The Charleston Chase (Phantom Knights Book 2)

by Amalie Vantana

  I put my pistols in my holster as I ran forward. Three were dead, shot in the heart from Leo’s triple barrel pistol no doubt, but the fourth only had a flesh wound.

  “Have you lost your senses?” Frederick demanded of Leo, staring down at the men with a horrified expression upon his face.

  Leo moved past me stopping beside the wounded men without replying to Frederick. Leo dropped to his knee and pulled a long dagger from a sheath on his weapons belt. He placed the sharp edge against the wounded man’s throat. I took a step forward, but Leo held up his other hand to stop me.

  “Hvordan gjorde han finde os?” Leo asked, and I took a step back.

  Leo had never before spoken Danish around me. Neither had he ever sounded so angry, and we had been working together for four years. Leo was the silent type, only speaking when he had something important to say. How did he find us? Of whom was he speaking?

  “De tilhører ham,” the man replied.

  They belong to him. I was lost in confusion. Obviously, Leo had secrets that he had not shared with me, if he personally knew who these men were. We had been hunting them for nearly four years, and never once did Leo let on that he knew whom they were.

  Leo responded to the man by doing something he had never done as long as I had known him. He struck the man until his face bled. Frederick jumped up shouting. I moved forward, trying to pull Leo back, but he would not release him. When he did stop beating him, Leo pulled a cord of rope from his belt. As Leo bound the man with intricate knots, I turned on Frederick.

  “What the devil were you about? You knew where the Holy Order was, and you told them! My sister has been searching for these men for years. They tried to kill my sister, and they murdered Ben, you cad.”

  Frederick’s face distorted as he sneered. “My sister, my sister,” he mocked, “do you think I do not know that? This is larger than your sister’s problems; this is larger than any of your once Phantoms could ever understand.”

  Frederick was taller than me by a good four inches, but he was not as quick as I was. I threw my fist against his jaw, sending him stumbling back against the chair.

  “You are no Phantom, Frederick.”

  Frederick spit blood from where part of my fist had busted his lip. “I could make the obvious retort, John, but I will not”

  Grabbing the front of his coat, I demanded, “What are you involved in, Frederick?”

  Frederick knocked my hands away as he pushed himself up. “Nothing as sinister as you are thinking, Jack. I am working, and you have disrupted my mission, not that I should be surprised. You, your henchman,” he shot Leo a hate filled glance, “and your annoying sister have always gotten in the way.”

  A rush of deadly violence curled my fists, but I was not the one to knock Frederick unconscious. Leo was up and across to Frederick in a moment, dealing a blow that made Frederick’s eyes roll back before he fell against the throne chair.

  When Leo turned to look at me, the realization that I did not know him struck me like a wave in a storm. All these years that we worked together, I knew no more about him than his name, his age, and his abilities with weapons. He had acted as my valet, and I confided in him when I could not speak with Bess for fear that she would get herself killed. I had thought we were friends, but how could you be friends when you knew nothing of significance about the person?

  Leo moved away to check the pockets of the deceased men, and I thought back to what Frederick had said to those men, about knowledge coming at a price. I moved to Frederick’s unconscious form and stuck my hand inside his coat, feeling for the inner pocket that all Phantoms had in their coats. My fingers touched three letters. I pulled them out and turned them over. My breath rushed out of me.

  The envelopes were addressed to me, from my mother. I searched Frederick’s other pockets, but the letters were all that I found.

  So his payment was my correspondence? Why? What could Frederick possibly want with my mother’s letters? I tore open the one postmarked the middle of January.

  Mother wrote with frenzied description of a mission Bess went on that had turned into a trap. Mother wrote that the Holy Order was behind it all. She wrote that Bess had confessed to Andrew about the Phantoms when he found her with the dead body of Henry Shultz. He had heard of us, but he never believed the tales of our good deeds. Andrew had escorted Bess home, and the next day Bess received a letter from Andrew, severing their engagement. Andrew wrote to Bess that she had thrown his trust and admiration in his face by her unforgivable involvement with a group of murderers. He wrote to her that he deserved better than a woman of wanton morals, a lack of conscience and consideration for the honor he had done her by offering for her hand. My mother begged me to come home.

  My eyes closed for a pain-filled moment. First Ben was murdered, and now his brother Henry. Bess must have been beside herself with grief.

  The second letter was postmarked the end of January. Mother wrote briefly that Bess had left Philadelphia due to the scandal that followed being jilted.

  A woman could break an engagement to a man and expect some scandal, but it would blow over as soon as something else occurred to distract the gossipmongers of society. But for a man to call off, there were only a few reasons, and most of them had to do with one being unfaithful. A man like Madison, the nephew of the former president, to drop my sister meant that Bess was the guilty party without question. The repercussions would be felt for months if not years.

  Mother assured me that Bess was healthy and that Reverend Gideon Reid, Levi, and Mrs. Beaumont had gone with Bess. Bess would not hear of my mother going with her. Mother did not tell me where Bess had gone.

  When I opened the third letter, Mother rectified that oversight. Mother wrote that her situation had become too heated in Philadelphia, and friends for years were cutting my mother due to the scandal. She was selling our family home and joining Bess in Charleston, where George had sent Bess to join his nephew’s team of Phantoms. My breath hitched as fear spiraled around in my chest in cruel, taunting leaps.

  The Holy Order was in Charleston, with my sister! Since Frederick was exchanging information for my correspondence, I had a feeling that Frederick knew what had happened to Bess. Of course he did if Levi had gone with Bess. Levi was on Frederick’s team. Was there a deeper game afoot?

  My thoughts took a turn into more startling and breath-stealing ideas. If the Holy Order were in Charleston, then Guinevere had to be there. With my sister, who blamed Guinevere for everything that had happened to her.

  Turning to Leo, I was about to demand that we leave at once, but he was standing there with a black envelope in his hand, his expression hesitant.

  His blue eyes held apology. “There will be time for explanations about my past, Loutaire,” he said, calling me by my Phantom name, “but we have more pressing matters.” Leo held out the envelope.

  Curiosity was running rife as I took it, turning it over. My name, John Martin, was in gold script on the front, and there was something hard and bulky inside the envelope. My heart began to beat an untimely tune of dread.

  Running my thumbnail under the seal, I spread open a single sheet. A flash of gold slipped from the paper and dropped to the floor, bouncing once. I started to pick it up, when I noticed an emerald stone. My heart accelerated, and my palms began to sweat.

  Hesitantly, I picked up the ornate gold ring with a raised emerald stone. I knew that ring as well as I knew my own that I always wore when wearing the mask of a Phantom. Mine was the same ornate gold band, but had a sapphire stone, as did my sister’s ring. I closed my fist around my father’s ring; the ring that I had thought was buried with him almost three years ago. With a slightly shaking hand, I raised the letter. Immediately, I knew it was written by a man’s hand, but more than that, the symbol of the pyramid with the lightning bolt through the center was at the top of the letter. The letters H and O were surrounding the pyramid.

  To him who masquerades in the night,

  What once y
ou lost, I have found, in return, you are bound. Your father tried to conquer me, but he is dead, and I am free. A poet named John, a lady called Bess, you can pretend, but I know the rest.

  So starts this war, it begins with Bess, a lady no more, in great duress.

  I dropped the letter as if it were a cobra about to strike, and stumbled back, running a hand over my face. This was not happening. The only way they would have known my name, Bess’ name, was if Guinevere had told them.

  Leo picked up the letter. His blank face transformed into anger as he read.

  “Bess is in Charleston, for reasons I will explain later. After you dispose of them, we will make arrangements.”

  “What should I do with Frederick?” Leo asked. We each stared down at Frederick’s still form.

  “He is no concern of ours. Leave him.”

  Leo nodded, and though we neither of us said it, I was sure we were both thinking it. Bess was in grave danger.

  Leaving Leo, I walked out of the throne room. I heard him deal the final blow to the last foreign man, but I did not turn around. There were some situations that we could never change, some circumstances we could never escape, and being a Phantom was one of them. As I walked up the stairs, I knew there was one more person I had to see before I could make my way to Charleston, my sister, and the Holy Order.

  Chapter 4

  Bess

  17 February 1817

  Charleston

  The morning air was crisp against my cheeks, as I rode across an open meadow; the sun rising behind me and lighting my path like a lantern brought into a dark room.

  The last seven days had been filled to the brim with activity, but it was my morning rides that I looked forward to, that eased some of the tension of trying to readjust my life to fit with my new surroundings. Levi had told Samuel about my love of morning rides, so on my third day in Charleston, Samuel had sent over a lovely horse for me to ride. She was as white as the snow back in Philadelphia, which but brought fresh pain to my chest, for she reminded me of my own horse and the events surrounding how I had acquired her.

  Even though I had not seen Samuel since my first day here, his generosity was not lost on me. I had every intention of thanking him the next time he deigned to show his face. Levi usually rode with me, but this morning, he did not arrive, and I did not want to wait for him. Even if it was considered improper, no one but the Phantoms knew me in Charleston, and my reputation was already in tatters, so what could be the harm.

  Shooting Star was a swift, strong horse, and when I pulled on the reins, she did precisely as directed. An hour had passed by the time the horse had halted at the edge of a meadow. I was expected back in the city soon, but I was not ready to leave the serenity of the country.

  When Shooting Star tossed her mane, I leaned forward, stroking her head. The horse tossed her head and stamped, letting me know that she was ready for another run. I gave Shooting Star her head, and we soared across the green meadow. It was the closest thing to flying that I would experience, and all of my problems floated away at moments like that. It was me and the horse.

  A rider came through the trees, and I caught a glimpse of a man astride a beautiful brown horse. He was unknown to me, but it was clear what his intent was, so I held on, urging Shooting Star forward. The man on the brown horse came up next to me, a mere ten feet separating us. The hooves of our horses thundered against the ground, and how I wished that I was riding astride. I would have left him with nothing to look at but my dust.

  The wind whipped around my head, pulling my bonnet off. It fell somewhere behind me. My hair came loose from pins and flew over my shoulders. The man on the brown rode up a slight hill that led to the road like he was on a straight stretch, edging ahead of me. As I pulled on the reins, Shooting Star slowed. We rode up the hill slower, and once we were on the road, the stranger was waiting for me. His hat had flown off as well, and his light brown hair was windswept. He was smiling, a marked appreciation in his deep brown eyes. His white cravat was askew, and there was a streak of mud on his square jaw.

  “A fine race,” he said with a marked accent. He flashed a set of slightly yellowed teeth. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lucas Marx, newly arrived in Charleston. And you are?” It was said in such a friendly way that I wanted to tell him my name.

  “Miss Martin, also newly arrived in the city.”

  “Well, Miss Martin, new to Charleston, this has indeed been a pleasure, but allow me to fetch your bonnet for you.”

  He rode off before I could say a word, and I realized that I must look a complete mess. I slid my fingers through my tangled hair, but there was no making it better without my pins. Fortunately, I had not worn my wig, not needing it when wearing a bonnet, and my mother was not there to scold me. She did not like my shoulder length hair, insisting that I wear a wig that she had made for me.

  When Lucas Marx returned with both of our hats, he was still smiling. His accent sparked something in my mind, a fleeting thought that I could not grasp.

  “Might I hope that you now call Charleston home, Miss Martin?” My brows rose, and he laughed a rich, deep sound. “As I know no one in this city, I would consider myself fortunate to meet a friendly face when I go amongst society.”

  The man presumed much. I was determined not to enter Charleston society. “I will only be here a few weeks, and I do not know what my plans may be.”

  “Ah,” was all he replied as his head whipped around as if he were looking for something, or someone. “No groom?”

  I smiled. “No.”

  “So that fellow there is not your groom?” he asked with his focus on something over my shoulder.

  When I turned in my saddle, there was a dark man atop a black horse a few yards away. He tipped his hat to me, and I inclined my head in reply. I had met him, but had not known he was following me. I perceived the work of Samuel Mason, for the man was Abraham Coles, one of the Charleston Phantoms.

  “Mr. Coles is not a groom, but the brother of a friend. He kindly escorted me on my morning ride as my own brother was otherwise engaged.”

  “If that is how it is, will you allow me to join you both back to town?” he asked, and I assented.

  We rode toward the city with Abraham trailing us, but not coming up with us even though I invited him to do so. The journey was spent listening to Lucas Marx as he chatted about being a captain of a vessel and only in Charleston for a few weeks while his ship was refitted before a journey to the Bahamas. Listening to his accent, I realized where I had heard the lilt that was placed on all of his words.

  “Sweden,” I said, and he looked at me sharply. “Your accent, it is Swedish is it not?”

  After a long moment, he looked away, laughing. “Your perception is commendable. I grew up in Sweden before setting off to explore new lands. My father, Miss Martin, was a captain, and when he died, God rest his soul, I, being his first mate, was promoted to captain.”

  He kept up a constant flow until we reached the house I was staying at on Meeting Street. He dismounted and came to help me down. When my feet touched the street, I realized that I was the taller. A part of me was disappointed, but I did not know why. I was not interested, at all, in Lucas Marx. He was personable, but nothing more. Mr. Marx stepped back but did not immediately mount his horse.

  “I do hope that we shall meet again, Miss Martin.”

  I inclined my head and watched him mount his horse, tip his hat to me, and ride down the street.

  “Here only seven days and you have a conquest. How my brother will be overwrought with jealousy,” a young, bright voice tittered from behind me.

  Turning, I smiled at the young woman standing in the open doorway. Her blonde hair was pulled back with only a few artfully placed curls hanging at her temples. Her wide mouth was grinning, and her bright blue eyes were filled with the fun that made up Charlotte Mason, Samuel’s little sister. She assured me that she was not as ‘little’ as Samuel said she was. She was sixteen and filled with vivac
ity.

  She was one of the members of Samuel’s team, though I was not certain why. She was too animated to take the work of a Phantom as serious as the job required, but her vivacity was perhaps why she had received the Phantom name Juno, she seemed to give new life to anything she tried.

  After handing the reins of the horse to Abraham, who had dismounted, and thanking him for his escort, Charlotte ushered me into the house. The female agents of Samuel’s team all lived together in a lovely light stone, two story house. It did not have the enviable view of the water, but if you stood on one of the two porticos, you could see the harbor in the distance.

  Upon stepping into the foyer, I had been impressed by the house. Peach walls with white columns flanked the rooms to the right and left. There were no doors to close off the rooms. They were open and inviting. Even though I was upon short acquaintance with the three ladies who lived in the house, I immediately noticed whose taste was in the decorations.

  Rose Eldridge was a wealthy widow whose husband had died during the war. At first I had thought she was older than me, for when she spoke, there was worldliness to her as if she had seen and endured much in her life, but Charlotte told me Rose was not yet twenty. Ivory skin, black hair, and soft blue eyes made up an elegant woman who knew where she belonged.

  Straight through one of the archways was a staircase that rose to the second floor where four bedchambers were to be found. The chamber they gave me was smaller than mine in Philadelphia, but it was comfortable. It had belonged to an agent who had died in a fire two years past. Since Rose offered no more information about her, I did not ask. I had heard about her death from George Crawford, so there was no need to inquire.

  The third occupant of the house was a shy, wisp of a girl named Betsy Coles. Both her skin and eyes were the color of smooth cocoa with the softest black hair I had ever seen. She exuded sweetness that extended to anyone she met.