by Holly West
He moved behind Bedloe’s shoulders and hoisted him up under his arms. Bedloe must’ve outweighed him by two stone or more. Sam lost his footing and stumbled slightly, but after adjusting his stance it appeared he could carry the bulk of Bedloe’s weight.
“I can manage it,” he said.
I retrieved the pail of water from the fireplace and rinsed my face and hands as well as I could. I had lost my shoes during the struggle with Bedloe, and I hunted for them on the red-soaked floor, finding one under the chair and the other near the fireplace. I slipped them onto my feet.
“I’ll go ahead to make sure there’s no one about,” I told them. “I’ll whistle when it’s safe, and then you bring him down.”
I hurried down to the street. The man who had interrupted us on the stairs had disappeared and there was not another soul in sight, though a baby cried in one of the rooms above. I put my fingers in my mouth and whistled, signaling to Charlotte and Sam. They emerged a few minutes later, with Sam holding Bedloe under the arms and Charlotte holding his feet, both exhausted.
“Can you continue?” I asked.
“Yes,” Sam said, though he was clearly straining. “Which way?”
“Bow Street,” I said. “Be careful.”
They shuffled toward Bow Street while I kept an eye out. We turned left onto Bow, then went a few yards further into a narrow alley squeezed between two dilapidated buildings.
“Here?” Sam asked.
“Just a bit farther,” I said. Satisfied I’d found a discreet location, I motioned for them to drop him.
Without taking time to catch his breath, Sam said, “Let’s get the other one.”
I knelt next to Bedloe. “I want to see if he has the diary first.” I searched his pockets, the lining of his jacket, even his boots and down the front of his pants, but it yielded nothing save for a few coins and a second knife he kept concealed in his boot.
“It’s not here,” I told Sam and Charlotte, disappointed.
“He didn’t come here to give you back the diary, Isabel,” Sam reminded me gently. “He came here to kill you.”
We dragged Jenny’s body down to the street and into the alley, only narrowly escaping a group of drunken young men wandering home from a night of debauchery. I searched her corpse for the diary, unsurprised but disheartened when I didn’t find it. Dead tired, we returned to the bloody room in Coal Yard Alley and scrubbed it until no trace of Bedloe and Jenny remained. We stuffed the bloody rags into our pockets and threw them, along with Charlotte’s pistol, into the murky water of the Thames on the way home.
It was nearing dawn when we collapsed into chairs in the drawing room, each of us drained and overwhelmed by all that had happened that night. Charlotte was unusually quiet, her face drawn and troubled.
“All this time, I’ve been thinking, Lady Wilde,” she said quietly. “What d’ye think killed Jenny?”
It was a question I’d hoped she wouldn’t ask, for when we transported Jenny’s body, I noticed the side of her skull, where Charlotte had struck her with the gun, was misshapen and soft.
“I don’t know,” I said. It was the truth, even if I suspected Charlotte’s blow had done it. “She fell against the doorjamb awfully hard.”
“You don’t think—”
“You must forget all of this, Charlotte. I never meant to involve you.”
“Involve me in what?”
Charlotte had proven herself to be a loyal servant, and even a friend. Indeed, she’d risked her life for me. I decided to trust her. Relieved to have another ally, I told her everything about Mistress Ruby.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Friday, 22 November 1678
More than a day passed before the news surfaced that Captain William Bedloe and a female companion had been found dead in an alley near Drury Lane. As the wounds Bedloe had inflicted upon me healed, I held my breath, waiting for the constable to knock on my door. None came.
There remained unfinished business between Lord Danby and me, and two days after the bodies were discovered, Harry the page came to my home with a message from him requesting my presence in his office that afternoon. That he’d sent Harry instead of a constable fed my hope that I would not be arrested, but he’d tricked me before. I had no choice but to heed his request for a meeting and try to convince him I posed no threat.
I arrived at the appointed time and a servant led me into Danby’s private office. He looked up from his work at the large carved wood desk and gave me a warm smile.
“Thank you for seeing me, Lady Wilde,” he said. “I do hope I haven’t inconvenienced you. Please, take a seat.”
His friendly manner set my nerves on edge. “I prefer to stand if it’s all the same to you, my lord.”
I sensed Danby’s annoyance and chided myself for provoking him over such a trivial matter. But it rankled me that he had so much power. I could not let him just trample me.
“Very well then,” he said, laying his pen on the desk. He made a steeple of his fingers. “I suppose you have heard the unfortunate news about Captain Bedloe.”
“Yes,” I said.
Danby let the steeple collapse and interlaced his fingers. “Perhaps I should offer my condolences. I know how close the two of you were.”
I would not allow him to ruffle me. “Condolences are unnecessary, my lord.”
“The bodies were found in a rather curious location, don’t you think? What do you make of it?”
I crossed my arms in front of me as though to barricade myself from his questions. “I cannot speak to any of Mr. Bedloe’s movements or actions,” I said, giving him a pointed look. “I shall leave that to you, Lord Danby.”
He curved his lips into a smile, but it did not show in his eyes. “Ahh, of course. Well, it was not my intent in calling you here today to discuss Mr. Bedloe, may God rest his soul. I wanted to return this.” He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out my diary. “It is yours, is it not?”
I wanted to leap forward and snatch it from his hands, but I held back. “It is. I misplaced it some time ago and I am grateful for its safe return.”
Danby placed his hands atop the diary but did not push it toward me. “I suppose it goes without saying that we could do much damage to each other if we chose to. It is, however, my intent to keep matters between the two of us, for I see no need for either of us to suffer due to events of the recent past. We have been friends too long to make trouble for each other now, don’t you think?”
He knew I was Mistress Ruby and he knew I was responsible for Bedloe’s death. There was no point in pretending otherwise. But though I knew he’d hired Bedloe to spy upon Sir Edmund, I still did not know why.
“If I may ask one question, my lord,” I said.
“Of course.”
“Why did you hire Bedloe in the first place?”
Danby leaned back in his chair and pushed himself away from his desk. “Knowledge is power, Isabel. You know that. Titus Oates informed me of the plot well before Sir Edmund’s involvement, and I’d convinced him to keep it to himself until the king and I could determine how best to use the information for His Majesty’s benefit. The king suspected from the beginning Oates fabricated the plot for his own selfish purposes and didn’t want false rumors spread. Unfortunately, Oates did not comply, and when I learned he’d reported the matter to Sir Edmund, I thought it best to keep an eye on the magistrate.”
“But Sir Edmund was no threat—”
“Wasn’t he? The first thing he did was report what Oates had told him to Edward Coleman. Once the Duke of York had the information, he refused to keep it quiet.”
“Why not set your sights on Oates? He’s the one who started the business in the first place.”
“Of course I spied upon Oates. But Sir Edmund needed watching as well,” Danby said. “Isabel, it was never my intent for Sir Edmund to get hurt. I wanted only to gather intelligence in order to protect the king.”
“And to protect yourself,” I said.
He smiled. �
�Perhaps you are right. But my interests are the king’s interests, wouldn’t you agree?” He had still not returned the diary, and now he picked it up and flipped through its pages. “Maybe I should retain this for now.” He looked up at me to gauge my reaction. “For safekeeping, you understand.”
It shamed me to beg, but in my desperation I ceased caring. “I assure you, Lord Danby, you will have no trouble from me. Please, give me the diary.”
“I told you before I have always been fond of you, Isabel,” he said, closing the book and placing it in front of him on the desk. “And I think I’ve learned all I need to know about you and your business. I could ruin you forever if I choose to.”
I did not mention that I could, in turn, ruin him.
“So long as you remember I’ll not take kindly to you revealing anything you think you may know about my involvement with Sir Edmund Godfrey,” he continued. “As far as I’m concerned, this matter is over. Are we clear?”
“Am I free to conduct my business as I always have? I’ll have no further worries about your constables?”
“You’ll have no trouble from me.”
“Very well, then. We’re clear.”
“Good,” Danby said. He pushed the book toward me and I picked it up, grateful for its weight in my hands.
I opened the cover and glanced at the first entry. 12 May 1672: I’ve just rented a room in Coal Yard Alley…
Afterward
The gossip, of course, was that the Jesuits had gotten to Bedloe and, angry he’d born witness against Edward Coleman, they’d exacted their revenge in a dark alley. The opposition demanded a juror’s inquest, which I did not attend, but Lucian reported that surgeons testified as to the manner of death—a gunshot wound to the head and, in the case of Bedloe’s wife, Jenny, an apparent bludgeoning. There was speculation that Bedloe shot himself after murdering his wife, but this rumor was quickly dismissed, as it did nothing to advance the opposition’s agenda.
Despite all that had happened, so long as the Duke of York was poised to be the next king, English Catholics would never be free of suspicion. The few witnesses who were called reluctantly testified that they might have heard a gunshot, but no one could say for certain. The man who’d interrupted us on the stairs had not come forward, and no one else reported any suspicious activity on the night in question.
As for Lord Danby, I had little to worry about from him. He was not well liked at court, and never had been. His success had been attained mostly by corruption and scheming, not by his own merit. Mere weeks after our own precarious deal had been struck, his enemies in Parliament went on the attack and called for his impeachment for improprieties, including corruption and misappropriation in the treasury, unrelated to Sir Edmund Godfrey and the Popish Plot. During the impeachment hearings, however, it was attested that he’d traitorously concealed the plot. At one point he was even accused of killing Sir Edmund himself. I alone knew the truth of his involvement in Sir Edmund’s death and I wisely kept silent. Nonetheless, he was eventually impeached and spent the next five years locked up in the Tower.
The residents of Coal Yard Alley knew that keeping one’s mouth shut made for fewer troubles in life. The less said, the better. I resolved to follow their example.
Author’s Note
Though based on true events, Mistress of Fortune is a work of fiction. In plotting the novel, I found that adhering strictly to historical fact did not always provide for a compelling narrative. To that end, I changed the timeline of events and some other details to suit the story I wanted to tell.
There are, of course, several real historical figures who appear in the novel. These too I have fictionalized, though I’ve tried, where possible, to remain true to their characters as historical accounts have revealed them. That said, their words and deeds as set forth in the novel are my own. Such is the benefit of being a novelist and not a historian.
King Charles II and the world he inhabited has long captivated me. Mistress of Fortune is therefore an account of London during the latter part of his reign as I have imagined it. I hope it captures your imagine too.
If you are interested in learning more about Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey’s unsolved murder, The Strange Death of Edmund Godfrey by Alan Marshall is a good starting place. Other references I used were The Popish Plot by J.P. Kenyon (1972) and The Murder of Sir Edmund Godfrey by John Dickson Carr (1936).
Coming Soon
Look for book two in the Mistress of Fortune series by Holly West:
Mistress of Lies, coming Fall, 2014
About the Author
Don’t let the smile fool you—Holly West has a dark side.
Originally from a small town in Northern California, Holly moved to the big city to attend Loyola Marymount University, where she earned a bachelor of arts in screenwriting. After shoving a few unproduced scripts in the proverbial desk drawer, she succumbed to her baser instincts and turned to writing crime fiction.
She’s the author of the Mistress of Fortune series, set in late-seventeenth-century London and featuring amateur sleuth Isabel Wilde, a mistress to King Charles II who secretly makes her living as a fortune-teller. Holly’s short stories also appear in Feeding Kate: A Crime Fiction Anthology, Needle: A Magazine of Noir and Shotgun Honey Presents: Both Barrels.
Before devoting herself to writing fiction full-time, Holly was an accomplished jewelry designer. She also served as a contributor to About.com for four years, writing about a variety of topics. Prior to that, she worked as a foreign credentials analyst and published monographs on the educational systems of Sudan, Zambia and Afghanistan.
When Holly’s not wandering the captivating streets of seventeenth-century London, she lives, reads and writes in Los Angeles with her husband, Mick, and dog, Stella.
Where no great story goes untold.
The variety you want to read, the stories authors have always wanted to write.
With new releases every week, your next great read is just a download away!
Keep in touch with Carina Press:
Read our blog: www.CarinaPress.com/blog
Follow us on Twitter: www.twitter.com/CarinaPress
Become a fan on Facebook: www.facebook.com/CarinaPress
ISBN-13: 9781426897979
MISTRESS OF FORTUNE
Copyright © 2014 by Holly O’Neill
Edited by Deborah Nemeth
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.
www.CarinaPress.com
