by Amanda Quick
“She came to me with the story,” Miranda added. “As soon as I heard the names of the two men I realized immediately that they must have been discussing my investment. I couldn’t understand what they were about. I have no head for that sort of thing, you see. So I mentioned it to a very good friend of mine who has an excellent brain for business. He grasped the implications at once and made some inquiries.”
“Miranda contacted me to thank me and to tell me what her friend had uncovered,” Louisa concluded. “I determined to inform the world about the swindle because there were a number of other victims. I made an appointment with the publisher and editor of the Flying Intelligencer and overnight I became I. M. Phantom.”
“And I became one of I. M. Phantom’s secret informants.” Miranda twitched her skirts into even more perfect, graceful folds and regarded Anthony with an expectant expression. “Now, then, Louisa said in her message that you wish to ask me some questions.”
“They are related to our investigation of Hastings,” Anthony said. He spoke deliberately. “We found some evidence indicating that he pursued a career as a blackmailer.”
Miranda made a soft, disgusted sound. “I have always considered blackmail one of the lowest of crimes.”
“Most of the items we found were personal possessions of young ladies that contained rather passionate references to a handsome lover,” Louisa said. “What we do not understand is how the items came into Hastings’s hands.”
Miranda nodded thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose you can tell me the names of any of the victims?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” Louisa said. “We feel an obligation to protect their identities.”
“I quite understand,” Miranda said. “I would like to help you, but I’m not entirely sure what you want from me.”
Anthony looked at her. “You seem to know a fair amount about Hastings. You were able to tell Louisa the names of some of his business associates and that he might have a financial interest in a brothel.”
“Yes,” Miranda said. She winked at Louisa. “I, too, have my informant.”
“We do not believe that Hastings put together the blackmail scheme on his own,” Louisa said. “We know that he had at least one other employee, a man of business named Phillip Grantley, but Grantley put a pistol to his head two weeks ago.”
“What we would like to know,” Anthony said, “is whether Hastings has any other people working for him. Specifically a handsome, blond-haired man in his late twenties. We believe there is such a person and that he was the one who compromised the young ladies whose relatives were later blackmailed.”
“Ah, yes, now I understand,” Miranda said. “I do not know the answer offhand, but I will be happy to make inquiries. Will you give me a day or so?”
“Certainly,” Louisa said. “Thank you so much. Mr. Stalbridge and I are very grateful.”
“Nonsense.” Miranda waved one hand in a graceful gesture. “You know I quite enjoy our little adventures.”
“There is one more thing,” Anthony said.
Miranda gave him an inquiring look. “Yes, Mr. Stalbridge?”
“Forgive me if I am being overly personal, but Louisa tells me that you and Clement Corvus are well acquainted.”
Miranda’s laugh was low and sultry. “Indeed, we are, sir. For more than twenty years now.”
Anthony took an envelope out from an inside pocket of his coat. “In that case may I ask that you give him this with my compliments the next time you see him?”
14
Anthony handed Louisa up into the carriage. He had hired a cab for the afternoon rather than use his own vehicle. There was no need to advertise to the world that he and Louisa were calling on the retired actress.
When he sat down across from her, he realized that Louisa was fairly shimmering with suppressed curiosity. It occurred to him that no matter what her mood, he was fascinated by her. Whenever he was in her presence he was aware of a deeply sensual, mysteriously feminine energy that compelled all that was male in him. He felt drawn to her by invisible bonds. It had never been like this with any other woman.
“What was in that envelope?” she demanded.
He made himself pay attention to the question. “Some papers relating to the investment consortium that Hastings recently formed with Hammond and Wellsworth,” he said.
“I don’t understand. Why do you think Mr. Corvus would be interested?”
“Because according to those papers, he is the fourth investor in the consortium.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, my.”
“But by far the more intriguing part is that it appears Hastings and the others are planning to cheat Corvus out of his fair share of the profits. Evidently they have concluded that if they keep certain facts about the venture from him, he will never realize that the slice of the pie he will eventually receive will be much smaller than that of the others.”
“They assume that because Clement Corvus does not come from their world and cannot join their clubs he will never discover the truth. They are happy to take his money and then turn around and cheat him.” She made a tight little fist with one hand. “That is so typical of that sort.”
“Corvus is a crime lord, Louisa. Not a saint. There is no need to feel sorry for him. He has cheated his fair share of people over the years and no doubt done a good deal worse.”
“I suppose that is true.” She turned her attention to the street scene beyond the carriage window. “It is the arrogance of Hastings and the others that I cannot bear. Men like that think nothing of crushing someone else, provided that person is of a lower class.”
“Have you always been this concerned about the villains who move in Society?” he asked quietly.
She flinched a little, as if she had forgotten he was there until he spoke. When she turned back to him he saw wariness in her eyes. He sensed she regretted the small display of intensity.
“Forgive me,” she said, keeping her voice very even. “I am aware that there are occasions when I become too emotional about my work.”
He smiled. “I do not mind strong passions.”
She blinked. “You don’t?”
“No. In fact, I find them quite exhilarating at times.”
She searched his face, bewildered. “I don’t understand what you mean, sir.”
“This is what I mean, Mrs. Bryce.”
He leaned forward, cupped the back of her head with one hand, brought her face very close to his, and covered her mouth with his own.
She seemed stunned for a few seconds, but she did not try to pull away. He felt a shiver course through her. He tightened his grip. She put one gloved hand very delicately on his shoulder. Her lips parted slightly.
Everything inside him leaped with excitement. It was all he could do not to pull her down onto the seat, push up her skirts, and sink himself into her. That thought made him realize that the windows were uncovered. Without releasing Louisa he used one hand to yank down the blinds.
When the shadows of the closed cab enveloped them, he gripped her head with both hands, anchored her, and deliberately deepened the kiss. Her mouth was soft and infinitely inviting. He drank from the warm well she offered as though he had been deprived of water for months, maybe years.
He heard the tiniest of feminine moans. The small sound enthralled him. He was thoroughly aroused now, hard and straining against his trousers. He lowered one hand to Louisa’s breast, learning the shape of her through the fabric of the gown.
There was another little sound, a small gasp of surprise this time, and then her fingers tightened convulsively around his shoulders.
“Mr. Stalbridge,” she got out in a choked voice.
“I know.” He groaned and raised his head reluctantly. “This is hardly the time or place. My apologies, madam. I am aware that this is not the way this sort of thing is usually done. All I can say is that where you are concerned, nothing seems to occur in a predictable fashion.”
She stared at him through fogged
-up spectacles, her mouth open, cheeks flushed.
Amused, he removed her spectacles. She blinked and then frowned ever so slightly when he took out a freshly laundered handkerchief and proceeded to polish the lenses.
He handed the spectacles back to her.
“Thank you,” she said, sounding breathless.
She put on the spectacles and suddenly became very busy adjusting her hat and straightening the skirts of her gown.
He watched her for a moment, enjoying the sight of her sitting there across from him, savoring the knowledge that she had responded to him. After a time he raised the blinds.
When Louisa eventually ran out of small chores she cleared her throat, sat back, and clasped her hands very tightly together.
“Well, then,” she said, and then stopped.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he reminded her gently.
Her brows snapped together. “What question?”
“When did you develop your great passion for bringing the criminals of the Polite World to justice?”
“Oh. After I came to stay with Emma.” She looked out the window. “Before that I took it for granted that there was nothing that could be done about such people.”
“Did something happen to someone you care about?” he asked, probing carefully. “Something that inspired your desire to see justice rendered among those who move in Society?”
“It was nothing personal,” she said smoothly. “Merely my observations of the world.”
She was lying, he realized. Very interesting.
He smiled slightly. “One of these days I will have to introduce you to a friend of mine. He is a man who understands what it is to be driven by a passion for justice. The two of you will have much to talk about, I think.”
She glanced at him, frowning slightly. “Who is he?”
“His name is Fowler. He is a detective in Scotland Yard.”
An expression that could only have been horror flashed across her face. It was gone almost immediately, but not before it had made a forceful impression on him.
“You are personally acquainted with a policeman?” she asked tightly.
There was mystery upon mystery here. He folded his arms and lounged deeper into the corner of the carriage, his curiosity thoroughly aroused.
“Fowler was the man who investigated Fiona’s death,” he explained. “He also dealt with the suicide of Victoria Hastings. Like me, he was convinced that there was a connection to Elwin Hastings, but he could find no way to prove it.”
She was gripping her parasol so fiercely now, it was a wonder the handle did not snap. “Did this detective also investigate the third suicide that you mentioned? The one that took place that same month?”
“Joanna Barclay? Yes. He was obliged to look into it because he investigated the murder of Lord Gavin.”
“I see.”
She seemed to be having difficulty breathing.
“Are you feeling unwell?” he asked, abruptly concerned.
“No, I’m fine, thank you.” She hesitated. “I was not aware that you were associated with someone from Scotland Yard.”
“I do not advertise it to the world for obvious reasons. Fowler is equally cautious about keeping our connection quiet.”
“I see. You must admit that it is somewhat unusual for a gentleman of your rank to have a close acquaintance with a policeman.”
He shrugged. “Fowler and I share a mutual interest.”
“Proving that Hastings murdered Fiona?”
“Yes.”
“Can I assume that Mr. Fowler is the source of your information concerning Elwin Hastings?”
Anthony inclined his head. “He also supplied me with some background on Clement Corvus. Fowler has been most helpful.”
She gave him a brittle little smile. “How nice for you.”
15
A short time later Anthony escorted her to the front door of Number Twelve and bid her farewell.
“Send word to my address immediately if and when you hear from Miranda Fawcett,” he said as Mrs. Galt opened the door.
“I will,” she promised, desperately wanting to be rid of him.
He gave her a cool, assessing look and then stepped back. Nodding politely to Mrs. Galt, he went down the steps toward the waiting cab.
Louisa rushed into the hall, feeling as if a legion of demons were in pursuit. She practically hurled her bonnet and gloves to Mrs. Galt.
“Is Lady Ashton home?” she asked.
“Not yet, ma’am. She’s due back from her Garden Society meeting very soon, though.”
“I’ll be in the study.”
It was all she could do to walk, not run, down the hall. She went into the study and closed the door behind her. Clasping the knob behind her back with both hands, she sagged against the wooden panels.
She could not seem to catch her breath. It was as though she were wearing a steel corset. Her pulse was pounding. She wanted to flee, to hide, but there was nowhere to go.
She needed something for her nerves. Pushing herself away from the door, she crossed to the brandy table, yanked the stopper out of the decanter, and splashed a large amount of the contents into a glass. She swallowed too much the first time, sputtering wildly and choking a little. Gasping for air, she began to pace the room.
“Remain calm,” she said. “He cannot know who you are. There is no way he will ever learn the truth.”
Wonderful. Now she was talking to herself.
She took another swallow of brandy, a smaller sip this time, and went to the window. She looked out into the garden.
Inwardly she was reeling. Perfectly understandable, she assured herself. She had sustained one great shock followed by another. First there had been that devastating kiss. Then had come the equally devastating news that the man who had just thrilled her senses was personally acquainted with the detective who had investigated the murder of Lord Gavin.
She tried another sip of brandy. It was some time before her breathing returned to normal, but gradually the panic drained away.
It would be all right, she thought, setting the empty glass aside. She would have to be very careful, of course, but she was in no immediate danger of discovery. Clearly Anthony was consumed with his desire to avenge Fiona. As long as his attention was riveted entirely on achieving justice for the lady he had loved and lost he had no reason to become overly curious about the woman who was helping him in the project. Did he?
She tried to think logically. Unfortunately, the brandy rather muddled her brain. One thing was obvious, however. It would be best if there were no more kisses. It would be extremely foolish to become involved in an illicit affair with Anthony Stalbridge. No good could come of it. Illicit affairs always came to bad ends.
A sense of gloom replaced the nervy fear. She gripped the edge of the window, leaned her forehead against the glass panes, and closed her eyes. What would it be like to be loved the way Anthony had once loved his dear Fiona? She knew that she would never learn the answer to that question.
16
Daisy Spalding awoke to a sea of pain. The opium concoction she had taken last night had worn off, leaving her to the anguish of her bruised and battered body. She sat up cautiously on the narrow cot and took stock. She had survived another client, but only by the skin of her teeth. If one of the other customers had not heard the noise through the walls and come to investigate, she would have been dead this morning.
The client last night had been the most violent one yet. She had seen the madness in his eyes when he had tied the gag around her mouth and bound her hands behind her back. She had been terrified, but by then it was too late.
She had worked in the brothel for only a few weeks. She did not think she would last the month. After Andrew had died, the man to whom he had owed money told her that she could repay the debt by going to work in Phoenix House for a couple of months. She had considered the river for the first time then, but the creditor had persuaded her.
“Phoe
nix House is not like other brothels,” he assured her. “All of the women who work there come from respectable backgrounds, just like you. They earn excellent money because they occupy a station far above that of the average streetwalker. They are courtesans, not street whores. Gentlemen are willing to pay well for the company of refined ladies.”
But a whore is a whore, Daisy thought. She had been a fool to think the business would be different just because she had once been a lady.
Terrified of landing in the workhouse, she had accepted the offer. She did not discover until much later that when she went to work in Phoenix House, her husband’s creditor had received a handsome fee from the proprietor, Madam Phoenix.
Madam Phoenix had explained to her that she was not pretty enough for the regular customers. The only opening was for a woman who was willing to take on the rough trade. Some of the gentlemen liked getting a bit violent, she explained. It aroused them, but no serious damage was done.
Daisy got to her feet, cringing, and looked at her reflection in the cracked mirror over the washstand. Her eyes were black and blue. Her jaw was badly swollen. She was afraid to examine the rest of her body.
This time the damage was serious. Next time it might well prove fatal. If she was doomed to die at the age of twenty-two, she preferred to take her own life. Damned if she would give that privilege to a gentleman who would likely have a climax if she expired because of his brutality.
In spite of her bleak determination to seek the ultimate escape, however, her will to live prevailed. She had heard whispers of an establishment in Swanton Lane where women of the street could go for a hot meal. Some said that the woman who ran the place could sometimes help a girl find respectable work under another name.
What did she have to lose? Daisy thought. But she would have to be very careful. Madam Phoenix was cold and utterly ruthless. It was whispered that she was responsible for the mysterious disappearance of the former madam. And the hard-eyed man she entertained in her private quarters looked even more dangerous.