by Liz Carlyle
Here, Hedge began to wheeze in earnest. With a spotted, tremulous hand, he withdrew a blood-spattered handkerchief and began to cough violently into it. “Go bugger yourself, Welham,” he rasped.
Ignoring the remark, Rance leaned into Hedge’s face and propped his elbows on his knees. “Now I am, as you might recall, a dangerously fine card player,” he said very quietly. “And your son owns a gaming salon. The twain have met, as it happens, and Mr. Quartermaine has come away owing me—well, let’s just call it a near-tragic amount of money.”
“Fine.” Breath rasping now, Hedge stuffed away his handkerchief. “I hope he pays you.”
“Oh, we have struck a most equitable bargain,” said Rance. “Because we’re friends of a fashion, he has offered to trade me what I seek—revenge, in the form of some documents he retained upon leaving your employ. Mr. Kemble has explained to me, you see, just where Ned learned his incredible skill with numbers. And Ned—well, he wrote everything down . . .”
The old man’s hands clenched on the arms of the chair. “You’re a lying cheat,” he wheezed. “Ned set a fire and robbed me blind. The whole place burned.”
Rance pulled a sympathetic face. “I fear that last is not quite true,” he murmured. “Your son had the remarkable foresight to keep a few things—just on the off chance he might someday have need of them.”
The old man played a gambler’s game—bluster aplenty but no hand at all, the stench of fear rising from him like carrion beneath a hot sun. “I made him earn his keep, aye,” he said. “No law against it.”
“But there are laws against gaming,” said Rance. “And extortion. And prostitution. And murder. And framing innocent men for murder—”
“Oh, no, that was none of my doing!” Hedge exploded, but the words seemed to strangle him. “Had my wishes—wishes been—heeded—you would—w-would . . .”
“Would what?” Rance snarled.
“Would—would ha’ been—shivved.” He choked out the words, his skin gone gray now. “Left in an alley—t-to die—in your own bl-blood.”
“Thank you,” said Rance amidst the coughing, “for your candor. Nonetheless, Ned assures me there’s enough to convict you of something. He’s willing to sell you out to keep his club running, if he must—so I daresay you taught him something after all.”
But Hedge’s eyes seemed to bulge from their sockets. He was looking decidedly unwell.
Unsympathetically, Rance set a hand on Hedge’s arm and leaned nearer still. “And if I can’t loosen your tongue, Hedge, prison surely will,” he continued. “I’ve only to bide my time. Hanging Nick Napier is in his grave, and no one at the Metropolitan Police is going to help you now. Besides, you haven’t the money to bribe them. Now who came after me—?”
Hedge was wheezing badly now, his eyes darting about the garden a little madly, as if the ghosts of his past were creeping out to haunt him. Then his face began to twist, like a man sinking in on himself, and he gave a small, almost mewling cry.
The skies were deepening with darkness now, the wind whipping up with a squall. Rance tightened his grip on the old man’s arm, and suddenly a strange chill washed over him. He felt the brush of evil like a tangible thing; a rush of ice down his spine and a fight-or-flight surge in his gut.
But it wasn’t Hedge. It was something far more dire. He felt his forehead break out in a sweat and thought, strangely, of Anisha.
Anisha, whom he loved more than life itself.
Anisha, who might already carry his child.
The man’s eyes were fading now, the bright, birdlike light gone. Rance came to his feet and seized the chair arm, jerking it hard just as the wind blew open the garden gate on shrieking hinges. “Damn it, you’re halfway to St. Peter already, Hedge,” he said, leaning over him. “Who came after me? Who set me up?”
Hedge was scrabbling for the handkerchief again, and even Rance could see he was done. “Came to us—said he needed—money,” he said, his words gargling in the back of his throat. “Kill . . . kill two birds. One . . . st-stone.”
“Who—?” Rance seized hold of his collar. “Speak up, damn you!”
“Needed money . . . to finance . . .” But pink froth was foaming at the corner of his mouth now, and his head was lolling to one side. “Cold,” he muttered. “I’m . . . cold.”
Behind him, Rance heard the back door slam. “Mr. Hedge?” came a sharp, matronly voice. “Come along, lovie, there’s a squall blowing in.”
Suddenly, the feeling swept over Rance again, like a ghost walking over his grave. And this time it was a sick, all-encompassing sensation, as if ice water surged in his veins.
With a jerk, he released Hedge’s arm, but the sensation did not fully relent.
Two birds with one stone.
And suddenly, he knew.
Chapter 14
Nay, if an oily palm be not a fruitful prognostication,
I cannot scratch mine ear.
William Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra
The wind lifted lightly, flapping at Anisha’s tent door, which had been folded back and secured with gaudy yellow ribbons now threatening to come undone. Red and yellow, according to Hannah Leeton, were the colors of choice for Gypsy fortune-tellers, and even the tablecloth on which Anisha worked was striped in the same brilliant shades.
Glancing up at her most recent customer, Anisha smiled, gently closed the young lady’s fist, and gave it one last, reassuring squeeze. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Jane,” she said. “And yes, my dear. I think you shall find love soon. Very soon indeed.”
A titter ran through the gaggle of girls standing behind Jane’s chair. “But will it be this Season?” pleaded a petite, beribboned blonde. “Really, ma’am, it must be! Else Frederick will be off on his grand tour of Italy!”
“Or perhaps a grand honeymoon instead?” chimed another, nudging the first.
“Fate knows no must,” Anisha warned. “It cannot be altered to suit anyone’s convenience.”
“See, Maud?” Jane, the last of the gaggle to be read, cast a doe-eyed glance over her shoulder. “Don’t jinx me! Besides, you only wish me married so that Mamma will let you be next.”
Just then, their hostess, Hannah Leeton, appeared silhouetted in the tent opening, motioning for Anisha.
Anisha caught her gaze then returned to the girls. “Well, my dears, it was an honor for the Great and Mysterious Karishma to study your palms.” Rising, she set her hands together and bowed. “Namaste.”
“Lud, a Hindu fortune-teller this year!” she heard the blonde whisper as they passed back through the tent flaps. “How can she do it without the crystal ball?”
Hannah Leeton stepped into the tent, casting an indulgent look after them. “O Great and Mysterious Karishma, you deserve a glass of lemonade,” she declared. “Come, your queue is finally gone and the refreshment tent beckons.”
Anisha laughed. “Thank you, I’m perishing of thirst.”
Swiftly she unfurled the brilliantly hued sari she’d wrapped herself in, and lifted off her jeweled and feathered turban, neither of which was remotely realistic. Still, it was best to play her role to the hilt, she had decided. And Lady Leeton had chortled with glee at the sight of her.
Outside in the bright sunshine, the good lady linked her arm in Anisha’s, then scowled up at the sky. “There’s rain coming in off the Channel,” she declared. “I hope it will not ruin the rest of my afternoon.”
“It would not dare,” Anisha assured her as they set off across the massive lawn. “Not for such a worthy cause.”
As they passed between the now-empty booths that had constituted the bazaar, the fiddlers began a merry tune in the bandstand at the opposite end. Picnicking and dancing had already begun and the crowd was slowly shifting that way.
Lady Leeton cut Anisha a warm smile. “I am deeply in your debt, Lady Anisha, for saving my party,” she said. “I realize, of course, that you must think this fortune-telling business both foolish and clichéd—which serve
s only to emphasize your kindness. Particularly when we’ve just met.”
“It’s my pleasure,” said Anisha, her skirts catching lightly on the close-cropped grass as they strolled. “And I do know Sir Wilfred. Indeed, he has been most kind.”
“Has he?” Lady Leeton’s voice held a curious edge. “Well, my dear, if there is ever anything we might do to repay the favor, you’ve only to let us know.”
Anisha considered it, slowing her gait a little. She really had saved the day, to a degree. Oh, the bazaar and the music had amused the crowd, yes. But for the whole of the afternoon, the queue outside Anisha’s tent had been unflagging, requiring Lady Leeton’s footmen to move two of the stalls and empty the donation jar three times.
Lady Leeton crooked her head. She was a lush, dark woman who had obviously been a beauty in her day. “Tell me, my dear, why are you not remarried?” she said speculatively. “Now that her eldest is fixed, perhaps Madeleine ought to turn her attention to you?”
Anisha’s gaze was focused on the distant refreshments tent. “Oh, some days I rather like my widowhood,” she said vaguely.
At that Hannah Leeton laughed. “As did I,” she said. “In fact, I enjoyed it rather too much—not, mind you, that I did not miss my husband. I did. He was a kind man who adored me and left me rich. Sometimes now, when I look back, I think . . . ah, but never mind that. Old stories are very dull.”
Anisha stopped abruptly on the grass and laid a hand over hers. “I disagree,” she said. “I should like to hear your story. Widowhood can be so difficult, yet in an odd way, liberating, too.”
Hannah looked vaguely embarrassed. “And you have likely heard I was rather outré during mine,” she said. “You have been wiser than I, my dear. I ran with a fast crowd of scoundrels, and looking back I wonder if grief—and a little outrage—didn’t drive me to it.”
“Outrage?” Anisha murmured.
For a moment, Hannah Leeton pursed her lips. “I married my first husband for his money,” she finally said, “and that was no secret to anyone—not even him. He was much older, and a rich, respected businessman, and I was just an apothecary’s daughter from Cheapside. More than a few thought I’d got above myself. After Isaac died, well, I kicked up my heels a bit—one might charitably call it youthful rebellion, for I was just twenty-five.”
Gently, Anisha turned the subject. “I had heard, Lady Leeton, that in those days you and Sir Wilfred were acquainted with my brother’s best friend,” Anisha lightly suggested. “Mr. Welham, who is now Lord Lazonby. Do you remember him?”
Hannah Leeton’s eyes lit up. “Heavens, Rance Welham!” she said. “Indeed, we had a passing acquaintance. I felt sorry for him when that scandal broke. He often played cards with my beau at the time—devilish gamesters, the both of them.”
“Your beau?” Anisha enquired.
Again, the lady blushed. “Sir Arthur Colburne,” she said. “Oh, you would not think it to look at me now, my dear, but in those days I was much sought after—as was he.”
“I’m sure you were a beauty,” said Anisha. “You still are.”
At that, Lady Leeton laughed. “You needn’t be charitable,” she said, not unkindly.
Anisha carefully considered her next words. “Lady Leeton, I find myself in an awkward position,” she said. “You asked if there was something you might do for me. And there is. You might help me better understand what happened all those years ago.”
“Indeed?” Her hostess lifted both eyebrows. “May I ask why?”
Anisha felt herself color. “If I may speak in perfect confidence?”
“To be sure.” But she still looked suspicious.
Anisha plunged in. “I have reason to believe Lazonby might ask for my hand,” she said. “Though I could be wrong. Still, Madeleine speaks highly of your judgment, and I should very much like to know if you think . . .”
“Yes?” Intrigue was written on Lady Leeton’s face.
“Well, is it true that—” Anisha stopped and bit her lip.
“Oh, go on, my dear!” she said on a laugh. “It probably was true, if it’s a rumor to do with our scandalous lot.”
“I know that their deaths were tragic,” said Anisha, “but I just keep wondering if it was true that Lord Percy Peveril was a fool, and Sir Arthur a fortune hunter?”
“Oh, poor Percy was an idiot.” Suddenly the lady’s eyes saddened. “And Arthur had gaping holes where his pockets should have been. Still, one couldn’t help but fall in love with the rogue. Not even when one knew perfectly well what he was after. He was, after all, so very . . . well, let us call it charming.”
“I had heard that,” said Anisha, remembering Madeleine’s polite euphemism. “And so you were quite fond of him?”
Again the lady laughed, but it was a laugh edged with something darker. “Dear me! Arthur and I have not been the subject of gossip for a long, long while,” she said. “But he was a good sort, Arthur. Just weak, Lady Anisha. Most men are, you know. But not, I think, the resolute Lord Lazonby? He turned out to be made of sterner stuff than any of us might have guessed.”
“I believe you are right,” said Anisha, casting a rueful glance at her hostess. “Lady Leeton, might I ask you a horrid question?”
This time, she hesitated. “You may,” she agreed, “but I mightn’t answer it.”
Anisha drew up her courage. “Could Sir Arthur have killed Percy in a quarrel?” she suggested, “then killed himself out of remorse? Perhaps Percy wished to . . . I don’t know, call off the betrothal to Arthur’s daughter?”
The lady shook her head. “I don’t think Arthur had it in him, my dear,” she said. “But you might ask Wilfred. He and Arthur were close. Heavens, Arthur introduced us! No, I think Arthur couldn’t have done that to his girls.”
“His girls?”
“Elinor and Elizabeth,” said Lady Leeton. “Arthur was a handsome rogue, but he never gainsaid his girls. Trust me, I know that better than anyone.”
Anisha could not miss the bitterness in her voice. “You sound as if you do,” she murmured.
Lady Leeton cast her another odd glance. “The truth is, Lady Anisha, I was willing to drag Arthur out of the River Tick myself,” she said. “In a somewhat sentimental moment, I hinted we might marry—yes, even knowing he was just a handsome scoundrel with nothing but skill in the—well, never mind that. I was a little besotted, even if I hid it well.”
“I see,” Anisha murmured. “I had heard, you know, that Sir Arthur meant to save himself from financial ruin by fleeing to France. Or to America, perhaps?”
“Yes, but that would have broken my heart,” she said, “and the girls, frankly, refused to go. So I proposed to Arthur. It seemed a good solution. But his daughters were even more horrified by that prospect.”
“Horrified? Why?”
Lady Leeton’s odd smile twisted. “Oh, I was not of their dear, sainted mother’s class,” she replied. “Worse, my late husband was a Jew. His money and his kindness were meaningless to them. And yes, such high-handed ingratitude left me more than a little outraged. Still, I ought not have been surprised.”
“But . . . but that is monstrous,” said Anisha, suddenly wondering if Lady Leeton was as angry as she looked.
“I think you know, my dear, that is how the world works,” she replied. “A gentleman will look the other way if the woman is lovely enough or rich enough, and I was both. But to those haughty daughters—especially to Elinor—it did not matter. They were having none of it. So Elinor made her choice—a hard one—and teased Percy until the poor dolt was fairly salivating. And Arthur killed himself, I daresay, for no reason save that he was drunk and mired in despair.”
“But that is tragic!” said Anisha. “How sad for you—and for his foolish daughters, too.”
Lady Leeton shrugged. “I was already inured to grief and prejudice,” she said simply. “And I had Wilfred’s shoulder to cry on. By then we were old chums, and we both loved Arthur. But those girls—oh, they suffered.”
“Dear me,” Anisha murmured. “What became of them?”
“They got what they deserved,” said Lady Leeton simply. “They were packed off to America anyway, poor as a pair of church mice. Then Elinor died of a fever.”
“And the other girl?” asked Anisha. “Was she younger?”
“Too young to be out,” said Lady Leeton. “But it little mattered, for even Arthur said she’d never be a bankable beauty like the elder. I met her just once. Gangly, with the most unfortunate hair—bright red curls—and an obdurateness about her which I could not abide.”
“What became of her?”
Again, Lady Leeton shrugged. “I have no notion,” she said. “Oh, look! There is Wilfred with Lady Madeleine. Perhaps he can tell us?”
Anisha rather wished she had not brought up the subject, but Sir Wilfred had turned his attention from Madeleine and was looking at them expectantly. “Tell you what, my dear?” he asked as they drew up.
“Lady Anisha and I are gossiping,” she lightly confessed. “Indeed, I’ve just discovered Lord Ruthveyn is a great friend of that young man we once knew—Rance Welham, who got into all that trouble?”
“Indeed?” Sir Wilfred smiled indulgently.
“Oh, Rance is a dear friend of my son’s,” Lady Madeleine chimed. “I like him very well, myself.”
“Yes, I always thought him a capital fellow,” said Sir Wilfred, wagging his brows. “But a dangerous man to sit down with, if you know what I mean.”
“Indeed, but that’s not what we were talking about,” said his wife. “The whole thing led me to mention Arthur’s girls. And I was just wondering, Wilfred—what became of her, that youngest? The one with the stubborn lip?”
Sir Wilfred’s gaze drew distant. “Hmm, well,” he said. “I exchanged letters with Arthur’s sister a time or two—they took her in. After that, I didn’t keep up. I should have done, I suppose.”
Just then a woman in black approached, a set of brass keys dangling from a chatelaine at her waist. She was followed by three pretty ladies in clothing nearly as colorless as her own, all of whom Anisha had seen drifting about the garden party. Two of them, in fact, had been in her tent to have their palms read. The third, however—by far the youngest—had not.
