A Curse of the Heart
Page 18
“You’re mistaken,” he said, doubt forcing him to hide behind a shield strong enough to ward off a Viking invasion. “We are good friends, colleagues. Rebecca displays a kindness and affection for everyone she meets.”
“Not everyone,” George countered. “She looked down her nose at all the gentlemen I introduced her to.” He leaned to his left, his cheek a mere inch from Sarah’s. “I have been trying to allude to the possibility for days though he refuses to accept it.”
Sarah gave an affectionate smile and whispered. “I would not normally break a confidence, not unless the situation warranted it, but Miss Linwood told me she was in love with him.”
He pretended he hadn’t heard them, his mind occupied with conjuring an image of Rebecca’s soft lips as they formed the words, of eyes filled with desire. The pleasant dream quickly disappearing as her face turned pale, her body crumpling to the floor devoid of life.
A coldness swept over him.
To lose Rebecca now would be the end of him.
Without Rebecca, he had nothing.
The carriage was still rolling when Gabriel opened the door and, amidst the gasps and cries, jumped to the pavement. There was no time to waste, he thought, surveying the only house on the corner of Chesterfield and Curzon Street and instinct told him it was Pennington’s.
Freddie hurried to meet him, pointing to number fifteen. “This is it. I believe Pennington said the house has been converted into apartments.”
“Which one’s his?” Gabriel asked scanning the numerous windows.
“How should I know? I’ve never been inside.”
A waft of brandy drifted past Gabriel’s nose. “Have you been drinking?”
Freddie shrugged. “Only a nip from a hip flask. Do you want some?”
“No, and if you don’t start thinking quick, the only thing you’ll be drinking is the piss from the bottom of a chamber pot.”
Freddie blinked rapidly and, despite the arrival of George and Sarah, fell silent, chewing on the corner of his bottom lip as he stared at the floor in concentration. “Wait,” he said lifting his head and pointing to the upstairs window. “It’s the one on the right. I remember calling by in a hackney and he raised the sash and hollered to me.”
“What now?” George asked. He turned to Sarah. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to wait in the carriage?”
“I couldn’t possibly sit waiting while Miss Linwood is out there all alone and in need of our help. Besides, with a lady as a companion, it looks as though we’re making a house call.”
“She’s right,” Gabriel said turning the large brass knob in the hope some fool had left it open. “It’s locked.”
“If we knock, someone is bound to hear us,” Freddie said.
Gabriel used his weight to push against the door, but it didn’t budge. “Yes, and so will everyone else on the street.”
“Stand aside if you will.” Higson’s monotone voice caught them all off guard, and the coachman squeezed through the group. Rummaging around in the deep pocket of his overcoat, he removed a ring of keys and began sifting through them. “No, not that one,” he muttered trying a brass key in the door. “But this one should do it.” Leaving another key in the lock, he delved into his pocket and retrieved a length of wire and after some fiddling, said, “There you go.”
Without another word, and oblivious to the shocked gazes that followed him, Higson stomped back to the carriage and climbed back on top of his box.
“My word, he’s a handy fellow,” Freddie said. “Just the sort one needs after a night at the tables.”
George sighed. “After a bottle of brandy, you mean.”
“I’m fine after the first bottle,” Freddie said as they entered the terrace house. “It’s after the second that I struggle to get my hands in my pocket.”
They made their way up the stairs and rapped lightly on the door. When Pennington failed to answer, Gabriel sent Freddie back out to fetch Higson, who came and performed the same trick with a little more ease, before returning to his post.
Pennington’s lodgings consisted of a large room overlooking the street, a master bedchamber with canopy bed, a small one for guests and a study. No doubt the owner of the property occupied the lower level apartment and provided meals upon request. A faint smell of tobacco lingered in the air, mixed with the sickly-sweet smell of an excessive consumption of wine.
Gabriel made a quick scan of the rooms, to be certain there was no one home. “Take a room each,” he said. “Look for anything that might relate to Rebecca, anything you think is strange, anything you feel is out of place.” Noticing the crystal decanters on the sideboard, he added, “Freddie you take the small bedchamber, George the larger one. Sarah, will you be alright in here?”
“Don’t worry about me,” she said rushing to the side table and opening the only drawer.
Gabriel strode into the study, rifled through the papers on the desk, pulled books off the shelves and shook them, flicked through the pages of a ledger.
“There’s a bill here for the hire of a carriage,” he shouted. “For one week dated yesterday.”
Freddie raced in. “Let me see it.” His eyes flitted across the crisp note, his finger following the words. “It doesn’t make any sense. You think this is proof he abducted Rebecca?”
“Most definitely,” Gabriel barked, feeling a rush of anger for Freddie’s naivety. “But there doesn't seem to be anything else here. Nothing to offer any explanation for his actions.”
George and Sarah met them in the hallway.
“There’s nothing of interest in his bedchamber,” George said looking forlorn. “I’ve even rummaged through the man’s smalls.”
Sarah’s eyes filled with panic. “I found nothing of interest, either. Oh, Gabriel. What are we to do?”
Gabriel thrust his hand through his hair, the crippling feeling of despair causing a rush of emotion he could not suppress. “There must be something here to implicate him, something to explain motive, some blasted clue as to where he’s taken her. He’s planned this and has probably been watching her for the last two days. There must be something else here other than a bloody bill.”
Sarah placed her hand over her stomach as if soothing some imaginary pain. “In the carriage, you mentioned the damaged portrait. It stands to reason that Pennington is responsible. With an act so personal, you would imagine the culprit has a tangible object to focus on, to remind him of his motive, to keep the fire of vengeance burning within.”
Gabriel threw his hands in the air. “Then where is it?”
“This is personal,” she muttered to herself, staring at the floor. “Where does one keep their most personal items?” Her head shot up, her eyes suddenly brightening. “Show me the master chamber.”
George sighed. “Aside from lifting up the floor, I’ve already conducted a thorough search.”
Sarah patted him on the arm, and George sucked in a breath. “I know,” she said, “but it would not hurt to check it again.”
George bowed his head and conceded. They all congregated in the doorway of Pennington’s chamber, scanning the large four-poster, the toilet stand, and the wardrobe, searching for obvious clues.
“This is ridiculous,” Gabriel said, his hands clenched by his side. “God only knows what Rebecca’s going through while we’re standing here staring at saggy old bed drapes.”
Sarah’s gaze shot to the dark-green hangings. “They’re not old, Gabriel. They look quite new.”
“I’m not interested in the quality of his furnishings. All I want is to —”
“Wait!” she cried examining the heads of the three gentlemen. “Gabriel, you’re the tallest. Stand on that chair and see why the roof of the canopy sags in the middle.”
With a disgruntled huff, Gabriel did as she asked. He reached up and stretched his arm across the top. “It’s as dusty as hell up here,” he said, turning his head to stifle a sneeze. “Wait, there is something here, I think I … I’ve got it.”
Sarah ran her fingers over the brooch and lingered on the red stones. “A family heirloom, perhaps?”
Gabriel shrugged and picked up the papers, flicking through a few random sketches of what appeared to be the secret musings of an artist, while the group huddled round.
“Stop,” George said, peering over his shoulder. “Let me look at that one.” Gabriel handed him the sketch and George studied the image. “This looks like my father, as a much younger man, but the likeness is definitely there.”
“The one you’re holding, my lord, is older and worn around the edges,” Sarah said pointing to the next sketch. “This one is much newer and drawn by a different hand, see.”
Gabriel pulled it out and held it to the light. “It looks similar to the painting of Rebecca’s mother. The Egyptian costume is almost identical.”
“I have never seen the painting,” George said looking up. “But it looks like Rebecca to me.”
“There’s writing on the next one,” Freddie said glancing at the paper on top of the pile in Gabriel’s hand.
Gabriel placed the sketch of Rebecca on the bed and focused his attention on Freddie’s comment. “It’s just a list of names. Doesn’t mean anything to me, what about you?” he said handing it to George.
George shook his head. “Out of the list of eight, two are peers, the rest I’ve never heard of. The name at the bottom has been crossed out and marked dead.”
Sarah cocked her head. “There’s something written on the back.”
George flipped it over, his eyes growing wide. “It’s my father’s name and Rebeca’s mother: Dorothea Carmichael. They are both crossed out and marked as deceased. Why write deceased on this list and dead on the other?”
Sarah pointed to the names below. “Your names are listed too, but it says Rebecca Wellford, not Linwood.”
Freddie chirped up. “That’s because he assumed she was a Wellford. He told me so at the Chelton’s ball. He suggested she might be ashamed to use her real name, being born out of wedlock. But I told him she just preferred anonymity.”
They looked through the other sketches, all depicting various scenes of an ancient castle, the heavy use of charcoal suggesting a dark, oppressive place.
The only sheet left was a playbill for Shakespeare’s Anthony and Cleopatra staged at a playhouse in Covent Garden. Again, it was old, and Dorothea Carmichael was listed as playing the lead role.
“This is twenty-five years old,” Gabriel said handing it to Freddie. “Do you have any idea why he’s kept it?”
Freddie shook his head. “No, but he did go to Covent Garden after we left Rebecca’s. We’d been drinking, and we tried to hail a hackney. But with the torrential rain, we ended up having to walk. Pennington said he’d got lucky, I assumed he meant with a woman, and he headed off for his secret rendezvous. I recall thinking it wouldn’t matter if his clothes were wet as he would soon be —”
He stopped abruptly, his cheeks flushing as he glanced at Sarah.
George frowned. “There was a fire at that playhouse two days ago. It destroyed the orchestra pit. The manager put a notice in The Times asking for information as it started during the night. He was baffled because it didn’t take out the whole building and said something about there being a series of small fires that had been put out. It’s closed for a week.”
The temperature in the room suddenly plummeted.
An icy chill seeped into Gabriel’s bones, his body frozen by the thought of impending doom. Rebecca had been on her own with Pennington for more than an hour.
“The playhouse is closed,” he repeated, trying to suppress a shiver, trying to focus on the only thing that mattered. “Come,” he said gathering all the evidence. “There is no time to waste.”
Chapter 26
Rebecca glanced out of the carriage window, surprised to find only a handful of people wandering the streets of Covent Garden. Not being particularly fond of jeering crowds and bawdy antics, she could not recall the name of the play showing or knew why the sinister gentleman sitting opposite had stooped to such lengths to secure her company.
“Are you going to tell me what we are here to see?” she said casting a dubious look over their inappropriate attire as the carriage stopped outside the playhouse.
He looked up at her, his eyes like small black buttons. “We are here to witness a tragedy,” he said cryptically.
Rebecca doubted such a play could equal the terrifying events she’d experienced this afternoon. Yet the thought that every tragedy ended with a disastrous climax caused a strange sense of foreboding, an overwhelming need to prolong her time in the carriage — despite the faint whiff of dirt and urine clawing at the back of her throat.
“It’s one you’re familiar with,” he continued, “Anthony and Cleopatra.”
He did not give her time to contemplate the coincidence. Without any further explanation, he jumped from his seat and opened the door. Her heart skipped a beat as he yanked her up by the arm before pulling her down to the pavement. With the tip of the blade pressed to her back, he forced her to walk through the wrought-iron gate, to a side door situated on the left.
His free hand snaked up to the inside pocket of his brown coat. “A key in exchange for a promissory note,” he said waving it about with an air of arrogance. He rolled it into position with the tips of his fingers and then thrust it into the lock. “My skill at cards is the only good thing to come from all my years in Scotland. Your brother, Frederick, can testify to my claim as I have recently acquired all of his notes. Although I doubt he expects me to call them in.”
She wondered how well he knew Frederick, wondered if conveying a level of familiarity was part of the game.
“You mean to call in his debts?” she asked with a contemptuous snort. “You mean to ruin him?”
“I mean to show him what it’s like to feel the earth fall away beneath his feet. To know how it feels when the evil hand of fate deals a losing card.”
Pain lay hidden beneath a veil of bitterness. What had happened to rouse such depth of anger and resentment? Was it something her father had done? Was she to pay the price for someone else’s crime?
“Get inside,” he said jerking his head by way of reinforcement.
Rebecca looked beyond the door, to the long dingy corridor. There had been a nervous hitch in Gabriel’s tone this morning, an anxious look in his eye that prompted her to carry the pistol.
If only she’d taken the time to load it.
Clutching her reticule to her chest, she took a hesitant step over the threshold, her gait unsteady and clumsy. There would be other people in the building she told herself, breathing a sigh of relief. There would be actors preparing for tonight’s performance, sourcing costumes, searching for props. She would get lost amidst the bustling activity, providing the perfect opportunity to escape.
Finding the courage to continue inside, he led her down a narrow passage, to a flight of stairs that took them up to the grand lobby. The place was deathly silent, with no sound of laughter, no echo of footsteps on the wooden stage, not even the rambling mumbles of those rehearsing their lines.
“In here,” he said pushing her through the double-doors into the auditorium.
The smell of charred wood hit her immediately. Her nostrils twitched in response as her wild eyes scoured the empty room. Panic flared as she searched for some sign of movement, her chest growing tight as she shuffled past the rows of seats, the dry dust in the air making her cough.
Annoyed at her dawdling, he stepped in front and grabbed her arm, pulling her towards the burnt-out orchestra pit, to the crude flight of steps.
“If you run I will catch you,” he said, dragging her up onto the stage.
Her gaze fl
itted about the abandoned set and then down into the pit. “We’re obviously not here to see a play,” she said, trying to push aside her fear.
“Oh, there will be a show, but tonight we will be the performers.”
“We will perform? You said we were here to see a tragedy.”
He ignored her, forced her to walk backstage to a room halfway along the corridor. “You will find everything you need in here, costumes, powder, rouge. You have ten minutes to transform yourself into a likeness of Cleopatra.”
“Cleopatra?” He wanted her to dress like an Egyptian queen. The man was a raving lunatic. “Surely you’ve not abducted me off the street to satisfy your love of a Shakespeare play,” she said, her body growing hot, her pulse quick, as anger stamped out every other feeling and burst to the surface. “Just because my mother was an actress, it doesn’t mean I know anything about acting. I don’t know what strange, fanciful notion has possessed your logical mind, but you cannot just expect —”
“Shut up!” he barked, the thick green vein in his neck bulging as he flashed the knife by way of a threat. “You will do exactly as I say. Now you only have nine minutes.”
With a push in the back, he forced her into the room and closed the door, leaving her alone.
Her first thought was to look for a means of escape, but after a frantic search behind rails of costumes, behind the curtained recess and overflowing hat stands, her efforts were in vain.
In a bid to banish the feeling of hopelessness, she took a moment to breathe, to clear her head, to think of how best to proceed. An image of Gabriel flooded her mind, of him scouting under the sheets in search of the mysterious spider, his playful smile and wandering hands leaving her feeling happy and content.
“Seven minutes.”
Damn him.
“Cleopatra,” she muttered to herself, moving to browse through the rail of mismatched garments. Nothing resembled the dazzling dress her mother once wore. She spotted a white Grecian style dress with a braided belt and quickly undressed and put it on. Grabbing a yellow shawl, she draped it across one shoulder, tucking it down inside the belt.