by Joanna Shupe
After that, it had gone quickly. They tied her hands, gagged her, and dropped a cloth sack over her head. A cuff to the jaw had caught her off guard, though it likely shouldn’t have, and she fell to the hard, wet brick of the alley. They’d tied her legs and lifted her up roughly.
She was tossed in a carriage, in which she’d now been riding for some time. She had no idea where she was, unfortunately, when it finally stopped. The sack over her head hampered not only her sight, but her sense of hearing and smell as well. Foreboding bubbled in her chest as she was lifted and carried through a door. Then there were stairs.
She attempted to stave off the rising hysteria. Oh, God. I’m going to die here. She was going to die and she’d never get to see Quint again. She’d never see her father or stepmama—or Julia. Why had she ventured out alone tonight?
She hoped Jenkins had followed whoever had kidnapped her, but she could not count on it. She could not count on anyone other than herself. She had to remain calm and keep her wits. That was her best chance to stay alive.
A door opened. The air inside the sack was hot and steamy, making breathing uncomfortable.
“Excellent. Put her there, if you will.”
The cultured, deep voice was slightly muffled by the cloth, but recognition flitted on the edges of her mind. She’d heard it somewhere. Who was it?
Then she was falling, helpless, until she hit the floor with a smack. Pain exploded on her right side, robbing her of breath for a few seconds. Damnation.
The cloth slid off her head. Sophie’s eyes burned, even in the low lamplight, and she had no choice but to screw her lids shut. After a few seconds, she blinked, letting her eyes adjust as quickly as she could. She was in a bedchamber. A crude bed rested on one wall, while a long table stood on the opposite side of the room. A few chairs were scattered about, but nothing else.
Two men stared down at her. Lord Tolbert, wearing a smug expression, and Lord Hudson . . . the man from the Home Office. The one who’d approached her at Portland’s ball. He was smiling congenially at her while leaning on the cane in his left hand. “Lady Sophia. I am indeed grateful that you could join our little party.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Quint would never know how Winchester and Colton accomplished it, yet the two men somehow managed to convince O’Shea to come down to the carriage at Quint’s request. No matter the progress Quint had made recently, the thought of entering a crowded gaming hell had terrified him. There was every chance he would be fine once inside . . . and there was every chance he would not. Suffering a fit now, when he needed to remain sharp and in control to help Sophie, was not a risk he could take.
“And what makes your lordships think I know what happened to her ladyship?” O’Shea asked from the opposite seat. Winchester sat inside the carriage, next to Quint, while Colton and Fitzpatrick, the duke’s manservant, stood guard outside.
Quint stated the obvious. “Because you knew she and Tolbert were here, inside The Queen. Did you pay him to kidnap her?”
O’Shea laughed at that. “I wouldn’t give Tolbert money if he promised me a pot of gold that shits sapphires.”
“But you saw her here earlier.”
“Indeed, we did, your lordship. And after I told her not to return.” He made a sound of disappointment. “Really, I thought she was smarter’n that.”
“Who took her?” he ground out.
O’Shea reached into his coat and pulled out a metal flask. “Shall we have a drink? I might be persuaded to answer if you show a bit more respect, my lord.”
“Not a chance. Even if I did drink, which I do not, I wouldn’t drink with a man who allows his own employees to be murdered and doesn’t do a damn thing about it.”
Winchester tensed, but O’Shea just smirked and uncapped the flask. He lifted it to his mouth, swallowed. “And what makes you think I have not been doing something, your lordship? Perhaps I have been handling the situation in my own way.”
“I do not believe that,” Quint said. “If so, the man would be swinging from London Bridge by his innards.”
“It’s not always about violence, my lord. There are other ways to use information.”
“Meaning you were blackmailing the killer?”
The edges of his mouth kicked up. “Your lordship is a quick one. Nice to see some rumors are true.”
Quint ignored that. “Which means it isn’t Tolbert.” Tolbert could never afford to meet anyone’s blackmail demands. Quint had been right in the first place. But if not Tolbert, then who?
“Which means it isn’t Tolbert,” O’Shea confirmed with another swallow. “Lord Winchester?” He gestured with the flask. “Want to give it another go?”
“No,” Winchester said emphatically. Unsurprising, since Winchester had to be carried out of O’Shea’s office the last time the two drank together. “So who was it? Who took Lady Sophia?”
“Tolbert has to be involved,” Quint murmured, his mind working this over. “You wouldn’t allow him to enter the club if he were not. What were you using him for?” He closed his eyes. “You were blackmailing the killer, so you needed Tolbert . . . because Tolbert was bringing you information. Tolbert was playing both sides.”
“What do you mean, both sides?” Winchester asked.
“It would be too risky for the killer to be seen with each girl himself,” Quint continued. “Tolbert frequented the brothels, so he would speak to the girls and make arrangements for the killer. Which explains why Tolbert was the last to see Pamela, the most recent victim, alive.”
“He got three of my girls before I wised up,” O’Shea said. “That’s why Tolbert moved on to Hartley’s girls. I threatened to feed his bollocks to the pigs if he took any more of my property. But in all fairness, Tolbert didn’t know the girls were to be killed. He thought they were bein’ hired for a bit of rough sport.”
“What about when the girls began washing up? When the newspapers began reporting it?”
“He finally believed me after this last one. None too bright, our Lord Tolbert.”
Quint’s heart sped up. Tolbert’s involvement meant that he could have delivered Sophie into the hands of the killer. His chest constricted, a weight pressing down on his sternum. “Who was Tolbert working for, then?”
O’Shea scratched his jaw. “Seems I have something you want, my lord. I think it’s only fair—”
“A thousand pounds.”
“Two.”
“Done.”
O’Shea put the spirits away and leaned back in the seat. “He was working for Lord Hudson. Do you know him?”
Quint froze, his mind reeling. Dear God. Hudson. The Home Office. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “La Gauche. Of course.”
“‘The left’? What are you talking about?” Winchester’s blue eyes were narrowed in confusion and concern.
“One of the girls,” Quint explained, “the third victim, had a regular. She called him La Gauche. The roommate assumed the nickname to mean the direction of his erection, but she really meant the way he leaned. Hudson uses a cane in his left hand.”
“Good God,” Winchester murmured. “Hudson is ruthless. Everyone in Parliament is scared to death of him.”
Quint knew precisely how ruthless Hudson could be. They had to find Sophie. He narrowed his gaze on O’Shea. “Where does he take the girls?”
O’Shea held up his hands. “All I know is it’s near Blackfriars Bridge.”
That made sense. All the bodies had washed up downriver of there. He nodded toward the door, and Winchester threw open the latch.
O’Shea unfolded from the seat and started out. “My lord.” O’Shea put a foot on the step, stopped, and glanced over his shoulder. “He won’t have killed her yet. He likes to play with them first, make sure they’re good and scared.”
Sophie tried to swallow around the gag, her mouth gone dry from fear. Or was it terror? Or fear-like terror? Oh, God. She was nearly hysterical.
Her hands had gone numb, the rope cuttin
g painfully into her skin. She’d tried to loosen the knots enough to slide her hands free but had been unsuccessful. If only she’d been able to hold on to her knife.
“This”—Hudson waved in the direction of her legs—“is a decidedly appealing look for you. I hadn’t thought a woman in men’s clothing could be so arresting. Well done, Sophia.”
Tolbert inspected her in a way that made her skin crawl. “No wonder you did not want to duel.” He rubbed his crotch through his trousers. “If I’d have known earlier that you were Sir Stephen, this all would have had a very different outcome. Too bad for you.”
“But fortunate for me.” Hudson’s dark eyes glittered, and a shiver slid from the base of her skull all the way down her spine.
“I’ll leave you to it, then.” Tolbert turned and took a few steps to the door. “I’ll expect double the usual payment tomorrow—”
Hudson moved in a blur, removing the end of his cane to reveal a long, thin sword. In a flash, he wrapped himself around Tolbert’s back, and all Sophie saw was the motion of Hudson’s arm and a splatter of red spray onto the opposite wall. Tolbert flailed and then crumpled to the ground, a pool of blood forming beneath him.
Had he . . . ? Sophie stared in horror. She’d never seen anyone killed before. Had certainly never seen so much blood. Oh, dear Lord. Bile rose up in her throat and she forced it back down. Took several deep breaths through her nose. Then a strange metallic smell assaulted her and dizziness set in. Do not faint. Stay alert.
She looked away, tried to gather her strength. While Hudson’s attention was elsewhere, she began working at the knots around her hands once more. She needed to get out of here. The ropes were tight, and each twist and pull rubbed off more skin. The agony made her want to weep.
“You can stop trying to get out of your ropes,” Hudson told her as he came around to stand behind her. She couldn’t see him and had no idea what he planned but assumed it was unpleasant. She braced herself. “You’re only hurting yourself unnecessarily. We’re going to have fun together, you and I.”
He reached down and untied her gag with one hand. The cloth fell away and she worked the stiffness out of her jaw.
“No screams, Sophia?” He chuckled. “Though it wouldn’t matter if you did. This area is quite deserted.”
“Why am I here?” she croaked.
“I thought it was time to meet like this. You’re beginning to be a nuisance. Poor Tolbert. You made him quite jumpy over the past few days.”
Poor Tolbert, indeed. Sophie avoided glancing over at the body. “But now that he’s dead, you can let me go. I don’t know anything, not for certain.”
“Come now. You thought Tolbert was killing those girls. Do you not want a chance to learn what really happened?”
The more she knew, the more of a risk it was for him to keep her alive. She shook her head vehemently. “No. It can be Tolbert, for all I care. I don’t need the truth.”
“It’s much too late for that. Our time to be together has arrived.” He crossed to the long table and set his sword stick on it. She hadn’t noticed before, but as she struggled to sit up, she could see metal instruments resting on top as well. Clamps and knives. A medicine bottle. God, was that a bone saw?
“The door is locked,” he told her, noticing her movements. “There is no window. If you think to escape, you won’t.”
A bone saw. The bile rose once more and she gagged. She struggled not to cry. He appeared before her, now holding the medicine bottle. “I have a few questions before I give you this.” He held up the brown container.
“What is that?”
“My own special blend. I have it nearly perfected. It should keep you lucid enough for our fun but docile enough that I may untie your hands.”
Sweat prickled between her shoulder blades. Keep him talking until you can distract him. “What questions?”
“Where does Quint keep his work? I know it’s not in his desk.”
“You were the intruder!”
He grimaced, affronted, as if she’d asked him to polish his own boots. “My dear woman, other people do that sort of thing for me. Though had it been me, I certainly would have found what I needed.”
Doubtful. “Why are you so desperate for Quint’s work?”
“One of my contacts, an important Russian diplomat, discovered my . . .” He waved a hand, searching for the word. “He discovered my work with these girls, the work you so doggedly pursued these last few months. He’s disappeared, unfortunately, but relayed a message that he’d not expose me if I could turn over something of value to the Russian government. Your lover’s cipher solution will serve my purpose, if only he would finish it.”
Sophie tried not to react to the word “lover.” “So ask Quint to turn over what he has so far.”
“I did. He refused, which I understand. Men such as Quint and I, we strive for perfection. We don’t care to leave things half-finished.”
She understood the threat, that he would control whatever was to happen in this room. That she would not get away. Blood pounded in her ears. “Nevertheless, I do not know what he is working on or where he keeps it.”
The focus with which he stared unnerved her. It was as if he could see every thought in her head. “You are lying,” he finally said. “Good. You’ll tell me soon enough.”
He pulled the stopper out of the bottle and came forward, limping slightly without his cane. “Wait.” She tried to scoot back, but it was impossible with bound hands and feet. “You do not want to do this. My father—”
“Your father may be powerful, my dear, but not nearly as powerful as I. And I’ve learned to cover my mistakes.” He gestured to where Tolbert’s body lay on the ground, then started forward.
“I must know something first,” she blurted before he could reach her. “Did you kill Rose, the girl from The Pretty Kitty?”
She could tell the question caught him off guard by the way he faltered. “Yes, though I wasn’t able to do what I wanted with her. She caused me no end of trouble. I had to use my walking stick on her and nearly broke the thing in two.”
Sophie nearly winced. Poor Rose. “Was her body thrown in the river?”
“Yes, but I weighted her down better than the others. She deserved not to be found after what she put me through.”
That logic hardly made sense, so Sophie ignored it. “Why did you cut off their right hands?”
His lips curved into a chilling smile that was equal parts sinister and proud. “Right hands were their most lucrative asset, wouldn’t you say? It’s the greatest source of pleasure for both the woman and her customer. And each one is unique. They’re quite pretty to look at, actually. Too bad I cannot show them to you.”
Her stomach roiled and she took a deep breath. “Why . . . why are you killing these poor girls?”
He sneered. “‘Poor’ girls? They are nothing more than whores. I’ve been doing this work for years, and no one gives a damn about these girls.”
Years? “The bodies only started washing up in the last four months.”
“Because my other disposal methods were becoming tedious. Surprisingly, pigs cannot eat as much as one would assume. And to answer your other question, I do this because it amuses me. Power is”—he inhaled, his chest expanding—“arousing. When you hold a person’s very life in your hands . . . well, there is nothing quite like it.”
He uncorked the bottle. “Now.” He started forward once more. “Open up like a good girl.”
“It would be near the water,” Quint said. His fingers tapped rapidly on the carriage seat, a staccato symphony of barely restrained panic, as he, Colton, and Winchester rode toward Blackfriars Bridge. “Likely an abandoned building so he wouldn’t be concerned about the noise.”
Colton and Winchester exchanged a look. Quint ignored them. He had to think like Hudson, not get bogged down in emotion. If he let himself feel, then the fear and anger would take over. He’d never find Sophie in that case.
“He wouldn’t tr
ust servants or a hackney, so he’d drive himself there in an unmarked conveyance. With his knee, he’d have trouble navigating too many stairs while carrying a dead body, even a small woman, so first or second floor. No windows, not if he could avoid it. He’ll—”
“Quint,” Colton said gently. “Take a breath. We’ll locate her.”
He closed his eyes, dragged in deep pulls of air.
“Why weren’t you with her when she went out as Sir Stephen?” Stood to reason that Winchester would ask, since he tended toward the overprotective when it came to women. “Surely you had to know this was a possibility?”
The censure was quite clear in his friend’s voice, and it was nothing Quint hadn’t asked himself a hundred times. How could you let this happen to her?
“And why did we have to pay O’Shea a bloody fortune to bring him to you tonight, instead of the other way around?” Colton asked.
There was no way to keep it from them now. He couldn’t. He would need their help again in saving Sophie, not to mention he owed them answers after all this time. He deliberately kept his lids closed. “I am unwell. I started having fits after the shooting.”
“Your father?” Colton asked. Both men knew details of the Beecham family legacy, so there was no need to explain it.
“Yes, precisely. I never know what will induce an attack and found it’s best to remain in my home. Or in a carriage.”
“Goddammit, why did you not tell us?” Winchester’s voice cracked like a whip.
“I am managing. While there may not be a cure, I’ve been attempting experiments on myself. A few have been somewhat successful.”
“Such as?”
Vigorous lovemaking with Sophie. “Exercise. And meditation.”
The carriage took a corner quickly, causing knees to jostle against one another in the cramped space. When they righted, Colton said, “Still, you should’ve told us. Sophia obviously knew.”
