Beauty Like the Night

by Liz Carlyle

  “Now you look here, my fine fellow! If that’s your chit, where’ve you been? That’s wot I’d like to know! I’m Stokes, the innkeeper here—an honest man, too! I come to me back door this morning, minding me own business, an’ there she lays! A sleepin’ on my doorstep—pretty as you please!”

  “Asleep on the doorstep?” echoed Bentley incredulously.

  “Just so,” muttered the man, cutting a dark glance back and forth between them. “And I weren’t been born yesterday, sir!” he said, settling his glower on Cam. “Any fool can see that one’s no urchin. And ’tis plain enough she’s run away. And from some overbearing family, belike.”

  Cam growled again, but Bentley jerked hard on his arm. “Thank you, sir!” Bentley said. “We’ve been looking high and low for this child. Can you tell us anything more? Have you any idea how she got here?” He paused for a moment. “But I suppose, given her inability to speak, that you—”

  “Eh? Wot’s that?” interjected the fellow loudly, drawing back suspiciously. “I wonder if you know this child a’tall! No great talker, but she told me plain wot she wanted!”

  “She told you what—?” asked Cam and Bentley at once.

  “She told me that she was come to wait on her papa,” explained the man slowly, as if he addressed idiots. “She told me she was come from somewhere else—what d’ye call it? Something like ... Cow-cot.”

  His woolly brows drew together for a moment, then he nodded. “Aye! And then, she sits herself down right prettily, and said as how she would wait until her papa come to fetch her. And from that moment to this, she’s spoke nary another word. Not her name, nor nothing else would she say. So there—! Wot’s a fellow t’do? Send ’er to the magistrate?” The burly man sneered at them derisively.

  His mouth still gaping, Bentley continued staring at the fellow, but Cam dropped down to embrace Ariane again, a strange mixture of relief and fear coursing through him. Behind him, he heard the man still complaining to his brother.

  “Aye, I ’ad to feed her too, poor wee thing! Ate like she’d been left to starve. Give her a nice bit o’ beef stew and bread with warm milk, which’ll be two shillings tuppence, if you please, sir.”

  Behind him, Cam heard money changing hands, a great deal more than two shillings, from the sound of it. It was the least of his concerns. “Ariane, sweet,” he said gently, clinging desperately to her little hand. “You must tell Papa what has happened! You must! Now, begin by telling me how you got here. Surely you remember that much? Surely you can squeak out a word or two for poor Papa, if you can talk to this big fellow here, eh?”

  Ariane seemed to screw up her face in thought. “Q-q-queenie,” she finally whispered. The one softly spoken word was like a balm to Cam’s soul.

  “Wot’s that?” asked the innkeeper, stooping down with his fist full of coins. “Wot’s she said?”

  Cam tore his eyes away from his daughter to glance up from the settle. “Queenie? Does the term mean anything at all to you?”

  The innkeeper’s eyes narrowed. “Aye, it might, at that! There’s a doxy called Queenie, works out o’ the Cock an’ Crown in Queen Street. I chased her out of here once or twice. We run a good establishment.” He dropped to his haunches next to Cam and looked Ariane in the eye. “Was it Queenie wot left ye ’ere, miss? If it was, just say the word, an’ I’ll send me ostlers ’round to fetch ’er!”

  The little girl stared back, her face pinched with despair.

  “Yes,” said Cam coldly. “Do that. I’ll see her in Newgate for her trouble.”

  “Right!” said the innkeeper cheerfully, grunting as if he meant to stand. “I’ll ’ave the constable on ’er in a trice!”

  “Nooo!” Ariane wailed, her face crumbling into tears. “I like her!” she sobbed, flinging one booted foot forward to catch the innkeeper soundly beneath the kneecap. “She finded me! And I like her!”

  The innkeeper was on his feet now, rubbing his knee and obviously biting back a curse. Cam stood also, and looked at him.

  “Fetch her,” he said ruthlessly. “Now.”

  It took but a quarter-hour for the Red Lion’s minions to roust the woman known as Queenie, and then drag her, all but kicking and screaming, into the inn’s dark interior. Unfortunately, it took twice as long to convince the woman that all Lord Treyhern wanted was information, for she had hurled herself onto the proffered bench with a righteous indignation, a seething mass of bright yellow hair, dingy pink satin, and huge, heaving breasts.

  While awaiting the woman’s arrival, Cam had tried to gently question Ariane, but she was either too tired or too traumatized to answer clearly. Other than a few whispered words about coming to Salisbury in a carriage, Ariane could say little that was helpful.

  Now, Queenie seemed even less forthcoming. After ten minutes of futile interrogation, Cam tore his eyes from the obstinate woman and jerked out his watch with a violence. It was almost half past seven now. Damn it—! How could he make the woman see that they had no time to waste! Where the devil was Lowe? More importantly, where was Helene? Cam knew she would never willingly have parted from Ariane, and driven by a moment of panic, he hardened his glance in the whore’s direction.

  Fear and cynicism was still evident in the anxious shift of her narrow gaze. “I don’t know no more than what I told you, m’lord!” the haggard woman protested, slapping her hand palm down onto the tabletop. “I found ’er in the alleyway beside the Cock. I ’ad me a late night—if you knows what I mean—and when I come out, in she run. Right out o’ Queen Street, looking like old Scratch’s ’ounds was after ’er. That’s all I know!”

  Cam stared across the table at the woman who, in her day, had obviously been a beauty. That day, however, was some years past. Cam winced at the terror he had instilled in one less fortunate than himself. It gave him no pleasure.

  Abruptly, he softened his tone. “I thank you, madam, for seeing my daughter to safety. But forgive me if I fail to comprehend how a six-year-old child can end up wandering the streets of a large town alone. Nor do I understand how you knew to bring her here?”

  Queenie stared at him as if he had taken full leave of his senses. “Why, she tol’ me ’er papa was staying at the Lion! ’Ow else would I know such a thing?” With an insolent gesture, she tossed a mass of dirty blonde hair back over one shoulder.

  Bentley shoved himself away from the table and looked at her in misgiving. “She spoke to you? Very little, I suspect!”

  Queenie must have missed the veiled insult in his words. She tipped up her narrow chin and stared at the ceiling thoughtfully. “ ’Twas precious little, sir, to tell you truthfully. At first, she said nary a word, then all of a sudden-like, she pipes up and says Milford! Which I took to be ’er name, see? But she said no, ’twas Milford Street she wanted. And that her papa was staying at—no, stayed at—the Red Lion.”

  Slowly, the remaining few details spilled out. Cam studied her carefully, increasingly certain she spoke the truth. Indeed, she’d been found in her boarding house, asleep in her own bed. She admitted to who and what she was. At no time had she denied finding Ariane. And twice during the last five minutes, Cam had seen her cast a worried glance toward the settle near the fire, where Ariane lay swaddled in Cam’s coat.

  Glancing in that direction himself, he felt a moment of relief despite his unabated fear for Helene. Helene had been right all along. Ariane could talk—at least a little, if one could but persuade her to do so. Obviously Helene had also been correct in surmising that Ariane’s speech was hindered by fear, and Cam was beginning to suspect that it had a great deal to do with Chalcote’s erstwhile rector.

  Tentatively, Queenie spoke. “Look, m’lord, why d’ye not bring the child over ’ere? Mayhap a woman—” Abruptly, she jerked backward, as if anticipating a blow, but when it did not come, she relaxed. “No insult meant, m’lord, but what I mean is, mayhap she’ll talk t’me? She took a liking t’me. Why, I couldn’t say.”

  Cam had to admire her courage. Many of her
class would not have cooperated, no matter how much pressure had been exerted. With a curt nod, Cam left the table to scoop Ariane up into his arms. The little girl yawned, and scrubbed at one eye with a fist.

  Gently, Queenie turned her gaze on Ariane as Cam sat down with her on his knee. “Lookee ’ere, sweet—tell yer papa where ye’d been when old Queenie found you in the alley this morning. D’ye remember?”

  Ariane shook her head. “L-l-lost,” she said breathlessly.

  Queenie sighed softly. “Lor, you’re one worrit little thing, I reckon. Try to tell us what ’appened, and yer papa’ll put it to rights, see?” Obviously, the woman was no fool. She had already surmised from their questions that Ariane had been kidnapped.

  Cam nodded his approval and the woman continued. “Who brought ye ’ere to Salisbury? D’ye remember that?”

  With jerky motions, Ariane nodded. “The r-r-rector.”

  Queenie gasped indignantly. “Well, I never! Called ’imself a rector, did ’e? ’E oughter burn in ’ell for that, to be sure!”

  “It’s true,” said Cam softly, suddenly deciding to trust the woman. “Though why a rector would do such a thing is not entirely clear. We believe he kidnapped Ariane. And my—her governess. We have been trailing them since yesterday.”

  “Gorblimey!” said the whore, her eyes wide with loathing. She turned her full focus upon the child. “Kidnapped by a rector? Then piked off alone?”

  Mutely, Ariane nodded. She looked increasingly anxious, and in response, Queenie shot her a mischievous wink. “Gave the blighter the slip, eh? Now, how’d ye do it? That’s what I’d like ter know! Reckon I can guess?” she asked, screwing up her face quite comically. “I s’pect as how you must ‘ave ... jumped out of a speedin’ carriage, right? No, no! That ain’t it. Then you must ‘ave sprouted wings and flew out a window—?” She looked at Ariane expectantly, and softly, the girl giggled.

  Queenie drew back, crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “Well, if ye didn’t jump, and ye didn’t fly, then how—?”

  “A door,” whispered Ariane conspiratorially.

  “A door—?” repeated Bentley and Cam at once.

  Queenie cut them a quelling look. “Aye, just walked out, hmm? Well, wee ’uns don’t catch much notice, do they? But what manner o’ door, I wonder ... ? Was it an inn?” She squinted one eye mightily. “I guessed that one aright, didn’t I?” she boasted. “Shall I guess which inn it was? Hmm ... ’tweren’t the Cock. That I know. And ye was walking south, so ... it must be The Haunch, eh?”

  Ariane’s eyes grew round, and suddenly she began to nod as if some memory had stirred. “The Haunch of Venice,” she whispered, awe-struck. “H–h–he took us there. A man watched us—” Abruptly, she stopped and stared at her father.

  “Go on, Ariane,” he said softly, drawing her a little closer to his chest. “You are very smart to talk. Indeed, it is what you must do now, if Uncle Bentley and I are to find Miss Helene, and get her away from Mr. Lowe.”

  Ariane nodded and swallowed hard. Slowly, rather uncertainly, she began to explain what she had seen. It was a simple story, all borne out by the few facts Cam and Bentley already knew. She ended by explaining that she had believed her papa would eventually come and find her in Milford Street.

  “And what a brave, smart girl you were, too!” said Cam, dropping a kiss atop her head. Then, eyes shut tight, he asked the one question he was sure he knew the answer to, but nonetheless feared. “Ariane, was Miss Helene frightened of the rector? He did not ... she does not wish to go with him, does she?”

  Emphatically, she shook her head. “She hit him,” whispered Ariane in a dark little voice.

  Abruptly, Cam rose, his arms still wrapped tightly around Ariane. It terrified him to realize the horrors his daughter had suffered. But he still feared for Helene. Silently, he sent up a prayer, then cast a determined look toward his brother. “Are the horses ready?”

  Bentley jerked his head toward the door. “In the courtyard.” His expression grim, the young man stood, hefted up his heavy saddlebags, and tossed his shotgun resolutely over one shoulder.

  Sick with fear, Helene paced up and down the narrow lanes of Salisbury, pausing only to glance toward the east where the sky was beginning to brighten. At almost seven o’clock, it must be apparent even to Lowe that they had no hope of finding Ariane quickly. Another shaft of terror knifed into her belly, and she squeezed back the tears which threatened to overcome her.

  The day, which had begun with a nightmare, seemed destined to end with one as well. After hearing Helene’s fearful gasp, Lowe had awakened, his wrath soon palpable. He had crawled from the bed to look about the narrow chamber in disbelief. But Ariane was gone, and someone would pay. Helene looked at the rector and wondered how she had ever seen sanity—let alone kindness—in such a face.

  After tugging on his boots, Lowe had stalked into the corridor to deliver a swift, rib-shattering kick to the man who lay sleeping outside. The ensuing racket had brought the indignant innkeeper flying up the stairs, but a gold sovereign had quickly sent him back down again, where he had immediately set about searching the inn from top to bottom. Half an hour later, they had moved on to the streets, with Helene working as diligently as anyone. But all efforts were in vain. Ariane had vanished.

  Now, her hand tightly captured in Lowe’s, Helene despondently retraced her steps back up Fish Lane to see that the rector’s curricle had been brought ’round to Minster Street. Four fresh horses stood in harness amidst the chaos of what looked like the beginnings of market day.

  Roughly, he all but dragged her through the marketplace, jerking his head toward the carriage. “This is bloody hopeless,” he said roughly. “Get in!”

  “Get in—?” she cried. “Mon Dieu! Are you mad? Do you mean to leave your child to fend for herself in the streets? What if she has fallen into the hands of some villain?”

  “A villain?” sneered Thomas, pulling her inexorably toward the carriage. “I believe, madam, you applied that same term to me yesterday, so what is one villain to another? The child is willful and disobedient. I dare not wait any longer.”

  Helene was aghast. Lowe now looked wild with anger, more desperate than ever. He truly intended to abandon Ariane! His fear of Cam must be deep indeed. Roughly, he shoved Helene up into the carriage. But Helene resisted. She could not—would not—leave a six-year-old child alone in such a place! Perched halfway onto the seat, she swiveled about to stare down at him, one fist balled in anger, willing herself not to hit him.

  Lowe’s eyes were almost black with rage. The mouth she had once thought handsome had drawn into a thin, cruel line. When she refused to budge further, he exhaled on a sharp hiss, and moved as if to shove her legs into the carriage. Terrified for Ariane, and incensed by his callous disregard, Helene simply snapped. “Non!” she cried, lifting both feet and slamming her heels down into Lowe’s chest.

  Lowe’s fingers slipped from the carriage, and he tumbled backward onto the cobblestones, landing with a loud grunt. Everything that followed was a blur.

  As Lowe levered onto one elbow, a man in a long drab coat crept silently around the corner just behind him. Dimly, Helene saw sunlight glint off polished wood. Bentley—swinging a firearm deftly down from his shoulder. He was circling behind the curricle.

  At once, she saw Cam. He strode across the street and bent down to ruthlessly grasp Lowe’s collar. In one smooth motion, he jerked Lowe up, yanked him against the wall of his chest, and drew a glittering knife to his throat.

  Only a quick upward glance of Cam’s eyes acknowledged Helene, still perched atop Lowe’s carriage. “Get out on the other side,” he softly ordered her, his voice dark and hard.

  Willing her limbs to respond, Helene scrabbled backward as if to obey. Just then, a flash of motion caught her eye. She did not know how or when Lowe had jerked the pistol from his coat. She knew only that it was leveled at her heart. After that, everything happened in slow motion.

  “I’ll kill h
er, Treyhern,” Lowe rasped, his aim wavering wildly. “I swear it.”

  The merest flicker of alarm lit Cam’s face, swiftly replaced by a look of cold resolve. With another flick of his wrist, he drew his blade fractionally across Lowe’s throat.

  The rector jerked, his eyes wide, as one perfect drop of blood trickled down onto his cleric’s collar.

  A reverberating crack of thunder nearly knocked Helene off the carriage seat. She watched in horror as Lowe slid from Cam’s grasp. He collapsed onto the road, the single drop of blood became a gush of red. It surged from his shirtfront and trickled from his mouth.

  Despite what had been a burgeoning market crowd mere seconds earlier, utter silence fell over the street, broken only by the faint rumble of a farm cart departing in the distance. Then, from a window above, a woman screamed, her voice piercing the unearthly quiet.

  Cam let his hands drop to his sides, staring down as the life flowed from Lowe’s body to run in rivulets though the cobblestones. Gingerly, a crowd began to gather.

  Only then did Helene see Bentley step from behind the curricle, a pistol clutched limply in his right hand, his shotgun held low in his left. He stood over the body, boots spread wide, the hem of his drab greatcoat splattered in bright red. Slowly, he lifted his eyes from the grisly view to hold his brother’s stark, questioning gaze.

  “Better me than you, brother,” Bentley said softly. Then he tossed the shotgun back over his shoulder and calmly walked away.

  21

  My ring encompasses thy finger as thy breast my heart

  In the private parlor of the Red Lion, the hiss of the fire had long since died away, wholly unnoticed by either of the occupants. Now, the only sound within was the incessant rhythm of the mantel clock as it ticked off the mind-numbing minutes.

  Randolph Bentham Rutledge sat alone by the window, tipped away from the table in a ladder-back chair, and sipping pensively on a glass of Mr. Stokes’s best brandy. He looked exhausted, unkempt, and far older than his years.