Keep alert to any unusual activity or events. Should my wife so much as stub her toe, report it to me at once.”

  “Would this be related to your earlier warnings regarding trellises and vines, my lord?”

  “No, Chauncy, although do not relax your vigilance on that score. At this point in time, I more fear the danger from outside than Annica’s occasional recklessness.”

  “As you say, milord.”

  Chauncy’s face did not betray his emotions, but the twinkle in his eyes did. Tristan knew the man must be thinking that his employer had got what he deserved. After years of yearning for peace and quiet, he had deliberately courted Annica Sayles. After seeking a woman who would bear his children, stay out of his way and amuse herself, he had found Annica. And, after guarding himself against betrayal and desertion, he’d opened his heart and invited Annica in. Annica, with her record of renunciation, doubt, willfulness and distrust…

  He was insane!

  “Ask Mrs. Eberhart to keep her eye on my lady, too. I’ve already had a word with Hodgeson. We cannot be too careful.”

  “Of course, my lord.” Chauncy held Tristan’s waistcoat as he shrugged into it.

  A soft knock on the door from Annica’s room drew both men’s attention. “Yes?” Tristan called.

  His wife peeked around the panel. Her night-dark hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders and over the thin lawn of her nightdress. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and shadowed with sleep.

  Chauncy, always sensitive to the moment, whisked a nonexistent piece of lint from Tristan’s jacket and excused himself with a perfunctory bow.

  “Come in, Annica.” Tristan straightened his cravat.

  She came to him on bare feet, standing close enough for him to smell the warmth of her skin mingled with rose water. He was seized with the desire to gather her into his arms and make love to her all day long. God knew how much he had longed for that. But he was nearly desperate to conclude his business for Kilgrew so he could give his full attention to his bride.

  “Tristan…” she sighed sleepily.

  He scooped her off her feet and carried her to his still-rumpled bed. He pulled the covers over her and kissed her cheek. “And good morning to you, sprite.”

  She smiled—a heart-squeezingly vulnerable smile. “Tristan, stay. I’ve been trying to catch you for days. There are things we must discuss. You must know what is afoot with—”

  “Christ,” he groaned, and stepped back before his resolve vanished. He’d never seen her in his bed before—only in hers—and the sight sent his blood pumping. There wasn’t a single part of him that didn’t ache to do as she bade. But duty called. “I have urgent business, Annica. I shall be tied up for another day or two.”

  “These are important matters, Tristan. They cannot wait.”

  “I shall look for an opportunity sooner than that, milady. Not tonight—I have a previous commitment. Tomorrow night? Will you be at Beatrice Caldwell’s dinner party? We could steal away for a few minutes for a private word.”

  Annica blinked and pushed herself up against his pillows. “Steal away? But—”

  “Whatever it is, you can handle it, Annica,” he said, taking another step backward.

  “But—”

  “I should have been in chambers an hour ago.”

  “You have no idea what is happening in your own home!” There was a sharp edge to her voice.

  “Annica, I received a bill for a dress for Ellen. If your aunt and uncle are in dun territory, ask what they need. Of course we will help them through this rough patch.”

  “It is not a ‘rough patch.’ It is Ellen! She—”

  Tristan cursed under his breath. Annica, her color heightened in anger, her delicate hands tightened into little fists, was the most beguiling sight he had seen since last week, when she had—no! He could not think about that now. As it was, he was finding it difficult to stand straight. He gave himself a mental shake. His courtship of Annica had required more attention away from his investigation than he’d bargained for, and now he had to make up for lost time. The lives of innocent women were hanging in the balance.

  “Ellen? Ah, yes. The dress. If your uncle cannot afford a gown—”

  “He can afford a gown, Tristan.”

  “Then why did your dressmaker bill me?”

  “I told her to.”

  Tristan took his pocket watch out and glanced at the time. Nearly ten o’clock. He was half an hour late. “I know you must have had a reason.”

  “Yes, I did. And that is what we must discuss before there is a disaster. You see, Ellen has—”

  Disaster? In a dress? Only a woman would see such consequences. “Not now, Annica.”

  “Now!” she demanded. “You have asked me to keep you informed. I am trying to do so.”

  He spoke over his shoulder on his way to the door. “I do not have time for your ‘helpless’ game just now. Whatever it is, handle it. I shall try to be home by midnight or shortly after, and will be at your disposal then, Annica.”

  Her toneless voice brought him back around. “Perhaps I will not be here, Tristan. Perhaps I will not have time for you.”

  His blood thinned to ice water, and cold anger flashed along his nerves. It had taken her long enough, but she had finally found his weak spot, his greatest vulnerability. “What are you saying, Lady Auberville? Do you think you can leave me?”

  “Do you think you could stop me?”

  Tristan was halfway down the stairs before the echo of his slamming door died into an awful stillness.

  The dark gray burnoose billowed behind Tristan as he urged his horse to greater speed, Th
e Sheikh riding closely on his stallion’s heels. Their sense of urgency grew in the moonless night. The warning they had received from one of their informants mere minutes ago may have come too late.

  A woman—a “Nosy Parker” who had been meddling in the disappearance of other women—had been marked for removal, their source had said. She was to be lured to a private place, and then eliminated.

  Tristan had not been surprised to learn that a woman might have become involved in this case. He had long expected a mother, an aunt, a sister, a friend, to raise an alarm. But according to their informant, this woman had come close enough to the truth to be a real danger. Something about this made Tristan uneasy, as if there was something he should remember, something just out of his grasp.

  They dropped their surveillance of Wilkes at a seedy tavern and galloped across London Bridge to the Southwark side. Following their informant’s directions, they came to a deserted street two lanes off the Thames. The area was quiet, the closest tavern being three streets away, and only a bawdy house or two nearby. Most buildings were warehouses and shipping offices.

  Tristan dismounted and waited for his companion to join him. Was this a trap laid for them? His jaw clenched at the soft scrape of metal when the blade of his midshipman’s dirk slipped from the scabbard. He could hear the lapping of the river, the faint music from the tavern, and a soft shuffle of movement somewhere behind him.

  “Well?” The Sheikh asked him in a whisper.

  “I’ll take the left. You go right.” Tristan gestured to the narrow lanes that opened off the street.

  The absolute darkness of a moonless night made the going slow. Every sense Tristan had was alert. Every instinct warned of disaster. Danger was thick in the air. It jangled his nerve endings and quickened his heartbeat.

  Tristan detected the soft gurgle of expelled breath, a grotesque and all too familiar sound. A slight movement drew his attention to the darkest corner, behind a row of stacked wooden crates. A scurrying rat? His instincts said not. He went forward.

  A pile of rags was heaped in a far corner, and Tristan could well imagine what an excellent breeding ground that would make for vermin. A darker patch atop the pile glistened wet, and Tristan knew with dark certainty what it was.