Susan Carroll

by The Painted Veil

  “Is that what you are afraid of, my dear sister? Or did you think I was going to nip out to the alley and carve someone else up with my hook? The intermission is almost over and it has been so long since my last murder.”

  “Lower your voice!” Sara hissed with a nervous glance around her. “There are some here tonight who might not appreciate your dark sense of humor.”

  “Like that fat magistrate who was sitting in the box next to us?”

  “Yes!” Sara was relieved to see that the portly official had stepped from his seat during the intermission, especially since Gideon persisted in talking so recklessly. Her brother had that look in his eye that boded ill. Sara had known it since their childhood, that diamond-hard glitter. Sometimes it almost seemed as though Gideon was begging to have a noose placed around his neck.

  She was not soothed, even when he stepped up behind her and began to massage the back of her neck with his large powerful hands.

  “Sara, Sara,” he chided. “You have to relax about this Hook affair. The beaks in the city are too busy rounding up all the one-handed men to bother with me as a suspect. The only one ready to send me to the gallows is you. You wound my tender feelings. Positively, you do.”

  “Your feelings couldn't be wounded with a poleax.” Impatiently, Sara thrust her brother's hands away from her. “If I still suspect you had something to do with that murder, I have good reason. You were always lurking about with Bertie Glossop and that other young idiot Dan Keeler. And I know how vile your temper can be when you have been drinking. As if that were not enough, you have been flashing around an inordinate amount of money lately.”

  “It is only my pension, the grand reward our government bestows upon the noble warriors who shed blood for dear old England.” His mocking tone was underscored with bitterness as his hand crept to his face in an almost reflexive gesture. He stroked the jagged scar that bisected his chin like a flash of white lightning, the legacy of the French sabre that had nearly cleft his jaw in twain.

  “You've never seen a penny of recompense since you have been out of the army,” Sara said indignantly.

  “I never saw a penny while I was in the army. All I have to show for my devoted service is this uniform.”

  “Stolen off of some officer's back!”

  “He no longer had any use for it. He died of dysentery, poor chap.”

  “You should get rid of it. It is dangerous to go around impersonating a leftenant.”

  “But it impresses the devil out of the ladies.” Gideon grinned. “Sometimes I think I should have stayed with the regiment, but things got sadly flat after Waterloo. And I daresay they won't release poor old Boney from Elba merely to suit me. So alas, my dear, I fear your brother must embark upon a new career.”

  “What worries me is that you have already found one.”

  “Sara, I assure you one last time. I am not the Hook. I swear upon our mother's grave.”

  “Our mother is not dead.”

  “The graves of our fathers then.”

  “Whoever they might be.”

  “Not even our own mama knows for sure.” Gideon flashed her a dazzling smile. Her brother possessed enough charm to wheedle himself into anyone's good graces, from the local barmaid to the Archbishop of Canterbury. Only Sara had never been taken in by him. When he reached out to pat her hand, Sara gave his fingers a sharp whack with her fan.

  “Ow!” Gideon sucked on his injured knuckle, eyeing her reproachfully. “For all your pretensions, Sara, there is one difference between you and the Quality. I have never seen a real lady use her fan for a truncheon.”

  “I wish this was a club. Maybe then I could beat some sense into your head,” Sara muttered as she checked the handle of her fan to make sure she had not broken it. “I never thought I would say this, but some things were better back in the days when we all lived in the slums of Bethnal Green. If you and Davy didn't mind me, I could thrash you both. Now Davy is taller than you and I cannot reach to box his ears. He is making a living by stealing dead bodies to sell and you are up to heaven knows what. I daresay I shall end with both of my brothers clapped up in Newgate.”

  “At least you will know where we are.” Gideon's knuckles had apparently recovered enough for him to risk chucking her under the chin. “Old Aunt Peg always said I was a villain child, born to hang. When the day comes, will you shed a tear for me, sweet Sara?”

  “Only if you reek of onions.” She turned her head away so that he could not see her lip quiver in a rare display of emotion. She had but two fears, one was of ending like her mother, living above a pawnshop, reminiscing about her many lovers and the glories of her youth. The other was of Gideon finishing his life upon the gallows.

  Sara was close in age to both her brothers, but it had always been Gideon she had understood and loved too well. How many nights had she lost sleep worrying about him, imagining him taking that final walk up the scaffolding, smiling and defiant even as the thick hemp was slipped round his neck.

  If she understood Gideon through and through, then likewise he comprehended her every mood. He settled back into the chair beside her and covered her hand with his own.

  “Come on, Sary. Please stop fretting and scolding.” Gideon's charm was never more lethal than when he resorted to using her childhood nickname. “I admit I have done a reckless thing or two which could get me hanged. But one of my friends has put me onto a scheme for making money that is practically foolproof.”

  “If this suggestion came from one of those ruffians who carouse with you at the Jolly Tar, I shudder to think what it is.”

  “No, this has nothing to do with any of my dockside acquaintances. This idea came from the respectable Mr. Keeler. That is, before we had our falling out. That boy is the most reprehensible cheater at cards.” Gideon's lips thinned, but the ugly expression vanished as quickly as it had come, as he continued enthusiastically, “But Keeler has his uses, being a banker's son. Before we parted company, he showed me an almost undetectable method of counterfeiting coin.”

  “Counterfeiting? That is your notion of honest employment?”

  “I never said anything about honest employment. I said I had found a good way to make money.”

  Sara pressed her fingers to her temple, feeling the familiar niggling. She would end by having one of her infamous headaches over this. Counterfeiting coin! What madness would possess Gideon next?

  “I think it would be better if you left London. You are doomed to get yourself into some sort of deep water if you remain here,” Sara said. “I could lend you enough money to get out of the city.”

  “Leave London and do what?”

  “Rusticate in the country or go abroad or—”

  Sara was floundering for another suggestion when she was interrupted by someone barging into their box. One of the players burst in, a petite female with a half-exposed bosom and carroty curls.

  “Excuse me, madam,” the girl squeaked. “I was looking for—oh, Gideon!”

  When her brother rose to his feet, the chit all but flung herself into his arms. Wrinkling her nose, Sara attempted to fan away the stench of cloying perfume. Why did. Gideon have such low taste in females?

  Slipping his arm about the creature's waist, Gideon said, “Cherry, my little love. Allow me to present you to my sister.”

  Sara gave the girl a look that would have frosted hot tea. She had no desire to be introduced to any three penny actress. The girl greeted her with a mighty sob, her face pale beneath her layering of garish makeup.

  “What's the matter, love?” Gideon asked.

  “Too dreadful,” was all the girl could choke out. She continued to snivel against Gideon's shoulder despite all his coaxing and pressing of kisses to her brow.

  Oh, lord, Sara thought. She hoped Gideon had not gotten another stupid wench with child. Unable to endure any more of the nonsense, she shot to her feet.

  She spun the girl away from Gideon, saying, “Stop it. Unless you want to be smacked, you'd best sav
e this melodrama for the stage. Either tell us what is wrong or get out”

  “Sara!” Gideon protested. But her words had more effect on the girl than all of Gideon's crooning. Cherry looked up at Sara with wide frightened eyes. Sniffing, she wiped her face on her sleeve.

  “The Hook has been abroad tonight,” Cherry said “They found another body in the street behind the theatre.”

  A chill shot up Sara's spine. Gideon wrapped his arm around the trembling actress's shoulders and he seemed to be avoiding Sara's eye.

  No! She sought to reassure herself. It was all right this time. Gideon had been here with her, watching the play. But he had not joined her until the second act.

  Sara's head gave a mighty throb and she passed one hand over her brow, fearing she was going to be ill. She wanted to press Cherry for more details, but was afraid to do so.

  It did not matter. Having finally found her voice, the girl's words came in a torrent “It was another murder. Some banker's son. The body is still laying there in all that blood. And the constables are everywhere. Someone saw something this time and they might be able to figure out who the Hook is. But I am still terrified to go home alone tonight.”

  The girl clung meltingly to Gideon. Cherry's hysterics were largely feigned. It was quite clear what the girl wanted, and it was a testimony to Gideon's finesse that he was able to steer her back out of the box without promising anything.

  Much as Sara wanted the girl gone, she moved to stop them, placing one hand on Cherry's arm. “This banker's son,” Sara asked. “Do you know who he was?”

  “Some young lad named Daniel Keeler.”

  Sara's hand fell back to her side and she could feel the color draining from her face as Gideon hustled Cherry outside.

  First Bertie Glossop. Now Daniel Keeler. What was it Gideon had called him? The most reprehensible cheater at cards. She recollected all too well Gideon's hard smile when he had denied knowing anything about the Hook's activities.

  Sara blinked. The pain that flared behind her eyes caused them to water. Sometimes it was a great disadvantage to know one's own brother so well.

  When Gideon returned to the box, a heavy silence hovered between them. He faced her with a wry smile.

  “You may be right after all, Sara,” he said. “Perhaps I should leave London.”

  Sara stared deep into those cold silver-blue eyes. “Yes, you should,” she agreed hoarsely. “Tonight.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Twelve of the clock and a cloudy night”

  Anne heard the watchman's mournful cry as she huddled in the shadows of the high stone wall which separated Lucien's townhouse from the street. It seemed to her that the old charley no longer sang out as cheerfully as he once had before the Hook had brought his murderous activities to Mayfair.

  Before she had left the theatre, she had heard rumors of another killing. But that did not bear thinking of, not when she was creeping alone through the dark. She was nervous enough. More than once she had fancied herself being followed, heard the light tap of a footfall not her own. But when she whipped about, the sound had been swallowed by the clatter of a passing carriage, any mysterious shadows becoming nothing more than the rustling shape of some tree.

  Each time she fell prey to such fancies, she chided herself for a fool, but it was a night prime for dark imaginings. Clouds settled like a veil across the face of the moon, the wind whistled around the corners of the houses, and the heavy threat of an April rainstorm hung in the air. Anne shivered and draped her shawl over her head. Tightening her grip upon the pistol, she hastened her footsteps.

  She was already late. Slipping away from Lily's house undetected had not been easy, even at such an hour. Her sister had been most persistent, pressing her to attend a late supper at Lord Cecil's. And even after Anne had managed to fob off Lily, there had been any number of servants about, all seeming to regard Anne's furtive movements with curious eyes. Lily's household never settled until the wee hours of the morning.

  By the time Anne had succeeded in snatching up her shawl, bolting out one of the side doors, the clock already approached twelve. Anne could only hope that Louisa was not likewise experiencing such difficulties; that even if Anne was a few minutes late, the little maid would bear the patience and courage to wait for her.

  Following the high wall surrounding Lucien's garden, Anne rounded the corner, which brought her out onto the narrow street behind the house. Except for the lone hackney that creaked by, the cobblestone lane was dark and silent, making her feel as isolated as though she had crept into the sinister confines of some back alley.

  Once more her nerves played tricks upon her, conjuring up sounds behind her, shapes that were not really there. Her heart thudding, she stole one more glance over her shoulder, but she was quite alone. She hastened toward the tall iron gate that led into Lucien's garden. Here at least was a pool of light provided by the two lanterns mounted upon the brick pillars on either side of the gate.

  Anne shoved against the latch, but the gate was locked, just as she had expected. She peered through the bars. She had hoped to find Louisa waiting for her, but the house beyond loomed still as a tomb, with little light showing behind the windows.

  The garden was likewise bleak and deserted, a desolate place overrun with weeds and dying foliage. It must have been badly neglected by the previous tenant and Lucien had done little to set things to rights. Nothing seemed capable of growing there, not shrubs, not flowers, certainly not a child.

  “Louisa?” Anne called, praying that at any moment the girl would step out from some place of concealment in the shrubberies. She received no answer other than the mournful whisperings of the night wind.

  Could she be more than ten minutes late? Surely Louisa would not have given up on her after such a short delay—that is, if the girl intended to keep their rendezvous at all.

  The prospect that Louisa might fail her was too daunting, and Anne refused to consider it. She continued her vigil, clutching the bar of the gate, staring anxiously at the silent house.

  How long she stood there Anne had no idea, the minutes crawling by. The cold damp of the night air seeped through her thin shawl, chilling her to the bone, but Anne scarce noticed it for the numbness stealing into her heart.

  She feared that the dawn would find her still clinging to Lucien's gate, wistfully regarding all those windows, wondering which one her little girl slept behind. Louisa was not going to come. Anne knew that with a sick certainty, but she could not bring herself to abandon her hope and start the miserable trudge back home.

  If only she had taken more pains with Louisa, been more persuasive, offered her more money to keep their bargain.

  “Did I not make you understand?” Anne whispered. “You are my last hope.”

  She rested her head against the bars of the gate, the pistol she clutched a heavy weight in her hand. The plan she had formed began to seem both ridiculous and pathetic. She was utterly useless at this kind of thing. Getting Norrie safely out of that bleak dark mansion would take someone far bolder, more ruthless than she.

  It was disconcerting that an image of the marquis of Mandell should pop into her head. Ruthless Mandell was, and most certainly bold and unscrupulous. But if Anne ever stood alone in the dark with him, she knew that Mandell's thoughts would not be upon rescuing her daughter.

  And God help her, perhaps her own would not be, either. Mandell's eyes had a seductive effect upon her, both hypnotic and strange. He seemed to call to some wild, dark, secret corner of Anne's heart, a part of herself that alarmed her. Even now she could feel that stirring of her blood which was almost a fever.

  Anne fought to suppress the unwelcome feeling, to banish Mandell from her mind. She was still struggling to do so when she straightened, suddenly alert. Was it only her overwrought imagination again or had she actually seen something this time? A shadowy form emerging from the shelter of the house?

  Anne strained against the gate. No, this time she had not imagined it
. Someone was coming down the garden path. And it was a woman carrying a large bundle in her arms.

  Anne was momentarily confused. It occurred to her that she ought to step back out of the pool of lantern light on the chance that this was not Louisa. Her gaze fixed on that mysterious bundle, a bundle that she realized was a child swathed in a blanket, the folds falling back enough to reveal a glint of golden curls.

  Anne's throat constricted painfully

  “Norrie,” she rasped. That foolish maid had stolen her little daughter straight out of her bed and brought her out into the chill damp of the night. But as Louisa stumbled closer, Anne was consumed by an overwhelming longing. She could think of nothing but her need to see her child again, to touch her.

  “Lady Anne?” Louisa stopped within yards of the gate, peering cautiously.

  “Yes. Yes!” Anne choked out, flinging back the shawl so that she would be more readily recognized. Her daughter stirred awake in Louisa's arms. Norrie raised her head from the maid's shoulder, knuckling her eyes in a familiar gesture that wrenched at Anne's heartstrings.

  Louisa crept near the gate whispering, “I'm right sorry, ma'am. But I didn't know what else to do. It seemed much easier to bring the little girl out to you.”

  Anne nodded, unable to tear her gaze from her daughter's face. The lantern bathed Norrie in a soft glow, illuminating those fragile porcelain features, the rosebud lips, the small upturned nose, eyes such a clear blue they were almost transparent. She was a dream child, an angel child, a golden-haired fairy who had often seemed not quite real to Anne and never less so than at this moment.

  She strained her arm to the utmost, stretching through the gate, able to touch only the blanket, half fearing Norrie would vanish into mist as she had in so many of Anne's nightmares these past months.

  Norrie was small for her age, but it was obvious she had already proven a great burden to Louisa's slender arms. With a mighty sigh, the maid set Norrie down. The child was clad in nothing but her nightgown and the blanket, but Anne was relieved to see that Louisa had at least enough wit to have eased slippers onto Norrie's feet.