Gail Ranstrom

by The Courtesans Courtship

  “Should proof be available?”

  “I would not chance it.”

  Dianthe took a deep breath. “I would.”

  Miss Tucker halted in her tracks to regard Dianthe with astonishment. “But why?”

  “C’est bien simple. Men like Munro should not be allowed to ’urt women.”

  Gripping the rail and looking downward at the hazard table where Lewis Munro was placing a bet, Miss Tucker whispered, “I have heard there is a letter, or some sort of papers, that could incriminate him. A letter that was intercepted by Mr. Munro.”

  The letter that Geoffrey said he’d never gotten? That was all she needed to hear. “Très bien. I will tell Lord Geoffrey. ’E will demand the letter from Mr. Munro.”

  Miss Tucker glanced over her shoulder and pulled her a little farther along the railing. “He will destroy it before he will give it to Lord Geoffrey. And if he gets wind of your suspicion, the letter will be ash before dawn. You and Lord Geoffrey must fetch it at once.”

  Miss Tucker’s urgency was contagious. “I do not know ’ow much longer Lord Geoffrey will be occupied,” she said.

  “I shall help you, Miss Deauville, for all the women he has hurt, and to keep us safe from him forever. I know just how to keep Munro busy, and I will do it gladly.”

  “Mais non!” Dianthe protested. “I cannot ask you to put yourself at risk.”

  “He and I have arrangements for later this evening, Miss Deauville. He will not think it unusual that I would entertain him early. And with me to watch him, you will be quite safe.”

  Dianthe hesitated. She glanced out over the floor below. Geoffrey was nowhere to be seen, nor was Lockwood, and opportunity was slipping away by the second. She couldn’t be certain what Geoffrey planned to do with her. If she was to have any chance at all to keep her promise to Nell and discover if there was, indeed, a missing letter from Charlotte, she would need to do it now. With Miss Tucker to keep Mr. Munro busy, surely she would be safe enough for the half hour she would be gone.

  She nodded uncertainly. “I will look through ’is papers and be back before anyone knows I am gone.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dianthe knew Mr. Munro’s address from the little journal. It was no more than a few streets away from Thackery’s, and she was there within five minutes. The small town house, flanked by larger ones, looked shabby next to its well-kept neighbors. The trim was in need of paint, the windows were dirty and the steps had not been swept in weeks.

  She knocked and glanced over her shoulder. She did not want to be seen standing here. People would think she’d come for an assignation.

  An elderly man with only a few tufts of gray hair opened the door and hitched an eyebrow at her. “Madam?”

  She prayed Munro was in the habit of entertaining women in his home, or her ploy would not work. “Mr. Munro has sent me ahead,” she announced, shouldering her way into the house.

  “Er, ah, he…he sent you ahead?”

  “Told me to wait in his office.”

  “Office? Mr. Munro does not have an office.”

  “Library. I meant his library,” she improvised, wondering where he would keep his private papers.

  “When he returns, who shall I say has arrived, madam?”

  “Charlotte,” she said, imagining Munro’s horror at hearing that name.

  The man, who appeared to be the sole servant, turned and led the way down a short corridor, opening a door on the left. She edged around him, dismayed to find the room dark and not even an ember on the hearth. “Is there a light?” she asked.

  The man sighed, walked past her and took a tinderbox from the fireplace mantel, and lighting the lamp on a small desk and another on a table beside a settee. “Will there be anything else, madam?”

  “No, thank you. I shall be quite content to wait.”

  He shrugged as if he knew better than to ask too many questions, and left the room. She counted to ten, closed the door and surveyed the room.

  Her best hope was the desk. She sat in the stiff wooden chair and studied the four drawers, wondering if there were any hidden springs or secret compartments. She pulled at each of them. Drat! All locked. If Munro guarded secrets or had something he wanted kept private, it would likely be there. But she had never picked a lock.

  Fighting a sinking feeling, she shifted her attention to the single bookshelf with a few shelves of dust-laden tomes—far too bare to hold any hiding places. Or perhaps one of the books was a hiding place. She had read, once, of a book that had been hollowed out to hold valuables, both papers and jewels.

  She crossed the room, an uneasy feeling settling around her. This was not going to be quite as easy—or as quick—as she’d thought. A noise in an upper room made her hold her breath for a moment, afraid someone was watching. When the silence returned, she began to remove the books, open them and riffle the pages, one by one.

  Nothing! She had wasted time and had nothing to show for it. Defeated, she returned to the desk. She only had one choice left. She would have to pick the lock.

  She slipped her wig off and removed the hairpins from the little knot on top of her head, shaking the loosened curls out of her face. She’d tuck her hair back in the wig when she was done. Breaking the tortoiseshell pin at the bend, she inserted it into the lock.

  A mantel clock struck the hour and Dianthe jumped. She’d wasted too much time searching the bookcase. Geoffrey would be looking for her soon. And what if Munro decided to bring Miss Tucker home? Heavens! Dianthe would be trapped in the library, caught red-handed!

  No matter how she twisted and poked, she could not turn the tumbler inside the lock. Defeated, she seized the brass letter opener from the pen tray and forced it into the gap between the drawer and the desktop. She slid it along the edge until it hit the bolt, which still didn’t yield. If she pried, she would damage the desk and betray that she had been there. Ah, but the valet would tell Munro in any case, and even describe her.

  With nothing to lose, she used the letter opener as a lever to separate the latch and the bolt. The sound of a crack followed by splintering wood made her cringe, and she turned toward the door, half expecting the manservant to come rushing in, demanding to know what she was doing. She held her breath, waiting. After a moment she exhaled in relief. No one had heard.

  The middle drawer opened silently and she tested the ones on either side, relieved to find that the single lock had controlled all the drawers. The middle drawer was shallow, allowing for a deep knee well. There were several sheets of stationery, a few pens, a stick of sealing wax and some blotting paper.

  The two drawers on the left were equally innocent, containing unopened bottles of ink, envelopes, more stationery, a small box of sand for drying ink, and other supplies. The top drawer on the right was more interesting. It held several long envelopes containing legal documents. One appeared to be a deed to Munro’s country home, another his marriage license to Charlotte Morgan and a contract detailing her dowry, and yet another envelope contained Charlotte’s burial papers. Dianthe lifted a small locked metal box and shook it. She recognized the rattle. Coins. This would be Munro’s supply of ready cash.

  An ornate leather case held a stunning necklace of emeralds and pearls, a gold ring, earbobs of jet and gold, and an emerald pendant strikingly similar to the sapphire one Geoffrey had given her. Had he chosen it for his sister? She replaced the box with a sigh of reluctance. She would have liked to return Charlotte’s things to her brother.

  Saying a small prayer, Dianthe opened the last drawer. Her heartbeat accelerated when she saw three oilskin packets of the sort in which her father had kept his important documents. She pulled them all out and placed them on the desk. Unknotting the leather thongs that secured them, she emptied their contents on the surface of the desk.

  The first pouch contained a miscellany of correspondence. She leafed through it quickly and only stopped when a single name caught her eye. Senor Juan Ramirez. The letter bore a months-old date and m
ade a veiled reference to Munro’s relationship to Lord Geoffrey Morgan. Oh, how she would have loved to read Munro’s reply to that. But hadn’t Senor Ramirez told Geoffrey that he’d only made Munro’s acquaintance after his arrival barely a month ago? Given Geoffrey’s sudden and intense dislike of Senor Ramirez, she had suspected a history between them, and this letter confirmed it.

  Another letter, dated in mid-July, informed Munro of Senor Ramirez’s imminent arrival in England, and requested a meeting. So Senor Ramirez had sought an alliance with Geoffrey’s enemy. But for what purpose? Dianthe leafed quickly through the remaining correspondence from that pouch, but could find nothing more. Whatever else had passed between them hadn’t been trusted to the written word.

  The contents of the second pouch were startling and incriminating. The fabled letter from Charlotte to Geoffrey was on top of the stack. Dianthe unfolded it and scanned the lines. Here was news of her pregnancy, her fear of her husband, his abuses and infidelities, and her plea to her brother to come and take her home. This was the letter Nell had written about. The letter Munro had intercepted. The motive for both women’s murder. If Charlotte left Munro, Geoffrey would have demanded the return of her dowry and would likely have filed a suit for divorce on behalf of his sister. Heaven knew she had grounds enough.

  Dianthe refolded the letter and slipped it into her bodice, along with the letters from Senor Ramirez that mentioned Geoffrey’s name. They were not proof, but they were incriminating.

  “Nell?”

  The voice startled her and she stood, whirling toward the door, the wig on her lap dropping beneath the desk. Against all odds, Lewis Munro stood there, his eyes bulging and his mouth agape. Miss Tucker was supposed to have kept him occupied!

  “My God, Nell, I thought you were dead. What the deuce is going on? Fredricks said Charlotte was waiting.”

  With her blond hair exposed, and in the dim light of the library, Munro thought she was Nell! Dianthe gave him a nervous smile. “Are you surprised to see me?” she improvised. “Or did you know I would turn up?”

  “How did you… There was a body. A funeral.”

  “Some innocent from the ton. Her family was out of town, so she has not been missed yet. Lovejoy was her name, I think.” She waited, praying he would betray himself in some way.

  “I told you to keep your nose out of what doesn’t concern you, Nellie. But you wouldn’t listen. Always poking around where you don’t belong.”

  He came closer and she edged around to keep the desk between them. “I thought it was because of something I already knew.”

  Munro laughed but it was a harsh sound, almost cruel. “Are you hinting at my dear wife, Charlotte? Vulgar, Nellie, not to mention dangerous. I thought I taught you better than to bait me.”

  Her heartbeat sped. Despite the threat implied in his words, she needed just a little more to condemn him. “Why so coy now? ’Tis just between us.”

  The first sign of wariness showed in his narrowed eyes and a slight tilt to his head. She couldn’t let him come too close, or he’d recognize her as Lizette. She had edged to the front of the desk as he’d come toward her. Now, with the desk between them, he looked down at the papers scattered across the surface.

  “Looking for something, Nellie?”

  She shrugged. “Was it you, Munro? Were you the one who killed the little chit in Vauxhall Gardens, thinking it was me? I thought pushing was more your method.”

  “You really don’t know, do you?”

  Again, she remained silent. He shuffled through the papers and then looked up at her again. “Charlotte’s letter? What do you hope to do with that? That’s no proof that I killed her. Did you think you could use it to blackmail me?”

  Her heart was beating so fast she feared she would faint. She summoned all her courage to stand her ground. “Blackmail was not my intention.”

  “Yes. I can see that, Nellie.” A thin smile slashed Munro’s face and his eyes took on a sly look. “Why, you’re trembling. Afraid, little pigeon? You should be.”

  “The letter may not be proof, but I am,” she bluffed.

  “My word against yours? Do you think anyone will believe a little whore over a respectable member of society?”

  “Some might.”

  “Geoff Morgan?” He sneered. “His reputation is as bad as yours, Nellie. He’s stolen too many fortunes at the gaming tables to have won any friends in high circles. No. ’Twas just a little shove. Impossible to prove. I’ll get away with it, and there’s nothing you or Morgan can do about it.”

  A confession! “Was it deliberate or accidental?” she asked, just to be certain.

  “As deliberate as your ‘accident’ is going to be. And as impossible to prove. After all, everyone already thinks you are dead.” He stepped away from the desk to come toward her, but his foot snagged on her wig. He looked down, then back up at her, narrowing his eyes to focus in the dim room as she backed toward the door. “Lizette? What the hell?”

  She lifted her skirts and bolted for freedom.

  Geoff watched the door of the private back room. The last thing their small group wanted was an interruption. Events were rapidly coming to a head, and they could ill afford distractions.

  Lord Lockwood paced as he reported his progress, his hands behind his back. “We found the house down by the docks where he was keeping the kidnapped women, and they’ve been removed. We’re holding them in a cottage outside the city for their safety. We can’t find el-Daibul, but I’ve got a man watching the house for anyone who turns up.”

  “Are we sure it’s el-Daibul behind the kidnappings?” Harry asked.

  “Him or one of his henchmen,” Lockwood said.

  “I just met a man from Barcelona named Juan Ramirez. I can’t be certain, but he could be el-Daibul,” Geoff told them. “Can you verify his identity, Lockwood?”

  “Ramirez? Damn, I’ve never met the man,” he replied. “How can you not be sure?”

  “He speaks English with a Spanish accent, he’s clean shaven and wearing European clothes. But there is an indentation on his brow, as though a scar has been covered with cosmetics.”

  “Did you test him?”

  “Nearly did, but we could ill afford a public scene. Time is essential. We must verify as quickly as possible, because if he learns we’re onto him, he’ll escape on the fastest transport to the coast.”

  Harry laughed. “If it’s him, he’ll have one hell of a surprise. It’s the garrison at Dover that’s waiting.”

  “He won’t get that far. As soon as we verify, we’ll take him into custody.”

  Geoff expected Lockwood to argue with him, but the man was silent for a long time. Finally he said, “I met el-Daibul when we were negotiating the release of hostages before the bombardment. I might recognize him, Geoff.”

  “I want him, Lockwood. You cannot know the havoc that man and his partners have wreaked in so many lives.”

  “Oh, I think I have an idea,” Lockwood murmured. He took a generous swallow of brandy and slammed his glass down on the sideboard. “Shall we go see what’s been under our noses, gentlemen?”

  Harry opened the door and they stepped into the corridor. They hadn’t taken more than a few strides when Emma Tucker spotted them and came running with a soft exclamation.

  “Lord Geoffrey! You must come at once! I couldn’t stop him, and now he’s gone!”

  “Stop who?” he asked. The woman looked harried and was sporting a swollen lip and a bruise high on her left cheekbone.

  “Munro! He’s gone after Miss Deauville.”

  Not Dianthe! Dear God, his greatest fear had come true! Geoffrey sprinted for the stairs.

  “No!” Miss Tucker called after him. “She’s gone to his town house.”

  He checked his momentum and turned back to the group. “I told her to wait for me.”

  “I confessed that I thought Mr. Munro had killed his wife, and that he had letters that would prove it. I said I could keep him occupied here so that h
e would not interrupt her. But he suspected something was wrong and…I could not stop him, Lord Geoffrey!”

  His mind reeled. Munro and Dianthe, alone in Munro’s town house. He turned to his companions. “Detain Ramirez. I’m going after Munro.”

  “Senor Ramirez left,” Miss Tucker said. “At least a quarter of an hour ago.”

  Bloody hell! The son of a bitch was going to slip through their hands again. “Harry, go to Bow Street and have them send someone to Munro’s. Then go to the house by the docks. El-Daibul will go there first. Lockwood—”

  “I’m coming with you. Someone’s got to stop you from doing murder.”

  As they rounded the corner and sprinted up the steps to the door, Lockwood cautioned him again. “Easy, Morgan. If she isn’t here, we leave quietly. Understand?”

  Geoff didn’t answer. He’d tear the place apart before he’d leave quietly. He knocked hard several times and stood back. No one answered. He knocked again and looked up to see the quick flash of an elderly man duck behind a curtain of a third floor window.

  “Something’s wrong,” he muttered.

  A soft thump sounded somewhere inside and he shot Lockwood a worried glance. Of a single mind, they stepped back and then launched themselves at the entry. The doorjamb gave way with a sharp crack and the door rebounded off the inside wall from the force.

  Geoff rushed through and nearly tripped over Dianthe, who was lying prone on the floor, half entangled with Lewis Munro.

  Munro released her legs and scrambled to his knees. “What the hell?” he exclaimed. “You cannot just break in here and—”

  Lockwood drew a small pistol from his boot and trained it on the man. “Shut up,” he warned.

  Geoff lifted Dianthe into a sitting position and searched her face anxiously. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Just…just had the wind knocked out of me,” she said in a faint, breathless whisper.