“Yours isn’t quite a beard yet, is it?”
“Ah! So you’ve been monitoring the progress of my beard?”
“Oh, you’re all I see, Mr. Eversea.”
Murmured, and as dry as a fine wine, those words, and so perilously close to flirtation he actually felt his breath catch a little. She sounded like a woman who would have married a man with mermaids on his pistol.
He looped his arm through hers deliberately then, both to be a devil and so they might look like a married couple, which would make them seem less conspicuous. He felt her go tense, and he ducked his head so the world couldn’t see his smile, or the rest of his face for that matter.
Fortunately the hospital courtyard was a busy place, with humans and hackneys leaving and arriving or parked waiting for fares, and the two of them could have been any married couple awaiting a loved one.
As long as they didn’t hover overlong, that is.
“What if he never emerges? What if we’ve missed him?” Colin muttered.
“It’s too early yet for dinner. He gives a lecture, the butler told me, and then he goes on to his club, and will likely be home very late. Creatures of habit, men are.” She flicked him a glance. “Most men.”
And if they hadn’t both been staring at the hospital gates at that moment they might have missed him, and the description fit: tall, handsome, self-important, small beard. Dr. August swept out with long-legged strides and an air of distraction, pulling on gloves, transferring a gold-topped walking stick from one hand to the other as he did it. He ignored all the hackneys, cast quick glimpses to the left and to the right of him, then set out walking south along St. Thomas Street so smoothly and swiftly that if it weren’t for the wink of the walking stick they might have lost him in the dark.
“There aren’t any gentlemen’s clubs in that direction. And I should know,” Colin murmured.
They had no choice but to pursue.
Chapter 11
Dr. August was walking like a man with an urgent destination. And he was alone, seldom a wise thing to be in London at night.
Colin thought he might have headed for London Bridge, which would have taken him into the city; instead he kept along St. Thomas Street and strode past the rows of older shops locked for the day, past aging inns and pubs just beginning to liven for the evening, wedged between once-grand older homes whose owners were steadily abandoning them for more fashionable addresses in the city.
The doctor glanced over his shoulder more than once—they were subtle turns of his head—and then turned a sharp left down a street that seemed comprised solely of pubs.
Colin kept his arm looped through Madeleine’s, and they tacitly attempted to keep a discreet distance behind the doctor, dodging the wan pools of light thrown down by the street lamps as best they could. No brilliant gaslight had yet invaded Southwark. Colin could feel heat in his ankles beneath the cravat bandages, and a weariness of a day’s worth of constant movement and turmoil was beginning to tug at his limbs. Damned, however, if he would slow, particularly in harness with Mrs. Greenway.
They turned the corner just in time to see Dr. August vanish down the stairs into a pub called the Lion’s Mark. The sign was painted in great fading red letters set aglow by a lamp hung out on its iron hook, but the light barely diluted the dark around it.
“This is where I become useful,” Madeleine whispered. “I know this inn.”
“Are you known inside it? Do we dare enter?”
She hesitated. “I think we should wait.”
Out of the light of a street lamp, in the sheltering shadows of the space—not quite an alley—between the pub and the home next door, Colin and Madeleine hovered.
They were quiet together for a few minutes. There were other walkers out on the street, some pushing open the doors of pubs and inns. Carriages, modest ones—none painted with visible coats of arms, anyhow—and hackneys rolled by.
Colin absently fished into his pocket and pulled out the few coins he’d been given in exchange for his button. He rubbed them between his fingers, enjoying the snick snick of metal against metal.
“Buy ye a pint, me dove?” he murmured. A pint was an unimaginable luxury right now, and they both knew it.
She gave a soft laugh. Ah, a laugh. It was music. “I should like a pint.”
“Are you the pint sort?” He liked the idea of her tipping a hearty lager back. It was, and it wasn’t, at odds with her singular sort of grace.
“Oh, now and again.” The laugh was still in her voice. “My husband did like his. We went once or twice a week to the Black Cat. Lovely, cozy place. And we’ve had a drink or two at the Lion’s Mark, this very pub. Once when…”
Ah, bloody hell. She’d actually begun to ease into conversation; he’d even heard a smile in her voice. And then she stopped.
Well, he wouldn’t press. Barely above a whisper, he said, “There’s a pub in Pennyroyal Green. The Pig and Thistle. They brew their own, and it’s the finest you’ve ever tasted. They’ve a dark and a light. And the dark tastes like…oh, Mrs. Greenway, you should taste it. It’s like peat and night and all that’s good about the downs, and it would make a dead man rise and sing. You could spoon it down for dinner. Beer makes Louisa sneeze.”
Madeleine laughed again, muffling it with her fist just in time.
“But she does like her punch. It’s how, in fact, I got her to kiss me for the very first time. ’Twas Christmas. She’d had too much. I rather pressed them upon her, the cups of punch, but it wasn’t as though she’d refused. She rather egged me on. And then she…”
And now his voice trailed off.
A universe away. All of that. He remembered that moment now. Louisa’s cheeks had been flushed, and her lips so soft. A very chaste kiss, for all of that.
Colin put the shillings abruptly back in his pocket, as if they’d conjured the memory. As if the very brightness of it would betray their hiding place.
And then they saw Dr. August emerge so quickly up the stairs that he couldn’t have had time to down a pint. Colin swept Madeleine into his arms, pressed her face against his coat so she couldn’t complain and pressed her against the wall so they couldn’t be seen. If they were noticed at all, they would be mistaken for a couple overcome by ardor or perhaps in the throes of a fiscally arranged amorous connection. Regardless, a gentleman would avert his eyes, and it felt marvelous to have an excuse to once again wrap his arms around the lithe form of Madeleine Greenway, whose entire body was tensed.
They waited for the sound of Dr. August’s boots to pass.
Colin released her—well, held her at elbow’s length away from his body—and she glared ferociously up at him, looking for all the world like a ruffled, glaring owl in the dark. He couldn’t help it; he began to smile. And just as they prepared to follow the doctor again, they heard another set of footsteps right behind him.
And he pulled Madeleine right back into his arms.
But not before he caught a glimpse of the man. A distinctly different stripe than the doctor. A compact rectangle of a man with a boulder for a head, and all of his clothing was too tight.
“Dr. August.” The accent had a distinct flavor of the docks.
The doctor stopped. And they heard his boots stepping back toward the Lion’s Mark.
“’Tis a good price for four larges and two smalls,” the man said, his voice low and careful. It sounded both like a whine and an attempt at persuasion. “Mayhap ye’d like to reconsider.”
“There’s unfortunately no shortage of smalls in London, Hull,” the doctor said, his own voice low and curt. “We discussed this. I do not want any smalls. The price we agreed upon was for six larges. You may either take what I have offered for your four larges, or take your wares elsewhere. It is not open to negotiation.”
Silence.
In Colin’s arms, Madeleine was frozen. He couldn’t sense her breathing. She was terrified, or horrified.
“What will I do wi’ the smalls?” It was nearly a w
hine.
“It is none of my concern.” The words were impatient and impersonal. And Dr. August set out walking back toward the hospital, the strike of his boot heels getting farther away.
“Guv!” The voice was raised.
Dr. August’s footsteps stopped. They heard the scuff of boot heels turning. He didn’t move.
“Doctor,” Hull corrected hurriedly, his tone more respectful. Something about the good doctor’s expression, perhaps. “Verra well,” the voice lowered again. “Ye’ve a bargain.”
Colin lifted his head just slightly, peering around the corner of Madeleine’s head from beneath the shelter of his hat. The doctor was stepping forward and extending his hand to the square man. But it wasn’t a gentleman’s way of sealing a bargain. The square man took away a rustle of pound notes in his palm.
“Bring them ’round tonight as usual,” the doctor said gruffly. “I’ll be waiting.”
They parted ways, turned to walk swiftly in opposite directions, the doctor back toward the hospital, the large square man deeper up the street. He was engulfed by shadows soon enough. Dr. August was becoming smaller, illuminated and then in darkness again at intervals as he made his way back to the hospital guided by the row of streetlights.
“What is it?” he whispered into Madeleine’s ear. He wanted to know why she was so unnaturally still.
“Larges…smalls…Mr. Eversea, I think…” She swallowed, to steady her voice. “I think he’s talking about bodies.”
Colin frowned. And then comprehension set in.
“The doctor was speaking to a…Resurrectionist?”
“Larges and smalls.” Her voice was unsteady. “Mean adults and children. The bodies of adults and children.”
Everything in London was for sale. And nothing was safe. Not even bodies. Resurrectionists—body snatchers—dug up the newly dead and sold them, quite illegally, and quite lucratively, to doctors for dissection.
And it looked like this good doctor was buying them.
Well. This was a secret on the caliber of an affair with a footman, at the very least.
They allowed Dr. August to outpace them by twelve footsteps and two street lights—Colin counted them—and then a few moments later the good doctor had shadows in the form of a beautiful mercenary and an escapee from the gallows.
They followed him around to the back of the hospital, which was encircled by another large courtyard, which was encircled by a damned wrought-iron gate.
Topped with very handsome, very daunting, spikes.
They were about fifteen or so feet behind Dr. August, keeping close to the dark bars of the gate and away from the dim pools of the streetlights, when they heard the unmistakable click of a pistol being unlocked.
“All right.” Dr. August’s voice was shaking a little. But with rage, not fear. “That’s it. I’ve done enough. You aren’t getting anything more from me. And if you aren’t gone by the time I count three, I will shoot with no compunctions. One—”
“Dr. August,” Madeleine said quietly.
That put an end to the doctor’s count. After a stunned silence—the sound of the doctor registering a soft woman’s voice—
“Show yourself,” the doctor demanded.
“Dr. August, it’s Mrs. Greenway. Mrs. Madeleine Greenway. We’ve met. Do you recall…the Smallpox Hospital? Five years ago?”
The doctor didn’t lower his pistol. But a good ten swift heartbeats later, when he spoke again, his tone was quieter. If not entirely pleasant.
“I recall, Mrs. Greenway.” His voice was quieter now. “What is it you want with me? Why have you been following me?”
She hesitated. “I’m not alone.”
“I’m aware of that,” he said brusquely. “What is it you and your companion want with me? I’ve business at the hospital this evening.”
“We should like a few minutes of your time to ask a few questions. We’re not here to harm you.” Madeleine’s voice was very even, very calm.
“I’ll ask again: who the devil is ‘we’?”
Not a patient man, Dr. August. So Colin took a deep breath, then lifted off his hat slowly before he stepped into the light—on the theory that sudden movements once he got into the light might cause the doctor’s trigger finger to spasm.
The doctor stared up at him, then he frowned darkly. Absorbing the surprise, apparently.
And then came the wondering smile Colin was growing accustomed to. The doctor’s smile, however, wasn’t quite as fulsome as Croker’s or Harry the footman’s had been, and by way of novelty, contained a touch of cynicism.
“Good Lord. Mr. Colin Eversea. The whole of London is looking for you.”
Colin bowed—bloody habit of politeness again—though he ought not let the doctor out of his line of sight.
The doctor didn’t return the gesture. The pistol remained trained on both of them. Madeleine’s pistol was pocketed, as far as Colin could tell.
“Have we ever met, Dr. August?” Colin asked.
“Not formally, no, Mr. Eversea. But I did pay for a seat in the courtroom to see you at your trial. I saw you on the scaffold as well, from the distance of a house above the Old Bailey. Very briefly, of course, as all hell broke loose thereafter. And of course there were numerous interesting illustrations in the broadsheets.”
A bit of dry humor from the doctor.
“Of course,” Colin said.
“Extraordinary, your escape,” the doctor mused.
“I cannot agree more, Dr. August.”
“And I cannot begin to guess what…” The doctor paused, and then turned to Mrs. Greenway. “You’re keeping significantly different company since last we met, Mrs. Greenway.”
“Yes,” was all she said.
A world of meaning in that word.
“How are you?” the doctor asked Madeleine, his voice softening a little, but not enough to eliminate the threat in it.
“I’m well. Thank you, Doctor.”
It was an accurate enough response. But Colin almost laughed.
“I’m glad,” the doctor said gruffly. “But—”
“Dr. August, forgive me for interrupting, but might we have a private word with you?” Colin interjected. “It’s urgent.”
The doctor hesitated. “As I’ve said, I’ve urgent business to conduct. What do you want with me? Are you wounded, Mr. Eversea? I can’t imagine anything else that would persuade me to talk to you. And if you intend to take me forcibly, I imagine I would be quite a hero should I begin shouting your name right now and draw the attention of a soldier or a Charlie.”
The street wasn’t highly trafficked. But if the doctor were to shout, Madeleine and Colin would be in a bit of trouble indeed.
“Four larges and two smalls, Dr. August?” This came from Madeleine, coldly and without hesitation.
The effect of these words on the doctor was pronounced. His head jerked back as though he’d been slapped.
“What…what do you want?” His voice was hoarse. “You don’t understand. You can’t understand.”
Colin decided to apply the balm of exquisite manners and an aristocratic accent. Very reasonably, gently, he said, “Dr. August, we only need your help. I swear to you. We’re not here to blackmail or extort or harm. Someone tried to kill Mrs. Greenway yesterday, and I think someone tried to ensure that I was hanged for a murder I didn’t commit, and we think you can help us learn the truth. And that’s all I will say until you agree to speak with us privately.”
The doctor threw a glance over his shoulder, through the bars of the handsome, spiked fence. The large hospital courtyard was empty.
“What if I said no?”
By way of answer, Madeleine slowly unlocked her pistol.
It was an eloquent sound anywhere, the grind and click of that mechanism that turned a gun from impotent to deadly. It did something to one’s marrow.
The doctor was not unmoved. His own pistol remained raised, but he swallowed audibly. He glanced down at Madeleine’s pisto
l, then into her face, just barely lit by lamplight. And saw only cool confidence there.
The doctor sighed. “We’ll talk in my surgery.”
The hospital back entrance was beyond the gates and the courtyard, and Dr. August took them through it down a corridor. He unlocked the door of a small examination room, then closed it and locked it behind him again.
No one put pistols away.
Colin watched Madeleine once again quickly take in the lay of the small, dark room, assessing exits, memorizing details; a table in the center, shelves holding jars of unidentifiable things, a blinds-covered window that stretched across the far end. She went to it and tested it; it opened outward onto a side street, and a gust of river-scented air came in on a breeze. She pulled it closed again and slit the blinds a very little. The dimmest of streetlight filtered into the room.
Colin remained hovering near the doorway on one side of the table, the doctor across from him, pistol trained in precisely the place that would kill him instantly, Madeleine’s pistol trained on Dr. August.
“I’m going to assume that you, Dr. August, like everyone in London, know the details of my story. Succinctly put, I believe someone paid Horace Peele to disappear the night after my arrest, thus ensuring my conviction. We believe whoever paid Horace then paid Mrs. Greenway to coordinate my rescue and then attempted to kill her, and the entire endeavor, on the surface of things, seems to have been financed by blackmail.”
The word “blackmail” had a curiously paralytic effect on the doctor. He seemed unable to speak.
“A mutual friend led me to believe someone might be blackmailing you, too, Dr. August.”
The doctor still didn’t answer for some time. And then he turned slowly to Madeleine, who was leaning almost casually against the far wall of the surgery, her pistol trained on him.
“I’m puzzled, Mrs. Greenway. Your husband…you had the shop. Your family was respectable. When you lost your husband and baby—”
Madeleine Greenway had lost her husband and a baby? For a stunned instant Colin stared at Madeleine, wondering how she would feel about this secret ripped out into the daylight.
The Perils of Pleasure Page 16
