by Danice Allen
Douglas felt a sudden shiver, then stooped and picked up Wickham’s redingote and put it on over his own ragged, inadequate clothing. It was heavy and warm and felt damned good. Douglas carefully descended the ladder, each step accentuated by a corresponding throb of knife-sharp pain in his temples. When he saw Wickham’s horse in the stable, his theory about where the two of them were was confirmed. He had no desire to burst in upon them at the cottage, though, snatching back his gun and demanding Kate’s release again. He didn’t have the heart or the time. Kate needed him, and somehow he was going to make it back to Old Town and the shelter.
Douglas rubbed the piebald mare’s nose in apology for making it face the horrors of what lay beyond the stable door, then led it into the blast of snow and bone-chilling wind. He mounted it, and, head down, urged the poor beast forward into the darkness.
Douglas prayed to God he wouldn’t end up in the bottom of some icy ravine. Yes, for the first time in a long time, he felt like bargaining with God. He’d do anything… Anything. Yes, even that. Just to be there for Kate, he’d give up the bottle. God, please, just let him be there for Kate.
Bleader couldn’t believe they’d finally arrived. It had taken much longer than normal, pushing nearly-blind through the gale-force winds and sheets of snow, but they’d made it, and he was never more happy to see the interior of a place in all his born days. He’d never been inside the shelter with Zach, but he knew it was on the third floor. Since there was no place to stable the horses, they took them right into the hall and tethered them to the posts of the stairwell. No one would blame them for saving the horses from a possible death by freezing if they were left outside.
They trudged up the stairs, Bleader rubbing life back into his fingers, which he knew were red and swollen inside his wet gloves. He felt dazed and numb, not as yet used to the cessation of weather-induced misery he’d endured for the past hour. Lord Lome was just as quiet, feeling, no doubt, just as stiff and wretched as Bleader did. Below the brim of his hat and above the folds of his thick woolen scarf, his lordship’s face was chafed raw by the wind, his eyes bloodshot and irritated, his brows and lashes frosted with tiny ice flecks.
The building was obviously full of humanity, there being some traffic on the stairs and in the halls and much noise coming from behind the doors. Bleader was grateful he was a well-paid, well-appreciated servant of a good man like Zachary Wickham, living most of the year in the blessed peace and openness of Cornwall. For Zach’s sake, as well as his own, he hoped Miss Gabrielle’s antics hadn’t brought Zach, like a cat, to his ninth and last life. Heaven knew he’d had several close calls with mortality already.
They were at the door, made conspicuous by the sturdiness and newness of it compared to the others they’d seen as they traversed the hall. Bleader knocked and waited. Several locks were heard to unlatch from the other side, and the door was opened a slit, though there were still chains hanging across the opening at the top and the bottom. Charlie, the shelter’s guard and general servant, peered into the hall at Bleader.
“It’s me, Charlie,” said Bleader, surprised at how difficult it was to move his frozen lips, but so far he’d had no compelling reason to talk. “You know me, Mr. Wickham’s manservant, Bleader. I’m sure ye’ve seen me from the window afore.”
Recognition finally lit in Charlie’s sharp blue eyes. He nodded slightly, then cast a questioning gaze in Lord Lome’s direction. “It’s all right, Charlie,” said Bleader. “He’s Lord Lome, a gent who’s well acquainted with Mr. Wickham. We’ve come in this dreadful weather on account o’ Mr. Wickham. Let us in, won’t you, so’s we can thaw by the fire?”
Charlie hesitated a moment, then closed the door, undid the remaining chains, and opened the door. He stood back and allowed them to enter, but Charlie kept a suspicious eye pinned on Lord Lome. Automatically they made a bee-line for the fire, extending their hands to the flames. “Is Mr. Wickham here, Charlie?” asked Bleader.
Charlie shook his head, but Bleader hadn’t expected any other answer after seeing no horse tied up downstairs. He knew his master would never leave an animal out in this weather. “Will ye fetch Mr. Blake, then?” said Bleader over his shoulder. Charlie nodded, frowning, and left the room.
“Why can’t we ask this Charlie what he knows about Zach’s possible whereabouts?” Lord Lome inquired, in the same indistinct articulation Bleader had been forced to push through stiff lips. “Seems a taciturn fellow, but surely he’d help us if he could.”
Bleader worked his jaw, warming up the hinges. “He can’t talk, that one.”
“He can’t talk?”
“No, ain’t spoke a word since he come here t’ work five years ago. We’ll save time, m’lord, askin’ our questions of the Quaker gent what runs the place.”
“I thought you said Zach was the owner?”
“He is, m’lord. But he don’t run the place, ’cause he don’t live in Edinburgh year round.” Bleader should have thought that that was self-evident. He excused his lordship from his inability to deduce, however, in supposing his brain cells were frozen along with other parts of his noble body. For good measure, he further explained, “He’s got two other shelters in England proper, and he pays them all visits, but hires managers to run ’em.”
Lord Lome nodded in understanding as he turned round to thaw his backside in the warmth of the fire. As they stood there in the small neat parlor, gratefully toasting themselves like bread for tea, their peace was disturbed by a bloodcurdling female scream.
“Good God, what was that?” exclaimed Lord Lome, giving a little start and darting an anxious look toward the door leading into the hall. “This isn’t a home for the mad, is it?”
“I don’t think so,” Bleader answered, unable to completely reassure his lordship because he wasn’t sure himself exactly what sort of females Zach gave shelter to. “I think they’re mostly women what’s been beat, or out on the streets ’cause they’re breedin’ or drunk or have the opium sickness.” Bleader shrugged. “Mayhap a mad one shows up now and again.”
There was another scream. “Where’s this Blake fellow?” complained Lord Lome, shedding his damp jacket and draping it on a chair to dry.
“It sounds like he’s busy,” Bleader ventured.
“But surely not with anything more important than what we’ve come to talk to him about!”
Bleader did not reply, but wisely kept mum while Lord Lome paced the hearth rug impatiently. As with his own master, he knew when there was no use saying anything. Finally the door opened, and Mr. Blake entered the room. His heavy face sheened with perspiration, and he looked rather harassed, Bleader thought. But he was unfailingly polite. He walked hurriedly over and shook Bleader’s hand, paying no attention to the rules of worldly society which would surely dictate that Bleader, a mere servant, be ignored while Mr. Blake made his acquaintance with the obvious gentleman. But Mr. Blake was not your usual sort. He was an odd’un. He was a Quaker.
“Friend Bleader, how nice to see thee again. I don’t believe thou hast ever actually been inside the shelter. I hope the fire is making thee a mite more comfortable. What can have brought thee out on such a godforsaken night, pray? And who is this gentleman with thee?”
“This is his lordship, the Marquess of Lome,” he said, stressing the lordship part, hoping Mr. Blake would call him by his proper, respectful title and not “Friend.”
Mr. Blake smiled and extended his pudgy hand to Lord Lome. “Friend, I’m pleased to make thy acquaintance. Thou must forgive me, as we’re at sixes and sevens here. One of our residents is in the midst of birthing twins, and having a hard time of it, I’m afraid.”
After a slight hesitation, Lord Lome shook hands with Mr. Blake, automatically exchanging the usual pleasantries, after which Mr. Blake took out a large neatly folded handkerchief from his jacket pocket and mopped his brow. “Wilt thou sit?” He motioned to the two chairs by the fire.
“We haven’t time to sit. We’ve a crisis on our hands,”
Rory said, finding his voice at last despite all the surprises he was running into at Zach’s shelter. Sympathetic to his lordship’s plight, Bleader admitted that a mute, a screaming female birthing twins, and a Quaker, and all three of them sprung upon one in the space of ten minutes, was a bit much to absorb, especially when one’s brain cells were only just thawing.
“Tell me,” urged Mr. Blake, all solicitous attention.
“Miss Gabrielle Tavistock, a friend of Mr. Wickham’s, who is a houseguest of the Murrays at Charlotte Square, is missing.”
“I am aware of who Miss Tavistock is,” Blake murmured gravely. “And she’s missing? That’s dreadful! Dost thou know particulars?”
“What we know is that she left Charlotte Square this morning just after dawn with one of the Murrays’ servants, a large fellow named Ralph, whom I’m sure she chose because she thought he would keep her safe.”
“Did she say what she was afraid of?”
“She was planning to visit an impoverished family here in Old Town. She became acquainted with the children on Christmas Eve. The Tuttles.”
“Ah, yes. The Tuttles. A worthy family.”
“But she had had a rather… er … troublesome experience in Old Town just two days earlier, and she was naturally concerned that she might… er… be troubled again.”
“Yes, I had heard something of it,” admitted Blake, still in a very grave tone.
Bleader listened with interest. Apparently both the marquess and Blake knew about Miss Gabrielle’s close encounter with Mother Henn. He had been told by John and Malcolm, who knew that the information would go no further. All of Zach’s servants held Miss Gabrielle in considerable affection, though she sometimes tried their patience with her propensity for the briars and Zach’s sometimes difficult task in getting her out of them.
“Well, coming out of the Tuttles’ apartment to fetch Miss Tavistock a hack, Ralph was hit over the head by someone and dragged into a dark corner beneath the stairwell. There he stayed till Mrs. Tuttle and the children found him some several hours later when she returned home from work to take tea.”
“And Miss Tavistock left the apartment after Ralph and has not been seen since, I gather?”
Rory was about to speak when the woman who was giving birth to twins screamed again. Mr. Blake tugged on his bottom lip with his teeth and glanced worriedly toward the door.
“Do you need to go?” asked Lord Lome, his sympathy for the girl apparently inspired once he understood she was not mad, but only birthing.
“There is a doctor with her and my capable helper, Mrs. Stark. What she needs is her husband. Or at least that is what she thinks she needs. Near out of her mind with the pain, she’s been asking for him rather pitifully, looking at us as though we’re keeping him away.”
“Well, ain’t ye, sir?” As soon as he’d said it, Bleader wished he’d held his tongue. ’Twas a delicate business, what went on at the shelter. But he knew full well that most of the husbands of these women were unworthy individuals who did more harm than good.
“If he were sober, I’d welcome him,” Blake answered, unoffended by Bleader’s bluntness. “Mayhap seeing his own children coming into the world, and knowing how he might make it a better or a worse place to live in, might do him good. But I interrupted thee, friend. I asked thee if Miss Tavistock was supposed to have disappeared when she left the Tuttles, once the villain had rendered Ralph unconscious.”
“Yes. That’s what we assume. But we don’t have any idea, beyond Mother Henn, of course, who might have been motivated to abduct her.”
Blake’s chest puffed out in an uncharacteristic swell of pride. “I think we can rule out Mother Henn, because she’s abandoned her tawdry business for now.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” said Rory. “Since Zach is also missing, perhaps he’s with her, or involved in some way. His servants said he was here this morning, but returned to Charlotte Square hastily and then left on horseback without telling them where he was going or when he’d be back. If you could shed a light, I’d be very grateful.”
Blake pursed his lips consideringly. “Well, there was a note delivered this morning for Friend Zachary, but no one knows what was written in it. Kate—she’s the girl birthing twins—seemed to think that it was bad news. She even mentioned that she was hoping her husband wasn’t involved in some way.”
“Her husband? Why would he—?”
A heavy knock on the door interrupted them once more. Blake frowned, saying, “Who could that be, now? We get less visitors on a bright day in June! What a blustery night for people to be out and about!” Charlie, apparently making himself useful in the back apartments, did not appear to open the door, so Blake did it. He left two chains in place and peered into the dimly lit hall.
“Good gracious! Is it Douglas McKeen? Friend, thou art injured!” After these exclamations, Blake quickly undid the two remaining chains and flung the door wide, revealing to the two other occupants of the parlor a half-frozen, hatless man, with a gash in his forehead and blood trickling down his neck and onto the lapel of a handsome, black wool redingote which Bleader instantly recognized as … Zach’s!
With glazed eyes and uncertain gait, the man took two steps into the room and collapsed.
Chapter Twenty
“I’m beginning to feel guilty.”
Zach propped himself on an elbow and looked down into Gabby’s radiant face. With her long hair in a tumble about her shoulders and the white sheet tucked round her delightful curves, she reminded him of a naughty angel—her purity, like a halo, just slightly askew. “Gabby, how could you feel guilty? What we just did was absolutely beautiful and pure—”
“What we did for the second time, I might mention—”
“Gabby, we’re going to be married!”
Smiling, Gabby reached up and placed two fingers against Zach’s lips, effectively silencing him. “You goose. I’m not talking about our lovemaking. I could never feel guilty about that. I’m talking about Douglas McKeen. I’m worried. Perhaps he’s cold. We ought to check on him.”
Zach sighed and glanced at the window. For the past hour he’d noticed that the wind had died down considerably, and the snow was lessening. He’d tried to ignore these facts, though, because he knew that if it were at all possible, they should return to Charlotte Square and relieve the worry the Murrays and the others were feeling on their behalf. As for McKeen, Zach had been thinking of him, too. Mainly he was wondering what they’d do with him if they did return to Charlotte Square that night. Should they drag his inert body down the ladder and sling him over the horse? No, not even McKeen could sleep through that. And what would he do once he was so rudely awakened? Zach sighed again.
“What is it, Zach? Are you thinking we ought to go back to town tonight? I hope so, because I’m thinking the same thing. Don’t misunderstand me, however. I’d much rather stay here with you all night, in fact all week!”
Zach chuckled, pulling Gabby against his bare chest, reveling in the wonderful feelings she engendered. “Thank God, now that I’ve come to my senses, we’ll have the rest of our lives to be together. I suppose we ought to be unselfish enough to think of our friends this once, and even those who aren’t our friends, and forgo the pleasure of spending this entire night in each other’s arms. But it’s a sacrifice!”
He bent his head and kissed Gabby’s smiling lips, their warm, soft fullness and the press of her eager body against him threatening to make his words nothing but meaningless rhetoric. Her arms slipped round his neck, holding him close, and he felt himself becoming aroused once more. With monumental willpower, he pushed her gently away. “Don’t kiss me like that, Gabby, unless you really don’t care a fig whether or not McKeen is cold, or if Aunt Clarissa has pulled out her hair by the roots in a frenzy of worry.”
“You’re right,” Gabby conceded, scooting away and putting space between them. “I vividly see Aunt Clarissa just as you describe her, and it’s a picture that’s bound to spoil our ev
ening if we stay here all night making love.” Her voice wavered a little on those last words, her desire made apparent by this, and by the way her ruby-red nipples made distinct, erect protrusions beneath the sheet she’d pulled tight against her. Zach couldn’t look an instant longer; he had to get up and put his pants on or they’d never get out of there in a month of Sundays.
Zach stood up, welcoming the cool draft of air as it hit his naked skin when the sheet fell away. He hurriedly dressed, glancing only once at Gabby as she lay there watching him. Drat the little baggage; those big greedy eyes of hers were enough to cause a man more than a bit of difficulty in buttoning up his trousers! But he managed it at last, and, now that everything was tucked in and hid under layers of clothing, he tried to make himself believe he was no longer aroused.
“I’ll go check on McKeen while you dress,” he announced.
This comment seemed to stir Gabby from her sensual daydreaming. “I’d better go with you! Who knows what he may try to do if suddenly awakened.”
“All the more reason why you should stay here.”
“Well, I won’t,” she declared, flinging off her sheet and exposing those delectable breasts of hers. Zach quickly looked away, walking into the kitchen to pick up the lantern and relight it with a taper he’d carried from the parlor. “I’ll be dressed in a trice,” she called after him.
“Not soon enough, I’m afraid,” he said with good-humored contrariness, leaving the cottage by the back door and plowing in his boots through the snow to the stable. He relished the cold air and the icy snowflakes on his shirt that seeped through and made his skin tingle. It cleared his mind and most effectively subdued his ardor. But he didn’t imagine he’d relish the cold for very long. He knew he’d be wanting his redingote for the long ride home.
