by Amanda Quick
“I pray you will forgive me, madam. Violent solutions have their place from time to time, but as a general rule, I prefer to avoid that sort of thing.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I find that somewhat surprising, given your training.”
“If you know anything at all about the ancient arts of Vanza, you must know that subtlety is always stressed over the obvious in the philosophy. Violence is hardly subtle. When the occasion does call for it, the strategy should be crafted with precision and carried out in such a way that the results do not leave a trail that leads directly back to the one who initiated the action.”
She grimaced. “You are indeed a true student of Vanza, Mr. Hunt. Your thinking on such subjects is clever, crafty, and labyrinthine.”
“I realize the fact that I am Vanza does not elevate me in your opinion, madam. But allow me to remind you that shooting a man dead in the street last night could have produced a variety of complications that both of us might have found most inconvenient this morning.”
“What do you mean?” Her eyes widened in surprise. “You assisted me in rescuing a young woman. How could anyone object to that?”
“I prefer not to attract attention, Mrs. Deveridge.”
She flushed. “Yes, of course. You no doubt fear that word might get out about your connection to the Dream Pavilions. Rest assured I will say nothing to anyone.”
“I appreciate the reassurance. As it happens, I have a great deal at stake at the moment.”
I have no wish to meddle in your, ah, financial affairs.”
He went cold. Just how much did the woman know? Was it possible that she had also learned of his carefully wrought plans for vengeance?
“You do not intend to meddle, you say?” he repeated neutrally.
She waved a hand in casual dismissal. “Heavens, no, sir. Your plans to select a wife from the higher circles of the ton are of absolutely no interest to me. Marry where you wish, Mr. Hunt. And the best of luck to you.”
He relaxed slightly. “You relieve my mind, Mrs. Deveridge.”
“I quite understand that your search for a well-connected bride would be severely hampered if it were to get out that you are in trade, sir.” She paused, her brows drawing together in a vaguely troubled frown. “But are you sure that it is a wise notion to contract a marriage under what might be construed as false pretenses?”
“As a matter of fact, I hadn’t thought about the matter from that perspective,” he said blandly.
“What will you do when the truth comes out?” There was more than a hint of frosty disapproval in the question. “Do you expect your wife to simply ignore the fact that you are in trade?”
“Mmm.”
She leaned forward and glared. “Allow me to give you a word of advice, sir. If you have any intention of establishing a marriage based on mutual respect and affection, you will be honest with your future spouse right from the start.”
“As I have absolutely no intention of establishing that sort of marriage in the near future, I don’t think I need be overly concerned with the finer points of your lecture on the subject.”
She flinched in surprise. Then she unclasped her fingers and sat back quickly. “Good Lord, I was lecturing you, was I not?”
“That is certainly what it sounded like to me.”
“Forgive me, Mr. Hunt.” She propped her elbows on the desk and dropped her head into her hands. “I vow I do not know what came over me. I had no right to involve myself in your personal affairs. My thinking has been rather muddied of late. My only excuse is that I have had some difficulty sleeping and I—” She broke off, raised her head, and winced. “Now I am rambling.”
“Do not concern yourself about the rambling.” He paused a beat. “But I wish to make it clear that I would be very displeased if my business affairs became snarled at this particular juncture. I’m sure you can appreciate that I am involved in some extremely delicate matters.”
“Yes, of course. You have made your point, sir. There is no need to threaten me.”
“I was not aware that I had uttered any threats.”
“Sir, you are Vanza.” She gave him a steely look. “There is no need to spell out your warnings. I assure you, they are quite clear.”
For some reason her disgust of all things Vanza was beginning to irritate him. “For a lady who stooped to blackmail in order to coerce me into assisting her last night, you have considerable nerve to insult me today.”
“Blackmail?” Her eyes widened in outrage. “I did nothing of the kind.”
“You made it plain that you knew of my ownership of the Dream Pavilions and you are aware that I do not want any gossip in that direction. Forgive me if I misunderstood your intent, but I got the distinct impression that you used your information to force me to assist you.”
She went very pink. “I merely pointed out your obligations in the matter.”
“Call it what you wish. I call it blackmail.”
“Oh. Well, you are entitled to your opinion, of course.”
“Yes. And I should add that blackmail is not my favorite parlor game.”
“I regret the necessity—”
The twinge of panic in her eyes satisfied him. He interrupted her explanations with a wave of his hand. “How is your maid bearing up today?”
Madeline looked briefly disconcerted by the abrupt change of topic. She made a visible effort to collect herself. “Nellie is very well, although the kidnappers apparently poured a great deal of laudanum down her throat. She is still a bit groggy and her recollection of events is extremely vague.”
“Latimer told me that she does not recall much about the affair.”
“No. The only thing she remembers with any clarity is that the two men argued over how to get the best price for her. She gained the impression that they had been commissioned to abduct her but one of them thought they could get more by selling her to another client.” Madeline shuddered. “It is revolting to think that the brothel keepers are actively engaged in the buying and selling of young women.”
“Not only young women. They deal in young boys, as well.”
“It is a terrible trade. One would think the authorities—”
“The authorities can do very little about it.”
“Thank heavens we were able to find Nellie in time.” Madeline met his eyes. “If it had not been for your assistance, we would have lost her. Last night I did not have an opportunity to thank you properly. Please allow me to do so now.”
“You may thank me by answering my questions,” he said very softly.
A wary expression lit her eyes. She gripped the edge of her desk as though bracing herself. “I expected no less. Very well, you are entitled to some explanation. I suppose your chief concern is to discover precisely how I came to know of your connection to the Dream Pavilions.”
“Forgive me, Mrs. Deveridge, but my curiosity on that point was strong enough to keep me awake for quite some lime last night.”
“Really?” She brightened with what could only be a sympathetic interest. “Do you suffer much difficulty in sleeping?”
He smiled thinly. “I am sure I will sleep like the dead once I have the answers to my questions.”
She started a bit at the word dead, but she caught herself immediately. “Yes, well, I suppose I ought to begin by telling you that my father was a member of the Vanzagarian Society.”
“I am already aware of that fact. I also know that he had achieved the rank of a master.”
“Yes. But he was interested primarily in the scholarly aspects of Vanza, not the metaphysical notions or the physical exercises. He studied the ancient language of the Isle of Vanzagara for many years. Indeed, he was a noted expert within the Society.”
“I know.”
“I see,” She cleared her throat. “In the course of his work he communicated with many other Vanza scholars scattered throughout England, the Continent, and America. Here in London he frequently consulted with Ignatius Lorring himself.” Madeline paused. “T
hat was, of course, before Lorring became so ill that he stopped seeing his old friends and colleagues.”
“As the Grand Master of the Society, Lorring knew more about its members than anyone else. Are you telling me that your father discussed such matters with him?”
“I regret to say that they did more than merely discuss the personal affairs of the members of the Society. Toward the end of his life, Lorring became obsessed with information concerning gentlemen in the Society.” She rolled her eyes. “One might say that he became the Grand Master Eccentric of the Society of Eccentrics and Oddities.”
“Perhaps we could skip your personal reflections on the members of the Vanzagarian Society?”
“Sorry.”
She did not look at all sorry, he decided, merely frustrated because he had stopped her in mid-lecture.
“I comprehend that you hold strong views on the subject,” he said politely, “but I fear that if you take the time to describe them all to me, we shall not finish this conversation by nightfall.”
“You may be right,” she shot back. “There are, after all, so many things to criticize about the Society, are there not? But for the sake of brevity, I shall move on to the essentials. Suffice it to say that, driven by a desire for the most minute details, Lorring appointed my father to keep a record of the members.”
“What sort of record?”
She hesitated, as if torn by some internal debate. Then, quite suddenly, she got to her feet. “I will show you.”
She removed a gold chain from around her throat. He saw that a small key, which had been hidden from sight beneath her fichu, dangled from the delicate, gold links. She crossed the room to a small cupboard secured with a brass lock.
She opened the cupboard with the key and removed a large journal bound in dark leather. She carried the volume back to her desk and set it down with great care.
“This is the record Lorring requested my father to compile and maintain.” She opened the book and glanced down at the first page. “It has not been kept current since my father’s death, so the information on the members is now a full year out of date.”
A whisper of unease went through him. He got to his feet and went to look at the first page of the old journal. He saw at once that it was a record of names that went back to the earliest days of the Vanzagarian Society. Slowly he turned the pages, examining the contents. There were lengthy notes beneath each entry. The details covered far more than such minor facts as the date a gentleman had been admitted to the Society and the level of expertise he had achieved. They included business and personal affairs as well as comments on the temperaments and extremely private inclinations of the various members.
Artemas knew that a good deal of what he was looking at would have made excellent scandal-broth, at the very least. Some of it was blackmail material. He paused to read the notes concerning himself. There was no mention of his affair with Catherine Jensen or the three men he intended to destroy. His plans for vengeance appeared to be safe for the moment. Nevertheless, there was far too much information concerning his personal affairs in the damned book. He frowned at the sentences that had been added at the bottom of the page.
Hunt is a true master of Vanza. He thinks in dark and devious ways.
“Who else knows about this book?” he asked.
She took a step back. He realized it was his tone of voice, not the simple question, that had alarmed her.
“Only my father and Ignatius Lorring knew about this record,” she said hastily. “They are both dead.”
He looked up from the page that was headed with his name. “You are forgetting yourself, Mrs. Deveridge,” he said softly. “You appear to be very much alive.”
She swallowed visibly, blinked, and then produced a dazzling smile and a small, wholly artificial chuckle. “Yes, of course. But you have no need to concern yourself with the trifling fact that I possess this old book, sir.”
Artemas closed the journal deliberately. “I wish I could be certain of that.”
“Oh, you can, sir. Indeed, you can be absolutely certain.”
“That remains to be seen.” He picked up the book and carried it back to the cupboard. “Old volumes connected to Vanza can be dangerous. It was not so very long ago that rumors concerning an ancient text resulted in some mysterious deaths.”
He heard a thud as something heavy landed on the carpet. The sound was accompanied by a sharp gasp. He ignored both as he put the book into the cupboard. He closed and locked the door and turned slowly to look at Madeline.
She was crouched on the carpet, busily retrieving a heavy silver figure that had fallen from the desk. He noticed that her fingers trembled slightly as she rose and placed the little statue precisely next to the inkwell.
“I assume you refer to the rumors about the so-called Book of Secrets, sir,” she said smoothly. She made a show of brushing off her hands. “Utter rubbish.”
“Not in the opinion of some members of the Society.”
“I must point out, sir, that many members of the Society hold a variety of extremely odd notions.” She made a sound of exasperation. “The Book of Secrets, if, indeed, it ever existed, was destroyed in a fire that consumed a certain villa in Italy.”
“One can only hope that is the case.” Artemas went to stand at her heavily protected window. He looked out into the little garden and noted that there were no large trees, hedges, or other masses of foliage that could give cover to an intruder. “As I said, books can be dangerous things. Tell me, Mrs. Deveridge, do you intend to use the information your father set down in that journal to blackmail anyone else? Because if that is the case, I must advise you that there is some risk involved.”
“Will you kindly cease employing the word blackmail at every turn in the conversation?” she snapped. “It is most annoying.”
He glanced at her over his shoulder. Her expression of severe disgruntlement would have been amusing under other circumstances. “Forgive me, madam, but given that my future is in your hands, I feel in need of constant reassurance.”
Her lips tightened with irritation. “I have already told you that I have no sinister intentions, sir. Last night I was forced to use desperate measures, but such a situation is highly unlikely to occur again.”
He looked at the little bells that dangled from the heavily barred shutters. “I do not think that you are as confident of that as you would have me believe, madam.”
Silence gripped the library. Artemas turned completely around to confront Madeline. Her expression was one of unwavering determination, but he could see the haunted look beneath the surface.
“Tell me, Mrs. Deveridge,” he said quietly. “Who or what do you fear?”
“I cannot imagine what you are talking about, sir.”
“I realize that because I am Vanza, you assume that I am something of an eccentric, if not a complete crackpot, but kindly credit me with some elementary reasoning ability.”
She began to have the appearance of a creature that has been cornered. “What do you mean?”
“You employ an armed coachman who clearly performs the services of a bodyguard. You barricade your windows with shutters that are designed to keep out intruders. Your garden has been stripped of foliage so that no one can approach the house unseen. You yourself have learned to use a pistol.”
“London is a dangerous place, sir.”
“It is indeed. But I think you feel more at risk than many other people.” He held her eyes. “What do you fear, madam?”
She gazed at him for a long time. Then she went back behind her desk and sank down into her chair. Her shoulders were rigid with tension.
“My personal affairs are none of your concern, Mr. Hunt.”
He studied her averted face, taking in the evidence of her pride and courage. “Everyone has dreams, Mrs. Deveridge. I comprehend that yours is to be free of the fear you feel.”
Her gaze turned curiously speculative. “What do you think you can do on my behalf, sir?”
“I am in no mood for jests.”
“I assure you, I am not particularly amused myself at this moment.”
Her hand clenched around a small brass paperweight. She studied it intently. “Even if what you say is true, if you could just possibly be of some assistance to me, sir, I suspect there would be a price for such services.”
He shrugged. “There is a price for everything. Sometimes it is worth paying. Sometimes it is not.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, her gaze was steady, penetrating.
“I will admit,” she said carefully, “that last night after I returned home, a certain notion did cross my mind.”
He had her, he thought. She had taken the bait. “What notion was that?”
She put the brass paperweight down. “I spent a great deal of time pondering a pair of old sayings. One was the adage that it is best to fight fire with fire. The other was that it takes a thief to catch a thief.”
Understanding flashed through him. “Bloody hell, madam, this is a Vanza matter, is it not?”
She blinked twice at his leap of comprehension. Then she scowled. “In a way. Possibly.” She sighed. “I cannot be certain.”
“What are you thinking? That you will employ a master of Vanza to deal with an affair of Vanza? Is that your logic?”
“Something along those lines, yes.” She drummed her fingers on the desk. “I am still pondering the matter, sir, but it has occurred to me that you might be uniquely qualified to assist me in resolving an issue that is causing me a great deal of concern.”
“You mean that you have thought of a way to use my skills as a master to solve your problem.”
“If we were to come to an agreement,” she said deliberately, “I would see our association as being in the nature of employer and employee. I would pay you for your expertise.”
“This becomes more intriguing by the moment. Just how the devil do you plan to reimburse me, Mrs. Deveridge?” He held up a palm. “Before you answer that question, let us be clear on one point. As you have noted, I am in trade and I do very well in my business affairs. I do not need or want your money, madam.”