Sweat dampened her palms and her heart pounded. Her pistol had only two lead balls. If things got ugly . . .
She decided not to think about what would happen if things got ugly. She wasn’t counting on her pistol to get her out of the Iron Maiden alive, but Bear’s protection. Which was ironic, given how many times she’d threatened to blow the man’s balls off.
An eerie silence descended as she made her way to where Bear was sitting.
He stared at her in disbelief. “God’s teeth, ye are a madwoman.” He flicked his massive hand in a gesture of dismissal, instantly obeyed as the men at the table with him scraped back their chairs and scattered. He frowned at Snake. “Have ye come ter return the boy?”
The fact that he had sent Snake to her in the first place made her believe that the criminal had a spark of humanity inside him. Her gaze traveled across the coins spilling from pouches on the table before raising to meet his flat brown eyes. “No. I’d like to see your arm.”
“Me arm?” he echoed. “Ye are touched in the attic, wench.”
“It’s important.”
“Yer daft.”
Kendra said nothing, mainly because she thought he was probably right.
Bear thrust himself to his feet, his eyes never leaving her. He shrugged out of the jacket he wore, tossed it on the chair. As she watched, he unbuttoned the cuffs of his workman’s smock, and pushed up both sleeves. “What are ye lookin’ for?” he asked, sounding intrigued despite himself.
Kendra remembered his sleeve of tattoos from the time he’d threatened her and Alec, but she hadn’t paid any attention to them. Now her gaze swept one arm and its many images. Nothing. She shifted her gaze to the other arm, and saw the symbol.
“There.” She pointed to the image that had been painted on Sir Giles and carved on Lord Cross’s torso. “It’s not a cross?”
He snorted. “Nay, it’s not a bleeding cross. It’s a Naudhiz rune,” he said finally, and shrugged his massive shoulders. “’Tis about survival. Willpower.” His lips curled in a hard smile. “Fate.”
Kendra drew in a harsh breath. “That’s Scandinavian, isn’t it?”
“Aye. Me folks go back to the Viking invaders.”
That didn’t surprise Kendra, but she barely registered the boast. She was busy reviewing everything she knew—namely, the Larsons and their Scandinavian heritage.
She thought she knew which Larson would have used the symbol.
She started to turn, then became aware of her silent audience. She glanced back at Bear. “Am I going to have a problem getting out of here?”
A glint of amusement brightened Bear’s flat eyes. “Maybe ye shoulda thought about that before ye came, eh?” But he shifted his gaze to the room at large. “Let the mad gentry mort pass,” he yelled. “Toby, ye go with her ter make sure she gets inter a hackney.”
A man in rough garb with a face only a mother could love hoisted himself to his feet. “Aye. C’mon, then.”
Kendra grabbed Snake’s arm, and they followed the man out the door. Outside, Kendra was shocked to see how quickly night had fallen, with lamplighters going about the business of lighting the oil lamps hanging from street posts. A damp mist surged around their ankles, and Kendra thought she felt several icy raindrops hit her hood by the time they found a hackney.
Kendra stopped Snake from jumping into the cabin. “I need you to take another hackney, Snake. Go back to Grosvenor Square.” She leaned down and pressed a coin into his palm. “Tell the Duke that the symbol is a rune. Okay?”
Snake’s face scrunched up. “W’ot’s ‘okay’ mean?”
That made her grin. “It means all right.” She straightened and dug out another coin, thrusting it at Toby. “Find him another hackney.”
He flashed rotting teeth in a grin. “Aye.”
Kendra gave the hackney driver an address, and then climbed into the cab.
“W’ot are ye gonna do?” Snake asked before she could slam the door shut.
“Hopefully save another man from being murdered.” She yanked the door closed and reached up to pound on the ceiling. “Go!”
46
A young, pretty maid opened the door of the Zamora. After a quick inspection from smoky brown eyes generously lined with kohl, the girl stepped back to allow Alec and Sam entry. Alec surveyed the small, wood-paneled foyer. Only three wall sconces were lit, leaving most of the space draped in dusky shadows. The air was laden with a spicy, exotic scent. The wide staircase at the end of the foyer climbed to a balustrade that overlooked the foyer. He heard faint noises, a soft cry, low masculine laughter, a higher-pitched feminine giggle.
“Welcome to the Zamora,” the maid said in quiet and oddly cultured tones. “If you will follow me.”
“A moment.” Alec stopped the maid. “We’re here to speak to your mistress, Araceli.”
The girl hesitated, then said, “Please, follow me . . .”
She brought them to a drawing room that was as shadowed as the foyer. Logs crackled in a delicately carved fireplace. The velvet burgundy curtains were trimmed in gold, and closed to shut out the blustery night. The exotic scent was stronger here. Alec suspected that someone had added incense to the fire, allowing the spicy aroma to saturate the room. Half a dozen women in varying states of dress were lounging on velvet tufted chairs and settees. A girl, lovely enough to be a Cyprian, her dark hair left loose and flowing, was playing Mozart on the pianoforte. One man was in the corner with a young lady. Based on the cut of his clothes, Alec thought he was a merchant, not gentry or nobility. He looked to be in his fifties, with sagging skin and a paunch. The girl who rose with languid grace from the Egyptian settee, clasping his hand to guide him from the room, was no more than twenty.
The remaining girls sent them coquettish looks, but had apparently been trained to keep silent when customers arrived to inspect the wares. Obviously Araceli was trying to create a more sophisticated brothel than Drury Lane, where whores called out for a gentleman’s attention from doorways.
The maid glided over to a side table and poured them each a glass of mulled wine. “Who shall I tell Miss Araceli wishes to see her?” she asked.
“Alec Morgan”—Alec hesitated, then decided to leave out his title—“and this is Mr. Kelly.” Not that anybody in the Ton would blink about Alec visiting a brothel, if they heard. It was expected of men of the Ton, just as were affairs with actresses and ballet dancers. But he thought it best not to identify the Bow Street Runner. If the Abbess proved reluctant to speak, they could always inform her then. With a coin or two. Bribery was always welcome.
The maid quietly departed. It took less than five minutes for the door to open again, and a tall, strikingly beautiful woman swept into the room. She wore a black silk empire dress that had no adornments other than an ebony sash tied snuggly beneath her breasts. The color was slightly shocking, given its association with widow’s weeds, which was most likely why she’d chosen it, Alec thought cynically. Or maybe she realized the stark simplicity—and low décolletage—only served to enhance her beauty. Her raven hair was pulled high and covered by a black lace mantilla, framing her oval face. She was not the gold-and-white Cyprian so fashionable these days, but rather a clever contradiction. Instead of downplaying her obvious Spanish heritage, with her long black eyes and warm skin tones, she played them up, with black kohl and red painted lips. The effect was stunning.
“Mr. Morgan? Mr. Kelly?” Her voice was throaty and, consciously or not, seductive, with the faintest hint of a Spanish accent. She glided over to an alcove with two empty settees and sank down onto the plump cushions. Her gaze never left them as she held out her hand, waiting for the maid to pour red wine into a crystal glass. “You have no interest in amor?” She smiled slightly, her bold lips curving.
The maid brought over the wineglass, pressed it into her hand, and then quietly left. Araceli took a dainty sip of the burgundy. “Mis chicas are well versed in the arts of pleasure. They would leave you well satisfied.”
&
nbsp; Alec smiled. “I have no doubt, but we are here only for information. I can pay. Your time, I know, is valuable.”
A glint entered her eyes as she regarded him. “Si, it is. I am happy you recognize this.” She indicated the settee opposite her. “Please, sit down, be comfortable.” She took another slow sip of wine, watching as they sat. She waited until Alec retrieved several gold coins, stacking them on the side table. She didn’t pick them up, but her gaze flicked to the coins, then back to Alec. “What do you wish to know?”
The notes of the pianoforte provided pleasant background. Having become aware that Alec and Sam weren’t customers, a few of the girls began to talk softly amongst themselves.
Sam said, “Captain Suarez. We’ve been told that he visits you when he’s in port.”
“Si, the captain and I have a long friendship.” The dark eyes went cold. “And I do not betray my friends. Not even for gold.”
“Admirable. And we would not ask it of you, señora,” Alec said mildly, lifting his glass to sample the mulled wine. Not as inferior as he’d expected. He lowered the glass. “A month ago, while the Magdalena was docked here, a man of some consequences went onboard. Sir Giles. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? Or read about him?”
The red lips parted in surprise. “Si. I have read about the terrible murder. But I know nothing about him visiting Captain Suarez.”
Sam scratched the side of his nose as he regarded her. “Captain Suarez said nothing to you about Sir Giles meeting someone on his ship? Another passenger, perhaps?”
“Nada. No.” She hesitated, her dark eyes studying them. “A month ago, you say?”
“Yes.” Alec’s eyes narrowed. “You remember something?”
“The captain did have a passenger. He brought him here.” The delicate throat worked as she swallowed, and she looked away. “The man was . . . I don’t know how to say . . .”
“Violent?” guessed Alec.
The dark eyes flashed in surprise. “No . . . nada, nothing such as that. It was more of . . . an aesthetic.”
Alec frowned. “An aesthetic.”
She gave a husky laugh. “Mis chicas know that our patrons are often not the most handsome, young, or virile of men. But we must keep up the pretense, si? With some men, the pretense is more difficult than others.” She paused to take a swallow of wine. “With that man, Captain Suarez’s passenger, it was very difficult. One of his hands, it was little more than a stump. And his face . . . Dios.”
A chill raced down Alec’s spine. “What about his face?”
“One of his ears was gone, and he was scarred. So horribly scarred.” She moistened her red lips. “He looked like a demon.”
Sam drew in a swift breath, and threw Alec a look.
“I know he was not,” Araceli continued. “Obviously he had been in a terrible fire. But Madre de Dios, looking at him was like looking into a pesadilla—a nightmare.”
“Evert Larson,” Alec said. “Evert Larson is alive.”
“I do not know his name,” said the Abbess.
Sam leaned forward. “What happened to the man? Do you know where he is?”
She shook her head. “He stayed the night with Giselle. But when she woke the next morning, he was gone.”
47
Impatience snapped like a live wire inside Kendra’s chest, and she had to bite her lip to restrain herself from yelling at the driver to go bloody faster.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
The meditation technique didn’t stop her racing thoughts. The image of the swastikas on Larson & Son rose up in her mind. The family, she thought, had always been into symbols. The compulsion to put a mark on the victims symbolizing survival, willpower, and fate made sense, she supposed, if Evert Larson didn’t die in Spain as everyone had thought.
But why hadn’t he returned two years ago? Why had he allowed his family to mourn? She’d briefly considered the possibility, but she hadn’t believed Evert would have allowed them to suffer. Was that her own bias? She’d never had a loving family, so she had no point of reference.
She frowned as she considered what she knew of Evert. Something had happened over there to flip the golden boy into a killer, to be so cruel as to let his family think he was dead.
Did his family know he was alive now? She remembered their reaction when she’d mentioned Magdalena, and thought yes. Did that mean they also knew Evert was responsible for murdering Sir Giles and Lord Cross?
In her mind, Kendra shuffled through their actions and reactions. They know, she thought. They’re protecting him. Maybe they felt he was justified in what he was doing. Maybe they thought they could talk him out of killing anyone else. But if he’d come back for revenge, Evert wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d killed Captain Mobray, the last person who had any connection to Spain.
The hackney seemed to shiver and shake as it barreled around a corner, then slowed to a crawl. Kendra leaned forward to look out the window. They’d reached Piccadilly. Despite the foul weather, traffic ensnarled the street. It might be faster getting out and running . . . Kendra could only imagine what Lady Atwood would say to that.
She rubbed a hand over her face and tried to calm her racing heart. Her foot tapped an impatient rhythm. It seemed to take hours, but probably was no more than ten minutes before the hackney sped up again, eventually turning down Sackville Street. Kendra barely waited for the carriage to jerk to a halt before she thrust open the door and jumped down. The fog-shrouded street wasn’t as busy as Piccadilly but it wasn’t deserted either. Through the gray mist, Kendra saw several carriages and a hackney parked against the curb. One carriage had just begun to pull out, horses clomping down the street. She ran toward Captain Mobray’s building. Two riders on horseback gave her astonished looks as she passed, and pelted up the steps of the Georgian mansion.
She was reaching for the doorknob when the door jerked inward suddenly, and a man loomed on the threshold. She didn’t know whether she or Mobray was more startled to come face-to-face.
“Captain Mobray.”
“Miss Donovan.” He recovered quickly, glancing beyond her to skim the street. “What are you doing here?” Then his eyes widened. “You didn’t come alone?”
Kendra nearly laughed at his suddenly wary expression. “Relax. I’m not trying to compromise you.” This was the flip side of the marriage coin, she knew. Being alone with a woman of quality (which she was, given her relationship with the Duke) left a man as vulnerable to being forced into a marriage as the woman. Refusing to marry a woman that he’d compromised was one of the few things that could destroy a gentleman’s reputation.
She said, “I need to talk to you.”
His eyes flickered. “I fear that I cannot accommodate you, Miss Donovan. I am meeting someone, and am already behind schedule.” He brushed past her, moving down the steps. He looked up and down the street and began to walk toward the nearest hackney. “Perhaps I shall call upon you tomorrow,” he threw at her over his shoulder.
She followed him. “This is important. Make time.”
Mobray shot her a cold glance as he yanked opened the hackney’s door. “You are an impertinent creature. Does His Grace realize you are running about London without a chaperone?” He hoisted himself up into the cab and called to the driver, “Drury Lane!”
“This is a matter of life and death.”
“I don’t need female hysterics—Good God, what are you doing?” He gaped at her when she grasped the handrail and catapulted herself in behind him.
“I’m coming with you. It will give us an opportunity to talk.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “It’s probably ill-bred to toss me out of the carriage.”
He glared at her for a moment, then lifted a gloved hand, giving the ceiling a rap as a signal to go. After a moment, the hackney started to move.
“This is highly irregular, Miss Donovan.” In a gesture that bespoke extreme irritation, he yanked off his gloves, and reached into his inner pocket and retrieved his porcelain snuffbox. Flickin
g it open, he took a pinch of snuff, sniffing it into each nostril. “What, pray tell, is this melodrama about? Life and death.” He snapped the snuffbox closed. “You have been reading too many of Ann Radcliffe’s novels, I suspect.”
Kendra kept her gaze on his when she said, “Evert Larson.”
Something flashed in his eyes. “Why do you persist in this matter? What happened to the man in Spain was tragic, but it was two years ago.”
“Evert Larson is alive.”
He stilled. “You are mad,” he finally bit out, his voice harsh.
“Evert is alive. And he killed Sir Giles and Lord Cross.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Didn’t Sir Giles tell you? He met with Evert when he returned on the Magdalena.”
“This is ridiculous. As I said, you are obviously a hysterical female prone to fantasies,” he snapped, trying to sound dismissive, but Kendra heard the crackle of fear.
She pressed, “You must have realized something had changed when Sir Giles began questioning you and Cross about what had happened in Spain.” It was an educated guess, based on Cross having sought out Sir Giles.
“I was captured and tortured. That’s what happened in Spain.” His voice rose, and he made an effort to lower it. “’Tis not a time that I care to discuss.”
“Afraid that you might say something incriminating?”
“Hardly.”
A muscle pulsed along his jaw as he tore his gaze away from hers. She waited, hoping the silence was working on his nerves. But he continued to stare out the window into the night, ignoring her. Maybe the silent treatment wasn’t working because it wasn’t exactly silent. Kendra could hear the clatter of carriage wheels and horse hooves, the buzz of voices beyond the quietness inside the cab. After about ten minutes, she released a sigh.
“What happened in Spain, Captain Mobray?”
He said nothing.
“Evert is alive,” she repeated. “He murdered Sir Giles and Lord Cross.” She waited. Silence. “You are his next target.”
That brought his eyes back around. His face hardened. “You are wrong,” he said, but she thought his lips quivered slightly. “I saw the explosion and fire myself. No one could have survived that.”
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