All Through the Night

by Connie Brockway

  “I know.”

  She froze.

  “Forgive me any unpleasantness I may have caused.”

  He called attempted murder an “unpleasantness.”

  “I only lately discovered you didn’t have it. But I know who does. I want that letter, daughter, and you, as I have said before, have some unique talents. Get that letter and I will release Seward.”

  A surge of hope raced through her but she needed to get away from Jamison. She needed time to think. There was something in his expression, an eagerness, an intensity that unsettled her. She didn’t trust him. Still …

  Someone else had taken the letter. Jamison had no reason to kill her anymore. And if she recovered it, Jack could free himself from—She stood up.

  “Sit down,” he commanded her.

  She shouldn’t trust him, but she could see no reason for him to come here and tell her these things and ask for her aid. But then, who could say what machinations he might place in motion? She couldn’t think straight.

  “The letter could be moved at any minute,” Jamison said calmly. “I suggest you don whatever it is you don to do this sort of thing and hie yourself off to retrieve it. That is, if you accept my offer.”

  “Who has it?”

  Jamison lifted a brow. “Lord Vedder, the impertinent pup. It won’t take long for Vedder to find a most unsuitable home for it. For a most substantial fee.”

  “Where does he keep it?”

  “However should I know?” Jamison waved away the question. “That’s your job, m’dear. In his library, I should imagine.”

  “But where?” she asked, rising. “How am I to know it from any other letter?” She paced before him, her hands working fretfully. “I’ll never find it. There won’t be time to open all his correspondence, to read through all his papers,” she said hopelessly.

  Jamison’s face took on a thunderous aspect. “You stupid girl. It came from the king. It will carry his wax seal on it!”

  “You’re certain?” she asked anxiously.

  “Yes! Yes!” he snapped. “A single folded sheet of vellum with a red wax seal. You will have no trouble identifying it.” He rose and pointed his walking stick at her. “Will you accept my offer? Will you do it?”

  He needn’t have asked. If he knew about her love for Jack, then he certainly knew that for even a chance to save Seward from his influence, she would have made a deal with the devil himself.

  And so she did.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Jamison allowed his driver to help him into the carriage and cover his lap with a rug. He glanced down the street at Seward’s rented town house, secure in the knowledge that he had slipped out of it while the staff fussed over Seward.

  He rapped on the carriage roof and called out his directions, settling back as the hansom lurched forward. He wondered if Tribble’s girl had already donned her black mask. She’d certainly been impatient to be gone. He gave a slight smile. She’d be gone soon enough.

  Regardless of the histrionics he’d adopted to press home his points, Jamison felt no particular satisfaction at his success. It was simply another success.

  He’d played the role of heinous villain to the hilt. As with all of the most convincing artifices, there’d been more truth than lie in his performance. He had found Seward in much the circumstances he’d described, and he’d related that first conversation between Seward and himself nearly verbatim. The only embellishments had involved the degree and depth of Seward’s loyalty and the matter of Seward’s killing at one word from him. If only he was really so sure he owned Seward.

  Jamison scowled and peered outside. A few fat snowflakes had begun drifting down from a heavy, turgid sky. He wanted Seward’s allegiance again. He would do nearly anything to secure it.

  And the first step toward that was ridding himself of this woman. Yes, Seward would suspect him when she turned up dead. Jamison’s task was to make certain Seward’s suspicions remained a matter of conjecture. If he could do that, he might eventually convince Seward that he hadn’t been involved. He must arrange her death so that nothing led back to Jamison or indicated his connection to it.

  If he did not handle this delicately, Seward could turn from an asset into Jamison’s enemy.

  And such an enemy. Could that be actual fear he felt? he wondered curiously.

  This plan would go more smoothly than the debacle Vedder had arranged. Talking that pathetic drunk Frost into breaking into Seward’s own home. The fool had nearly killed Seward. Jamison’s jaw quivered with anger and self-disgust. He should never have trusted Vedder to come up with a plan. He was getting lazy.

  Well, things had been set into motion properly this time. Vedder was waiting in his library right now. Soon that troublesome woman would break in and Vedder would kill her. Seward would assume that in her overwrought condition she’d given in to her compulsion to steal. It was, after all, mad behavior. What else could Vedder do when surprising Wrexhall’s Wraith in his own home but shoot her? The mystery of where she put that letter would remain unsolved. Until Jamison decided otherwise. It’s reappearance at some future time could be attributed to any one of a number of circumstances.

  Then, upon discovering that he’d killed Jack Seward’s bride, Vedder would turn the gun upon himself. At least, that’s the way it would appear. Society might dislike the cowardly act, but knowing Seward’s reputation, they would certainly understand it.

  Of course, Vedder didn’t know about that part of the plan. He knew only that his every debt had been paid off and that an equal sum was promised when Anne Wilder—Anne Seward—was dead.

  No, Jamison thought, closing his eyes and letting the rock of the carriage lull him to sleep, there were only two people who could connect him to Vedder—Anne and Vedder himself. And both of them would soon be dead.

  Pain drummed dully in Jack’s temple and his mouth felt thick and dry. He squinted. His vision swam as he focused his eyes on the lantern. He was still in the study. Lying on the sofa. How long had he been—

  “Anne!” He jerked upright. “Anne!” His shout turned into a groan. He grabbed his head, doubling over at the waist. The room toppled over itself and he clamped his eyes shut against the nauseating motion. He panted, counted ten, and then struggled to his feet. Spinning rooms be damned. Where was Anne?

  “Anne!” he bellowed, his legs shaking with the effort of keeping himself upright. His stomach rebelled, roiling as he stumbled toward the door. “Anne!”

  Hurried footsteps approached from down the hallway. He blinked blearily as the door swung open and Griffin rushed in. “Good God, Cap, what are you thinking—”

  The floor pitched up to meet him just as Grif caught him under the arms. “You best stay down,” he said.

  “No. Where’s Anne? Is she hurt? Did he—”

  “Easy there, she’s fine.” Griffin lowered him to the sofa. “Right as rain. Probably upstairs practicing scaling chimneys again.”

  Such sweet relief rushed through Jack that he did not take umbrage with Griffin’s sarcastic tone.

  “Frost was going to shoot her,” Jack said. “I have to make certain he doesn’t get the opportunity. Ever.”

  “Fine,” Griffin said. He picked a brown bottle up and measured some of its clear liquid into a glass. “But not right now. That’s a nasty-looking furrow that ball plowed through your scalp.” He filled a glass with water and handed it to Jack. “Drink up.”

  “What is it?” he said, eyeing the glass.

  “Laudanum.”

  Jack handed it back to him. “No wonder I feel so weak,” he said. “How much of that poison have you been draining down me?”

  “Enough to keep you quiet and rested.”

  “How long?”

  Griffin shrugged. “You were shot this morning. It’s getting on eight o’clock.”

  A tentative rap sounded on the door. The maid peeped in. “There’s a gentleman what says he must see you,” she said. “A Lord Strand.”

  “Show hi
m—” He didn’t get a chance to finish his order. Strand pushed his way past the maid, his expression taut with worry.

  Strand stared at Jack a second before sweeping his hat from his head and blowing a deep breath of relief.

  “I didn’t believe him,” Strand said. “Thought the man had poisoned himself with drink and gone mad.”

  “You’re talking about Frost, I presume,” Jack said.

  Jack looked like hell. Blood stained the collar and shoulder of his shirt, and his hair stuck up in a golden thatch above the linen binding his head.

  “Yes,” Strand said, studying his friend. Odd, that it should have taken the news of his death to make Strand acknowledge what he’d known for years. Jack was, indeed, his friend. One of his only friends.

  “Frost staggered into Watier’s Club about half an hour ago, four sheets to the wind,” Strand said. “He proceeded to announce that he’d shot you dead.”

  “A highly exaggerated notion of his own skills,” Jack murmured.

  Strand smiled. “Griffin, if you’d go and ask Mrs. Seward to join us at her convenience?”

  Taking his time, Griffin collected the tray and departed. Jack got up and wobbled over to the hearth. He drained his glass onto the hot coals.

  “Why did you come, Strand?” Jack didn’t look up from the sizzling embers.

  “I hastened to see—”

  “To see what?” Jack asked. “If my widow could use some comfort?”

  Strand flushed. Well, of course Jack would know. Being enamored himself, it would be easy enough to read the signs of captivation in another man, especially when those signs were directed at your wife. But that wasn’t why he’d come, and it hurt a bit to hear his motives so clearly suspected.

  “No,” Strand said soberly, “I came to see if you lived. And to tell you that Lord Vedder dragged Frost out of the club. I think that he goaded Frost’s actions.”

  “Vedder?” Jack frowned, stirring the fire, staring at it as if it held the answers to his questions. “It makes sense. Jamison and Vedder.” He looked up, his expression grave. “Forgive me, Strand,” he said finally. “I appear to have committed a horrendous gaffe. I misjudged you. Worse, I attributed my own low tendencies to you.”

  Strand relaxed. “Thank you,” he said, striving to lighten the tone. “But I have low tendencies aplenty without acquiring yours. I actually came to see if you’d pegged it because rumor has it I’m heir to that disastrous pair of boots you’re wearing and I wanted them buried before your executor could name me their owner.”

  Jack looked down at the offending boots. “Sorry, Strand. You’ll have to live on your prospects awhile longer yet, I still have need of these.”

  They shared a companionable smile and Jack offered him a seat, taking one himself.

  “About Frost,” he said, sobering. “I knew he was angry with you, but to actually shoot you? Most unexpected.”

  “Yes,” Jack said slowly. “But he hadn’t meant to shoot me. He’d meant to shoot Anne. I got in the way.”

  “Anne?” Strand exclaimed incredulously. “But why? Is she all right?”

  “They assure me she’s fine.” Jack’s gaze grew contemplative. “Why Anne? I suspect Jamison as having put him up to it.”

  “But why would Jamison want Anne dead?” Strand asked in bewilderment.

  “Because Anne is Wrexhall’s Wraith, Giles,” Jack said evenly, “and Jamison wants anyone who may have read that letter dead.”

  Strand slumped back in his seat, his mouth ajar. “Anne Wilder, Wrexhall’s Wraith,” he muttered incredulously. His gaze sharpened. “But why does he want people who’ve seen the thing dead? Seems rather an extreme measure.”

  Jack laced his hands together, his gaze distant and speculative. “That’s what I’ve been thinking. He says it’s for security reasons. I accepted that explanation at first. You know what Jamison is: paranoia incarnate. But now I don’t quite believe him.”

  The door to the study suddenly opened. Griffin walked in. “She’s gone,” he said without preamble. “No one knows where.”

  “What?” Jack shouted, rising. “What the hell do you mean, no one knows where?” His voice was diamond hard. “That’s why you’re all here. To watch after one woman.”

  Griffin turned an uncomfortable shade of red, his eyes darting away from meeting Jack’s. “I know, Cap. She went upstairs. The maid says she heard her talking to a man in her room about an hour ago. She thought it was me so she didn’t pay it any attention.”

  “What else?” Jack demanded.

  “The kitchen boy’s missing his hat and coat.”

  Jack turned around. “Strand, you’ll help me search?”

  “Of course. But where?”

  Jack was already in the hallway shrugging into his coat. His expression was grim. “Frost didn’t come here by way of his own inspiration. He’s been seen everywhere with Vedder. And Vedder has been involved in this investigation from the first. He’s just the sort of malleable fool Jamison would use.”

  “My carriage is outside.”

  “Cap, you’re hurt,” Griffin said, barring his exit. “You don’t have any idea where she might be.”

  An arctic landscape had more warmth than Jack’s face. “Will you help me find her?”

  Griffin’s jaw thrust out stubbornly. “No. She’s a thief and a liar and she’ll get you killed. If she’s fallen and broken her neck I say bloody well done. I don’t care—”

  His last word was cut off. Jack had seized Griffin’s collar and jerked him close to his face. A snarl lifted Jack’s lips. Pain caroused wildly in his pale eyes.

  “I care,” he ground out between clenched teeth. “I bloody care, Grif. She’s not dead. And I’ll not have you say it.” He shook the older man like a pit dog shaking a rat. “Rip out my heart, Griffin! Cut it still beating from my chest before you tell me she’s dead.”

  He flung the man away from him and stalked out into the night.

  Jack slumped against the corner of the building, desolation washing through him. He’d been searching for four hours and he’d not found a single trace of her.

  Strand and he had traveled at breakneck speed to Vedder’s mansion. At first the butler had refused them entry, stating that his master was not receiving, but after a short and violent conversation he’d divulged that Vedder had decamped at first light.

  The frightened—and slightly bruised—man had sworn he’d never seen his master so frantic to be gone or so adamant that his departure be secret.

  Jack’s relief at discovering Vedder wasn’t stalking Anne was short-lived. He and Strand divided their search; Strand had gone looking among the ton and Jack had gone to the Norths’ town house. Not only was she not there, neither were the Norths. They’d left for a house party late in the afternoon and no, Anne had most definitely not been with them.

  He’d returned to his address and scoured the streets, asking the vendors and shopkeepers, the street sweepers and the watchman, if they’d seen a slight youngster in a torn coat and hat.

  None had. But then their eyes were earthbound, and she, she flew.

  Each corner he took was preceded by a moment of dread as he wondered if he would find Anne, broken like an arrow-struck dove, lying crumpled on the wet stone. Each corner he took brought relief and a renewal of his determination to find her. But hour after hour of fruitless searching ground him down with the certainty that she’d fled from him.

  His head throbbed and his vision grew bleary and still he kept looking. Looking until he had to admit that Griffin had been right. He’d no direction to follow, no leads to trace. And so he’d come back here.

  He mounted the steps, failure and fear his unfamiliar companions, and let himself in. Spawling shuffled forward and took his coat.

  “Thank you. Where’s Griffin and Lord Strand?” he asked wearily, expecting no good news. Without vanity he knew himself to be the best tracker and most intuitive hunter in England. If he could not find her, no one could.

&nbs
p; “Both come and gone out again twice now, sir. There’s a fire in the study. I’ll have Cook make you something to eat,” she said, bobbing a curtsey and hurrying away.

  He walked into the study. A blaze crackled merrily in the hearth mocking his anguish. He stared down into its flames. Light and shadow licked his face.

  Dear God, let her be safe. The prayer rose from the center of his soul, where his heart had always remained constant to itself. Please God. Please.

  He heard the front door open. Griffin or Strand, he thought incuriously. A soft footfall came down the hall and paused.

  “Jack.”

  He swung around. Anne stood in the open door, staring at him with huge, fervent eyes and—blessed Lord. A tear. “Jack, you’re all right?” she whispered.

  “Yes.” His voice was hoarser than usual. Now I am.

  She broke and pitched herself into his arms. He clamped her to him with a sense of relief so intense he would have fallen if he hadn’t been holding her.

  “Oh, dear God,” she said with an odd hitch in her voice, her eyes traveling greedily over his face. “I was so worried. I thought you—Oh!” She rained little kisses over his cheeks and eyes and mouth. He closed his eyes.

  He’d never experienced anything like it in his life, the pure joy she gave him. He lifted her high in his arms, uncertain whether he could ever let her go when suddenly she began to wiggle.

  “Wait!” she said breathlessly. “I forgot for a minute. Wait!” She fought her hand into her pocket and pulled a thick, folded sheet of paper free. A broken red wax seal was still on it.

  “Look what I’ve found,” she said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Slowly Jack let Anne slide down his body, but he wouldn’t let her go too far. He looked at the sheet of paper in her hand and then at her. “Is that what I think it is?”

  She nodded eagerly.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “In Jamison’s house. In his study.”