Wicked Widow

by Amanda Quick

  “But, Artemas—”

  “The man is deadly, Madeline. You will not risk your neck or Latimer’s. Just observe his movements. Nothing more.”

  “What will you and Zachary do?”

  “We are going to try to catch the bastard before he does me any more favors.” He looked at Zachary. “Ready?”

  “Aye, sir.” Eagerness and excitement hummed in Zachary’s voice. He jumped down from the box.

  Madeline leaned out of the carriage. “Artemas, you and Zachary must promise me that you will both be very, very careful.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said.

  He smiled slightly to himself as he turned away. Neither of them had brought up her fierce declaration of love last night. He had the impression that she wished to pretend it had not occurred, and he was content for the moment to play out the charade. She needed time to adjust to the notion of loving him, he thought. It had no doubt come as a great shock. She could not know how it had warmed his soul.

  He motioned to Zachary. “Let us be off.”

  He led the way down a nearby alley that would take them to Crooktree Lane. Zachary followed quickly, a silent shadow at his side.

  The glow of moonlight in the fog and the occasional lamp-lit window provided enough light to guide the way. Here and there a prostitute turned up her lantern and called to them from a doorway.

  They passed through the web of narrow streets and alleys that bordered their destination without incident and emerged into a narrow, sharply angled passage.

  “This is Crooktree Lane, sir,” Zachary said. “I used to come here often enough in my former career. A lot of the lads know it because Red Jack has a shop nearby. A fine receiver he is, but very particular. Only accepts the best wares.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” Artemas surveyed the street from the mouth of the tiny lane in which they stood. “I had hoped to get here before the hackney dropped off our quarry, but it appears we are too late. I do not see a carriage—”

  He was interrupted by the rumble of hooves and wheels.

  “There,” Zachary whispered.

  A hackney rounded the twist in Crooktree Lane with great caution. The lamps glared weakly. The coachman wielded the whip briskly, exhorting his horse to a trot, but the nag showed no enthusiasm for the effort.

  “Faster, old gel.” The coachman’s voice was a rough, urgent growl. “This ain’t the sort o’ neighborhood either of us wants to ‘ang about in on a night like this.”

  Artemas stepped out into the street as though he wished to hail the vehicle. “A moment of your time, sir.”

  “What’s this?” Startled, the coachman reined in his horse and peered uneasily at Artemas. He relaxed a little when he saw the expensive greatcoat and gleaming boots. “Are ye needin’ a coach, sir? “

  “What I need is information and I need it quickly.” Artemas tossed the man a coin. “Did you just set down some passengers? “

  “Aye, sir.” The coachman plucked the coin out of the air and pocketed it with professional dexterity. “Two coves, one of ‘em so drunk ‘e could ‘ardly stand. The other tipped me quite ‘andsomely, ‘e did.”

  “Where did they leave your coach? “

  “Just around the corner at number twelve.”

  Artemas tossed another coin to the coachman. “For your trouble.”

  “No trouble at all, sir. Will you be wantin’ transportation?”

  “Not tonight.”

  Artemas moved back into the shadows. The coachman sighed and jiggled the reins. The hackney lumbered off down the street.

  “We may be in time after all.” Artemas removed his pistol from the pocket of his greatcoat. “But we must move quickly.”

  “Aye.” Zachary checked his own pistol.

  Artemas led the way, hugging the deepest shadows. He felt a peculiar flash of almost paternal pride when he realized that Zachary was making as little noise as himself. The younger man was taking to his Vanza lessons with alacrity.

  For some reason, that made him think fleetingly of what it might be like to have a son of his own. Or perhaps a headstrong daughter with her mother’s eyes. Madeline’s eyes . ..

  He pushed the wistful feeling aside. He had other, more pressing matters to deal with tonight.

  “Why in bloody blazes d’ye want to go into that foul alley, sir? “

  Artemas stilled. Glenthorpe. There was a response—a man’s voice. Very low. It was impossible to make out the actual words, but the impression of growing impatience was clear.

  Zachary halted and looked at Artemas, awaiting instructions. The sound of stumbling footsteps echoed in the night.

  Glenthorpe whined again. “I don’t want to go in there. You said we were going to a tavern. But there aren’t any lights. Shouldn’t there be lights?”

  Artemas raised his pistol and flattened himself against the stone wall at the mouth of the alley. He peered around the corner. In the dim glare of the lantern that Glenthorpe’s companion carried, he could make out the dark figures of the two men. Both wore greatcoats and hats.

  “Yes, Glenthorpe,” Artemas said coldly, “there should most assuredly be some lights.”

  The man with the lantern whirled around. At this distance and in the poor light, it was impossible to see his face clearly, but Artemas got the impression of narrow, fine-boned features and glittering eyes.

  “What’s this?” Glenthorpe, struggling to maintain his balance, grabbed hold of his companion’s shoulder. “Who goes there? “

  With remarkable speed the other man dropped the lantern, disengaged himself from Glenthorpe, and fled toward the far end of the alley.

  “Bloody hell.” Artemas bolted after him.

  “Watch out, he’ll have a pistol,” Zachary called.

  At the same instant, Artemas saw the movement of his quarry’s arm. The weak illumination glinted on the barrel of the gun. Light flashed as the spark struck the powder. The shot crashed loudly in the darkness.

  Artemas had already moved, flinging himself to the greasy paving stones. He fired his own pistol simultaneously but he knew the shot would probably go wild, just as the villain’s had. Pistols were not accurate at this distance.

  He rolled to his feet immediately and started down the alley again. But the fleeing man was already halfway up the wall at the end of the street. The folds of his greatcoat flared out like huge, dark wings.

  The bastard was climbing a rope ladder. Artemas realized that the villain must have left it handy for himself long before he brought Glenthorpe into the alley. He had planned to commit cold-blooded murder tonight, and naturally, he’d had his escape route readied well in advance.

  The wings of the black greatcoat flapped once more and then vanished through a window.

  Artemas seized the trailing end of the rope, but the villain had loosened it from its moorings above. It fell to the pavement at his feet. The small anchor hooks rattled on the stone.

  Artemas knew that his quarry would be long gone before he could secure the ladder again.

  “Bastard.”

  He had not even gotten a close look at the man who had fled.

  But Glenthorpe had seen him, he reminded himself.

  And so had Short John. Before dawn he would have a good description of the ghost. For the first time they would have some solid, firsthand information about the villain. Progress at last.

  He turned and went swiftly back toward the alley entrance, where Zachary waited with the slumped Glenthorpe.

  ———

  “Flood claimed that you were trying to frighten us.” Glenthorpe sat limply in the chair in Artemas’s library, hands dangling between his knees, and stared at the carpet. “He said there was no mysterious villain. Said Oswynn had got himself murdered by a footpad, just as the newspapers had it. He said that you wouldn’t kill us outright because you wanted us to savor our ruin.”

  Bernice had given him a vast quantity of tea to drink, but it had taken over an hour for Glenthorpe to come to his
senses. Now he appeared despondent but he had finally begun to speak in coherent sentences.

  “Flood was right about my own goal,” Artemas said. “But he was wrong about the killer. You met him yourself tonight. He is no ordinary footpad. I want to know precisely how that meeting came about. Tell me every word you can recall of his conversation.”

  Glenthorpe grimaced and rubbed his temples with one hand. “Can’t remember much of it. Had a lot to drink, y’see. Trying to forget the state of my finances. He must have joined me at the table at some point. I remember he said something about an investment he was considering.”

  “What sort of investment? “ Madeline asked quietly.

  “Something to do with building a canal for barges. Can’t recall the details. We had a glass or two while he explained things. He made it sound like a fine opportunity, a way for me to recover from my losses in the gold mine venture.”

  “What did he tell you to make you go with him?” Artemas asked.

  “Can’t recall exactly. Something about finding a place to discuss our business in private. I must have told him that I was interested in the canal shares. The next thing I knew, we were in a carriage. Then that alley.” Glenthorpe raised his head to peer blearily at Artemas. “I realized that something was very wrong then, but I couldn’t think of what to do about it. My mind was in a fog.”

  “He fed you some sort of drug,” Bernice said.

  “Yes, I suppose that must have been the case,” Glenthorpe muttered.

  “But he told you nothing about where he lived?” Artemas prodded. “What coffeehouses he patronized? Did he name a brothel or a tavern? “

  “I don’t recall—” Glenthorpe broke off, scowling intently. “Wait, I believe he said something when we passed a tavern.”

  Artemas moved to stand in front of him. “What did he say?”

  Glenthorpe shrank back in the chair. He swallowed a couple of times. “I ... I think I had just told him that I was bloody glad to have made his acquaintance because I was anxious for a good investment. He said he knew I was in bad straits. I asked him how he’d discovered that.”

  “What explanation did he give?” Artemas asked.

  “He looked out the window. Saw the lights of the tavern. Said it was amazing what a man could learn if he frequented the lowest sorts of establishments in London.”

  “Did he say anything else? Did he mention which taverns he prefers? Did he give any indication of where he has his lodgings?”

  Glenthorpe screwed up his face in intense concentration. “No. Didn’t mention his address. Why would he? But when we drove through a little park, he said something about having been brought up in that part of town.”

  Madeline caught Artemas’s eye. Then she looked at Glenthorpe. “What did he say about his past? “

  Glenthorpe went back to staring at the pattern on the carpet. “Very little. Just something about how he and his half brother had once played games in that particular park.”

  ———

  “Golden hair. Blue eyes. Features perfectly suited to one of the romantical poets.” Madeline shivered as she came to a halt in front of the fire. “He and his half brother once played games in a park.”

  “That explains the family resemblance that allowed Linslade to mistake him for Renwick.” Artemas paused in the act of pouring a brandy. He glanced at her. “It also tells us why he has not allowed you to get a close view of him. He may look a little like Renwick, but they were not twins. You say Renwick never mentioned that he had a half brother? “

  “No.” She shook her head in exasperation. “I told you, Renwick lied to me from the day we were introduced. He told us he had been raised in Italy and that he was an orphan.”

  “Deveridge was obviously deep into the Strategy of Deception. He invented a whole new past for himself. He must have been a very skilled liar in order to deceive your father.” Artemas paused. “And you.”

  “It was my own fault.” She clenched one hand into a fist. “If I had not abandoned myself so quickly to a rash impulse, to what I took for lasting affection, I would have known soon enough that he was a charlatan.”

  “Indeed. Those rash impulses cause trouble every time.”

  She flashed him an irritated glance. “My foolishness amuses you, sir?”

  He smiled slightly. “You are too hard on yourself, Madeline. You were a naive, inexperienced woman who was swept away by the excitement of her first serious romance. Everyone of us has, at one time or another, given in to the same rash impulses.”

  “Few have paid such a price,” she whispered.

  “I will not deny that. But then, few young ladies are confronted with such a clever viper as Deveridge.”

  She looked into the fire. “They must count themselves fortunate.”

  He set down his glass and came to stand behind her. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around so that she was obliged to meet his eyes.

  “The important thing is that you did not allow yourself to continue to be deceived by Deveridge. Nor did you allow him to intimidate you. You took action to free yourself from the serpent’s coils. You fought back with courage and determination.”

  She searched his face. “As your Catherine did? “

  “Yes.” He pulled her tightly into his arms. “In the end, you slew the dragon, Madeline. That is what matters.”

  She pressed her face into his shirt. “I am so sorry that your Catherine died in the course of her battle.”

  “I give thanks that you survived,” he said into her hair.

  For a moment she stood quietly in his arms. Then she blinked back the tears that threatened to soak his shirt, straightened, and wiped her eyes on the long sleeve of her gown. She attempted a somewhat tremulous smile.

  “One thing is certain about our ghost,” she said. “He shares Renwick’s penchant for melodrama.”

  “Indeed.”

  She put her hand on the end of the mantel. “We cannot go on like this, Artemas. We must act. He has already killed one man. Tonight he tried to kill another and then he shot at you because you had cornered him. There is no telling what he will do next.”

  “I agree. We are getting closer to him each time he makes a move, and he knows it. He is very likely feeling unnerved now, perhaps even desperate after nearly getting caught tonight.”

  “My father was very fond of an old Vanza saying, ‘Desperation breeds haste; haste sires mistakes.’ “

  “We must strike while he is still rattled from tonight’s near miss,” Artemas said quietly. “We have our bait.”

  “The key?”

  “Yes. Now we must set our snare.”

  She gripped the mantel. “You have a plan? “

  He raised one brow. “That is why you employed me, was it not? To craft a Vanza plan to catch a Vanza ghost?”

  “Artemas, this is no time to dredge up old quarrels.”

  “Agreed.” He held up a hand. “My scheme is only half formed, but if our ghost is as unsettled and enraged at this moment as I suspect, it stands a chance.”

  She brightened. “Tell me about it.”

  “Its success will depend on two factors. The first is that the villain told Glenthorpe the truth tonight when he implied that he collected information in the taverns.”

  “And the second factor? “

  Artemas smiled coldly. “Whether or not the villain shares his half brother’s fatal flaw.”

  “What flaw is that?”

  “A tendency to underestimate the female of the species.”

  ———

  Short John took the unusual step of paying for the meat pie. The temptation to pocket the coin he had been given and steal his evening meal, as was his custom, was almost overpowering. But in the end, farsighted business thinking won out. Mr. Hunt had been very precise in his instructions, and Short John was determined to satisfy the client.

  So he paid for the meat pie and then, relishing the luxury of not having to rush off down the street, he hung aroun
d the vendor’s cart to exchange a bit of gossip.

  The lad who operated the meat pie cart was only a few years older than Short John. He had a circle of acquaintances of his own, most of whom were not averse to sharing the occasional rumor during the slow hours of a long evening on the streets.

  Short John was not the only one who had been given a coin and a promise of another if instructions were followed. Throughout the night, Zachary’s Eyes and Ears drifted through the lanes and alleys of London. Some chatted with cooks and scullery boys taking a break from the hot fires of tavern kitchens. A few hailed hackneys for drunken gentlemen. Others paused to gossip with match girls and pickpockets.

  At every point along the way, the rumor that was spread involved a sweet little old lady who was terrified of a ghost and desperate to get rid of a dangerous volume written in a strange foreign language.

  “It’s cursed,” Short John explained somberly to several more pie vendors, pickpockets, receivers, and other business associates. “It’s worth a lot of money but there’s a ghost after it, y’see. Scared to death, the old lady is. Wants to find a way to give the book to the specter before it kills someone in her household.”

  Paul, who made his living holding horses for gentlemen while they patronized some of the more disreputable brothels, was skeptical. “How’s the old lady gonna let the ghost know she wants to give him the book afore he murders her in her bed?”

  “Don’t know,” Short John admitted. “But she says her nerves won’t take any more haunting. She’s taking tonics every few hours for ‘em as it is.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The message was delivered to Bernice the following day. An urchin contrived to collide with her outside the bookshop where she had just purchased Mrs. York’s newest horrid novel. When she brushed off her skirts after the grimy encounter, she discovered the note that had been jammed into her reticule.

  The excitement that burst within her threatened to wreak havoc with her nerves, but she reminded herself that she had a fresh bottle of tonic waiting for her at Hunt’s house. She went straight back to the carriage and urged Latimer to drive home with all possible speed.