by Mia Marlowe
A Bow Street Runner would merely take statements and file a report. By the time someone might think of where to start the search for Olivia, it would be too late.
“No, fetch her here,” Rhys ordered. “And step lively.”
When Babette appeared, she bore not only Olivia’s things, but a parcel tied with a string.
“Where is she?” Rhys demanded.
“First, you must know the why my lady she made to disobey you.” Babette dropped the packet on the marquis’s desk and laid Olivia’s effects carefully on one of the Sheraton chairs. Then in her stilted English, she described Alcock’s visit in detail.
Rhys listened in stony silence, rifling through the much folded documents that would clear him if they could be substantiated by a witness. Then, with arms crossed over her bosom, Babette recounted how Alcock had revealed their cursed agreement.
Olivia now knew he meant to ruin her at first. The backs of his eyes burned.
“But even though you meant to do her the ill turn,” Babette said with undisguised loathing, “my lady, she is on her way to Wapping Dock to find the man who can clear your name.”
Rhys swore softly, then muttered, “I don’t deserve her.”
“This thought it is also in my mind,” Babette said agreeably. “But if you wish to know where she might be now, you would do well to ask Miss Pinkerton. The last I saw of my lady, she was riding away in a coach with that young miss.”
Rhys made for the door, but Babette stepped into his path.
“Take me with you, my lord. I can help.”
Rhys chuckled mirthlessly. “Just because you were lady’s maid to a French courtesan, it doesn’t signify that you would be useful in a tight spot.”
“I was not only a maid,” Babette admitted. “I was a help to La Belle Perdu in all her endeavors.”
Rhys frowned down at her. “The French spy.”
“Not a spy, a double agent. Her father was French, but her mother, she was English. Just like me. My loyalty and La Belle Perdu’s, it is to the British Crown.”
“So she leaped to her death to prove it?”
“Non, she is in hiding yet. Only one man in the government knew she used her profession to pass disinformation to French contacts. When he died, she was named an enemy of the state by those who did not know the truth.” Babette walked toward him, her gaze direct as a man’s. “You, of all people, should know what it is to be accused falsely.”
She had him there.
“Now my loyalty it is to your wife,” Babette went on. “If my mistress is in trouble, I want to help.”
Rhys studied her determined features for a few heartbeats. “Then come with me.”
***
Olivia fought her way back to consciousness despite a pounding headache. She was so cold. Her first coherent thought was that Amanda had let the fire in the kitchen burn out and opened the windows in the last gasp of winter. Then the fog in her brain cleared.
She forced her eyes open. Her back was propped against clammy grey stone. The smell of vermin and filth and the clinging reek of ancient misery assaulted her nostrils. Her mind reeled.
The tea! Amanda must have laced her second cup with something to render her senseless.
“Where am I?” She realized shakily that Amanda was fastening a heavy iron manacle to her right wrist.
“In the souterraine, of course. I believe it’s intended to be a root cellar, but I like to think of it as the dungeon,” Amanda said with maddening calmness. “I told you what a cunning place this was. Weren’t you attending?”
“Why are you doing this?” Olivia struggled to free herself, but the residual effects of the drugged tea made her weak. Miss Pinkerton bound her other wrist tightly as well.
“I’m just protecting what’s right, that’s all,” the young woman said. “Your father did my mother a terrible wrong, and we’re going to make him pay.”
“My father wouldn’t knowingly hurt anyone,” Olivia protested.
“Words can wound, sharp as a blade,” Amanda said, her dark eyes blazing. “My father told me all about it. Horatio Symon said my mother wasn’t good enough for London, never mind that she was a pure woman from a good family and could trace her lineage back to Rajputana kings.”
Olivia frowned up at her, trying to make sense of her words, but failing miserably. “But your mother was Greek.”
“That’s the lie my father put about to satisfy bigots like your father.” Amanda paced the fetid space, her footfalls thudding on the flagstones with unnatural loudness. “But that wasn’t good enough for Mr. Symon; no, indeed. And my mother died of a broken heart over it.”
“How can you know that? Weren’t you an infant when she died?”
“Father never hid my true parentage from me or why my mother died.”
Olivia still couldn’t believe Horatio Symon had been so heartless. He’d always been so kind to her. She hung her head for a moment willing her darting thoughts to settle. She had to keep Amanda talking.
“It doesn’t matter who your mother was. You are who you decide to be, Amanda.”
“Ha! You, of all people, should know the world doesn’t work that way. The Duke of Clarence threw you over because you weren’t wellborn. I don’t have the advantage of a fortune behind me, but my father’s profession is respectable enough. I’ll make good, if no one finds out the truth. But if the ton discovers my mother grew up speaking Hindi instead of Greek, I’ll be outcast.”
“More shame to them,” Olivia said.
Amanda put her hands to her ears. “That’s the kind of thing Father told me you’d say. He’s right about you, I guess. Still, it makes me sad to see you so, Olivia. In another world, we might have been friends.” She worried her lower lip with her white teeth. “Father said I should ride the carriage up and down your block on the chance that I’d see you out and about, and…well, this is ever so much harder than I expected.”
All the blood ran from Olivia’s throbbing head. “What are you going to do?”
“It’s up to Father now,” she said, her voice flat and expressionless. Amanda stared at the floor, but Olivia didn’t think she actually saw the straw-strewn stone. Then Amanda gave herself a shake. “Mercy me, I have another fitting for my ball gown. I’ll be late if Father doesn’t attend to you directly. I wonder what’s keeping him.”
She scurried away, hanging the key that would unshackle Olivia’s bonds on the wicked hook by the door. She tugged at a pulley that elevated the chains binding Olivia’s hands, not stopping until Olivia was forced to stand tiptoe. Then Amanda waved good-bye before climbing the stairs.
The door at the top of the stairs slammed shut with finality. There was very little light in that dank place, only one small hole high on the east side of the round room. Olivia tracked the patch of light thrown across the space as it crept downward, stone by stone. By the time the sun reached its zenith even that small comfort would be gone.
There were tiny rustlings around her. Rats. Several pairs of red eyes glinted at her, feral and questing in the dimness. She kicked at one nosing her ankle. Oh, God, how she hated such vermin with their scritchy little claws and sharp teeth.
Her arms started to ache. She had no feeling in her fingers. A scream started to build in her throat, but she held it back. No one would hear her in this hell. The walls were a couple feet thick, and the cacophony of a working dock would drown out any cries for help.
All she could do was pray.
“God be praised,” she murmured when she heard the door creak open. Torchlight blazed down the stairwell, cutting a wide swath across the chamber. “Who’s there? I’m Olivia Warrington. Whoever you are, please help me.”
Dr. Pinkerton came into view carrying a smoking torch.
Olivia sagged against her bonds. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“So your father will suffer as I have suffered,” Dr. Pinkerton said, his pale eyes darkening in the flickering light.
“Father was wrong to say those th
ings to you,” Olivia said.
“But he did and, as they say, ‘a bell cannot be unrung.’”
“I’m sure he had no idea your wife would so take his words to heart that she’d die of a broken heart.”
Dr. Pinkerton snorted. “She didn’t.”
“But—”
“That is simply the tale I told Amanda. Gita never knew what Horatio had said to me. But I knew immediately that your father was right. My beautiful little daughter would have no chance in England if Gita came back with us.”
Olivia’s jaw sagged.
“I loved Gita and I loved my daughter, but it became evident that I would have to choose between them. After several weeks of torment, I hit upon a plan. Like you, my Gita loved flowers and she was obsessive about her English roses. She wouldn’t let anyone else tend them. I could never have borne for her to know I had chosen Amanda’s future happiness over her, so I painted the thorns with a tincture of curare.”
That explained Dr. Pinkerton’s use of thorns in his previous attempts on her life. “Your wife died like poor Mr. Weinschmidt.”
“Yes, just like your unfortunate lackey. I must say, my lady, you have proven difficult to kill.” He met her gaze, and she saw both regret and resentment simmering in his pale eyes. “Nevertheless, I believe I shall succeed this time.”
“Why must you do this?” Olivia’s question echoed on the stone walls. “Father wouldn’t have breathed a word about Amanda’s true parentage. He’s not that sort.”
“No, he’s the sort who has success dropped into his lap at every turn,” Dr. Pinkerton said. “You can’t know how frustrating it’s been for me to know how much I’ve sacrificed for my child while Horatio’s girls are coddled and rewarded.”
Pinkerton’s face hardened. “And now, my dear Olivia, it’s time for you to make your peace with the Almighty. If it’s any comfort to you, I expect to feel guilt for your death. But know that your passing will mean my wife’s death is avenged on the man who drove me to kill her.”
He edged toward the stairway.
“You can’t mean to leave me here.”
“Of course not. That would be unspeakably cruel. It could take you weeks to die of natural causes.” He pulled a lever on the wall and the sound of metal grated on stone. A sluice gate opened, allowing a steady trickle of murky water to spread across the fetid floor.
“In ages past, when this souterraine grew too dirty to bear, this gate was opened and the floor flooded with Thames water,” Dr. Pinkerton explained as dispassionately as if he were giving a lecture on the subject. He pointed to a similar portal on the opposite side of the room. “Normally, the companion gate over there was opened at the same time so the water and filth could be swept out. But I don’t intend on opening the other gate just yet.”
The brown water swirled toward her toes.
“You don’t have to do this.” She forced herself to keep an even tone.
“Yes, I do.” He cast her a sad smile. “Once a plan is set in motion, it is important to see it to the end. I didn’t spare my own dear wife for Amanda’s sake. What makes you think I’d pity my enemy’s daughter? My course is determined and I dare not look back.” He mounted the first step to avoid the water lapping at his heels. “Don’t fight it, Olivia. I’m told drowning is quite painless if one doesn’t resist.”
“Dr. Pinkerton, no!” she yelled after him.
“God save you,” he said softly as he took the manacle key from the hook and placed it in his pocket. The torchlight disappeared as the door closed behind him. “For I won’t.”
This time, Olivia wasn’t able to hold it in. She knew it was useless, but as the water crept up her ankles, she screamed.
Chapter 34
Rhys reined in his mount as he neared Wapping. Somewhere on the docks, the man whose testimony could clear him was wandering free, about to take ship for parts unknown. He dismissed it as trivial. If anything happened to Olivia, it wouldn’t matter if he was suddenly named king of all England.
“Why are we stopping?” Babette came alongside him. The horse beneath her danced sideways, spooked by the noise of the maritime gangs hauling away to rhythmic chants.
“Scouting things a bit.” Rhys pointed toward the gray stone house with its listing tower. “There’s the hired coach. That means Olivia is still there. You saw Amanda Pinkerton with her. How did she seem? Might she harm Olivia?”
“Mademoiselle Pinkerton seemed like any other silly debutant, but looks can be deceiving.” Babette grimaced. “Contrary to what you might think, monsieur, the female, she can be more deadly than the male.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.” He surveyed the stone house with a general’s eye. “Divide and conquer, I’m thinking. Nip around and down the back alley. See if you can gain entrance through the kitchen. I’ll take the front door and meet you inside.” Rhys stroked his horse’s quivering neck, wishing he had Lord Nathaniel Colton or Sir Jonah Sharp at his side. His friends could be counted on in a pinch, but what could a courtesan’s maid, even one who was an accomplished double agent, do? “Be careful, Babette.”
The maid tossed him a jaundiced glance. “Do not make to worry for me, my lord. Worry for my lady.”
***
Olivia screamed herself hoarse, but no one came. The retreating dab of sunlight reflected off the rising tide and threw macabre flashes throughout the room. Water was up to her waist now, sending her skirt billowing in the cold murk.
She tried to collapse her hands so she could yank them free. The rough iron tore the thin skin of her wrists, sending shrieking pain along with tiny ribbons of red tickling down her arms. She turned and braced her feet against the gray stone, using her body’s weight to try to free herself. Olivia folded her left thumb against her palm tight as she could, concentrating on freeing just one hand. She strained and tugged, worrying her lip against the bite of iron and finally scraped her hand out of the manacle.
Hope surged in her breast, then withered as the water continued to rise. Try as she might, her right hand was stuck fast.
“God help me,” she chanted, terror locking her muscles in near rigor. She’d heard that wild animals caught in traps sometimes gnawed off their own limbs in order to win free. She understood that kind of panic now.
***
“Good afternoon, Miss Pinkerton. You’re looking lovely,” Rhys lied with ease, his hat in hand. “City life agrees with you.”
“Lord Rhys, we weren’t expecting you.” She gripped the door so tightly, her knuckles went white.
“I understand my wandering wife enjoyed a carriage ride with you today.” He leaned as if looking around her. “Might I come in?”
“No. I mean, yes, of course.” She waved him in, clearly flustered. “Lady Rhys isn’t here.”
“Oh? Do you know where she went?” He strode past her into the parlor. “I do like what you’ve done with the parlor. Your taste is impeccable.”
Amanda opened her mouth a couple of times like a carp on a riverbank. “If you wish to find your wife, my lord, I suggest you make a search of the docks. She was looking for someone who was about to take ship. I’m afraid I don’t remember the gentleman’s name.”
“That’s not my concern right now,” Rhys said. “My concern is Olivia, and I believe you know where she is.”
“Even if she did, she wouldn’t tell you,” a voice came from behind him.
Dr. Pinkerton stood in the parlor doorway with a pistol leveled at Rhys’s midsection.
“Amanda’s a good girl,” Pinkerton said. “She knows how to follow directions—a quality I suspect your wife is sadly lacking. Otherwise she’d be safe at Warrington House.”
“Father,” Amanda said softly. “Perhaps we should let her go.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Pinkerton snapped. “Have you forgotten your mother? Symon’s daughter deserves her fate.” Amanda turned away from them, head bent.
Good God, what have they done to her? Rhys’s gut lurched.
“Let her
rot down there,” Pinkerton said with vehemence.
Down there. Surely not in the underbelly of this ancient keep. The sick feeling in his belly told Rhys that was exactly where Olivia was.
“Don’t worry, Warrington,” Dr. Pinkerton said. “You’ll be joining her before you know it.”
“I think not, monsieur le doctor.”
Babette came barreling down the hall and bashed Pinkerton on the back of the head with a very fashionable vase patterned after a Grecian urn. The doctor crumpled to the floor and Rhys dove for his pistol. Amanda leaped upon Rhys’s back to defend her father, but Babette yanked her off.
“Did I not tell you I could help?” Babette said.
Rhys rose with the pistol in his hand. “I’ll never doubt you again.”
“And well you should not. Can you shoot a woman, my lord?”
Rhys glanced at Amanda, whose face went suddenly ashen. “No.”
“I can,” Babette said as she eased the gun from his grip. “Tell Lord Rhys where to find my mistress.”
Words spewed out of Amanda’s mouth so quickly, Rhys could barely follow her garbled directions to the souterraine beneath the keep.
“And you, mademoiselle,” Babette pointed the barrel at Miss Pinkerton, “if you would be so kind as to truss up your papa with the drapery ties, I will not need to shoot you, non?”
***
When Rhys reached the heavy oak door leading off the kitchen, he heard a sound coming from the souterraine beneath him, a keening wail, muffled but unmistakable. Terror-filled, the screams sounded as if they came from a cornered animal instead of a person.
“Olivia!”
Rhys felt as if an anvil had been dropped on his chest. He flew down the stairs two and three at a time, a killing rage roaring in his veins. Pinkerton was going to pay, and pay dearly.
“I’m coming,” he bellowed.
The keening stopped and she began shrieking his name.
A second door at the first landing was locked, but he put a shoulder to it and heaved. It gave a little, but still held. He took a run at it and the door splintered open. He tumbled down a few steps.
