by Liana Lefey
He watched with misgiving as Jacqueline led the girl away. She was far too kindhearted, all things considered. Bruises or not, sister or not, he would’ve allowed the traitor two meals and a change of chamber pot per day—and naught else until this business was finished and her story verified.
In the meantime, he must reprise his role as Lord Huxton. Going to his room, he took out the best suit of clothing he had on hand. It fell far short of a wealthy man’s garb, but it would do until he reached the house in St. James. As far as he knew, no one else had occupied the place since he’d left. The finery he’d worn ought to still be there.
Now he just had to figure out how to leave without being caught by Boucher’s bully boys.
Chapter Eighteen
Jacqueline smoothed a loose lock of hair off her brow and tucked it back into her bun. She was weary beyond imagining. But it was more than physical fatigue that dragged at her eyelids as she replaced the stopper on the inkwell—it went bone deep and penetrated both heart and soul.
Janet was deathly ill, and though she knew she had to obey the command in Boucher’s letter, every fiber of Jacqueline’s being rebelled against leaving the little girl’s side. But it was the only way to end this. Until it was over, she and everyone here were prisoners.
Unlocking her desk drawer, she withdrew her pistols. She and Will would each carry one, and her driver would also be armed.
“Is it finished?” Will asked from the doorway.
She held up the letter with its damning message.
“Excellent.”
Inside, Jacqueline wanted to scream, to give voice to the pain in her breast at the thought of what would happen if his plan failed. Outside, she remained calm. “If she ever shows her face to me again, I will kill her.”
Drawing near, he wrapped his arms around her. “You cannot,” he murmured at her ear. “I know you wish to exact vengeance yourself, but you cannot—not without risking your life or, at the very least, your liberty. The testimony of two children is not strong enough to ensure your freedom. Let me do this—not only is it my job, but it’s my honor and privilege to act on your behalf. I’ll have her, one way or another.”
Her heart ached with tenderness at the gentle caress of his hand against her cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered. “My heart knows you speak truth, yet it rankles to let anyone else fight my battles. I’m frightened for you.” A soft laugh rumbled in his chest, and she pulled back. “I fail to see any humor in our plight.”
“I laugh not from amusement, but from sheer surprise. Never did I imagine myself willing—wanting, even—to kill for the love of any woman. But for you…”
“For all of us,” she corrected. “Don’t forget Janet and the others. We are all threatened.”
“Yes, and for that I will not only bring Boucher to justice, but as many of those who’ve dirtied their hands on her behalf as possible. London will be a better place when I’m done.” Bending, he kissed her lightly. “Come, we must away if we are to arrive on time. How do I look?”
Standing back, she appraised him. “I suppose it will do.”
“I’m escaping from a deadly threat, not going for a promenade on Rotten Row,” he teased. “It’s time to leave. Are you ready?”
“No.”
“Good. Shall we?” He held out his arm.
Resigned, Jacqueline took it, and together they went down to the carriage house. She and Mr. Young made certain no one was lurking about before Will slipped inside and secreted himself in the conveyance.
A spate of nerves made her stomach flutter as she boarded, and she realized she’d not eaten since breakfast. It didn’t matter. She didn’t think she could eat until this was finished and Janet was out of danger.
The carriage lurched into motion.
“Tell me again,” prompted Will from the floor as they exited the carriage house and proceeded out into the weak sunlight.
“You’ll remain hidden until after I hand off the letter at Rutherford’s. On the way back, Mr. Young will take a different route—one that passes by Mr. Farnsworth’s. Somewhere along the way, you’ll leave and make for St. James.”
“As soon as I arrive, I’ll send a message to let you know all is well.”
She glared at him. “No. You must first send for help, and then you may send me a message.”
“Of course,” he amended.
Silence fell.
“I’m so frightened,” she said softly. “What if someone follows us back?”
“We’ll have at least one shadow, I’m sure, but I’ll be ready. You must be prepared for any resulting backlash. Until she discovers I’m really ‘Lord Huxton’ she’ll think you’ve sent your ‘Mr. Woodson’ to get help. Don’t trust anyone attempting to gain entry to the school unless they speak the word.”
She nodded. They’d agreed to employ code words in order to help differentiate between friend and foe and ensure the verity of any messages passed between them while separated. The words they’d chosen were unknown to any but the two of them. The first was “Hélène.” After that had been used, they would switch to her father’s name and so on, each communication using a different word. She’d never told anyone else about her life in France. Only Will knew the names of her family members.
As the carriage wended its way to the market, Will fired question after question at her. When he ran out of inquiries, he reached up and held her hand in silence.
It was strange seeing him laid across the carriage’s floor looking up at her. And it was a great comfort. At first, she’d wanted to drop him off along the way to Rutherford’s, but he’d insisted on coming with her. Despite the risk, she was glad.
The carriage began to slow, and Will released her hand to reposition himself.
Keeping her eyes off him was a challenge, but she managed, instead looking at the jeweled watch she wore on a chain around her neck. It was nearly seven. She scanned the market square near Rutherford’s, searching for the man in the red waistcoat spoken of in Boucher’s letter.
There. The portly fellow stood to the left of the store entrance.
When the carriage stopped, she forced herself to wait patiently for Mr. Young to come and let her out, praying Will was out of the line of sight when the door opened. Her legs shook, her muscles tensed in readiness to launch into motion the instant the handle turned.
“Don’t look at me or speak,” whispered Will below. “Not now and not when you get back in. They’ll be watching.”
She cleared her throat to acknowledge the warning, and then the door opened and she was out, the door shutting behind her solidly. Reaching into her pocket, she gripped the handle of her pistol and headed straight over to the man in the red waistcoat. Without preamble, she extended to him the letter in her other hand.
“What, no polite word of greeting?” asked the fellow lightly. “An’ she said you was a ‘proper lady.’” He let out a derisive snort, and then unfolded the parchment to glance at it. “Well, you’ve done your part, I suppose,” he said with a nod. “This had better be the fellow she’s looking for, or she’ll have your skin for her boots. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of my mistress,” he warned with a nasty grin. “The last one what did it lived to regret it—for a little while anyway.”
She said nothing.
His leer faltered. “Off you go, then. And remember—we’re watching. Don’t do anything stupid, eh?”
Keeping her eyes trained on the man in what she hoped was a frigid rather than frightened stare, she backed away until a line of pedestrians passed between them, at which point she turned and all but ran back to the carriage. Climbing in, she let out a heavy sigh of relief. The entire time she’d been out there, exposed, her back had tingled and twitched in anticipation. To her utter surprise, neither blade nor bullet had pierced it.
With a sharp rap on the roof, she signaled Young.
A hand reached up to clasp her shaking fingers, and she took it without looking down.
“Did he say anyth
ing?” said Will after they’d been moving for a while.
“Wait,” she whispered through clenched teeth, releasing his hand. She tapped the roof three times with the tip of her parasol. After a moment, she heard two responding thumps from Mr. Young’s booted heel. “As far as he can tell, we are not being followed and he can see no suspicious observers, though I don’t suppose that means much.” She then relayed the conversation, which held nothing of use.
“It would have been nice if he’d let slip some hint as to her location, but I doubt anything he’d have said would be trustworthy,” said Will. “He’s only a courier.”
“The turn is coming up,” she warned. He was to exit just as they entered the square and blend in with the passersby. It was a daring and daft plan, but the odds were in his favor that no one would see him leave if he got out on the inside of the turn.
Will crouched in the floor of the carriage and readied himself.
“Be careful,” she whispered, bending to place a quick kiss on his mouth.
“You do the same. Don’t stop at Farnsworth’s for more than a moment, and stay close to the carriage if you can. He’s likely being watched.”
She nodded. “I will wait to hear from you.”
The carriage slowed, and Will grasped the door handle. “I’ll try to push it back as I exit. You’ll have to catch it.”
“I will—now go before it’s too late!” she hissed as they began making the turn.
Her heart leaped into her throat as he opened the door and paused in the gap. Then he was gone. Reaching out, she caught the door as it came toward her, its hinges protesting as the carriage swayed. Snatching it shut, she threw the bolt and sank back against the squabs.
Now that she was alone, the tears she’d held in check coursed down her cheeks.
Please let him be safe!
…
Will landed on his feet and kept moving, immersing himself in the crowd. Only one or two had acknowledged his exit from the carriage with raised brows, but they’d soon turned their attention elsewhere. Keeping one hand on the handle of the pistol in his pocket, he hailed a sedan chair to the nearest inn.
The sooner he got off the street, the better. His clothes alone were enough to make him a target for common thieves, and he didn’t want to take any chances. It would be a terrible irony if he managed to escape Boucher’s grasp only to fall prey to a cutpurse. Once at the house, he’d send someone with a message to Sir Gonson with details regarding his situation and a request for assistance.
His primary concern wasn’t himself, but rather Jacqueline and the girls. She’d be safe inside the school as long as no one was allowed in. He’d checked the entire building himself today, from cellar to attic, to be sure there was no secret way to get inside. Jacqueline had spoken to her staff, and they were prepared to defend against an attack in whatever form it took.
At the inn, Will hired a carriage to take him to St. James. His nerves were on edge until they crossed Portugal Street. He ventured a look behind. All was clear. Perhaps luck had indeed been on their side and he’d escaped unseen.
The moment he arrived at the house, he set the next phase of the plan into motion.
Not one, but three men were sent out with messages. One to Sir Gonson, one to Jacqueline, and another to some personal friends. His colleagues could be counted on to watch only his back. Sir Gonson would care little for the welfare of the school—his main interest would be the capture and conviction of Boucher.
Will’s friends would stand watch over the school and safeguard those within while he cut off the head of the serpent.
Playing the part of a rich lord involved more than donning a new set of clothes, which Will did at once. As soon as his messengers departed, he went about reinstating the illusion of Lord Huxton. A few of Huxton’s calling cards had been found among his other props, and a footman was dispatched to begin delivering them to his neighbors to inform them he’d just returned from abroad.
“Is everyone ready?” he asked his “valet.”
“Yes, my lord,” answered Richards, a grim smile lifting one corner of his mouth.
“You don’t have to call me that, you know.”
“When you’re in this house, I do,” the man answered back. “Everyone has been informed. We’re ready.”
“It’s unlikely to happen until well into the night, if indeed not tomorrow,” Will told him as he adjusted his cuffs. “She’ll need time to formulate a plan and organize her men.”
“I would be slow to make such assumptions. If her people are as firmly entrenched as the letter you spoke of would indicate, she may be well prepared to move at any given moment.”
He’s right. “As you say, then.”
“Shall I instruct the kitchen regarding your dinner, my lord?”
Will repressed a sigh. “Whatever has already been prepared will do fine.”
“Filet of beef, rare, with wine sauce it is, my lord,” said the other man without missing a beat. “Shall I have it sent up or do you wish to dine formally?”
In other words, play my part. “I’ll dine downstairs, of course,” he said, resigned.
Richards acknowledged his concession with a short bow and departed.
Now for the waiting. The hardest part of any operation like this was waiting for an enemy to make their move. All the preparation in the world did nothing unless one’s foe acted as anticipated. He’d tried to think of every contingency, but no plan was completely foolproof, and Boucher was a clever criminal.
The proprietress of the elusive Temple of Aurora had slipped his and many others’ nets too many times to count. The only way to catch her would be to bait a hook and see if she could be drawn out to bite.
Will surveyed himself in the mirror with a critical eye. Jacqueline might not have been enough of a lure to make the monster surface, but the Archangel would be. The man had been harrying Boucher at every turn, cutting deeply into her profits and making her life very difficult. Her desperate actions of late told him she was ready to remove the pestilence at any cost.
Taking out his pistol, Will again checked it. Should the real Archangel ever confront Boucher, he’d kill her without hesitation. Of that, Will had no doubt. Jacqueline had told him enough of her friend to know it for a certainty.
But the real Archangel is not a constable sworn to uphold the laws of the land. My job is to hunt down and bring criminals to justice. It’s a judge’s duty to deliver their sentence, not mine. He was moved by more than duty, however. Love made him fearful of what might happen if Boucher were allowed to live. Such was her reach that he didn’t doubt her ability to act against Jacqueline from within a prison cell. If she does anything but surrender meekly, I’ll pull the trigger.
It was a reasonable compromise. But still his conscience pricked him. His overwhelming instinct was to protect Jacqueline, but there was more at stake here. As an enforcer of the law trusted with its upkeep, could he simply kill Boucher? If he did, it ended there. Jacqueline would be safe, but he’d never learn the names of Boucher’s clients and suppliers, her hired ruffians and assassins, those who fed the vile industry of which she was part. Names she would doubtless happily give in exchange for a softer sentence than that of swinging from the gallows.
But first, she had to be caught, and he knew better than to think it would happen tonight. Tonight was about provocation. Those she sent to kill him had to be thwarted. Several defeats might be required before she became desperate enough to see the job done personally.
As he went down to eat the fine dinner for which he had no appetite, he paused to listen. Night had fallen, and all was silent in the house save for the occasional rustle of skirts as one of the maids passed. On nearing the dining room, soft conversation greeted his ears. Richards was instructing one of the footmen concerning his shift in the watch.
“Good evening, my lord,” he said on noticing Will standing in the doorway.
“Good evening,” Will replied, entering and nodding to the familiar f
aces of those present as he sat at the head of the table.
Anyone peering through the tall windows facing the street would never suspect the servants here of possessing the skills they did.
Richards could indeed polish boots or expertly shave a man’s face but could also slice a fellow into utter mincemeat in a matter of seconds with the blades he kept concealed about his person. Thomas, Gerald, and Benjamin were all veteran foot soldiers, and Peg was one of the best shots he’d ever seen. Experience told him her deep apron pockets each held a small pistol and that there were several more strapped to her legs beneath her voluminous skirts.
Just as he was finishing his meal, a footman entered and handed him a note. Ripping open the seal, he read:
I am delighted to accept your invitation and will call at your earliest convenience to discuss the details of the endeavor.
Sincerely,
Mr. S. Jorgenson
A satisfied smile lifted the corners of Will’s mouth as he read the encoded message from “Mr. Jorgenson.” Gonson had received his note and was sending reinforcements. The perimeter would be secure before the clock struck eleven, and any lurkers found within it would be taken in for questioning.
He longed to know how Jacqueline was faring. Why have I not yet received a reply from her? His friends ought to have arrived by now. He doubted Boucher would risk injury to her bait until she’d secured the Archangel—but he felt better knowing they were there.
The night dragged on. Weariness at last overpowered worry at about one o’ clock, and he gave himself up to sleep, secure in the knowledge he was well protected.
The sound of shouting woke him. Darkness still blanketed the room as he hit the floor at a run. Coming to the head of the stairs, he spied Richards below. “What’s happened?”
“Fire,” called the other man. “In the carriage house. The men are putting it out now—it was a diversion. Someone attempted to enter through one of the east windows just after it broke out.”