With This Ring

by Amanda Quick

  “Is anyone there?”

  A soft moan floated out of the darkness behind the cabinet.

  “Dear God.” Beatrice rushed forward. “Madame Virtue? Is that you?”

  There was no response. Beatrice reached the cabinet and came to a halt. She found herself standing at the top of a staircase. The chamber below was so dark that it was impossible to see the last of the steps.

  Another groan emanated from the bottom of the stairs.

  Beatrice glanced around. There was a sconce on the wall. She seized the candle that burned there and held it aloft to peer down into the chamber.

  She could just make out the familiar figure lying at the foot of the stone steps.

  “Mr. Saltmarsh.” Beatrice raised her voice so that it would carry into the next room. “Porter, come quickly. There is someone here who has been hurt.”

  Without waiting for a response, she started down the staircase.

  She was halfway to the bottom when, with a grinding scrape of wood on stone, the heavy cabinet swung ponderously back into place, sealing the opening in the wall.

  “No, wait,” Beatrice shouted. “Do not close it.”

  As the last of the faint light from the room above vanished, she whirled and raced back up the steps.

  “There is someone down here,” she shouted.

  There was no response.

  She set down the candle and shoved with all her strength against the back of the cabinet. It did not budge. She pounded on the thick wood with both fists.

  No one came to see what all the commotion was about. Beatrice stopped wasting her energy on the unyielding cabinet.

  She and Graham Saltmarsh were trapped together in the underground chamber.

  Chapter 12

  “Be warned,” the master said. “The chained specters that lurk within these walls have not fed in many centuries.”

  FROM CHAPTER TWELVE OF The Ruin BY MRS. AMELIA YORK

  “Damnation, Monkcrest, what are you doing back here in my shop? I’ve already told you that I know nothing about this business of the Rings.” Sibson’s whiskers twitched in disgust. “Furthermore, I cannot believe that a man of your reputation is wastin’ his time on such foolishness. The Rings are naught but a silly legend.”

  “Sometimes legends live on because there is a grain of truth in them.” Leo examined an ancient medallion in one of Sibson’s dusty display cases. “I refuse to believe that you have heard no rumors at all. Such gossip is mother’s milk to you, Sibson.”

  A flicker of intense curiosity gleamed in Sibson’s eyes. “Are you telling me that you actually believe the Forbidden Rings are here in London?”

  “I’m not sure if I believe the Rings even exist.” Leo raised his gaze from the medallion. “But I think that someone who is possibly quite dangerous does believe that they are real. And I think that person also believes that they are here in Town. That puts you in danger, Sibson.”

  “Me?” Sibson’s brows flew upward. His fingers danced on the counter. “Why should I be in danger? I have no part in this.”

  “But does the person who is after the Rings know that?” Leo asked softly. “You have a certain reputation, after all.”

  “What the devil do you mean by that?”

  “Sibson, I do not know yet what is going on, but I have reason to believe that a man may have been murdered because someone thought that he was in possession of the Rings.”

  A shrewd expression leaped into Sibson’s eyes. “You speak of Lord Glassonby?”

  “Yes. You and I have had a great deal of experience in this sort of thing. We both know that the Rings, if they exist, are valuable only because they are interesting antiquities, not because they hold the key to a fabulous treasure. But men have committed murder in the past to gain a prized relic.”

  “I assure you, I know nothing of the Rings.”

  “I hope, for your sake, that you are telling me the truth. Speaking as an old client, I have some advice. Stay out of this, Sibson.”

  “Rest assured, I have no intention of getting involved in this affair of the Rings. I told you, I do not even believe that they exist. If Glassonby possessed any Rings, they were most assuredly frauds.”

  “Quite possibly, but men have also been murdered for frauds.” Leo walked to the door. “Bear in mind that you have a certain reputation in the world of artifacts. Serious collectors are aware of your infamous back room. If someone even suspects that you know something, you may be in grave danger.”

  Sibson’s eyes widened nervously. “What are you saying?”

  Leo opened the door. “Only that you may wish to consider a journey to the north, or perhaps an extended trip to the seaside.”

  “Good God, sir.” Sibson’s face purpled. “Are you suggesting that I leave Town?”

  “Only until this affair of the Rings is concluded.” Leo smiled. “It would be a pity if you ended up dead merely because someone leaped to the erroneous conclusion that you knew too much. I should miss the occasional browse through your back room.”

  Leo stepped out into the light mist and closed the door behind him before Sibson could recover from what appeared to be a fit of apoplexy.

  Leo was satisfied with the afternoon’s work. He had come here to apply more pressure on Sibson and he thought he had accomplished his goal. Sibson’s nervous temperament would crumble quickly. If he knew anything, he would talk or leave town. Either course of action would be informative.

  He walked along Cunning Lane until he reached a point opposite Clarinda’s doorway. She was not at her post. He wondered if the prospect of owning her own tavern had convinced her that it was financially safe to abandon her old career. Perhaps she was even now inside the Drunken Cat, negotiating the terms of her purchase.

  Thanks to Beatrice, he would soon help establish Clarinda in another career. His association with his new partner brought a never-ending string of surprises.

  He pulled his watch out of his pocket and glanced at the time. Shortly after four. The hours had sped by far more quickly than he had realized. He had been occupied most of the day with his researches into the underground world of stolen antiquities.

  He had also taken time to send a discreetly worded message to Madame Virtue, giving her much the same warning that he had just issued to Sibson. If you know anything of this affair, I advise great caution. Someone may assume you know too much.

  He quickened his pace. He had much to discuss with Beatrice. If he hurried, he could take her out for a five o’clock drive in the park. With any luck they might be able to find a secluded area in which to talk. And perhaps do a great deal more than talk.

  It occurred to him that affairs could be extremely awkward. One was always having to find a comfortable place in which to make love. He was certain of one thing. He had no intention of borrowing Clarinda’s room a second time. Beatrice deserved the best.

  The prospect of seeing her soon made him smile again. No, not a smile, he thought ruefully. If he were to look into a mirror, he would probably see an idiot’s grin on his face.

  On the heels of the small burst of euphoria came wariness. It disturbed him to realize that he did not entirely comprehend his state of mind today. It was true that last night’s lovemaking had left him feeling unusually satisfied. But passion was generally an extremely short-lived tonic. He had had sufficient experience with it in the past to know its limits.

  He knew that a sexual alliance could satisfy his physical demands for a short period of time. But he was all too well aware that such relationships did not provide the lingering sense of well-being he experienced today.

  He was eighteen again with the world spread out at his feet the future aglow with possibilities.

  He shoved the unresolved questions to a far corner in his mind. They would keep. He had more important things to do than brood over the possibility that he had recently plunged into his second adolescence.

  He turned the corner and moved into the narrow passage that linked Cunning Lane with
the next twisted street.

  He was getting to know the neighborhood quite well, he reflected. Dr. Cox’s Apothecary was not far from here.

  “MR. SALTMARSH, YOU’RE alive.” Beatrice set the candle down on the cold stone floor and knelt beside Graham. “I feared the worst.”

  “So did I, truth be told. When I opened my eyes and saw you, I was afraid I was no longer on this mortal plane.” He blinked owlishly in the dim light. “Where the devil are we?”

  “In one of the museum’s storage chambers, I believe.” She gently probed his head. “You are extraordinarily fortunate that you did not break your neck in your fall.”

  “Fall?” He squinted at her. “What fall? I’m quite certain that I did not take a tumble down the stairs. I would surely have some broken bones or have a dented skull to show for it.”

  There was an unpleasant odor in the vicinity of his mouth, she noticed. She sat back on her heels. “You are unhurt?”

  “Quite unhurt, thank you.” He winced as he pushed himself to a sitting position. Gingerly he reached around to touch his lower back.

  Beatrice frowned. “You appear to be in some pain, sir.”

  “A bit stiff from lying on this cold floor, that’s all.” He moved his hand to his belly. “But my stomach feels decidedly odd. Do you see my spectacles?”

  Beatrice picked up the candle and surveyed the floor. Gold rims glinted nearby. “There they are.” She plucked them off the stones and put them in his hand. “Unbroken too. Amazing.”

  “That proves that I did not fall down the staircase.” Saltmarsh pushed the spectacles onto his nose. “My eyeglasses would certainly not have survived the experience.”

  “Then how did you come to be lying here on the floor, sir?”

  He blinked a few more times. “I don’t know. I recall buying a ticket from the porter, a rather unpleasant fellow. He warned me that he would be closing early today. He also sold me a mug of rather bad tea. The last thing I remember is bending over to look at a display of Zamarian artifacts which I believe were frauds.”

  Beatrice sniffed discreetly. “Mr. Saltmarsh, regarding the tea—”

  He touched his stomach lightly and grimaced. “I’d prefer not to discuss it. I fear it did not set well.”

  “I suspect that you were drugged, sir.”

  He stared at her. “Drugged? Why would anyone do such a thing?”

  Beatrice rose. “We shall worry about that later. Our first priority is to get out of here.”

  “Yes, of course. It must be quite late.” Saltmarsh got to his feet with an awkward movement. He grabbed the edge of a nearby cabinet to steady himself. “Give me a moment and I shall be able to climb those stairs.”

  “There is no point in climbing them. The entrance at the top is sealed with an extremely heavy cabinet. If there is a lever that can be used to open it from this side, it is very well concealed. I could not find it.”

  “What are we to do?”

  “We must look for another way out of this chamber or we shall be stuck here until morning.”

  Saltmarsh gave a visible start. “Good God. It has just struck me that the consequences of our being discovered here together in the morning could be dire.”

  “One of the advantages of being a widow, Mr. Saltmarsh, is that I need not worry excessively about my reputation.”

  “That may be true for you, Mrs. Poole,” he said very evenly, “but Mrs. York may not be quite so safe.”

  Beatrice stilled. He was right. “Fortunately, I know I may count on your discretion.”

  “Mrs. Poole, I assure you, I would die before I would reveal your secret, but we cannot assume that no one else is aware of it. I do not like to mention the obvious, but I must.”

  “What are you saying, sir?”

  His jaw tightened. “If I was able to discover that you are the authoress Mrs. Amelia York, someone else may very well have done the same.”

  Beatrice groaned. “My reputation is not the only compelling reason for us to find our way out of here, sir.”

  “What other reason could be as strong?”

  “The possibility that whoever locked us in here has no intention of letting us out anytime soon, if at all.”

  Saltmarsh paled.

  LEO EYED MRS. Cheslyn with growing irritation. “What do you mean Mrs. Poole is not at home? Where the devil is she?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I do not know. Not precisely, that is. She is not in the habit of giving me a detailed account of her plans. And that, my lord, is the crux of the problem around here. If I were given a reliable schedule, one that could be depended upon—”

  “How long ago did she leave? Where was she going? At what time did she expect to return? Did she go afoot or hail a hackney?”

  Mrs. Cheslyn retreated beneath the interrogation. “Mrs. Poole is often rather vague about that sort of thing.”

  Leo pursued her across the threshold. “Did someone else go with her? Did anyone call upon her? Did she leave in a carriage?”

  “No, sir.” Mrs. Cheslyn backed deeper into the hall. “She walked out alone. Said she had an appointment.”

  A thought struck him. “Did she go veiled?”

  Mrs. Cheslyn’s eyes widened. “Yes, sir, she did. How did ye know?”

  His worst fears were confirmed. Beatrice was into some mischief. “Where is Lady Ruston?”

  “She and Miss Arabella went for a drive in the park with Mr. Burnby and Lady Hazelthorpe.” Mrs. Cheslyn cast a desperate glance at the clock. “They left shortly before five. They won’t be back for another hour or so.”

  Leo stepped around her. “I will wait in Mrs. Poole’s study.”

  “Surely you’d be much more comfortable in the parlor, sir. I’ll fetch a tray of tea.”

  “Forget the tea. I shall not be needing it.” Leo went down the hall and shoved open the door of Beatrice’s study.

  Behind him Mrs. Cheslyn heaved a grim sigh. “A proper schedule would prevent this sort of thing entirely.”

  “DO TAKE CARE, Mrs. Poole.” Candlelight danced on Saltmarsh’s spectacles as he peered up at her through the gloom. “If you fall, we shall be in worse shape than we are at present.”

  “I’ve almost got this bloody thing off.” Beatrice, crouched atop a large, heavily carved cabinet, concentrated on prying an ornate metal grate free of the stone in which it was imbedded.

  Saltmarsh’s stout walking stick served as her lever. Fortunately the iron pins that held the grill-work in place had long since turned to rust.

  Twenty minutes earlier, after a careful examination of the chamber, she had spotted the large grate set in the wall near the ceiling. She had concluded that it was very likely the opening of a conduit that had been built to supply the underground chamber with fresh air.

  Saltmarsh, to his extreme chagrin, had been too wobbly from the aftereffects of the poisoned tea to protest when Beatrice had announced that she would climb atop the cabinet.

  “What makes you believe that the channel behind that grille will lead to the outside?” Saltmarsh asked uneasily.

  “See how the movement of air causes the candle to flicker?” She nodded toward the rapidly shrinking taper that she had placed on the cabinet near her knee. The flame danced in the weak breeze that came through the grate. “I can smell the damp and I can practically taste the fog.”

  She was grateful for the walking stick, but she would have used her bare hands to pry the grate free if it had been necessary. She wanted out of the chamber at any cost. The thought of spending the night in it filled her with an anxiety that was out of all proportion to the situation.

  It was an unfortunate time for her sensibility to old atmospheres to flare to life, she thought. This time her reaction was far more unsettling than usual. Her senses were jangled as though some unseen beast prowled the room.

  She had never before been troubled with such an extreme sense of urgency. She could not explain the barely contained desperation that drove her.

  She wonde
red if Leo would be alarmed when he discovered that she was not at home. Assuming that he bothered to call upon her.

  The thought of him made her bear down heavily on her makeshift lever. He had certainly not made any effort to pay his respects today. She had not even received so much as a bouquet of flowers from him.

  The ancient metalwork groaned. Dust from the crumbling mortar rose in a cloud.

  One would think that a gentleman would at least find time to call upon a lady the day after he had made wild, passionate love to her, Beatrice thought.

  “Mrs. Poole, I believe that you are making some progress.”

  “Yes, I think so.” She forced herself to concentrate. There would be time enough later to deal with her feelings toward Leo. Those emotions, tumultuous as they were, had nothing to do with the reason she was so eager to get out of this chamber.

  The unwholesome atmosphere seemed to be thickening. The longer she stayed there, the more she was aware of it. She sensed a deep, penetrating chill coalescing in the shadows beyond the reach of the wavering candle flame. She could have sworn that it emanated from some of the artifacts in the cabinets.

  Control yourself, Beatrice. Your imagination is running wild.

  It occurred to her that she might have written one too many novels of horror and mystery.

  LEO WENT THROUGH Beatrice’s desk with swift, methodical precision. The first drawer opened without protest. He fished quickly through the contents: a neat stack of blank foolscap, a pair of scissors, and two old pen nibs.

  He slammed the drawer shut and opened the next one. There was another stack of paper inside, but these pages were not empty. Each was filled with several rows of crisp, elegant handwriting. Without thinking, he automatically read the first few lines on the top sheet.

  The dreadful vapor rose from the surface of the seething pool to fill the sepulchral chamber. A ghastly figure formed in the heart of the strangely glowing mist. It took shape slowly, revealing first a gaping cavern of a mouth and then two great eyes that burned with hellish flames….