A Wild Justice

by Gail Ranstrom

  “Where?” she asked, coming back to the conversation. “A bawdy house? Was it Naughty Alice’s?”

  Renquist nodded.

  “And White’s? The gentlemen’s club?”

  Renquist nodded again. “I saw him through the window having a word with another man. When he left he headed for the docks. He was hell-bent-for-leather by the time we crossed the Thames.”

  “Is that where you lost him?”

  “The fog was thick on the wharves. I wish I’d have been able to stay with him. He might have led us to where they hold the women. I could not pick up his track. It was as if he’d turned to smoke.” Renquist sat across from her and met her eyes. “I came back to the Bear and Bull. I hoped you had waited for me there. I do not like the idea of you being on the streets alone, even dressed as a man. Those clothes cannot stand up under scrutiny. This has to stop, Lady Annica.”

  Annica rested her elbows on her knees and buried her face in her hands. “I know. Auberville discovered me. He took me home and forbade me to leave the house.”

  “Yet he relented.”

  “He never relents. I fled,” she admitted. Several hot tears spilled over her lower lashes. She was closer to despair than she’d ever been.

  Renquist removed a clean hankie from his vest pocket and placed it in her outstretched hand. She blotted her eyes and blew her nose.

  “Why did you leave?” he asked.

  “Honor requires me to avenge the deaths of Mr. Bouldin and Constance, and to put an end to the white slavery plot. Worst of all, Mr. Renquist, I fear Tristan has something to do with this whole affair. He is connected in some way.”

  Renquist squatted by Annica’s stool and took her hands in his. Somewhere in their common adversity, a line had been crossed and they found themselves on equal footing. “If I find out…I need to know if there are things you’d rather not know.”

  Annica fought to focus through her tears. She and Auberville had married so quickly that there was still so much she did not know about him. Could he be capable of such perfidy? She knew he was hiding something, but what?

  Mr. Renquist’s implication frightened her. “You suspect that Tristan is behind all this. I am painfully aware that the evidence points to him, but there may be another explanation, and—”

  “Take care, m’lady. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The silence in the Crawford library dragged out as the parties regarded each other with suspicion. Tristan had tracked them there after inquiries at Grace’s home revealed that the ladies were meeting for the rout there. He did not blink as he studied Charity, Grace, and Sarah by turns.

  Sarah was the first to speak. “So, it was you who sent for us, Lord Auberville. But why?”

  “Did you think it was Annica summoning you?” He noted the subtle glances each of the women passed to the others. Such a veiled maneuver would have been envied in conference rooms the world over. But he did not have time for subtlety. “Shall we jump right to the point? Which of you is hiding Annica?”

  All three women blinked in quickly masked surprise at his opening gambit. He could tell that they hadn’t expected him to be so direct.

  Charity lifted her chin a fraction of an inch, as if to say that she was ready to do battle. “I do not know where she is at the moment, Auberville. I saw her last this afternoon at Clarendon Place.”

  “Did she say anything of her plans?”

  “Only that she intended to get to the bottom of the murders of Mr. Bouldin, Constance and Mr. Wilkes,” Grace admitted.

  Tristan’s mind reeled. Annica could not have the faintest notion of the danger she was in. And who was Mr. Bouldin? One thing at a time. “Why?”

  Grace glanced at the other women before lifting one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “My dear man…” She gave him a sad smile. “We—the Wednesday League—have often noted how rarely women obtain justice when they wait for a man to acquire it for them.”

  Justice. There was that word again. “So you blithely took on a murder investigation?” Tristan’s left eye began to twitch just above his scar.

  “Yes,” Grace answered simply.

  “Did you stop to consider—” He choked.

  “The risks?” Grace finished. “Yes. But then Constance was murdered and we could not stop.”

  Sarah left her chair and went to stand behind the sofa where Grace and Charity were seated. The ladies bent their heads together in a quick, whispered consultation. Apparently they reached an agreement, appointing Grace spokes-woman.

  “Roger Wilkes was our primary suspect for the murders of Constance and Mr. Bouldin, but we concluded that, since Wilkes was murdered in the same manner, the real culprit must have murdered them all.”

  “And who, pray tell, is Mr. Bouldin?” Tristan asked, his head beginning to throb.

  Grace bit her lip and looked disconcerted by having said more than she intended.

  Tristan knew he’d have to disclose a little information to gain their trust. He deeply regretted not having done so with his wife when she had questioned him in the dormer room. No government secrets were worth Annica’s safety—risk of betrayal be damned! “The man behind this caused the failure of an important mission in northern Africa several years ago. I suspect he has kidnapped and murdered over three-dozen women, and now, it would appear, he means to kill my wife. If you will not help me, I’d advise you to stay out of my way. You can only delay me in finding Annica, and under the circumstances, a delay could be fatal.” He let the thought take root.

  Grace turned to him and sighed. “Auberville, I have vouched for your character. We really have no choice but to trust you. Annica’s life is at stake and there is no time to waste. But first I must have your assurance that what we are about to tell you will never leave this room.”

  “You know me to be discreet, Grace. Do you need more reassurance than your own experience?”

  She took a deep breath, looking for all the world like someone about to plunge into murky depths. “Mr. Bouldin was a Bow Street Runner. He did our more unpleasant tasks for us. When we put him onto Roger Wilkes, he was murdered.”

  Tristan let that pass for now. He took the crude note from his vest pocket and held it up for the ladies to see. “Would this have anything to do with Mr. Bouldin’s death?”

  “It was pinned to his jacket,” Charity admitted.

  Auberville raked his fingers through his hair. He could scarcely believe that these women had become involved in an international incident without realizing it. “Then the message was meant for your group. How long ago was that?”

  “Three or four weeks ago. I recall that it was a good ten days to two weeks before your marriage,” Sarah said.

  He had a quick flash of Annica hurrying down a lane in Whitefriars, of her being accosted by a footpad and nearly killed. Coincidence? And before that, the coaching accident, and the riot in St. James’s Street…He had thought there was something odd in the way Annica had been singled out by the ruffians. Good Lord! His wife had been stalked for nearly two months! “How long did Mr. Bouldin work for your group?”

  Sarah frowned. “Before I joined. Three or four years, Grace?” she asked, turning to the older woman.

  Grace threw up her hands in defeat. “Three.”

  “Three years?”

  Charity cringed. “Before that, we managed on our own.”

  “Before that?” What had this group of demure Regency ladies been doing? Tristan sank into Henry Crawford’s over-stuffed chair. He’d better know it all. “You ladies exact revenge?”

  “Justice,” Sarah corrected him. “We obtain justice for wrongs done women.”

  Charity shrugged. “I suppose there is an element of revenge in there, too. Annica always says that revenge is a sort of wild justice. Actually, I believe Francis Bacon said it first.”

  Tristan rubbed his right temple to ease the nagging headache. “May I assume, then, that your quest for vengeance—pardon me, justice—on behalf of
Lady Sarah led you to Roger Wilkes and his friends?”

  “We discovered Roger Wilkes’s identity last. We had already disposed of Taylor, Harris and Farmingdale.”

  Another sharp pain pierced Tristan’s left temple. “I will not take umbrage to what has gone before, ladies, but I’d like to know why your group did not come to me when there were three dead bodies strewn about.”

  “The issue became clouded when women began disappearing. Not to put too fine a point upon it, Auberville, but you are a man,” Sarah informed him. “We’ve never felt a man would sanction, let alone understand, our activities, and most of our cases required a sensitivity to female concerns. Aside from that, when our investigation led us in a different direction, it began to appear as if…”

  “As if I might be the villain?” he asked.

  Sarah had the good grace to blush. “Annica swore it was not possible, that she could not love you were you capable of such things, but we…the rest of us, that is, thought the evidence rather compelling. Especially when you vouched for Wilkes the night of Constance’s murder.”

  His mind seized on one thing only. Annica had told her friends that she loved him. Her whispered admission of love the night of Constance’s murder had been sincere, and not a reaction to the pleasure he’d given her!

  “Lord Auberville?” Sarah Hunter asked.

  He focused on the group again, knowing he’d have to put their suspicions to rest if he was to gain the information he would need to save his wife. “I am not your enemy. Through my affiliation with the Royal Navy and because of the connections I made in the Foreign Office, I was asked to initiate an investigation into the disappearances of women in a white slavery scheme. That must be when our paths crossed.”

  “Ah. The Foreign Office! That would explain the connection.” Sarah nodded. “We thought you were connected through the Royal Navy, in league with the other villains.”

  “What a great relief.” Charity heaved a huge sigh. “Does ’Nica know you are working for the Foreign Office?”

  Yet another cause for regret! “I do not believe I have told her,” he admitted. “Do you have any idea where she might be?”

  Sarah cleared her throat. “She was going to Madame Marie’s to meet Mr. Renquist. After that, she was going to see a fallen sister named Naughty Alice. ’Twas in her brothel—his, actually—that Farmingdale’s business venture came to light.”

  So that was how Annica knew the bawdy house. “Who is Renquist?” Tristan asked.

  “Mr. Bouldin’s partner. He is investigating—gads!” Sarah got to her feet and whirled toward the door. “He was supposed to follow you, but if the culprit is not you or Wilkes, milord, it is Geoffrey Morgan! Oh! I trusted him! I believed in him! Someone fetch me a pistol!”

  Tristan seized her arm and turned her back around. “Softly, Lady Sarah. Allow me to handle this. Do not discuss this with anyone. Anyone. Send to me if you have news of any sort. And swear you will not take matters into your own hands.”

  “We cannot do that, Lord Auberville,” Charity said. “You cannot interfere with the business of the Wednesday League.”

  “And you must not interfere with the business of His Majesty’s Foreign Office,” Tristan parried. “If you will not give me your word, I will be forced to have you detained at Newgate for treason.”

  Charity and Grace looked subdued, but Sarah came forward, a challenge in her soft violet eyes. “We shall give you twenty-four hours, Auberville. If Annica has not contacted one of us by then, we shall be forced to take matters into our own hands—treason be damned.”

  Tristan was right. Francis Renquist was right. She should not be in this part of town alone. Night had fallen and, even though she was now safely enclosed in the kitchen of the bawdy house, she could not help the shiver of misgiving that traveled up her spine and raised gooseflesh on her arms. Why did she have such a silly feeling now, when none of her midnight forays had inspired such deep foreboding?

  The door from the corridor swung open and Naughty Alice entered. She did not recognize Annica at once, and sauntered toward where she stood by the fire. “’Ere now, gent. ’Tain’t no time to be shy. If ye come to see me, then come see me.” She crooked one finger at Annica and began to unfasten her low chemise, a flirtatious smile hovering on her lips.

  Annica held up her hand. She swept her hat off and let her hair fall down her back. “I could not wait for you to come to me. I had to see you.”

  Alice’s expression was one of horror when she recognized Annica. She glanced over her shoulder toward the corridor. “Get outta here, milady!”

  Annica shook her head. “Not until you tell me all you know. I cannot wait any longer, Alice. Roger Wilkes was murdered last night.”

  “I know that, milady! So why have ye come abroad? Have ye no sense at all?”

  “The matter is urgent, Alice. It warrants such a risk. I must have answers tonight. Did you find the names I need?”

  “Get outta here! I ain’t got time for this now.”

  “A moment ago you had time to attend a man.” Annica reached into her jacket pocket and came up with a gold sovereign. She held it out to the bawd. “Pretend I am a man. You must allot at least a quarter of an hour for each client. I have ten minutes more.”

  “Can ye not see I’m tryin’ to save ye grief? Do not question me, milady. There’s not time for it. Get ye gone before—”

  “Alice?” a masculine voice called. “Where the hell are you, woman?”

  An uneasy shiver ran up her spine at the sound of that voice, but she had no time to puzzle it when Alice grasped her by her coat sleeve and dragged her to the kitchen door.

  Alice turned to the corridor, panic etched deeply on her face. “Go! For the love of God, go!”

  “I’ll wait—” she began, incredulous at Alice’s actions.

  “Get out of here. Run! Go somewhere safe! Hurry.”

  “But—”

  “Bad pennies have a way of turnin’ up!” Alice gave her a firm push with those words.

  Annica found herself standing outside while she was still trying to frame a reply. The door closed in her face with a solid thump. Angry at the peremptory dismissal, she was poised to return when she realized that Alice was terrified, not annoyed.

  Annica gathered her hair to the top of her head and pulled her hat on. Fog swirled around her as she entered the street, and she felt in her pocket for the letter opener she’d taken from Tristan’s desk. She tightened her fingers around the handle, feeling better as her footsteps echoed on the cobblestones.

  She thought she heard a scuff and scratch behind her, and her heartbeat quickened. She was being silly.

  When she came to a cross street, she stepped to the side and pressed her back to a brick wall, waiting to see if anyone was following. Several minutes—more like a lifetime to Annica—passed. Nothing. She heaved a sigh of relief. Naughty Alice’s fancies had made more of an impression on her than she’d suspected. She began walking again, heading for the safety of Madame Marie’s.

  The sound of a boot scrape behind her came too late to save her from anything but the quick realization that she was in deep trouble. Iron-hard arms closed around her chest, squeezing the breath from her lungs. A dark laugh expelled foul breath across her neck just before a sack was dropped over her head. She fought, but her assailant was ready. Lights exploded inside her brain, and she had one last moment of rational thought before everything went dark.

  I’m sorry, Tristan.

  Armed with the information from the Wednesday League, Tristan laid a trap for Francis Renquist. Since the Bow Street Runner was supposed to be following him, that was an easy task. Tristan led the chase, followed by Renquist, who was in turn followed by The Sheikh. Thus Renquist became both predator and prey. Once nabbed, he could do naught but confess.

  Tristan pushed the man into his waiting coach and shut the door. “Recent events have run the ladies afoul of my investigation into a white slavery ring. They have decided to trust me.
I suggest you do the same.”

  “That would depend upon her ladyship, Auberville.” Francis Renquist lifted his chin and fixed Tristan with an unreadable expression, making it clear that his loyalty lay with Annica.

  “My wife can tell you nothing, Renquist. She is missing. No one has heard from her since she questioned a bawd by the name of Naughty Alice. Do you begin to understand my urgency?”

  The runner nodded. “You know who’s behind this, then?”

  A dark, frightening fury rose from somewhere deep in Tristan’s gut—an anger he hadn’t felt since Tunis. “We’ve suspected for nearly a month, but we cannot locate the cur.”

  “Who is it, and where is he?” The runner looked ready to do battle.

  “Richard Farmingdale. As to where—God only knows. Each time Wilkes looked to be leading us to him, someone got in the way—you, Annica…”

  “’Twas you who knocked me unconscious?” Renquist asked.

  “That was our first hint that others were investigating the missing women,” Tristan admitted. “We never suspected Annica’s group had become involved in the white slavery plot.”

  “You know everything,” Renquist sighed. He looked almost relieved.

  “I pray that is the case,” Tristan said. “Except for one thing—do you know where to find my wife?”

  “If she has not been seen since she met Alice, I’d conclude as you have—the bastard’s got her. And that being the case, she is at the Surrey docks.”

  Cold seeped into Annica from the rough floor beneath her cheek. A tremendous pain throbbed in the back of her head. Total darkness enveloped her. Slowly, painfully, she pushed herself into a sitting position and willed her hand upward, to find a large knot and dried blood at the base of her skull. She winced and let her hand drop.

  She remained very still for a few moments, both to quell the aching in her head and to gain her bearings. Silence indicated night. Lapping sounds invaded her consciousness, followed by a slight rocking. She was aboard a ship. Stillness after the gentle rocking meant the ship was moored or docked. Voices grew louder, as if coming nearer. A door opened and closed.