by Amanda Quick
“I see.”
“At first I had intended merely to push you over the cliffs into the sea. But when I learned of the catacombs and the secret passage, I was intrigued with the notion of using them instead. I did not actually want you dead, you see. Merely frightened.”
“You could have killed me the night you started the fire in my bedchamber.”
“Not likely.” Alice shrugged. “I assumed your husband would be with you and that you would not be asleep yet. You are, after all, a recently married woman, and the rumors are that Wylde is besotted with his new bride.”
“What do you intend to do now?” Phoebe demanded.
“Hold you for ransom, of course. Your husband will receive a message saying that he can have you back in exchange for the book. Things will be a bit more difficult this way, but I really have no choice. As I said, Neil has learned of my plans and time is running out.”
Phoebe gazed at her intently. “Why do you want the book, Alice? What is so important about it?”
“I don’t know,” Alice said simply.
“You’re going to all this trouble and you don’t know why?” Phoebe asked in disbelief.
“I only know that Neil wants The Lady in the Tower very badly. That is enough for me.” Alice’s fingers tightened on the arm of the chair and her eyes gleamed with barely suppressed rage. “He has talked of nothing else since his return except getting that stupid book back. Well, now he will have to deal with me in order to get his hands on it and I shall extract a very, very high price.”
Phoebe wondered if she were, indeed, dealing with a madwoman. “I think Neil only wants the book for sentimental reasons.”
“There is more to it than that,” Alice said. “There must be. Neil could not possibly harbor any great, undying devotion for you. It is all an act, I know it is.”
“Alice, I believe you have become crazed with your desire for revenge against Neil,” Phoebe said gently.
“Perhaps.” Alice rose to her feet and went to stand near the bed. “A woman in my profession spends a great many nights in hell. It is enough to drive anyone mad. Only the strongest of us survive.”
“You have survived.”
“Yes,” Alice whispered. “I have survived. And one of the things that has kept me going is the hope of gaining my revenge on Neil Baxter. He is the one who condemned me to the Velvet Hell.”
Phoebe stared at her. “What will happen to me?”
“You?” Alice gave her a speculative look. “I suppose it might be amusing for me to make the last part of the curse come true for you, as it has for me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“How does the last part of the book curse go?” Alice leaned closer. “Something about spending an eternal night in hell. I could make you spend an eternal night in hell, Lady Wylde. One night in this place serving my customers would certainly seem like a night in hell to a woman like you.”
Phoebe said nothing. Her mouth went dry. She held Alice’s half-wild eyes and did not look away.
“But I do not hate you that much,” Alice continued softly. “You are merely the means to an end.” She reached down, grasped the flimsy bodice of Phoebe’s bright gown, and tore the delicate silk dress all the way to the hem. Within seconds Phoebe was lying amid the shredded fabric, wearing only her petticoat.
“Why did you do that?” Phoebe demanded furiously.
“Just a precaution. I doubt you will be able to free yourself from the ropes, but in the event you did, the lack of a decent gown will keep you from attempting to escape.”
“You think so?”
Alice gave her a chilling smile. “You never know whom you will meet in the halls of the Velvet Hell, madam. Chances are excellent you will run into some old friends of the family. Your husband will not thank you if you crucify his honor and your own reputation by being seen here. And what will you do when you reach the street?”
Phoebe had to admit she had a point. “Alice, listen to me—”
“Use your common sense. Stay here and do not cause any trouble until your lord ransoms you.”
Alice dropped the shredded silk on the floor and walked out of the chamber. She closed the door very softly behind her. Phoebe heard the key turn in the lock.
Phoebe waited until she was sure the woman had gone down the hall. When all was quiet, she sat up again on the edge of the bed. She turned around and fumbled with the drawer in the bedside table. A moment later her fingers closed around the little bottle of laudanum.
She dropped the bottle, deliberately smashing it into several pieces. Crouching down, she leaned back and carefully picked up one of the shards of glass.
It took forever and there was blood on her hands before she finished, but Phoebe managed to sever her ties. She hurriedly undid the ropes that bound her ankles, and stood up.
Drunken laughter sounded out in the hall. Phoebe shuddered. She had to get out of the chamber as quickly as possible, but Alice was right. She dared not risk being seen in the hall.
She opened the door of the wardrobe, hoping to find clothing. It was empty.
She went to the window and looked out. There was nothing but a sheer drop to the dark alley far below. She would surely break her legs if she tried to jump.
Phoebe turned around and studied her shadowed surroundings. There was nothing she could use to escape the horrid chamber.
Except the sheets on the bed.
She dove for the bed.
Less than ten minutes later she had two large sheets securely tied together. She secured one end of her makeshift rope to the bedpost and draped the remainder out the window.
She levered herself up onto the sill, took a firm grip on the knotted sheets, and began to lower herself down the wall into the alley.
“Phoebe.” Neil Baxter’s voice rose softly from the depths of the alley. “For God’s sake, have a care, my love. I’m coming to get you.”
The shock of Neil’s voice nearly caused Phoebe to lose her grip on the sheets. She stopped her awkward decent and peered down into the alley. “Neil? Is that you?”
“Yes. Hold on. I’ll have you safely down in a minute.” He moved into a shaft of moonlight.
Phoebe stared down at him. “What are you doing? How did you know I was here?”
“When I got word Alice had kidnapped you, I came straight here. I had some notion of trying to save you, but it appears you have already taken steps to save yourself. You always were a clever girl. Come on down, my love, but be careful.”
Phoebe hesitated. She clung to the bedsheets and tried to read Neil’s handsome face. She could see little of his expression in the darkness.
As she dangled there, torn with indecision about what to do next, she heard the door open in the chamber above her.
“Phoebe?” Gabriel’s voice was muffled but unmistakable. “Phoebe, are you in here?”
“Gabriel?” she called tentatively.
“Damnation, Phoebe, where are you?”
“It’s Wylde,” Neil hissed. “Phoebe, I beg of you, my darling, let go of the sheets, He will have you in another minute.”
“It’s too far to drop,” Phoebe protested.
“I’ll catch you,” Neil promised. He sounded desperate. “Hurry, love. I have information that he means to kill you. I can prove it.”
Gabriel leaned out through the open window above Phoebe. His hands clamped around the sill. “Phoebe. Bloody hell, woman, come back here.” He took hold of the knotted sheets and started hauling them upward.
“Phoebe, you must trust me,” Neil called. “If you let him drag you back through that window, you will be signing your own death warrant.” He held up his arms. “Let go. I’ll catch you, my love. You’ll be safe with me.”
Phoebe’s arms were straining with effort. Her shoulders ached and her fingers were clenched so tightly in the sheets, they were trembling. She did not know how much longer she could maintain her death grip.
“If you let go of the damn sheet, I s
wear I shall lock you up for a year,” Gabriel vowed.
“Phoebe, save yourself.” Neil’s arms were lifted upward in a pleading manner. “For the sake of what we once meant to each other, I beg you to trust your loyal Lancelot.”
“You are my wife, Phoebe.” Gabriel continued to haul in the sheet. “You will obey me in this. Don’t let go of the sheet.”
It was just like her dream, Phoebe realized as she was hoisted inexorably upward. Two men were reaching out for her, both promising safety. She had to choose between them.
But she had already made her choice.
She clung tightly to the sheet until she was less than a foot below the windowsill.
“Hell and damnation, Phoebe, you’re going to be the death of me yet.” Gabriel reached down, caught hold of her wrists, and dragged her through the window. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I think so.”
He dropped her unceremoniously onto the floor and leaned out over the sill “Goddamn the bastard, He’s getting away.”
Phoebe picked herself up off the floor and straightened her torn chemise. “Gabriel, how did you find me?”
He spun around, his face very fierce in the moonlight. “Stinton and I have been keeping an eye on this house since we located it earlier today. We saw you being carried in earlier, but we were too far away to stop the villains. We had to bide our time. Come on. We’ve got to get you out of here.”
“I cannot walk out dressed in my chemise.” Phoebe crossed her arms protectively over her bosom. “Someone is bound to notice.”
Gabriel scowled. “Maybe there’s a dress in the wardrobe.”
“It’s empty.”
“We can’t stay here. Come on.” He grabbed her wrist and opened the door. He glanced up and down the hall “There’s no one about. I think we can make it to the back stairs.”
Phoebe clutched at the front of her chemise as she limped quickly after Gabriel She felt terribly exposed in the fine lawn undergarment. “How did you get in?”
“I came up the back steps, the same way you were brought in. No one saw me.”
A roar of masculine laughter sounded from the main staircase at the far end of the hall. A woman giggled.
“Someone’s coming,” Phoebe said. She glanced over her shoulder. “He’ll see us as soon as he reaches the top of the stairs.”
“In here.” Gabriel turned the knob on the nearest door. Mercifully it opened. He tugged Phoebe into the chamber.
A young woman wearing only a cascade of red hair and a pair of black stockings turned around in surprise. She held a whip upraised in one hand. She had obviously been applying it vigorously to the plump buttocks of the stout man who was tied facedown to the bedposts. The man on the bed was wearing a black blindfold over his eyes.
Gabriel held his fingers up to his lips to indicate silence. The redheaded woman cocked a brow. Her mouth curved in cynical amusement at the sight of Phoebe’s shocked expression.
“Don’t stop, my little tyrant,” the man on the bed pleaded. “We must finish this quickly or all is lost.”
The redhead obligingly plied the whip. Phoebe flinched.
“Harder,” the man cried. “Harder.”
“Of course, my love,” the redhead purred. “And are you sorry yet, my dear?”
“Yes, yes, I am sorry.”
“I do not believe you are sorry enough.” The redhead picked up the pace of the whip, making a fair amount of noise in the process.
The man on the bed groaned in rising ecstasy.
Gabriel tossed several notes down onto the dressing table and indicated the wardrobe. The redhead glanced at the money and nodded. She did not pause in her task. The whip sang and the man groaned in a rousing crescendo of sound as Gabriel quietly opened the wardrobe.
Phoebe forgot all about the bizarre sight she was witnessing when she saw the array of spectacular dresses in the wardrobe. She stared in awe at the brilliantly colored gowns.
“Choose one,” Gabriel mouthed silently.
It was an impossible choice. Phoebe loved them all. But with Gabriel standing there looking so impatient, she knew she could not hesitate. She grabbed a brilliant crimson satinet gown and tugged it on over her head.
The groans of the man on the bed grew louder and more impassioned. Gabriel reached into the top of the wardrobe and removed a curly blond wig. He shoved it down on top of Phoebe’s head. She found herself gazing up at him through a veil of blond ringlets.
The redhead nodded toward a drawer built into the wardrobe. Gabriel followed her gaze and pulled it open. He picked up a black lace mask and handed it to Phoebe. She donned it quickly.
Gabriel took her hand, nodded his thanks to the hardworking courtesan, and silently opened the door. The man on the bed gave a warbling cry of satisfaction just as Phoebe and Gabriel stepped out into the hall.
They nearly collided with a portly gentleman who lurched into their path. Phoebe stared at him through her mask, stunned to realize she recognized him. It was Lord Prudstone, a cheerful, grandfatherly sort who had occasionally chatted with her at various soirees.
Prudstone gave a start when he saw Gabriel; then he grinned knowingly and slapped him on the shoulder.
“Here, now, Wylde. Didn’t expect to see you here so soon after the nuptials. Don’t tell me married life has gotten boring already.”
“I was just leaving,” Gabriel said.
“And taking some of the merchandise with you, I see?” Prudstone chuckled as his gaze rested appreciatively on the extremely low neckline of Phoebe’s crimson gown.
“Special arrangements with the management.” Gabriel’s voice held a poorly concealed edge that could have cut glass. “You must excuse us, Prudstone. We’re in something of a hurry.”
“Off you go, my little lovebirds. Enjoy yourselves.” Prudstone wove his way back down the hall, waving merrily.
Gabriel practically dragged Phoebe toward the back stairs. He slammed open the door and hurried her down the darkened steps.
“Good heavens, Gabriel,” Phoebe whispered, “that was Lord Prudstone.”
“I know.”
“How dare he assume you would come to a place like this. You’re a married man.”
“I know. Believe me, I know. I have never been so aware of that fact as I am tonight. Christ, Phoebe, you gave me a scare. Watch out for the body at the bottom of the steps.”
“Body?” Phoebe tried to come to a halt, but Gabriel tugged her ever downward. “There’s a dead man somewhere on these steps?”
“He’s unconscious, not dead. He was guarding the back steps.”
“I see.” Phoebe swallowed. “You rendered him unconscious, I take it?”
“No, I asked him if he’d care to play a hand of whist,” Gabriel said in a voice that indicated he was at the end of his patience. “Where the hell do you think I got the key to your room? Move, Phoebe.”
Phoebe moved.
Five minutes later they were safe inside an anonymous hackney carriage. Stinton was on the box, handling the reins. Gabriel did not speak on the journey home.
When they reached the town house, he snatched off Phoebe’s blond wig and tossed aside her mask. In the light provided by the carriage lamps his eyes were unreadable.
“You are to go straight upstairs to your bedchamber,” he said. “I shall be up shortly. I must speak with Stinton and then I shall have a few things to discuss with you.”
Chapter 21
Gabriel stood on the town house steps and gave Stinton his orders. “Try to find Baxter. If you do find him, stay with him, but don’t let him know you’re around. Whatever you do, don’t lose him.”
“Aye, m’lord. I’ll do me best.” Stinton, still perched on the hackney box, tipped his hat respectfully. “I’m right glad the little lady is safe. Got plenty of bottom, she has, if ye don’t mind my sayin’ so.”
Gabriel winced at the slang but forbore to give Stinton another lecture. There was no time. “I shall tell her ladyship you have gr
eat admiration for her courage,” he said dryly.
“Yes, sir, plenty of bottom. Just like I said. Don’t meet many ladies of her stamp in my business.” Stinton slapped the reins lightly and the carriage rolled off down the street.
Gabriel went back inside the house, closed the door, and took the stairs two at a time to the upper level. His mind was whirling and his body was still pulsing with tension. He strode down the hall to Phoebe’s bedchamber door and then paused, his hand on the knob. He realized he was not quite certain what to say to her.
She had chosen him.
As long as he lived he would never forget that moment when he had found Phoebe dangling from a rope of bedsheets, suspended between the two men who wanted her.
She had chosen him.
The realization roared through him like fire. He had never even told her that he loved her, let alone admitted to her that he trusted her. Yet she had chosen him, trusted him, not her golden-haired Lancelot.
Gabriel twisted the knob, opened the door, and walked softly into the room. He stopped short when he saw Phoebe standing in front of her dressing mirror. She was admiring herself in the gaudy crimson dress he had purchased for her from a whore.
“Gabriel, thank you so much for this gown. I always sensed that I could wear red, even though Meredith insisted it would be awful on me.” Phoebe whirled around, her eyes alight with excitement. “I cannot wait to wear it to a soiree. I vow there will not be another woman dressed in such a fashion.”
“I think that’s a reasonably safe assumption.” Gabriel smiled slightly as he took a close look at the gown. The cheap, shiny, crimson material was so bright it lit up the room. Deep ruffles edged the scalloped hem, which exposed far too much of Phoebe’s legs. Huge black lace flowers that barely concealed her nipples decorated the exceedingly low neckline.
“I wonder if that redheaded woman at the Velvet Hell would give me the name of her dressmaker,” Phoebe mused. She turned back to the mirror to adjust the tiny sleeves of the gown.