The coach slowed in the heavy traffic and she glanced out the window. She pushed her hair up under her cap and felt in her jacket pocket for the wad of banknotes. Everything was ready. When the coach stopped, Annica pushed the door open and hopped down. “Tomorrow!” she promised, then merged with the crowd.
Though nearly midnight, revelers and bawds caroused in noisy groups and called to one another across the narrow streets. Annica walked boldly toward the Bear and Bull, her heart beating so hard that she could barely hear the jingle of harness and the clip-clop of hooves as Grace’s coach pulled away.
Annica did not hesitate, but entered the tavern with the air of one who had done so many times before.
The tavern’s central room was crowded and raucous with laughter and arguments. No one paid attention to the slight “lad” who made his way through the throngs. Francis Renquist stood with one arm on the wide counter, holding a pint of ale. He nodded, then let his gaze sweep toward the back of the room.
Wilkes is waiting, Annica thought, her heart pounding harder. She went to the small table in the farthest corner and ordered two pints of ale—the arranged signal. Only when she had two tankards in front of her did she squint into the smoke-filled shadows to identify her quarry.
Roger Wilkes stood near the fireplace, his eyes darting right and left with a nervous twitch. The man was a shadow of his former self! He was gaunt and drawn, and obviously hadn’t shaved in several days.
Waiting until his eyes darted back in her direction, she nodded to the vacant chair opposite hers. He noted the two tankards on the table, looked right and left again, as if he were afraid someone might be watching, then approached. After taking the offered seat, he leaned forward, squinting through red, hazy eyes to identify the face beneath the brim of her hat.
“You!” he exclaimed. “What the hell—”
“Have a care, Mr. Wilkes,” she warned in an undertone. “I have friends about the room, ready to come to my aid, and I am armed, so do not even contemplate treachery.”
“What do you want?” he snarled.
“Answers, and I want them quickly. You will serve me in this, Mr. Wilkes, and I will reward you with cash—a commodity my agent informs me you are in sore need of.”
“Why should I help you with anything?”
Annica shrugged. There was no use in denying it. “We shall have justice for Sarah. Make no mistake, this is not an offer of friendship or forgiveness. You have information. I need it, and will pay for it.”
Wilkes gave her a grudging look. “How much money?”
“Twenty pounds for each answer. Mark me well—I have done extensive investigation and I will know if you are lying. Your information need not be new, only accurate.”
“Ask, then.” He gave her a wary look. “I must leave town, and the sooner, the better.”
“Why now?”
“Things have got out of hand. I didn’t count on any of this happening.” The nervous twitch beneath one eye intensified.
“Any of what happening?”
“You know goddamn well what!”
“Do you mean Sarah? I overheard you conspiring to attack another woman not very long ago.”
“Ah. That’s when you found out? The garden at…”
Annica nodded. “I could not see who you were with, Mr. Wilkes. Who was it?”
He shook his head and scanned the room again. “If that is one of your questions, I will not answer.”
“Very well. Then who is behind the kidnappings?”
“Kidnappings? I do not—”
“That’s a lie.”
“How did you find out? We were careful. If they got suspicious and tried to escape, he’d kill them. He didn’t like to do it, since they were as good as money in our pockets, but there could not be anyone left to tell tales, he said.”
Dear Lord! Francis Renquist was right. White slavery. Here in London. “The disappearance of Constance’s maid and Madame Marie’s seamstress put us on the track,” she admitted, fighting her revulsion. She could not imagine how Wilkes could be so lacking in conscience. “Tell me about the murders.”
“I did not bargain to become involved in anything like that. It was not my idea. I have to leave town…get away.” His eyes widened and he licked his lips.
Annica was disgusted by the man’s duplicity. “You would not stop at rape or assault, but murder is beyond you?”
“We just wanted to turn a profit on a few skirts nobody would miss. The men who bought them will take good care of them. How bad a life could it be to please a man?”
How bad could it be, indeed! She fought her rising anger. “A little harmless kidnapping and slave trading, eh? When, and how, did it get out of hand?”
Wilkes looked at her, his eyes clearing momentarily, as if he just now remembered to whom he was speaking. “Cannot talk to you about this. You will…”
“What, Mr. Wilkes? What will I do?”
“Christ! If you found out….”
A shiver ran up Annica’s spine. “Who, Mr. Wilkes?”
“He’d kill me, for God’s sake!”
“Did he kill Constance? And Mr. Bouldin?”
Wilkes appeared not to hear her question. He shrank lower in his chair, pulled his hat down over his eyes and scanned the room again. “She learned too much. She had to die, he said. We could have got a good price for her, but he said if she was missing they’d keep looking until they found us. They had to find her body so they’d stop looking. Now he’s suspicious of me. He’s been watching.”
Annica wondered if the alleys were crowded with people who were following Roger Wilkes. “Who has been watching you, Mr. Wilkes? Who killed Constance and Harry Bouldin? Who is behind the kidnapping scheme? Who are you so afraid of?”
Completely distraught, he toppled his chair backward as he stood. “I should tell you. It would serve you right.”
Annica held her breath and waited.
“But I’m a dead man if I tell. I tried to warn you, you know.” He was rambling on, almost incoherently. “The night you gave me the cut, I was afraid something like what happened to Miss Bennington would happen to you, and I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen.”
“Shh,” Annica warned, with a glance around the dim room. “Tell me now, Mr. Wilkes. I must have that name.”
Wilkes was fairly foaming at the mouth. “The money. All of it for the answer.”
Annica reached into her coat, seizing the banknotes in an inside pocket. “The name, Mr. Wilkes.”
He glanced over his shoulder. His whole body stiffened.
Alerted by his reaction, Annica leaned forward and peered around him to scan the far end of the room near the entrance. A figure in a black cloak was disappearing out the door.
She gave Renquist a quick nod in that direction, indicating that he should follow the unknown man, then turned back to Wilkes, the wad of banknotes in her hand. Wilkes’s eyes were round and he had gone pale.
“I should not have come,” he muttered. “I should have known he would find out. Damn his eyes! He always knows!” He backed away.
“Wait,” Annica called after him. She stood and waved the banknotes, certain that would bring him back to the table. “The name! Say it! He’s already seen you. Tell me, Mr. Wilkes!”
“He’s seen you, too—seen us together. You will find out soon enough, Lady Auberville. He’s always been the dangerous one, the sly one. In the Royal Navy, he…” Wilkes shook his head and turned away, merging with the crowd so quickly that Annica did not have time to protest.
She lunged after him, heedless of the fact that now she was quite alone.
“Damnation!” Tristan snarled in an undertone. “She’s done it again!” His stomach twisted and a hole burned through the center. He was nauseous with fear for her—he, who had feared nothing during his years with the Foreign Office. Good God! Was she insane to wander out alone with a murderer on the loose? Had Constance’s fate not affected her at all?
“What is it?
” The Sheikh whispered.
“My wife! She said she could find out nearly anything with the right questions. That is Annica following Wilkes.”
Tristan’s companion followed him around a corner and down an alley, traveling in a parallel line with the erring wife. He pulled the brim of his hat down to shroud his face. “As if we do not have problems enough! Wilkes is supposed to meet The Turk tonight, not your wife. You said you could manage her, and that she’d not present a problem,” he accused in a low, angry tone. “Damn it, Auberville, we cannot compromise this investigation because your wife is up to some bluestocking prank. We finally have a chance to unmask The Turk.”
“I want that as much as you. More. Do you have a suggestion for saving my wife?”
“A few,” the other man gibed, “but none that you’d take. And we haven’t the time to be diverted now.”
Having made better progress down the side lane than those in the crowded street, they turned a corner to intercept their prey, halted and stepped back into the shadows to wait.
“I’ll take Annica from behind. You follow Wilkes. We’ll rally at Whitechapel later,” Tristan instructed.
The Sheikh hesitated. “I’ll attend to her. I can see murder in your eyes. This may not be the best time for you to deal with Lady Annica.”
“And have to explain your role in this? No. She’s mine—and all the trouble that comes with her,” Tristan growled. Finding Annica as he’d found Constance would spell his end for certain. He’d go insane. “Leave her to me. She will present no further interference.”
His companion raised his eyebrows. “I am grateful I am not in your wife’s shoes. Have you considered telling her everything and relying upon her good sense to keep out of the way?”
“Annica has more valor than good sense. She believes it is her duty to champion injustice. I would never be able to keep her out of this.”
“Champion injustice? Is that why—”
“Shh! Here’s Wilkes.”
Wilkes rushed by, unaware of them in the shadows. The Sheikh was poised to sprint the moment Annica had been detained.
Tristan tensed at the sound of light footsteps approaching, every muscle strained for action. Anticipating her next move, he suspected she would duck into the alley to catch her breath and escape any glance Wilkes might spare over his shoulder—a calculated risk, but one necessary to remaining undiscovered. She was good at this. His annoyance peaked when he wondered how much practice she’d had.
Almost too easy, he thought when his wife passed him in the dark. He lunged out of the alley behind her, slipped one arm around her waist, the other over her mouth, and dragged her back into the shadows. Without missing a beat, The Sheikh stepped into the street and adjusted his pace to the unwary Wilkes.
Tristan was ready for Annica’s pointed little elbow and dodged to the side, so it came backward and struck brick wall instead of his ribs. He smiled at her muffled curse.
Her booted heel came down sharply on his instep. He bent his head to whisper a caution in her ear. “Easy, Annica. ’Tis me. Auberville.”
Her struggles ceased for a moment, then strong, even teeth bit the hand across her mouth.
“Ouch!” The palm of his hand stung and he resisted the urge to throttle the little hellion.
She attempted to jerk away, and he tightened the arm around her waist. “Disavow yourself of the notion that you can escape, madam, or that I would not give chase if you did. You will have to face me sooner or later. I recommend sooner.”
Slowly, by inches, Annica seemed to relax against him. Her arms went slack and her muscles untensed. She nodded agreement to his offer.
He knew better than to trust her completely. “I am going to uncover your mouth. Cry out for help or do anything to call attention to us and you will regret it. I know where to apply just enough pressure to render you unconscious, and you will find yourself waking up at Clarendon Place. Do you understand?”
She nodded again.
As he loosened his grip, his hand grazed a hard object in Annica’s pocket. He reached inside, recognizing the shape and weight. “Good God, madam! A pistol? What were you thinking?”
“That I might need protection,” she snapped.
“Your recklessness astounds me. Had this discharged accidentally, you could have been killed.”
There was anger in her stance and voice. “I am not a complete novice, sir.”
“Damn it, Annica! When I found you at the bawdy house, I told you there would be no more forays into Whitefriars.” He slipped the pistol into his own coat pocket.
“I weighed the risks of this particular endeavor and found them acceptable.”
He pulled her into the street with one hand around her wrist and hailed a passing coach. “You weighed the risks against what, Annica? What did you hope to gain?”
“I—”
“I saw Wilkes. You met him, did you not? Were you asking him about Constance? What do you think he could possibly know?”
“More than I, Auberville, but that wouldn’t take much.”
He pushed her into the dark recess of the coach and sat beside her on the worn leather seat. Leaning forward, he knocked on the driver’s box and called, “Clarendon Place off Hyde Park. There’s money in it if you have me there in a hurry.”
“Aye, Guv’nor,” came the reply. The coach jolted into motion and reached a steady clip.
His attention free, Tristan turned to regard his wife’s impassive face through the gloom of the coach interior. She had removed her hat and allowed her dark hair to fall down her back. Her cheeks burned a warm pink and her dark lashes fluttered nervously as she gazed out the window. He could smell the fresh herbal scent of her soap—juniper, moss and wildflowers—made more intense by the warmth of her skin. He shivered with the sweetness of his response. He wanted her. Every minute of every day, he wanted Annica.
She had invaded every facet of his life, just as her scent and soft sighs did now, leaving him no peace at all. She was in his mind and heart every waking moment. He could not think for the memories of her that crowded his mind. He could not concentrate for worrying about her. And he feared he could not do justice to this case with such a sweet distraction to divert him. He braced himself against the temptation to sweep her into his arms and make slow, deliberate love to her.
The opposition of duty and desire confounded him. Annica—all-woman; soft, fragile and small—dressed in rough clothing designed to make her look like a man. The effect was astonishingly erotic, and he was suddenly angry with her for that, too. He needed her as much as he needed the air he breathed, in spite of the fact that he had promised himself that he would never need a woman again.
“Tristan…oh, Tristan,” she sighed, turning from the coach window to gaze into his eyes, with an unaccountable sadness in hers. “Where has it all gone wrong?”
Her lament sobered him. This episode was not some frivolous game for Annica, but a dangerous blunder that could cost her her life. He had to make her understand that she was in over her head.
Composing himself, he demanded, “Why did you meet Wilkes?”
“I had to find out about Constance. I suspected that Wilkes would know something, despite what you said.”
“I only said that Wilkes did not do it.”
She continued to face him, her gaze never wavering. “The night Constance was killed, you came in late, looking ever so fierce. And bloody. If you were with him, where were you, Tristan? How can you know Mr. Wilkes is innocent? What were you and he doing together?”
Tristan bit back a curse. How much did she know, and how much did she merely suspect? For Annica to have even a little knowledge would be dangerous to her. “You will have to trust me, Annica.”
“I have done that.” She shook her head and gave a self-deprecating laugh. “But you cannot return the sentiment, can you?”
She had cut to the core of his dilemma. His fear of betrayal. He dared not tell her, yet he could lose her if he did not. How coul
d he make her understand the seriousness of her actions and the consequences they carried, without exposing government secrets? There were grave matters hanging in the balance—treason, kidnapping and murder.
“Your silence is answer enough,” she said after a moment.
“If you will recall,” he snapped, “you were to keep me informed of your activities.”
“I would have informed you, Auberville, but you were not available. And you swore you would not prevent me from acting in accord with my convictions,” she said. “I am doing so.”
“What conviction could compel you to meet Roger Wilkes in a Whitefriars tavern dressed as a man?”
“Justice, Tristan. Plain and simple.” She turned away to look out the window.
Justice. Of course. Annica, sitting on a pink-covered bed with tears in her eyes, saying, “I could not save my mother, but I can fight injustice when I see it. There is nothing more important to me than that.” With Annica, justice was a point of honor. And a point of honor with Annica was sacred. Still, he was better equipped to deal with the man. “Leave Wilkes to me.”
Her shoulders lifted and dropped in a shrug. “I cannot. I thought you understood.”
“I understand your need for justice, but I did not think it had to be got by you. I will deal with him.”
“I have the matter in hand.”
“What is it you propose to do?”
“I shall expose Roger Wilkes for the cowardly rapist he is and let society do the rest. Then I will be free to deal with Constance’s murderer.”
His heart grew cold with fear. “Stay away from that, Annica.”
She gave him a bewildered look. “How can you believe I would allow Constance’s death to go unavenged?”
He looked into her unguarded eyes and saw the depth of commitment and loyalty—qualities that had drawn him to her. Slowly, he began to understand. Annica could never be loyal to him if she were disloyal to her friends. Her commitment was more than loyalty—it was rooted in honor. It was something he’d searched for without knowing he was doing so, what he needed to believe still existed in the world. He’d be willing to die for a fraction of this measure of Annica’s devotion, but he’d done nothing to deserve it. He had tricked her, trapped her and refused to say the words that would set her mind at ease. He had not been loyal to Annica!
A Wild Justice Page 23
