Lord of Sin

by Madeline Hunter

  “If I am caught, you are to pretend ignorance of why I was there. And, Joan—if later the forgeries are discovered, and the plates tracked down, you are to pretend ignorance about them, as well. Let it be thought it was entirely my scheme. Save yourself and the others.” She tied the dark blue kerchief around her hair. “There is no reason for all of us to be transported.”

  Joan’s worried expression did not boost Bride’s confidence. Her sister reached into the wardrobe. “At least take this.”

  Bride gazed at the pistol her sister offered. There was a sense to taking it. Eventually she would, but not now. “I could not shoot a constable in order to make an escape, nor would you want me to. I do not anticipate confronting the forgers tonight. I merely hope to discover the means to find them.”

  She held out her arms for Joan’s inspection of her garments. Joan’s solemn gaze assessed the dark green doublet and fawn breeches, and the kerchief hiding her tightly bound hair.

  “Be quick, Bride. And be careful.”

  Bride stuck a small candle and a flint into her pocket.

  Joan accompanied her down to the garden door. “If you do not return by dawn, I will go and ask Lord Lyndale for help.”

  Bride turned on her. “No. If I do not return, you are to assume I am gone for good and think only of protecting yourself. Run if you think you must, and do not wait to learn what has become of me. And do not go to Lyndale about me, no matter what happens.”

  Joan’s brow furrowed. “I will obey your wishes on this, but I do not agree with them. Surely he would use his influence to help you, Bride.”

  Perhaps. Most likely. And that was the danger, because if Lyndale learned where she was going tonight, he might surmise why, and it would provide the link between her and the forgers.

  She slipped out the door. She had a long walk ahead of her, and she strode with determination, eager to be done with the night’s mission. She tried to keep all her attention on the dark streets and moving shadows, and her thoughts on the hours ahead.

  Memories of the afternoon with Lyndale kept intruding. Her aching heart wanted to dwell on the sweet intimacy she had experienced, and the new closeness she had felt. In his arms, in their pleasure, there had been no danger waiting. No deceptions threatening to be revealed, and no duties demanding sacrifice.

  But by the time his carriage left her at home, heartrending sorrow had claimed her. The next hour had left her desolate. Away from his warmth, away from that bed, she had been unable to deny the truth.

  He knew about the forged banknotes. He was investigating them. She was sure of it. He did not know about the role the Cameron sisters had played yet. He expected to find the forgers soon, however, and then he would know everything.

  He had been generous about the plates forging artistic compositions. She did not expect the same understanding if he learned there were banknote plates in her legacy, as well, and that she had actually used them.

  She wiped her eyes and walked faster. She had already decided that she would never see him again. Even if she succeeded in finding those plates first, she would break completely with him. She could not continue with that deception between them, even if he remained ignorant of it.

  She hoped she would not be caught tonight. If her suspicions were right, if she succeeded, there was a chance, the smallest chance, that she could save her sisters.

  She might also keep Lyndale from learning the whole truth.

  The town was not all silence and darkness. Others walked in the shadows, and some carriages rolled down the streets. Lamplight glowed in some districts, casting pools of golden glow into the blackness. As she approached the City, the denizens of the night grew more numerous and she felt less alone.

  She made her way to Fleet Street, and down the lanes to Twickenham’s factory.

  A small window revealed a dark and empty front room, and the door was locked. Satisfied that she was invisible within the cloak of night on this deserted street, she found her way to the back of the building. No candles or lamps showed through the back window, either. No sounds came through its glass.

  She tried to pry open the window to the back room. It would not budge. She groped the ground for a loose paving stone. With a sharp tap, she broke a low pane of glass. Its pieces fell to the stones, sounding like a crystalline chime.

  She hugged the outside wall and listened, her heart pounding, her legs ready to run. Silence echoed around her. No one raised a cry.

  She swallowed the fear threatening to paralyze her. She reached in to release the latch and climbed in. She balanced on the edges of the vat under the window, then jumped down.

  She lit her candle, and let her eyes adjust to the faint glow. She saw the stack of felts, but no paper dried between them. Moving the candle for illumination, she finally spied several stacks of paper on the edge of a table.

  She dripped some wax near them, and set up her candle in it. Her touch told her which stack was wove paper, not laid. Its smooth surface also announced it had been carefully prepared, and was not very thick. She lifted one sheet and held it to the flame so the lines would be visible when it was backlit.

  The patterns of the screen and watermark formed elaborate snaking shadows within the paper. They were the same patterns she had glimpsed as Twickenham raised his screen in front of the window.

  Distinctive lines. Dense lines. In eight places that corresponded to the bottoms once the sheet was cut into eight pieces, the lines formed the words “Bank of England.”

  It wasn’t a perfect forgery of the paper used for banknotes thirty years ago, but it was very close.

  She had recognized those flowing lines in the fleeting moment before Twickenham dropped the screen back into the vat.

  She suspected Lyndale had, as well.

  She shook the excitement out of her head, and gazed at the paper. Soon Twickenham would deliver this paper to the forgers. She would have to watch this shop. She would have to follow the paper to the plates.

  Her mind raced to assess if she could do that alone, or if she would need help. The temptation to confess all to Lyndale poked into her heart. Perhaps if she did, he would not force her sisters to share the punishment. Maybe his feelings for her would permit him to ignore the evidence that she had not done this alone.

  Then again, maybe his sense of duty and betrayal would harden him so completely that there would be no generosity left.

  She folded one sheet and tucked it into her doublet. She licked her fingers and reached to snuff the candles.

  Sounds suddenly poured through the wall, coming from the front room. Voices hummed toward her. She froze with horror and her heart stopped.

  Then she moved in a blur of panic. Blowing out the candle as she grabbed it, she hurried to the window. Her instincts shouted warnings as she heard movements on the other side of the door. Mind blanking to everything but the danger approaching, she climbed on the vat and bent to bolt out the opening.

  Suddenly she was flying, twirling, as hands grabbed her legs and waist and threw her back into the room. She landed with a bone-shaking crash on the floor. The darkness spun, trying to absorb her.

  A light flickered close to her face, and the dark forms of three heads loomed behind it.

  “Damn, it’s a woman.”

  Another curse sounded in a low hiss. Hands groped her body.

  “What you doing to her there?” Twickenham’s voice asked, shocked.

  “Looking fur a pistol. This ane’s been known to use them.”

  Dull resignation drained her strength. She knew that voice.

  A nostalgic sorrow squeezed her heart, but she felt no shock.

  The most honest corner of her soul was not as surprised as it should have been.

  “I am only saying that it isn’t proper, that is all.”

  Ewan sighed as the mutter rumbled into his ear. Michael was not going to let the topic drop, that was clear.

  He aimed their progress through the dark City. Other steps clicked in the night�
��s silence ten yards behind them, those of Dante Duclairc and Colin and Adrian Burchard.

  “I have addressed you as Michael for years now. I am incapable of thinking of you any other way, let alone as Hawthorne.”

  “You do not address the steward by his given name. All the others notice that I am not paid the same respect.”

  “It has nothing to do with respect or lack of it. The steward’s given name is Spartacus. Why parents would do that to a son is beyond my comprehension, but if I addressed him as Spartacus, I would laugh every time.”

  “That isn’t why you don’t. You don’t because it would not be proper.”

  They turned off Fleet Street and Ewan’s hand instinctively felt for the pistol under his coat. “Since when are you so particular about what is proper? We are above such petty concerns, Michael. Our relationship long ago transcended the normal bounds of such things.”

  “More friendly like, is that what you mean?”

  “Exactly. If you were a typical servant, the kind I would call Hawthorne, you would not be with me on this adventure.”

  “I am only with you because I know how to pick locks.”

  “And what a useful skill it is. But I am wounded you think I only use you for my convenience in this matter.”

  They turned onto a narrow lane, one utterly deserted. The dark buildings announced that there were no residences here, but only small shops and factories.

  “So we are chums, are we? Lads out looking for trouble together.” Michael’s voice lowered to a whisper. An annoyingly persistent one.

  “Now you have it.”

  “Then I expect you won’t mind my addressing you as Ewan.”

  Ewan looked at the dark form of the young man at his side.

  “Fine, damn it. Hawthorne it is.”

  Their companions closed in with subdued steps. As a group they approached Twickenham’s shop. It appeared deserted.

  “I think I will go to the back, just in case,” Colin said, turning to bleed into the night.

  Ewan did not object, but it was an unnecessary precaution. Their numbers were not needed for this part of the mission. They had only come to procure evidence. Ewan was convinced that Twickenham had been making the banknote paper yesterday when he and Bride intruded. The glimpse of the screen held to the light had revealed the distinctive patterns. So had Ewan’s quick glance at the top screen on the stack waiting for the pulp.

  There should be no trouble at this stop on the night’s adventure, however. Later, when they roused Twickenham from his sleep and forced him to take them to the forgers and the plates, pistols and strategies would more likely be employed.

  He stood aside. “Deal with the lock.”

  Michael removed a steel stylus from his coat and bent to the lock. For several long moments he poked and fussed.

  “Sorry, sir, but it isn’t catching.”

  “Well, get it to catch, Hawthorne,” Ewan said. “What good is having a manservant with your background if he can’t pick a simple lock.”

  Adrian Burchard held out his hand. “Allow me to try.”

  Michael’s skeptical snort greeted the offer. He handed over the stylus.

  Adrian poked, paused, and flicked his wrist. Ewan heard the lock click.

  Michael made a low whistle of appreciation. “I don’t suppose you could teach me how to do that, sir.”

  Adrian’s head turned to Michael. The moment stretched.

  “Just a hobby of mine, of course,” Michael said. “Never know when it will come in handy for his lordship, is what I meant.”

  Ewan gave the door a push. It swung silently. He stepped inside.

  And knew at once that they might need the pistols after all.

  He threw out his arm to stop the others, and signaled for silence.

  Light leaked through the crack beneath the door to the back room and streaked under the paper machine. Voices leaked, too. It sounded like an argument.

  “Duclairc, make your way around back and join Colin. There is a window there. We don’t want all of them bolting,” he said.

  “Remember that we need to hold them,” Adrian said. “We need to retrieve the plates. That is our first goal.”

  Dante ran off down the lane. Ewan removed his pistol from his coat. He sensed one in Adrian’s hand, as well.

  With Michael beside him and Adrian in his wake, he slowly walked around the machine to the back room’s door. The argument continued, a rumble of low, indistinct sounds.

  Ewan touched the door latch. He pushed the door slightly ajar and looked in.

  His heart jumped.

  Michael’s head craned so he could see, too, and his sharp intake of breath sounded in Ewan’s ear. It was fitting accompaniment to the alarm splitting Ewan’s head.

  “Jesus.” Michael whispered so low it was barely audible. “Sir, what in hell is Bodisha doing here?”

  What in hell was Bodisha doing here, indeed.

  She sat on a stool in the corner farthest from the window. Two candles barely illuminated the chamber, and on first glance she might even be missed.

  Much more compelling occupants stood in a clutch near the worktable along the far window wall. Their stances and tones said something serious was afoot, even if their curses and overlapping, guttural statements were too confusing to follow.

  Despite Ewan’s shock, the answer to Michael’s question loomed. Bride was here because her father had not only forged erotic engravings. He had also turned his skill to more lucrative plates.

  He peered at Bride and an unholy anger burst in his head. Another reaction quickly shoved it aside. A desperate, furious urge to protect her.

  He took the scene in through flashes of vision, as his instincts quickly assessed her danger.

  Adrian shifted, a reminder that her biggest peril came not from the forgers, but from the man at his back.

  Ewan’s mind raced. She was dressed as a man. A kerchief hid her hair.

  He swung his gaze to the window. It was open. Dante and Colin waited outside it. If she got out and revealed her identity, perhaps . . .

  Only a few moments had passed since he edged the door open, but time had altered and slowed. Suddenly it righted itself. He nudged Michael and laid a finger on his lips. He prayed Michael would understand the call was for discretion, not mere silence.

  Swallowing hard, Ewan pushed the door. It swung wide and banged, announcing their intrusion.

  Twickenham froze in shock, but the others did not. With amazing speed of reaction, a tall blond man swerved, knocked one candle to the floor, and pulled down the stack of screens so they tumbled toward the door.

  Confusion reigned. The pistols deterred no one. As Adrian and Michael joined the charge into the room, Ewan rushed to the corner where Bride had bolted to her feet. He kept his back to her while he grappled with Twickenham. His blood pounded with excitement during the ensuing melee, but he managed to speak one word to her.

  “Go.”

  A flurry of fisticuffs swung in the dark. Grunts and curses rang in the air. Then suddenly silence fell and the room’s occupants froze in a tableau vivant.

  Ewan had Twickenham on the floor beneath his boot. Michael held a dark-haired gentleman in a death hold, with one arm around the man’s neck. Adrian stood over the tall blond man, with a pistol pointed at his heart.

  Bride was nowhere to be seen.

  Only heavy breaths could be heard for several moments. Then Michael released his prisoner, swung him to hug the wall, and pressed his weight between the man’s shoulder blades. In doing so, he repositioned himself closer to Adrian.

  He glanced to the blond forger on the floor, then caught Ewan’s eye and gestured.

  Ewan gave Twickenham a look of warning. Twickenham stuck his face to the floor in resignation. Keeping the weapon ready, Ewan went over to Michael.

  Michael angled his head toward Adrian. “Look.”

  Ewan looked. The features of the blond man took form in the dim light.

  He had seen th
is man’s face before. The countenance had been drawn with loving care on a little piece of paper tucked inside a leather holder.

  It was Walter, Bride’s lover.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Commotion crashed inside Twickenham’s back room.

  Bride crashed, too, squirming and kicking to break free of the hands holding her.

  Strong arms wrapped her from behind and raised her off her feet in a bone-crushing hug. With a curse of surprise, the man released her just as abruptly. Breathless, she began sinking to the ground.

  “Hell. It is a woman, Burchard.”

  More gently, but very firmly, he grabbed her under her arms and shoved her away from the window, into the shadows. Grasping her arm, he led her a fair distance, then set her back against the wall of a building.

  Two men faced her as she gasped for breath. Her heart pounded in her ears. Silence poured out of the building now. She stared at the window down the lane, dreading the emergence or call of Lord Lyndale.

  “Who are you?” her captor asked.

  “She is very tall, Duclairc, and I got a glimpse of her face as she bolted out the window. I could be mistaken, but I suspect this is Miss Cameron.”

  “The Scottish woman he has been talking about? Is that who you are?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Lyndale recognize you?”

  “Yes. He told me to go, so I climbed out once the fighting started.”

  “This is definitely Miss Cameron, Duclairc. I am Colin Burchard. I was with Lyndale that day you arrived in London. This is Dante Duclairc. I believe you know his sister, Lady Mardenford.”

  Voices dimly sounded within the building. Mr. Duclairc looked at the window, then at his companion. “If he told her to go, he did not want her found in there with the others.”

  “No, he did not. Forgive me, Miss Cameron.” A hand lightly touched her head and kerchief, then skimmed down her side. “She may have even appeared to be a young man.”

  “If Adrian saw her, I doubt he was deceived,” Dante said. “However, his goal is to find those plates, so this one’s escape might not be his main concern right now.”