by Anna Bradley
Oh, no. No.
Emma could well imagine what sort of disagreement Lady Clifford meant. Helena had objected to Lord Peabody’s boot heel to her shin, or his hands wrapped around her neck. “What happened? What did he do to her?”
“It’s not what he did to her—well, not entirely, anyway. It’s what she did to him, deserved as it likely was.”
Emma closed her eyes, praying it wasn’t as bad as she feared. Helena had a temper, much as Emma herself did. Lady Clifford had taught Emma how to control hers, but Helena was like a wild thing when threatened, striking out at everything in her path.
That animal instinct for survival was how she’d endured for this long.
“Helena clawed Lord Peabody’s face, Emma. Her nails left bloody scratches on his cheeks.” Lady Clifford shook her head. “Lord Peabody’s terribly vain, as you know, and he wasn’t inclined to be forgiving. Madame Marchand has sent her away for good this time. Helena won’t be returning to the Pink Pearl.”
“Lord Peabody provoked her!” Emma cried, but she knew very well it wouldn’t make a bit of difference that Lord Peabody had no doubt heartily deserved a clawing. Oh, he’d earned those bloody scratches, but what was the point in saying so?
He had all the power, and Helena none.
Then another thought struck her, and a cold shudder gripped her.
Madame Marchand had done this on purpose.
She’d been furious with both Emma and Helena when she caught them in the library last night. What better way to punish them both than by turning Helena over to a vicious lord with a penchant for violence?
Madame was well aware Helena wouldn’t tolerate Lord Peabody’s abuse—that she’d fight back, and once she did, it gave Madame the perfect excuse to toss Helena out onto the street. Madame wanted to be rid of her, and handing her over to Lord Peabody was a quick, efficient way to accomplish it.
This was no coincidence, and no accident.
“It doesn’t matter what Lord Peabody did, Emma,” Lady Clifford said. “You know that as well as I do. The moment he sets foot inside the Pink Pearl, he may do whatever he likes. Helena does not enjoy the same freedom.”
Emma fell back against the squabs, a numb haze falling over her. “I tried to tell her, to warn her not to—” She trailed off, realizing too late that Lady Clifford knew nothing of her visits to the Pink Pearl.
Perhaps her ladyship had suspected it all along, though, because instead of scolding Emma, she squeezed her hand.
Emma squeezed back, struggling to quell her rising panic. “I should have made her come with me. I’ve been to the Pink Pearl over and over again. I never should have let her stay there.”
But she’d been too busy kissing Samuel to think about Helena, hadn’t she? Now Helena would be made to pay for Emma’s foolishness, her cowardice.
Lady Clifford sighed. “I have people looking for her.”
“But you haven’t found her.”
“Not yet, no.”
It wouldn’t be easy. Helena knew every dark street and filthy alcove in the rookeries. She could choose to make herself elusive if she wished. Emma could only pray Lady Clifford’s men would find her before the man who’d taken Caroline began to suspect Helena knew his secrets, and found her himself.
“I debated whether or not to even tell you this, Emma. Even now, I’m not certain I’ve made the right choice, but I felt you needed to know we no longer have anyone inside the Pink Pearl to assist us.”
A sob caught in Emma’s throat. “I’ll find Helena, my lady. I’ll search until I—”
“No, you won’t. This business with Lymington House isn’t over, Emma. It’s taken us weeks to pull it together, and we won’t get another chance at it.” Lady Clifford’s voice was as calm as ever, but there was an unmistakable edge to it that spoke more clearly than her words.
They were moving on as planned, with or without Helena.
They had no choice.
Lady Crosby slid her hand into Emma’s empty one, cold inside her glove. “Lady Clifford is right, Emma. Think of those poor girls that have gone missing.”
“Missing, at best. At worst, they’re dead, and they won’t be the last to meet such a disastrous fate if we don’t put an end to whatever evil is unfolding at Lymington House. The servants there are in no less danger for Helena’s having gone missing, Emma.”
The carriage came to an abrupt stop then. Emma peered out the window, and saw they’d arrived at Vauxhall Gardens. A row of fine carriages was lined up in front of the gate at Kennington Lane, ready to disgorge their elegant passengers.
“Look at me, Emma.” Lady Clifford lay a hand on Emma’s arm to get her attention. “You’re to go on just as you have been. Is that understood?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Very good. Go on, then. Lady Silvester and Lady Flora will be looking for you.” Lady Clifford retreated into the heavier shadows in the corner of the carriage, and turned her face toward the window.
It was a dismissal, and after all, what was there left to say? Helena was gone, absorbed into the London streets like hundreds of other girls before her, neither her existence nor her disappearance causing a ripple on the surface.
Emma stumbled on the carriage step, only Daniel’s firm hand under her arm keeping her from sprawling onto the street. “Steady now, lass,” he muttered as he caught her, and he wasn’t referring to the steps.
Steady, steady, steady…
Emma repeated the word over and over in her head as she and Lady Crosby made their way from Kennington Lane toward the supper boxes on the far side of the Grand South Walk.
Lady Silvester and Lady Flora were waiting for them there, with Lord Lovell on one side of Lady Flora, and on the other…
Samuel, his dark eyes burning as he watched her approach.
* * * *
Samuel despised Vauxhall Gardens with the unrelenting heat of a thousand suns. Of all the entertainments on offer during the London season, this was the very last one he would have chosen to endure this evening.
He wasn’t sure how he’d allowed himself to be coaxed into it, but they’d been here for less than an hour, and he already regretted it. The loud laughter and the endless drone of chatter around him was making his head ache.
Or was that the champagne?
It was flat, and left a sour taste on his tongue, but Samuel lifted the glass to his lips and forced down another swallow. Even dreadful champagne was preferable to sobriety at the moment.
“What ails you tonight, Lymington?” Lovell muttered, leaning closer to Samuel to be heard. “For God’s sake, you’ve got a full glass of champagne in your hand and a supper box of lively company to entertain you. What more could a man ask for?”
“A decent supper? Musicians who know how to tune their instruments, perhaps?” Vauxhall’s orchestra was abominable. Every false note clanged through Samuel’s aching head like a crash of cymbals. “I’d settle for a single moment of peace.”
“This is London during the season, cousin. There’s not a moment of peace to be had. Come now, there’s no need to look so grim. It’s a pleasure garden, if you recall. Neither Lady Emma nor Lady Flora have been here before. It will be good fun to show them the Cascade. I’m certain they’ll be delighted with it.”
Samuel glanced across the supper box where Lady Emma sat. She was flanked by Lady Crosby on one side and Lady Silvester on the other, looking far from delighted.
She’d hardly spoken a word to anyone since she arrived. She was as lovely as ever—so much so it made his chest ache to look at her, but she appeared…distracted tonight. Her gaze darted over the crowd as if she were looking for someone, and both her supper plate and the glass of champagne at her elbow remained untouched.
Something was wrong, but Samuel knew he’d never get a word out of her as long as she was tucked between the two grandmoth
ers. He rose abruptly to his feet, and held out his hand to her. “Shall we walk, Lady Emma? You must be curious to see all the delights the gardens have to offer, having never been to Vauxhall before.”
“No, thank you, Lord Lymington. I don’t…” She trailed off, her attention caught by a raucous party of gentlemen and a half-dozen or so demireps who’d just risen from a supper box nearby. Lord Peabody was among the party, and Samuel also recognized Clarissa, the redheaded courtesan from the Pink Pearl. With much shouting and laughter, they disappeared down one of the garden pathways.
Lady Emma stared after them, the oddest expression on her face. “Now I think on it, my lord, I believe I would enjoy a walk, after all.”
“Oh, yes! Let’s walk, shall we?” Lady Flora jumped to her feet. “I’m mad to see the illuminations. They’re said to be very clever.”
“Then see them you shall, Lady Flora.” Lovell rose and offered her his arm with a gallant flourish. “Where shall we go first? The Triumphal Arches?”
“Yes, that sounds lovely.” Lady Emma slid her small, gloved hand through Samuel’s arm, her slender body vibrating with impatience.
His body leapt to aching attention at her nearness, the scent of her, the press of her fingers on his sleeve, and he was obliged to clear his throat before speaking. “Would anyone else care to accompany us?”
“Not me.” Lady Lovell drew herself up with a sniff. “The gardens don’t interest me. Unless you’d care for a stroll, Mr. Humphries?”
“No, indeed.” Mr. Humphries helped himself to another slice of ham. “I’m comfortable where I am.”
“Lady Lymington?” Samuel glanced at his mother, who startled when he said her name. “No, thank you. I daresay you’ll enjoy yourselves more without us.”
“Indeed. We’re perfectly content to stay where we are, aren’t we, Henrietta?” Lady Silvester turned to Lady Crosby with a good-natured smile.
“Quite content, yes,” Lady Crosby agreed, giving Emma a cheerful wave.
Samuel led them from the deep alcove that sheltered the supper boxes onto the Grand Walk. When she saw the lamps, Lady Flora gasped, her hand over her mouth. “Oh, my goodness. So many colors! Why, how lovely it is! Lady Emma, don’t you find it lovely?”
Anyone who’d never before seen the marvel of Vauxhall’s colored glass lamps could be expected to pause to marvel at them, but Lady Emma would have marched right past them, without sparing them a glance if Samuel hadn’t stopped her with gentle pressure on her arm. “Lady Emma, I believe Lady Flora asked you a question.”
Emma seemed to realize she was dragging Samuel and she stopped, her fingers loosening on his coat sleeve. “Oh, er…yes! Quite beautiful, indeed.”
Lady Flora sighed with pleasure. “The blue is the prettiest, I think.”
Lady Emma was peering down the lane toward the darker walkways at the back, as if searching for something. “Yes, the blue is very…that shade is…did you not say, Lady Flora, that you wished to see the Triumphal Arches?”
Lady Flora’s brow furrowed. “Did I, indeed?”
Samuel stood quietly, taking in this odd scene. Lady Emma had risen to her tiptoes, and was peering in the direction of the Center Cross Walk. She was chasing someone through the gardens, and it looked to Samuel as if it was that disreputable pack of drunken rakes who’d turned down the Grand Walk just ahead of them.
Why would Lady Emma be chasing them? The look on her face when she’d been watching them from the supper box had been far from admiring. Then again, Emma was good at keeping her secrets, and had been from the start.
Damn it, none of this made sense, and it was driving him mad.
“Shall we wander toward the Triumphal Arches?” Lady Flora peeked up at Lovell from under her lashes, her lips curving in a winning smile.
Lovell gazed back at her, appearing stunned for a moment before clearing his throat. “Whatever you like, my lady. I’m your willing slave.”
If Lovell had said it to any other lady, Samuel would have thought it an abominable bit of flirtation, but in Lady Flora’s case, it was nothing but the truth.
Lady Flora colored, but she allowed Lovell to lead her toward the Grand South Walk, where the first Triumphal Arch was located. “There are two more besides this one, each of them situated where the pathways cross, and at the end is a transparency.”
“Vauxhall’s transparencies are meant to be clever. I should like very much to see one.” Lady Emma didn’t pause to wait for a reply, but slipped her arm free of Samuel’s, and turned toward the back of the garden. Lovell and Lady Flora went along willingly enough, leaving Samuel no choice but to follow.
There was no sign of the drunken rakes, but they were likely headed for the darker walks at the back of the garden, where the branches were thicker, and one might take a lady who didn’t object to a bit of intrigue. Samuel was now certain Lady Emma was following them, and he was determined to let her have her way, and see what became of their little adventure.
“Ah, that’s a handsome one,” Lovell exclaimed when they reached the transparency at the end of the walkway. “What say you, Lymington?”
Samuel stepped closer to study the painting on display. It was a military scene, the width of it nearly as wide as the path leading from the Grand South Walk.
“See how the paper has been scraped thin here?” Lovell said to Lady Flora, pointing to one section of the painting where the soldiers’ red coats shone with particular brightness. “It allows more of the light to come through, exaggerating the effect of the colors.”
“Is it paper, then? I thought it was silk,” Lady Flora said, studying the transparency with interest.
“No, it’s varnished paper, painted on both sides and illuminated from behind with lamps.” Lovell smiled down at her. “It’s meant to look like stained glass.”
“It’s lovely,” Lady Flora breathed, but she was looking at Lovell as she said it, as if she found him to be the loveliest sight in all of Vauxhall Gardens.
Lovell grinned with such unabashed pleasure Samuel couldn’t help but smile himself. Perhaps Lady Emma was right, and it had been presumptuous of him to chase Lady Flora to London for his cousin’s sake, but he could hardly regret it, seeing how pleased both Flora and Lovell were now.
Lady Flora was just the lady to make Lovell happy.
That thought led him to recall Lady Emma, who’d gone remarkably quiet while they were studying the illumination. Samuel was still smiling when he turned to her. “Shall we go back? The Cascade is about to—”
His smile vanished instantly.
Lady Emma was gone.
Chapter Fifteen
She’d lost her wits. It was the only explanation.
With every step forward Emma told herself to go back, to return to Lady Crosby and the safety of the supper boxes. The warning repeated itself so many times it became a chant inside her head, the words an echo to each tap of her foot on the pathway.
Yet she didn’t go back.
She kept running, her heart in her throat, branches snatching at the silk of her shawl and tearing at her hair as she burst into the thickest part of the garden, the very heart of the Dark Walk.
Young ladies didn’t go into the Dark Walk, particularly not alone, and certainly not after a gang of drunken blackguards who behaved as if women were toys to be used and then tossed aside once they’d outlived their usefulness.
What did she intend to do when she caught up to Lord Peabody? Rage at him, or strike him? Demand to know what he’d done to Helena, demand he find her wandering the streets of London, and bring her back? Did she think she could make him admit his perfidy, or apologize for it?
She might do what she liked, but short of a pistol ball buried in the center of Lord Peabody’s cold, black heart, it wouldn’t change a thing. She couldn’t make an earl do anything he didn’t wish to do. She had no more power over Lord
Peabody than Helena had.
She had no power—
No, it wasn’t true. She did have power, but it wasn’t the same sort of power a weak man like Lord Peabody wielded. Her strength didn’t come from her fists or from a title or fortune, but from her mind, her will, her determination and cunning.
And yes, from her heart. Not the part that loved, but the part that hated. The deepest, darkest chamber where she hoarded the memories. The part where there was no forgiveness, not even for herself.
There, in the most secret part of her, she wanted to make Lord Peabody pay for his sins.
But when she turned onto the Dark Walk it wasn’t Lord Peabody she found tucked into a shallow alcove. It was Clarissa, the redheaded courtesan from the Pink Pearl, who looked as if she were fresh from a liaison with one of Lord Peabody’s blackguards.
Clarissa plucked a handkerchief from her plunging bosom and patted at the edges of her painted lips, then her bodice, dabbing at her decolletage with the handkerchief. Emma waited until these repairs were completed before she emerged from the bushes.
Clarissa startled, her hand going to her chest when Emma appeared in front of her. “God in heaven. Where did you come from? If you’re looking for Lord Weymouth, he’s already gone.”
Emma’s gown clearly identified her as a lady, not a courtesan, but perhaps Madame Marchand was right. She’d been a whore once, and now would forever be a whore, no matter how fine her gown. Clarissa might not recognize her face, or know her as one of Madame Marchand’s former courtesans, but perhaps she could sense the two of them were part of the same world.
“I don’t care about Lord Weymouth. I’m looking for Helena Reeves.”
“Helena Reeves!” Clarissa’s gaze swept over Emma, taking in the fashionable gown and tasteful jewels, and a smirk rose to her lips. “What’s a fine lady like you want with a jade like Helena?”
Emma ignored the question. “I understand Helena was made to leave Madame Marchand’s employ last night. Do you know where she is now?”
