“Yes, sir.” The two put down the paintings they were carrying and hurried after her.
Pleased he’d thought of having her followed, Victor picked up the discarded frameless paintings, already planning how he was going to arrange to meet her. The older Lawton sisters would be busily preparing for their youngest sister’s debut and were almost certain to host parties to that end. He must drop the sisters a note telling them he’d seen her from afar and was interested in making her acquaintance. That should prompt an invitation to their entertainments and, once there, he’d set about charming her. He’d heard she was the only one who didn’t paint, that she was a shy homebody. They’d probably be thankful he wanted to take her off their hands.
He adjusted the strap of the large art bag on his shoulder. It was time to go a courting.
A sudden noise at the front door startled him. Who on earth–?
“Victor! Bonjour!”
“Betise! You gave me a fright, Gaston, I wasn’t expecting you.” Of all the bad timing! His uncle’s agent and best friend, showing up just as he was about to leave!
Naturally, Gaston Beauclaire had a key. When he wasn’t away on a business trip, Gaston and Antoine were inseparable. They worked together, attended entertainments and events together, all but lived together.
He found Beauclaire a colossal bore. He’d liked him well enough as a child, but now the man was a crank, always preaching at Victor as if he were still a young boy.
Beauclaire advanced into the ground floor shop. “I saw a lovely demoiselle departing. An acquaintance of yours, oui?”
“Non. I don’t know who she is,” he lied, moving toward the back door, eager to depart. He could gladly have done without this scrutiny. “I didn’t answer her knock at the door. You might note that I’m not dressed to greet visitors. Besides, anybody coming to the door is here to see Antoine, so there is no reason for me to answer the door.”
“Alors you have no idea who the lady is?”
“Have you?” He was annoyed. What were all these questions really about?
“I didn’t get a good look at her face, but she seemed... jolie.”
He didn’t quite believe Gaston. There was an odd inflection in the older man’s voice.
Beauclaire moved to the front of the store. “Why are you here?”
“I’m keeping an eye on the studio while mon oncle is away.”
“Bizarre, n’est-ce pas? Usually Lisette and Francois do that.”
“I don’t know why.” He resented the accusatory tone in Gaston’s voice. “He asked and, naturellement, I said yes.”
Gaston lifted his eyebrows showing his incredulity. “And the paintings?” He pointed to the bag on Victor’s shoulder.
“These?” He readjusted the strap of the heavy bag securely on his shoulder. The last of the Lawton paintings. He was relieved they were now all moved from the studio. “Mon oncle requested I bring them to the Museum on his behalf. They are to be included in the next exhibition.”
“Bon.”
He looked to be thinking it over but Victor had had enough of this inquisition. “I’d love to stay and talk, but I’m in a hurry for an appointment.”
“Pas probleme, le jeune. Go... go!” Shooing him on his way, Gaston held the door open for him. “I will let myself out.”
“Aurevoir, then.” Victor left, feeling Gaston’s piercing gaze burning a hole between his shoulder blades. He cursed his bad luck that Beauclaire had to turn up just before he left.
The Lawton girl had cost him time. Had it not been for her, he’d have been safely away before Gaston appeared. She was lucky he’d decided to marry her or he might have been thinking of how best to punish her instead.
* * *
Zut alors! Now, what was Victor up to?
That young lady was one of Lawton’s daughter, Gaston had known at a glance. The youngest one, sans doute. The one Antoine had been mentoring in secret for all these years. And she must be the woman who’d been returning to the studio repeatedly, looking for Antoine. Lisette had told him about her.
But what was la petite doing in the City?
And how did her being in London fit into Victor’s plans?
He was certain Victor had some scheme going on. He always did. Gaston wished, not for the first time, that he were closer to the young man. No matter how hard he’d tried to befriend Antoine’s nephew, the boy had resented him almost from the start.
Why had Antoine asked Dubuc to keep an eye on things? He’d never done so before. Usually, Victor couldn’t be trusted to put himself out for anybody else, not even to accomplish so small an act as that?
Perhaps Antoine had decided to give him more responsibility to force him to grow up? Gaston had been in Paris on business for the past month and, although he and Antoine had exchanged letters while he was away, they hadn’t spoken since his return several days ago.
“Where are you, Antoine, mon vieux?” He asked aloud. His dear friend’s being gone when Gaston arrived was not unusual. But leaving no note about his whereabouts was and he was worried.
It might be wise to keep an eye on Dubuc, he decided. One never knew what Antoine’s nephew was capable of doing next.
Meanwhile, since he didn’t trust Victor to have left a note on the door explaining his uncle’s absence, and there was none there now, it wouldn’t hurt to leave one of his own. He hoped it would ensure that young Miss Lawton stayed out of Victor’s way.
* * *
Reed was in a large sitting room with a huge fireplace and crackling fire. There was a family there. Three boys, two girls, and a beautiful lady — the mother, he guessed. And a tall man turned away toward the window, the father, no doubt. He could tell that from the strength emanating from the man.
They seemed a happy family. Smiles and laughter abounded.
It was a special occasion… He knew because they were wearing their fine clothes.
Christmas! One of the boys, the older of the two, looked about thirteen years old. He bent from the waist and, with a long taper, lit the kindling under the Yule log. Everyone was cheering him on. The boy’s chest was puffed up plumper than a peacock at being given the honor of performing this task.
Mumbling incoherently, Reed shifted onto his other side. Abruptly, the picture changed, the location switched.
Now he was in a colorful, noisy place. Not in England. In some foreign country.
He was in a market, a bazaar, teeming with hot, often unwashed bodies, pressing up close against him. He wasn’t walking, exactly, more like slinking slyly through the crowd of jellaba-gowned men, and he was dressed the same.
Egypt! The name hurtled through space to slip into his consciousness.
He was trying to avoid everyone’s attention, but especially that of the man he was following. The man turned around to glance behind him and Reed glimpsed a face distorted into ugliness by the look of contempt on it.
The man yelled nasty words and curses at the beautiful young lady he was dragging through the crowd. She was resisting, sobbing. He was manhandling her roughly to propel her forward. No one seemed to notice. Reed wanted to help her, to show that bully how it felt to be… but knew he couldn’t, he mustn’t… Not yet.
The sneering man’s gaze swept around and behind him, as if he sensed he was being watched. Reed ducked behind a display of exotic birds in bamboo cages.
Surreptitiously, he followed the mismatched couple. The man sped around the edge of the moving mass of bodies in the marketplace and the lady struggled against the shackles, while he towed her along behind him. All eyes turned firmly away, not daring to look askance at this brazen daylight abduction. The monster’s lethal reputation was widespread in this region.
Reed pulled part of his keffiyeh up to hide his face. It wouldn’t do to be caught staring by the man or his Horde. They were known to be a canny and ruthless lot, who’d lop off a man’s head for simply looking in their direction. Many people vanished after having the misfortune of meeting up with them. Just
like that young lady was about to do, as soon as that fiend sold her.
Not that Reed was going to allow that to happen.
Brushing past a local fruit stand, he allowed his carpet bag to fall to the ground, immediately crouching down to pick it up. Swift as a cobra, his hand shot out to place a slip of paper under a rock near the fruit stall where a young blind boy was sitting motionless, seemingly unaware of anything, even of the flies busily buzzing around his head.
Not the slightest flicker toward the boy betrayed Reed’s intent. Swiftly, he stood up again and continued on his way.
Behind him, he sensed the boy move. Felt him rise to his feet and quietly glide away. Reed continued on his stealthy way, never looking back. If he was being watched, he didn’t want the boy snatched. No innocents should be harmed. The boy was merely earning enough to help feed his starving family. He had no idea that, by carrying messages for them, he played a vital role in a dangerous drama destined to bring the brute to hang at the end of a rope.
Nor did he want to alert anyone, causing his message to be intercepted. Although, it was in such cryptic script, he was confident only his partners in this effort, Jace and Max, would know what to make of it.
A loud shout set his heart to hammering. He was caught! He thrust his body sideways to avoid the impending blow from behind and ended up falling… falling... onto a very hard surface.
Damnation, that stung! What on earth had he fallen on?
Light from a window filtered into the room, waking him to find himself on the floor in the bedroom, in their rented house in London, still without his memory.
He’d been dreaming?
It had seemed too real to be a dream, but it couldn’t possibly be reality.
Could it?
He heard another loud shout and this time recognized the sounds of a local fruit hawker pushing his cart down the road, trying to sell the dregs of his wares before the sun went down.
Sitting up, he rubbed his sore shoulder that had taken the brunt of the fall. He hoped he hadn’t opened the wound.
A market in Egypt! What in Hades had he been doing there?
The images had been too clear, too detailed to be anything other than a true memory of somewhere he’d actually been, which meant the sneering swine was also real. If so, that young lady was in trouble. He had to help her!
But how could he? He was continents away and couldn’t even recall his own damned name?
He slammed his fist on the floor.
He wanted his life back!
He didn’t care if he found out he was a thief, or even a spy. It was better knowing who you really were than to be floating around, rootless, without a memory.
Wait! There was one solid piece of information he remembered from his dream. He rubbed his tingling fist. He’d been working with two men, one called Jace, the other... the other name didn’t surface. He’d been sending them coded messages.
That was hard to believe.
But if he was able to remember who they were and how to find them, it might help him work out who he was and how he’d gotten here.
There was one other bit of information he’d gleaned from his dream. The sense of danger had been very real. He must be the reason Talia was being threatened. Worse, he had no idea how to keep her safe because he wouldn’t recognize the danger if it was standing right in front of him.
* * *
Max jumped to his feet in the drawing room that fronted the house they’d rented, diagonally across the street from Reed’s.
He’d been nodding off when he heard the vehicle approach and slow down. Still expecting it to pass by, especially once he noted its opulence, he was taken aback to see it stop right in front of Reed’s home.
“Well, I’ll be…” He watched with alarm as the Vanisher’s main minion, dubbed by them as ‘The Mincer’, alit from the carriage and sidled up to knock on Selwich’s door. This was the snake’s second visit. A few days ago Jace said he’d seen Adley being kept on the doorstep and leaving soon afterwards. What was he doing back again?
Max raised his telescope to take a closer look. He snorted. Melvin Adley was a foolish fellow, too fond of outrageous, foppish clothes. His patent leather shoes added another two or three inches to his negligible height. He sported a vile orange morning coat over a poet’s shirt of canary yellow. His collar was so high and starched, the poor dolt couldn’t turn his head more than an inch to either side.
The door opened. Max wasn’t able to see by whom, though judging by the way the Mincer lowered his head to talk, Max decided it was probably the young boy. Seconds later, the oily little weasel was let in and spent a good ten minutes there before departing, looking sly and pleased with himself.
Max was disturbed by that gloating smile.
This didn’t augur well for Reed. A change of plans was going to be needed. That dandy’s self-satisfied face told it all. Something evil was going to happen and they needed to find out what, quickly, and put a stop to it. The Vanisher was not going to get the chance to poison a whole household, like he had an entire village in Egypt.
* * *
“Nothing? Not even a loaf of bread?” Tally’s voice rose in stunned disbelief.
They were standing in front of the pantry in the kitchen — Foster, Mrs. P, Joseph and her — staring, agape, at the bare shelves.
“No, not even a stray crumb is left. There’s nothing to eat or drink in the house.” Foster growled in disgust.
“But why us?” She couldn’t believe her eyes. “Surely there are households with better supplies than ours?”
“Maybe them houses are better watched, not so easy to break into?” Mrs. P suggested.
Tally shook her head. “What am I saying? They weren’t coming for supplies. It must be a warn....” Realizing that Mrs. P’s eyes were widening with fear, she cut herself off. They’d tried to keep as much of this as possible from Mrs. P, so she wouldn’t worry. Changing courses, she said, “I’m thinking…”
“About that reptile who came back yesterday?” Foster completed her sentence.
“Yes, but how did he…?” But she knew. Somehow that slimy toad had managed to do something, while he was in the house, which caused this to happen. Her guess was that he’d opened a window for someone to break in during the night. She had gooseflesh at the mere idea!
Yesterday’s return visit by that sneaky little milksop had unsettled them. By the time Joseph found Foster, who’d immediately come to see the caller, he’d found the snake slithering back to the front hallway after wandering around the house unimpeded. Not even Mrs. P, who’d gone to the market, had been around to stop him.
Foster had to explain to Joseph that he was never to allow anybody into the house, when he answered the door. He was to leave the person or persons outside on the doorstep, and lock the door, until he found either Foster or Tally. But the warning had come too late, evidently the damage had already been done.
Yesterday, their question had been, Why had he bothered to return, once she’d assured him the owner wasn’t living here? Today, the question was, What other evil had he done while in their house, in addition to making it easy for someone to rob their food?
“No window is broken, I’ve examined them all, so the wretch must have left one unlatched to provide a way in overnight to steal our food.” Something didn’t feel right about that. Tally voiced her misgivings. “I simply can’t picture a fastidious-looking man like that creature climbing in a window, can you?”
“D’ye think it might be connected to–”
She shushed him with a hard look. She didn’t want to alarm Mrs. P further. She was easily frightened, especially “in the big city”, as she put it. It would be better if she thought it was just a random robbery. “Mrs. P, you and Joseph had better go buy some food for us to eat.”
“What has this world come to when a body has to worry about their food being taken from their own kitchen?” She gave a long-suffering sigh as she went to get ready. “Come along, Joseph.”
>
Tally called after the pair. “Make sure you take a hackney back. You’ll be carrying too many heavy packages.”
“Just came back from shopping yesterday,” the cook grumbled, “Ain’t never know’d anybody to come in and steal a body’s food in Evesham. ‘It’s enough to make a body…” The end of her tirade was lost as they disappeared up the stairs toward the back door.
Foster waited impatiently until they heard the door close, then said, “As I was about to say, d’ye think it might have something to do with yon Gordon?
“Of course not!” She was quick to defend Reed, but really, what did she know about him? Nothing, other than witnessing his character over the days he’d been with them. Memory-less, he was not an underhanded man. She’d be more likely to believe they’d broken in to get to him, than his abetting them to enter to steal… food? It made no sense.
What if that little vermin was The Vanisher? Or one of his men? That was who that beggar said was going to put them in their graves. If it was that easy to break in to steal their food, how hard would it be to murder them all in their beds?
“What did they hope to achieve by taking all our food? They have to know we’ll just go out and buy more.” She was at a complete loss to understand.
“Humph. Don’t make much sense to me neither.” Foster rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. “Mason has to sleep here from now on.” He made it a pronouncement, as if there was no gainsaying the fact.
“Didn’t you tell me he rarely did that?”
“When he sees how easily they got in, he’ll be persuaded.” He sounded pugnacious now. She had no doubt he’d be making his displeasure at this forced entry very clear to Mr. Mason. And truthfully, she would feel a lot better knowing the investigator was in the house overnight. Especially now!
“While you take care of that, I’ll hold the fort here.” If they had poisoned the food, she might have understood better. Though only a cold-blooded barbarian would poison a whole household just to harm her. But to simply remove it all? That was beyond strange.
As Foster left, his parting words were, “Mind you put your pistol in your pocket. Ain’t no telling what’s gonna happen next.”
The Viscount's Counterfeit Wife Page 17
