Hell yes. “If she did, Miss Race, do you have any idea where she might have taken Gina?”
“No. But I keep thinking of what Stanley said about unfinished business. What do you suppose Mr. Henley wants with her?”
Unfinished business? And then it all fell into place. Where else would Henley conduct his lethal business? He leaned down and gave Miss Race a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Miss Race.”
Missy swirled the wine in the chalice. “I think it is a bit stale,” she said as she offered the untasted cup.
Gina closed her fingers around the folded packet in her pocket as she lifted the cup to her lips with her other hand. She pretended to drink and then jumped, as if something had startled her. “What was that?”
Missy frowned. “What?”
“I thought I heard something. In the vestry.”
A tiny uplift at the corners of Missy’s mouth betrayed her. “I shall see if anyone is here. Meanwhile, drink up, Gina.”
How foolish did Missy think she was? The minute she started for the vestry, Gina poured the contents of the chalice down the trapdoor and quickly dumped the packet of coarse powder into it. When Missy turned back, she lifted the chalice again and tipped it up as if finishing the last drop, then managed a look of chagrin.
“Oh, sorry. I drank it all. My thirst was greater than I thought, and you were right—the wine has turned. Quite fusty and bitter, but still drinkable.” She went to the altar and poured more wine into the chalice before handing it to Missy.
Missy hesitated as she looked down into the cup. “There is likely more wine below.”
“It is not that bad. Surely you will not make me drink alone.”
Missy shrugged and took a deep drink, making a face when she was done. “Ugh. Quite nasty. That should teach Henley to leave bottles lying about.”
Gina breathed easier. She wondered how long it would take for the drug to have an effect.
“Shall we go down?” Missy asked, taking the candlestick and joining her by the trapdoor.
Praying she wouldn’t slip on the spilt wine, Gina began to descend the uneven stone steps. She could smell the spilt wine, but couldn’t see it. Then other odors assailed her—dust, damp and faint traces of pungent incense—teasing the back of her mind, awakening the dim impression of foreign sensations.
At the bottom of the stairs, she found herself in a narrow antechamber with a small closed door to her right. The first uneasy stirrings of actual memories began to wrap their tendrils around her. Ahead lay an arched opening, and she had a vague memory of a crypt beyond.
Behind her, Missy stumbled, caught herself by leaning against the stone wall and giggled. “Clumsy me. The wine must have gone straight to my head.”
Gina hoped something had, though she guessed it would be the contents of that packet. “Here, let me help you,” she said, taking the candlestick from Missy before she could drop it and plunge the antechamber into darkness.
“You? Help me?” Another giggle.
“Sit, Missy, before you fall.”
“What’re you say…say…saying?”
“If my experience bears out, Missy, you are about to have a nice long nap.”
Missy’s blue eyes widened with disbelief. “You…you…tricked me.”
“Yes, I did. Now sit down before you fall and crack your head.”
Missy sat with a soft thump. “He’ll kill you…for this.”
Or for any number of things, she supposed. For exposing him. For escaping him. For hunting him down. It didn’t matter why, because it didn’t change the facts. And he wasn’t going to kill her. Quite the opposite.
Missy’s heavy sigh told her the girl had surrendered to the drug. She wondered how long she had before Mr. Henley would appear. She would have to work fast.
She tried the latch to the side door. Locked. Of course it was. She reached inside her décolletage and plucked her corset string, pulling upward until the key appeared. She fit it to the lock and turned. The door swung open with a faint creak.
She could not seem to make herself take that first step over the threshold, so she held the candle high to illuminate the room. It was the room in her dreams—though small, the dark stone walls seemed to swallow the light. A cot stood in the center of the room and there was an empty sconce that would have held a torch. A cup lay overturned on the floor, and crumpled in one corner was the pink gown Gina had worn to meet Mr. Henley that night.
It was true, then. All of those vague impressions, those demivisions were true. She’d been drugged and stripped here, and dressed in that filmy thing that had been removed at the altar.
And more. The hands touching her, anointing her with some sort of oil. She remembered Mr. Henley’s face, leering down at her, leaning over her and saying something that still eluded her. And…and Missy, shrouded in one of the dark cowls, her eyes glittering with excitement.
And, still, the answer to her question eluded her.
Any remaining scruples she’d had about drugging Missy disappeared in the midst of those memories. She closed the door but did not lock it. There was nothing there to frighten her anymore. She paused to check on Missy’s breathing before squaring her shoulders and passing under the arched opening to the crypt.
The evil in that chamber struck her like an open hand. Gooseflesh rose on her arms and raised the fine hairs on the back of her neck. She touched her candle to an unlit torch in a sconce by the entry and the room danced to life in the flickering light. Each stark detail had been etched on her mind, just waiting for the right stimulus to bring it back in its full horror.
A row of vaults bearing past generations of Ballingers was set into the stone walls, and she wondered what they might have thought of the way their final resting place had been desecrated. A brazier was tipped over and long-dead coals lay scattered on the floor. Everywhere, the scent of cloying incense had permeated the stones and now bled out measured doses into the air.
Gina gagged, the odor pulling her deeper into her memories. She spun around, finding the stone altar, a pagan symbol rising behind it. She thought of Cora, splayed on that altar, her blood staining the stone beneath her. Was it still there?
Cora’s blood? Her blood?
Fascination drew her to that slab, and she found dark stains upon it. Bile rose in her throat and she grew dizzy. The scar on her neck throbbed as if the dagger had only now pierced her. Her hands flat on the altar, she braced herself until the waves of nausea passed and a deadly calm overtook her.
She regained her balance as she heard a sound behind her. She turned to find Cyril Henley, dressed in the black cloak he’d worn each time she’d seen him, not ten feet away. He’d come down one of the tunnels that fed into the crypt. She backed against the altar, wanting something solid at her back.
“Mr. Henley,” she acknowledged in a voice so calm she smiled.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Miss O’Rourke. How convenient to find you here.”
“Convenient? Did Missy not tell you she would lure me to you?”
He grinned. “So you know about Missy, eh? Where is she?”
“The antechamber.”
A brief look of concern passed over his face. “What did you do to her? “
“I gave her the contents of the packet in the little wooden box you left behind.”
He circled her to the right, keeping distance between them as he edged toward the arched door and the antechamber to take a peek into the darkness where Missy lay. “All of it?”
She shrugged, matching his manner of unconcern. “I believe she drank it all.”
“You stupid cow! You could have killed her.”
“I really wouldn’t know. I just assumed it was the same dose you gave me in July. How much was in that packet?”
“She’ll be insensible until this time tomorrow.”
“Ah, well, then. A pity she will miss all the excitement.” She slipped her hand into her pocket and felt the butt of the pistol.
�
��Do you think you’ll escape this time, Miss O’Rourke?”
“I’m fairly certain of it.” She removed her hand from her pocket and pointed the pistol at Mr. Henley’s heart.
He laughed. “You don’t have the nerve for it. If you did, I’d be dead now.”
How odd that she felt so calm—as if everything for the past two and a half months had led her to this place and time. “You would be dead if I didn’t want something from you.”
“I have nothing of yours, chit.”
“You have answers. I have questions.”
He laughed, a manic sound that made her certain he was quite mad. “I thought you knew everything.”
“I want to know if you are the one who killed Cora.”
His grin spread. “Ah. Cora O’Rourke. Sweet thing, she was. Looked a bit like you.”
She would not be distracted. “Did you?”
“Hmm. There were several of us who held the knife. ‘Twas Daschel who carved her up, but yes, I might have been the one to deliver the coup de grâce.”
Her finger twitched. Oh, how she wanted to pull that trigger. But not yet. Not quite yet. “You are a pig, Mr. Henley. Not human at all.”
He shrugged. “I’ve worked at it, little Gina. I may call you that?”
“No.” She braced her arm with her other hand as the pistol began to waver. “What of Mr. Metcalfe? Mr. Booth? Charles Hunter and the others? “
“Metcalfe was a personal delight—tried to talk his way out of it. Someone else took care of Mr. Booth for me. That idiot Artie Gibbons botched the job on Hunter and his brother. Still, there’s no escape for them. I’ve posted bounties on them all. Sooner or later, one of the Whitechapel scum will succeed.”
“Were I to guess, Mr. Henley, I’d say the threat will cease to exist when you do. Without the reward, there will be no incentive.”
“Canny little bitch, aren’t you? But that is supposing I cease to exist instead of you.”
“One more question, Mr. Henley, and I may let you live if you answer honestly. Did you rape me in the antechamber before the ritual? “
He blinked, then a salacious smile spread over his hateful face. “You don’t remember, Gina? How very amusing.”
“I frankly do not care what amuses you. Just answer me, Mr. Henley.”
“I am crushed you could forget our time together. Well, I wouldn’t call it rape, exactly. You did not put up much of a fight. You just lay there and let it happen. I rode you hard, you know.”
Her jaw clenched and her hand began to tremble again when she lowered her aim to Mr. Henley’s crotch.
“Aye, when the others left, I had my way with you. What did it matter if you were virgin on the altar or not? I was to have first breach anyway.”
But his jovial, almost taunting manner had changed ever so subtly to carry an undercurrent of anger. And he would not be angry if he were telling the truth. Dear God! He was lying! He hadn’t defiled her! That was the unfinished business he had with her and the reason he had not simply killed her when he’d had the chance! He still wanted to rape her. She laughed at him.
His smile drew back to a sneer. “You weren’t laughing then, Gina. You bled like a stuck pig.”
She was almost weak with relief. “Poor Mr. Henley. Second best to Daschel, and a complete failure on your own. Why, you do not even lie well.”
They glanced toward the arch at the clatter of boots on the stone stairway. Jamie? Or Henley’s friends? He glanced at her and back at the door and she knew he was measuring his chances of escape. Her hand wavered as she tightened her finger on the trigger. “Do not move, Mr. Henley.”
“Gina!”
Jamie’s voice carried from the antechamber. They must have found Missy and feared the worst for her.
“Whore!” Mr. Henley cursed and lunged at her.
He caught her off guard, landing across her middle, driving her to the ground and rolling to put her on top to use her as a shield, the pistol locked between them. If she pulled the trigger now, she was as likely to shoot herself as Mr. Henley, who was now trying to wrest the pistol from her hand.
“Release her,” she heard Jamie demand in a cold voice somewhere near the entry to the crypt.
“Easy, Henley,” another voice soothed—Lord Lockwood, she thought.
“Back away,” Henley said, his voice muffled beneath her.
“You won’t get away this time, Henley,” Andrew told him. “Give up.”
Should she pull the trigger? There was an even chance of the ball hitting Mr. Henley. She took a deep breath, gripped the pistol still crushed between them with her whole strength and rolled to expose Mr. Henley’s back. She could not pull the trigger for fear of killing herself, but neither could she allow him to use the pistol against Jamie or the others.
He jerked his hand in an effort to wrest the pistol from her, then twisted as she rolled sideways. Her wrist gave way from the stress, leaving Mr. Henley with possession of the pistol. He laughed and swung the barrel up to her heart, forgetting everyone else in his hatred of her.
Time slowed as she watched his finger curl around the trigger. She squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to see his triumph. A single shot reverberated in the crypt and, miraculously, she did not feel a thing. She heard the sound of a pistol dropping to the floor and suddenly she was being dragged upward.
“Gina?”
She opened her eyes. Jamie was holding her, studying her, his gaze traveling the length of her. “Are you hurt? “
Weak with relief, she sagged against him. “I am fine, Jamie. He did not hurt me.”
She could feel the tension leave his body as he held her tighter. “Thank God. Thank God….”
He turned with her in his arms and she saw Lockwood and Andrew bending over Henley’s still body. It was over. Finally over. She was shivering violently and realized she must be suffering shock. And all she could think was that, “You can put me down now, Jamie. I have to be home by midnight.”
He only laughed and held her closer.
Epilogue
September 25, 1821
The summons to Andrew’s library before dawn did not come as a surprise. Charlie had brought her home last night, leaving the others to clean up the mess she’d made. And, after Mama’s vapors, she had written a letter of gratitude to the Wednesday League. She never could have gotten through the last weeks without their support and understanding. They had understood and helped her reclaim her pride and her life. Without them, she would still be cringing in corners. Then she’d managed to get a few fitful hours of sleep and had just begun dressing for the voyage. Now she was prepared for almost anything as she passed the stacks of crates and trunks in the foyer and knocked on the library door.
At a soft call, she entered.
It did not appear as if any of the brothers had been to bed. Charlie, his arm still in a sling, and Andrew, looked relaxed while Jamie and Lockwood appeared as if they’d just returned from some errand or other. There was an empty chair in front of Andrew’s desk and he motioned her toward it.
She perched on the edge of the seat and took a deep bracing breath. She could not tell from their faces if the news was good or bad. She risked a glance at Jamie and was reassured by a little smile lingering on his lips.
Andrew poured her a cup of tea from the silver pot on his desk. “Breakfast should be ready soon, Eugenia, but we wanted to talk to you before the others come down.”
She nodded and accepted the teacup and saucer.
“Cyril Henley, as you know, is dead. There will be a short obituary in the Times tomorrow. Nothing will be said of his activities or the nature of his demise.”
She smiled, pleased that there would be no gossip. She could not bear the thought of her family being caught in controversy and speculation again.
Andrew cleared his throat and continued. “We took Miss Metcalfe home and explained her condition to her parents. To say they were shocked and mortified is an understatement. They are making immediate arrangements
to remove to a small village in Tuscany to complete their mourning. Mr. Metcalfe will return after a few months, but Miss Metcalfe will remain. Lord Wycliffe made it clear that her only hope of escaping prosecution is to remain abroad.
“As for your name on Henley’s murder list, Devlin has put out the word that Henley is dead and there will be no reward for any further attempts on anyone’s life—yours most especially, Eugenia.”
She glanced quickly at Charlie and Jamie.
Andrew caught her look. “There are a number of cutthroats who are now out of work, and one in particular we are still in search of, but I feel it safe to say that you are no longer in danger.”
She took a sip of her tea and realized that everyone was looking at her. “I, ah, thank you all. I am dreadfully sorry for any trouble or inconvenience I have caused—”
“Inconvenience?” Jamie repeated with a little quirk to his mouth. “You have hunted Henley to ground when the Home Office could not. To the contrary, we owe you a debt of gratitude.”
She smiled. “If only I could handle Mama half so well.”
“Your mother is handled,” Jamie told her. “It seems your ship has been delayed. Whatever decision she makes, you will have sufficient time to make yours.”
“Mine? Is there some decision I have to make?” They seemed to have taken care of everything.
Andrew stood and nudged Charlie while Lockwood opened the library door. “Jamie has asked for a private word with you. Do you mind?”
Heat washed through her. Mind? She shook her head as Jamie came toward her and took her hand to lift her to her feet. The library door closed softly, and they were alone.
He pulled her into his arms and tilted her chin up to him. “Eugenia O’Rourke, I love you to utter distraction. Will you marry me?”
Yes, her heart cried, but she could not help teasing him one last time. “And?”
“The question.” He nodded and took a deep breath. “Yes, my love. You were virgin.”
Regency: Rakes & Reputations (Mills & Boon M&B) Page 24
