Rubbing his chin reflectively, Ben murmured, “I don’t know ... I think he believed us, but it worries me just a little that he didn’t order us to make another attempt. It was almost as if he didn’t trust us anymore.”
Jacko nodded, but presented another point of view. “It might be that it is only in connection with Pip that he mistrusts us. I can’t believe that he wouldn’t have killed us outright if he had thought that we were actively working against him in everything.”
“So?” Royce asked. “How dangerous is it, and can you do it ... without putting yourselves at further risk?”
Ben took a deep breath, expelling the air slowly. “It’ll be dangerous, there is no doubt of that ... but I think we can do it.”
“Think?” Royce repeated dryly. “In dealing with this man, I don’t believe that mere thinking will suffice. You have to know you can do it!”
His bruised face grim, Jacko said harshly, “We can do it. We have the element of surprise on our side—even if he mistrusts us about Pip, he won’t be expecting rebellion behind his back.” A cocky grin suddenly split his mouth. “And me and Ben are as soft-footed as cats—we should have no trouble following him.”
Uneasy about the plan, but seeing no other way, Royce stared at them, wondering if he wasn’t putting their lives in grave danger. Not used to asking others to risk their necks while he remained safely in the background, Royce was again conscious of that feeling of billowing rage deep within himself. He was helpless to aid the Fowlers beyond what he had done so far, and he detested his current position. If only there were some other way ...
As a thought suddenly struck him, he jerked up in his chair and remarked to the room at large, “What a fool I am!” Looking at the two surprised young men, he said eagerly, “I can arrange passage for all of you to America—you’ll be safe there!”
Ordinarily pride would have caused the Fowlers to reject the offer out of hand, but Pip’s situation and the vicious beating they had taken had given them pause. A glimmer of excitement growing in their eyes, the two men stared at each other. What each saw in the other’s eyes must have convinced them, because as one, they said, “How soon?”
Not giving himself time to think, pushing aside thoughts of making Pip his mistress with puritanical zeal, Royce said, “I can see my businessman tomorrow and he can take care of everything for me. Once we have assured ourselves of your passage on the first ship leaving port for American waters, all we have to do is keep Pip safe and you two out of trouble until the ship sails. The riskiest part of our venture will be getting you all on board without arousing the suspicions of the one-eyed man.”
“If you can get Pip there, don’t worry about us! Just tell us the name of the ship and when she sails, and we’ll be there!” Jacko answered almost merrily.
Royce smiled faintly. If only, he thought cynically, everything goes as easily as planned. Rising to his feet, he said, “Before we say good night, I suggest we come up with some way to contact each other if need be. We can use this house to meet in, and I believe that my mistress can be trusted, but even if we decide upon certain times and dates to meet, we will still need some sort of a signal to alert each other in case of an emergency. Do you have any ideas?”
Ben and Jacko glanced at each other, shaking their heads.
There was brief silence, then Royce snapped his fingers. “Curtains,” he said succinctly.
At their expression of puzzlement, he added, “We could position a certain way the curtains of one particular window in the house. Halfway open or completely shut or whatever. Then all we need to do is to decide which position is the alarm signal. That position will mean that we must meet here at once.”
Embellishing on his plan, Royce added, “Since the third floor is largely unused, I suggest we select the third window from the right on the third floor. The regular position will be half-open. All the way open will mean we should meet that night at, say, ten o’clock, and all the way shut will mean we must see each other immediately.”
The plan was agreed upon, and on that note, they parted, all three of them feeling inordinately pleased with the situation. Well, not exactly pleased, in Royce’s case. Driving his curricle at a smart pace through the shadowy London streets, he could not help but wonder what had possessed him to act in a manner so against his own interests. Sending Jacko and Ben to America bothered him not a bit; it was the idea of parting with Pip that aroused an odd little ache in the region of his chest. To his utter astonishment, he realized that, inexplicably, he had grown rather used to knowing that she was nearby. By sending her to America, he was, at least for the near future, putting her beyond his reach and denying himself the pleasure of making her his mistress. But it had to be, he thought almost savagely. Here she would constantly be in danger from the one-eyed man, but in America she should be safe, and he would just have to console himself by telling himself that he was acting most nobly. The thought offered little comfort, and his mouth twisted. Why was it that the noblest action always seemed to provide the least amount of enjoyment?
Entering the house moments later, Royce found himself strangely restless yet with no real desire to seek entertainment elsewhere. After dismissing Chambers for the night, he wandered about the lower floor of the house, unable to settle comfortably in any one room. By London standards, the evening was still young, not much past ten o’clock, and there was any one of a dozen places he could go to seek fellowship or amusement, but for some reason, they held no interest for him. He gave a twisted smile. The only place he really wanted to be was in Pip’s bed, and since he hoped he still had too many scruples to seek her out, he deliberately kept a firm rein on the primitive urgings of his body and attempted to keep his mind on other things.
The problem was that not only did he not wish for the company of others, he was also not sleepy. If anything, the evening’s occurrences had left him agreeably stimulated—it was Royce’s nature to take action, not languish awaiting the outcome of events, as he had these last few days, and he was reasonably satisfied with the plans he had made with the Fowlers ... except for the depressing knowledge that shortly, Pip would be sailing out of his life. But at least she will be safe from the one-eyed man, he reminded himself harshly time and again. She will be safe from both of us, he added with blunt honesty, well aware that for his peace of mind, Pip could not leave London too soon.
Yet Wednesday morning, seated in his agent’s well-appointed office, after their initial greetings, when it was finally time to discuss his reasons for calling upon the man, Royce was strangely reluctant to voice his actual request. He spun out their desultory conversation as long as he could, and he knew that Roger Steadham must be wondering at his actions. Growing more furious with himself by the moment, Royce finally leaned back in the brass and leather chair and murmured, “You must be curious why I am here this morning.”
Roger Steadham was a young man not quite thirty-five years of age, with medium height and build, and he had come highly recommended by George Ponteby. “Extremely capable and discreet fellow” was precisely what George had said, and Roger was exactly that. His hazel eyes meeting Royce’s gaze openly, he smiled politely and replied, “I’m certain you will tell me the reason for this visit when it suits you.”
Royce laughed grimly. “Well, what I am about to ask you doesn’t suit me at all, but I see no other course. I wish to arrange for passage to America for four people. Leaving on the first ship sailing there from London.”
If Steadham was surprised by Royce’s request, he gave no clue, saying merely, “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that you are cutting your stay here in England short.”
Royce was on the point of correcting him when he stopped himself. He had decided to ask for four passages simply to cloud the issue, and if Steadham wanted to think they were for his party, well, so much the better.
Royce made a noncommittal reply and, after a few more minutes of conversation, rose to his feet and prepared to depart. “Well, then,” he said amiably, “I
will leave matters in your hands. Please advise me of the ship and sailing dates just as soon as possible.”
Steadham eagerly assured him that he would, and diffidently escorted him from the office. While deeply regretting the necessity for Pip’s imminent, abrupt departure from his life, as he sauntered away from Steadham’s offices, Royce was rather pleased and satisfied with the morning’s work, and went in search of other amusements.
Royce might not have been so sanguine if he had realized that his visit to Steadham’s office had been observed and that as he walked away, a dark figure lurked in the shadows of the tall buildings, the man’s malevolent gaze locked on his retreating form.
For several minutes longer, the shabbily garbed man stared in the direction in which the long-legged American had disappeared, and then, after one last ugly look, the man slid around the side of the building and entered the back way. Stealthily he climbed the staircase until he reached the floor he wanted. Betraying his familiarity with the area, he silently bypassed the rooms full of busy clerks to gain direct entrance to Steadham’s private office. Like a shadow, he drifted into the room, startling Roger Steadham.
That the man was no stranger to Roger was evident from the way his eyes widened apprehensively and he exclaimed, “Good Lord! What are you doing here? You promised you would never contact me again.”
The man smiled thinly, his one eye impaling Roger where he sat. “You’ll forgive me,” he drawled sarcastically, “but sometimes I find that there are certain promises I cannot keep—just as you cannot seem able to avoid the gaming hells. Pity you don’t have another wealthy aunt, isn’t it?”
Roger went white at his words and looked away. Knowing there was no escape, he eventually asked in a dead tone of voice, “What do you want from me?”
“Oh, nothing very much,” the one-eyed man replied pleasantly. “I merely want to know what business you just transacted with Royce Manchester... .”
CHAPTER 12
As if unable to believe his ears, Steadham stared across the width of his huge mahogany desk at the one-eyed man. “That’s all?” he finally asked incredulously.
The one-eyed man sent him another of those cold, thin smiles. “Yes, ”he answered soothingly, “that’s all.”
Relieved that nothing more ominous was being asked of him, Roger shrugged his shoulders and related Royce’s request. The one-eyed man was thoughtful for several moments, speculation gleaming in that one cold, dark eye. “Hmm. so Mr. Manchester has grown tired of London, has he? Now, I wonder why I have difficulty believing that?” As if coming to some decision, he stood up slowly and said, “Very well, go ahead and make Manchester’s arrangements ... but see to it that there is nothing suitable for him until, say, oh, the first of August.”
“But that’s well over a month away! I’m certain that I could find him passage before that,” Roger protested.
The one-eyed man smiled. “I know,” he said coolly. “But you will do as I say, won’t you?”
Frighteningly aware of how easily the one-eyed man could destroy him if he wished, Roger shrugged helplessly. “If that is what you wish.”
Flashing Roger a smile full of malice, the one-eyed man glided to the door. “You are always so reasonable! So pleasant to do business with you, my dear fellow.”
The one-eyed man unobtrusively made his way to one of several places he kept in various locations all over the city. It had not taken him very long after he had embarked upon his present career for him to see the wisdom of having more than one place in which to seek asylum ... or transact business. A grim smile curved his mouth. How many desperate souls at one time or another had followed him, hoping to catch him out, to set a trap, never realizing that he seldom used the same place two times running and that he deliberately had no clear pattern in either the routes he followed or the locations he used?
Reaching his destination, a small, fairly elegant set of rooms not many blocks away from Steadham’s suite of offices, after a careful examination of the area, and seeing nothing to arouse his suspicions, he slipped inside, using the back entrance. He never kept any place for his own use that did not have more than one entrance—several if he could arrange it.
Swiftly entering the rooms, he automatically threw the latch and the bolt on the door. Satisfied now that no one would enter behind him, he turned away and in one easy movement removed first his concealing black, slouch-crowned, broad-brimmed hat, then the black patch that covered his eye. Running a hand through his hair, he walked over to a small marquetry wardrobe. Swiftly divesting himself of the shabby clothes he had worn to call upon Steadham, he hung them neatly in the wardrobe and took out a different set of clothes. Laying the garments on the bed, he then poured himself some water from a china pitcher that sat on a washstand nearby and proceeded to cleanse himself.
Refreshed, he dressed in his normal garb for this time of day—starched linen cravat, superbly cut jacket of expensive material, finely made breeches, and boots as highly shined and elegantly fashioned as any to be found in London. Brushing his dark hair with a pair of silver-backed brushes, he glanced at himself in the mirror. Although there were obvious signs of dissipation on the regular features, a self-indulgent curve to the mouth, and a calculating glitter in the dark eyes, it was not an unhandsome face that stared back at him. The plentiful dark hair still showed no hint of gray even though he was less than a year away from having lived five decades. Pleased with the image that was reflected back at him, he walked into a somewhat larger sitting room.
From a mother-of-pearl-inlaid box, he selected a thin, black cheroot, and after lighting it and pouring himself a glass of wine from one of the various crystal decanters that sat upon a long walnut table, he wandered over to a comfortable green leather chair. Alternately sipping his wine and smoking his cheroot, he thoughtfully considered this morning’s events.
So Manchester was considering leaving London, hmm? Not for a moment did he believe it. Manchester had only arrived less than a month ago for an extended stay—why would the man now suddenly change his mind? So what was the damned American up to?
A ploy? he wondered. Perhaps. But then, Manchester had had no way of knowing that his plans would be discovered so soon. He smiled. How very wise it had been of him to place a spy within the Manchester household. And how wise of him to have decided to be the one to shadow Manchester’s movements this morning, once his spy had alerted him to the fact Manchester was seeing Roger Steadham. There were others he could have assigned to such a menial task, but his instincts had prompted him to do it himself.
His dark eyes narrowed. The American was proving to be quite a nuisance, always underfoot, always, it seemed, disrupting his well-laid plans. He had been growing very annoyed with him even before the incident involving Pip, but now...
An ugly expression twisted his face. He was not used to being thwarted. For over twenty years, ever since he had first donned the disguise of the original one-eyed man, he had been all-powerful and he was conscious of a great anger inside him at the ease with which Manchester had been disrupting his life of late. First that damned horse race, he thought furiously, that damned horse race which had cost him an enormous sum of money. Then Della ... And now Pip!
His fingers tightened about the slender stem of his wineglass. It had annoyed him more than a little when Manchester had mounted Della as his mistress. For some time he’d had his eye on her; her reputation of being singularly loyal to her protector and the fact that she knew how to keep her mouth shut had made him decide that she would be a very valuable tool. The American’s advent into the picture had momentarily changed his plans, but there was little doubt in his mind that eventually, once he applied the appropriate pressure, Della would see things his way, even if, as a last resort, he had to break her spirit to obtain her compliance. A cruel smile crossed his face as he envisioned, not without pleasure, the ways in which a recalcitrant woman could be made to obey his slightest command. Manchester’s protection was making his task more difficul
t, and the thought of having the American murdered briefly crossed his mind. It would solve several problems for him. Certainly the American’s death would catapult Pip back onto the streets again and into his hands. And once Pip was in his power ...
He had such wonderful plans for Pip ... grandiose schemes for Morgana Devlin—and they did not include having her become the plaything of Royce Manchester! His knuckles suddenly showed whitely around the stem of his wineglass. Those blasted Fowler louts! To fail him now when he had relied most on them! For a moment the nearly maniacal fury that had erupted through him when Jacko and Ben had told him that they could not find Pip in Manchester’s house almost got the better of him, but he managed with a tremendous effort to master his rage. Very well, they had failed, and grudgingly he conceded that there may have been some excuse for their failure, but he was still angry about it. He was also very angry that his second attempt had been no more successful than the first, although he had not held high hopes of it succeeding. But it rankled nonetheless. How dare Manchester refuse to sell her! he thought furiously. How dare Manchester, inadvertently or not, come between him and what he wanted!
No one ever stood in his way for very long. No one! And he certainly wasn’t going to allow some colonial upstart to ruin all his plans—plans he had nurtured for almost half his life. Well, that wasn’t quite true—in the beginning he hadn’t really known what to do with the infant Morgana and had very nearly simply disposed of her, as that fool Devlin seemed to think he would. He laughed cynically. What absolute agonies Devlin would suffer if he knew that Morgana was still alive ... and that there was proof of her identity. He laughed again as he pictured the horror that would appear on the Earl’s handsome face at learning such shattering news. If he didn’t have his own schemes to further, it would be utterly delightful to let Devlin know immediately that his niece was still alive. Regretfully he pushed the idea away. No. The time was not yet ripe. Morgana’s ultimate place was at his side, and until he was ready, Devlin was the last person he wanted to learn of Morgana’s presence in this world. Smiling slightly, he consoled himself with the thought that he was merely postponing the delight of teasing Devlin and Lucinda with the knowledge that Morgana was alive. In time, he thought, his smile widening, in time he would destroy the Earl, and take a great deal of pleasure in doing it—it would certainly take the sting out of every slight, every snub, the Earl had sent his way over the years.
Whisper To Me of Love Page 19