by Diane Gaston
If the joy of this advancement had been leached from his emotions, Flynn was at least satisfied with the honour of it.
He left Rose’s new apartments and walked towards St James’s Street. Crossing Piccadilly into Mayfair, Flynn told himself not to think of Rose or of Tanner, who would accompany her back to Great Ryder Street from Vauxhall.
Flynn returned to Tanner’s house and almost feared encountering his employer on the stairway again. He entered the library and pulled out papers from the drawers, determined to work. Tanner’s affairs would be in order before he left for Ireland, he vowed.
He began making a list from the papers he’d taken out of the drawer. They were bills he’d not yet paid, correspondence he’d not yet returned. Proceeding methodically through the stack, Flynn began to feel more settled. The mundane task kept his mind occupied, and he so much wished to keep his mind occupied.
He came across the bill of the Bow Street Runner who had travelled to Brighton, tallying his charges and expenses. Flynn placed the pen back into its holder and dropped his head into his hands. He could not leave Tanner’s employ until he knew Rose was safe from Greythorne.
He tried to tell himself he could trust Tanner to see to her safety. It was the sort of challenge Tanner might skilfully meet, but Flynn would not rest while Greythorne still lurked about, waiting for his chance to capture Rose.
An image of her tied up and at Greythorne’s mercy came to his mind. It would never happen.
Never.
Flynn rose from his seat, too restless to work. He stacked the papers again and returned them to the drawer.
Rose would be most vulnerable at Vauxhall, Flynn surmised, no matter how many men Tanner had hired to guard her. Flynn must go to Vauxhall, no matter how painful it would be to see her and know she would never be his. He must watch for danger. She would not have to know he was there, but he would ensure she made it to her new bed in safety.
Greythorne reviewed the plan one more time. It was a masterpiece of logistics, if he did say so himself, an elegant means of wreaking vengeance on Tannerton for presuming Greythorne could be disposed of so easily.
He looked at the men standing before him, an unkempt, unsavoury lot, but the sort you could pay to do whatever you wanted of them.
‘You know your tasks?’ he asked.
‘That we do, sir,’ one said.
The others nodded or mumbled agreement.
‘You shall capture them, not harm them,’ Greythorne reminded them.
The pleasure of harming them would be his alone.
Chapter Twenty
Flynn came to Vauxhall in a mask, ordinary garb in the place where nothing was as it seemed. What he’d once disdained he had grown to fancy over these summer weeks, now finding delight in the magic of the pleasure gardens. This, after all, had been the place he’d heard her sing, danced with her in his arms, and stolen kisses under the flickering lamps.
He stood in the Grove, off to the side where he could peruse the crowd, but still easily view the balcony. He fancied every unaccompanied man to be a danger to Rose, every masked one to be Greythorne. He spied Wiggins and Smythe easily enough and two of the Bow Street Runners who earlier had reported to Tanner their failure to find Greythorne. Flynn spied Tanner, too, also scanning for danger.
The orchestra sounded her introduction, and Rose appeared on the balcony. Flynn forgot everything else but the elegant tilt of her head, the graceful poise of her posture.
She began with ‘Eileen Aroon,’ and he was transported to the time he’d first set eyes on her. She was more beautiful now, if such a thing were possible. Her voice was richer, stronger, more suffused with sensuality. He let her voice envelop him as once her arms had done.
Her eyes searched the crowd as she sang. He longed to have her eyes find him, as they’d done before. He’d seen the awareness in her face that night, an awareness he shared. The magic connection they made that night was one his grandfather would have blamed on the fairies, the ancients, on Cupid.
She sang song after song of love, its joys, its loss. Never had her voice so plucked the strings of emotion, enough to crack the hardest heart. Flynn heard sniffles in the crowd, saw more than one person dab their eyes with a handkerchief. It was he who ought to weep, he thought. It was he who had lost her.
Ironically, though, her voice consoled him. Healed him. By the time she began her last song, he felt whole again, instead of a man torn into pieces.
She sang:
Young I am and yet unskilled,
How to make a lover yield…
He recognised the words, although he’d not heard her perform this song before. Its lyrics were from a Dryden poem about a girl who knew no love would be as pure or as true as her first love. Any men who came after would receive only a pretense of love.
‘He that has me first, is blest,’ she sang with undisguised honesty. It was as if a lightning bolt came from the dark night sky, striking him, filling him with its light.
She’d lied to him when she’d refused his proposal, Flynn realised. For some unfathomable reason, she’d lied about wanting Tanner’s money, about wanting to be a mistress instead of a wife.
He was filled with energy, with excitement. He could hardly wait to find her, to tell her he knew the truth.
The truth was in her song.
It no longer mattered that he would make an enemy of a marquess and dash his dreams of serving royalty. The truth was, he coveted Rose more than that dream. He would marry her. Take her to Ireland with him. Show her off to his family and receive their blessing. Somewhere they would find a new life, a fine life, a life worth singing about.
Take me, take me, some of you,
While I yet am young and true.
Yes, Rose, he vowed. I will.
Her song ended, and the applause thundered like never before. Shouts of ‘hurrah’ and ‘bravo’ filled the air, over and over. She looked stunned, but dropped into a graceful curtsy before turning away and fleeing. The crowd surged forward, shouting, ‘Encore!’
Flynn tried to push his way through the still-cheering audience to reach the gazebo door. When he finally got near, more admirers than ever crowded the area. Through the throng of men, he glimpsed Tanner, arm protectively around Rose, leading her away, flanked by Wiggins and Smythe. Flynn struggled to reach them, but the crowd forced him farther and farther behind.
He finally broke free on to the Grand Walk, but lost sight of them. Hurrying to the gate where Tanner’s carriage would be waiting, he reached it in time to see Tanner help Rose inside the coach and Wiggins and Smythe climb on top. As the carriage sped away, Flynn caught a glimpse of a man crouched down and hanging on the back.
The hairs rose on the back of his neck.
Greythorne was making his move.
Flynn ran to the nearest hackney coach and shouted, ‘Follow that carriage, and I’ll triple your fare.’ He climbed up next to the jarvey, who looked stunned.
It took some time for the hackney coach to manoeuvre on to the road, but Flynn could still see Tanner’s carriage in the distance. The hackney coach’s old nag was no match for Tanner’s team, and soon all that was visible of Tanner’s vehicle was the faint glow of the carriage’s lamp.
‘Sorry, guv’nor,’ the jarvey said.
Flynn pulled the mask off and rubbed his face. ‘Try to keep the lamplight in view.’
But that, too, quickly faded from sight.
Rose shivered, even though she wore her cape and the inside of the carriage was warm.
‘That crowd was quite unexpected,’ said Tannerton. ‘But you are safe now.’
‘Safe,’ she repeated.
She had not been thinking of her safety from the crowds nor even from Greythorne. She’d been thinking about Flynn. Somehow, singing made her feel closer to him, as if he were with her still and would always be with her. As she’d sung the words of the love songs, the emotion behind them filled her soul, and it was as if a bright light illuminated their meaning. The so
ngs, the music, the emotion, all were entwined with Flynn. She still shook inside from the power of it, the power of her love for him.
She glanced at Tannerton, who had leaned his head against the fine upholstery of the carriage seat and closed his eyes.
It would be wrong to pretend at loving with this man, she suddenly realised. Had she never met Flynn, never fallen in love with him, never made love with him, she might have formed some true affection for Tannerton, but, as it was, she would always resent him for not being Flynn.
She felt bereft, but at the same time liberated. It no longer mattered to her that she sing at King’s Theatre or Vauxhall or any other place. Nothing would replace what she’d so briefly had with Flynn. Nothing mattered as much.
She blinked away tears. She wanted to go home. To Ireland, even though she had no home there, no family left anywhere. Perhaps she would return to the school at Killyleagh and beg for work there, any work.
She pressed her palm to her belly, hoping that she might be with child. Bearing Flynn’s child would be a joy. She would find some way to rear the babe, to bestow on Flynn’s child the lessons of love.
She remembered suddenly that her mother had never spoken of leaving the London stage with regret. She never lamented the choice she had made, the choice of being with the man she loved and bearing his child.
Rose stared at Tannerton again. His face was softer than Flynn’s, unlined, untroubled. He was a handsome man, the sort Katy would say made a girl’s head turn, and a kind man. Whether he knew it or not, he deserved more than a pretence of love.
‘Lord Tannerton?’ She spoke quietly, not certain if he slept.
His eyes opened. ‘Yes?’
‘I have something to ask you. To tell you, really.’
‘Then tell, Miss O’Keefe.’ He smiled. ‘Or shall I call you Rose, since we are about to begin our association?’
Their association. ‘If you wish.’
‘What is it, then, Rose?’ His expression conveyed only mild curiosity, as if whatever she said would be easily forgotten. He did not realise how important her decision would be for him.
She drew in a long breath. ‘About tonight, sir—’
Before she could speak another word, shouts sounded from the outside and the carriage came to a lurching halt.
Tannerton was instantly on the alert. ‘Stay in here.’
He was halfway out of the carriage when a shadowy figure on the outside brought a club down hard upon his head.
Rose screamed.
Tannerton was shoved back into the carriage and fell into a crumpled heap beside her. She grabbed his coat and tried to set him upright to see if he were still alive.
A man climbed in. ‘Good evening, Rose.’
Greythorne.
She lunged towards the door, but he shoved her back in her seat and was quickly on top of her. Rose tried to push him off, but he was too heavy. He pulled her cloak off her and tossed it upon Tannerton’s body. Rose clawed at Greythorne’s face and nearly succeeded in opening the carriage door so she could jump out. No matter it was now moving fast, she preferred jumping into the darkness to being Greythorne’s captive.
But he seized the back of her dress and hauled her back in the seat. His hand closed around her neck like a vice as he straddled her again. His lips crushed against hers as his fingers cut off all air. Feeling herself blacking out, she prayed not to die with that man’s lips on her.
Laughing, he suddenly released her. She gulped in as much air as her lungs could hold.
‘I am stronger, Rose. Remember that.’
While she could do nothing but gasp and cough, he pulled out a cord from his pocket and tied her hands and her feet. She tried to scream for help, but only a rasping sound came out. He produced a piece of cloth and tied it around her mouth so even that pitiful sound was muffled.
‘You are at my mercy,’ he went on in a menacing voice. ‘And I intend to show you precisely who your master is. You will do my bidding, if you want to live.’
He pulled more cord from his pockets and bound Tannerton’s hands behind his back and tied his ankles. The marquess remained senseless. Rose prayed he was alive.
As if in answer to her prayer, Tannerton moaned.
‘This man thought he could thwart me, fool that he is. Your father and that cow of a woman also thought they could thwart me.’ He lifted Rose’s chin, forcing her to look at him. ‘I assume you know what happened to them.’
Perhaps she ought to have prayed instead that Tannerton had escaped the fate that awaited them.
Greythorne rubbed his hand on her neck, pretending he was going to squeeze it again, and laughed when she recoiled. He slid his hand down to her chest, pushing his fingers under her dress to roughly fondle her breast.
Bile rose in her throat, and she swallowed it, fearful she’d choke.
‘Has he touched you like this?’ he asked, his eyes boring into her.
For a moment she thought the ‘he’ Greythorne referred to was Flynn, but his glance slid to Tannerton.
She shook her head.
‘Then I am not too late.’ He squeezed her, watching her face as she tried to cry out in pain, the sound impeded by the gag in her mouth. He laughed again.
His eyes glittered in the scant light from the carriage’s outside lanterns. He looked like an engraving she’d once seen of the devil.
She had the distinct feeling she was about to descend into hell.
Flynn peered into the night, hoping to catch sight of the carriage again. He was tempted to urge for more speed, but the hack’s horses were already pushed to the limit and travelling faster on the dark road was too risky. There was only one way the carriage might go, at least for several miles, across the Vauxhall Bridge and on the road along the river. Flynn tried to remain calm.
Suddenly two men appeared at the side of the road, waving frantically for the hackney to stop. The jarvey did not rein in his horses.
‘Wait!’ cried Flynn. ‘Stop the coach.’
‘Could be thieves,’ the man said.
‘No, stop the coach.’
They had gone past the men by this time, but, as the coachman pulled the horse to a stop, one of the men ran toward them.
‘Your assistance, sir!’ the man cried. ‘We have an injured man here.’
Flynn recognised him. ‘Wiggins!’ He jumped down.
‘Mr Flynn, sir!’ Wiggins said with some emotion. ‘Wait for us. Smythe is hurt.’
He ran back to where another man he recognised as Tanner’s coachman John stood next to Smythe, seated on the ground. The two men hoisted Smythe to his feet and carried him to the hack.
‘Put him inside,’ Flynn said. ‘John, climb above and watch for Tannerton’s coach.’
He helped Wiggins get Smythe into the carriage.
‘It’s my leg,’ groaned Smythe. ‘Broke it, I think.’
Flynn spared no time for sympathy. ‘Tell me what happened.’
Wiggins’s hand was bloody and limp. ‘Two men on horseback stopped the carriage. They grabbed the horses, and one of them came alongside and pulled John Coachman off—’
‘We tried to stop him,’ Smythe broke in.
Wiggins nodded. ‘Then, while we were pulling on him one way and the blackguard the other way, some fellow comes from behind and pushes us off.’ He winced. ‘I saw his lordship get hit on the head. With a club. It was that Lord Greythorne, I’d wager a year’s pay on it. He got into the carriage and it drove off with the lot of them, before we could even get to our feet.’
Flynn frowned. Where were they headed? The Bow Street Runners had discovered nothing about where Greythorne had gone after sneaking out of Brighton. Was he even in London? ‘We’ll take you both to Audley Street and send for the physician.’
Never had the trip back from Vauxhall seemed so slow. It gave Flynn too much time to think. Too much time to remember the marks of torture on O’Keefe’s and Miss Dean’s bodies. Too much time to fear finding a shrouded Rose carelessly laid
out on a wooden table.
He forced himself not to turn his mind in that direction, but something kept drawing him back. Something nagging.
By the time the hackney coach pulled up to the Audley Street town house, Flynn had the answer. He helped the injured men out of the coach and dug in his pocket for the promised triple fare. The jarvey stuck his whip in its holder and Flynn froze.
He turned to Wiggins. ‘Get the physician and send a message to Bow Street. I need some men to help. Tell them to go to Madame Bisou’s. I will leave the direction there.’ He put the money in the jarvey’s hand. ‘I require more of you. To Bennet Street.’ He climbed inside the hack.
When he reached Bennet Street, he hurried to the door. When Cummings answered it, Flynn said, ‘Where is Madame Bisou? I need her.’
‘Game room,’ Cummings replied.
Several men and one or two women looked up from their play when he rushed in. He went directly to Madame Bisou.
‘I would speak with you a moment,’ he said, taking her arm.
Katy was standing nearby at the hazard table. ‘What is it, Flynn?’ She followed them out.
He took them aside in the hallway. ‘Greythorne has captured Rose and Tannerton. I need to know who told Rose he used whips.’
Madame Bisou glanced towards Katy. Flynn swung around. Katy’s face was white and she backed away.
He stopped her. ‘Was it you, Katy?’
She shook her head and tried to get away. ‘It was Iris. Ask Iris.’
‘Iris is not here tonight,’ Madame Bisou said in an alarmed voice.
Flynn grabbed Katy’s arms. ‘I must know, Katy. Tell me what you know.’
She trembled all over, and he thought she might sink to the floor. He put his arms around her. ‘Katy.’ He spoke kindly but firmly. ‘I need you to help me find Rose. I am afraid he will kill her, and Tanner, too.’
