by Amanda Quick
He still had his looks, he reminded himself. With luck he would keep them for a few more years. He would soon find another post. But the sad truth was that it was unlikely he’d ever again turn up a situation as comfortable and as profitable as the one he’d just lost.
The bleak prospect stoked his rage. What he wanted was revenge, he thought. He’d give a great deal to make St. Merryn and Miss Lodge pay for ruining his pleasant arrangement at the mansion in Rain Street.
But the only way to do that was to find a means of using the information he had obtained by eavesdropping. Thus far, he had not been able to come up with a promising scheme.
The big hurdle was that he did not know who in Society to approach. What member of the ton would be willing to pay for the news that St. Merryn was trying to find his great-uncle’s killer or that the amusing jest concerning Miss Lodge’s origins in an agency was actually the truth?
And there was another obstacle. Who would take the word of an unemployed butler over that of the powerful earl who had dismissed him?
No, he was probably doomed to return to his former career, he decided as he arrived at his new address. And it was all the fault of St. Merryn and Miss Lodge.
He let himself into the dingy hall and went up the stairs. The only good news on the horizon was that he was not going to have to start looking for a new post immediately. Over the course of the past few months, he had surreptitiously removed some lovely silver items and a couple of excellent rugs from the Rain Street house and taken them to the receivers in Shoe Lane who dealt in stolen goods. As a result he had some money put aside that would enable him to take his time selecting his next situation.
He stopped in front of his room, dug out his key and fitted it into the lock. When he opened the door he saw the weak glow of a candle flame.
His first befuddled thought was that he had somehow unlocked the wrong door. Surely he had not been so foolish as to go off and leave a candle burning.
Then the voice came out of the darkness, chilling him to the bone.
“Come in, Ibbitts.” The intruder moved slightly in the corner. The folds of a long black cloak shifted around him. His features were hidden beneath a heavy cowl. “I believe that you and I have some business to transact.”
Visions of the legions of husbands he’d cuckolded over the years blazed in his brain. Had one of them learned the truth and taken the trouble to hunt him down?
“I . . . I . . .” He swallowed and tried again. “I don’t understand. Who are you?”
“You do not need to know my name before you sell me the information you possess.” The man laughed softly. “In fact, it will be infinitely safer for you if you do not learn my identity.”
A glimmer of hope leaped within him. “Information?”
“I understand that you have recently left the employ of the Earl of St. Merryn,” the man said. “I will pay you well if you can tell me anything of interest concerning that household.”
The cultured, well-educated voice marked the intruder as a gentleman. The last of Ibbitts’s anxiety evaporated. Euphoria took its place. He had learned the hard way over the years that the men who moved in the elevated circles of Society were no more to be trusted than those who lived in the stews, but there was one significant difference between the two groups: The men of the ton had money to spend and were willing to pay for what they wanted.
His fortunes had turned yet again, Ibbitts thought. He sauntered into the room, smiling the smile that had always turned heads. He made certain that he stood within the circle of light provided by the candle so that the man in the cloak could see his handsome features.
“You’re in luck, sir,” he said. “I do, indeed, have some interesting information to sell. Shall we discuss the terms of our bargain?”
“If the information is of use to me, you may name your price.”
The words were music to Ibbitts’s ears.
“In my experience, gentlemen only say that sort of thing when they are pursuing women or vengeance.” He chuckled. “In this case, I expect it’s the latter, eh? No sane man would go to such lengths to get his hands on an irritating female like Miss Elenora Lodge. Well, sir, if it’s revenge against St. Merryn you’re after, I’m more than happy to help you.”
The intruder said nothing in response, but his very stillness renewed a measure of Ibbitts’s nervousness.
It did not surprise him to learn that St. Merryn had such a determined and relentless enemy. Men as wealthy and powerful as the earl always managed to annoy a few people. But whatever the intruder’s reasons might be, Ibbitts had no intention of inquiring into them. He had survived in the households of Society all these years because he had learned the fine art of discretion. Take, for example, the way he had been very careful not to let St. Merryn know that he was aware of the inquiries the earl was making into his uncle’s murder.
“A thousand pounds,” he said, holding his breath. It was a very daring price. He would have settled for a hundred or even fifty. But he knew that the Quality never respected anything unless it came at considerable cost.
“Done,” the intruder said at once.
Ibbitts allowed himself to breathe again.
He told the man in the cloak everything he had overheard in the linen closet.
There was a short pause after he finished.
“So, it is as I anticipated,” the intruder said, speaking softly as though to himself. “I do, indeed, have an opponent in this affair, just as my predecessor did. My destiny grows more clear by the day.”
The man sounded odd. Ibbitts grew uneasy again. He wondered if he had given away too much information before getting his hands on the money. The Quality did not always feel an obligation to keep their bargains with his sort. Oh, they were quick enough to pay their gaming debts because those were considered matters of honor. But gentlemen were content to let shopkeepers and merchants wait forever when it came to their bills.
With a deep sigh, Ibbitts prepared to accept a much lower fee, if it proved necessary. He was not in a position to be particular, he reminded himself.
“Thank you,” the man said. “You have been most helpful.” He stirred again in the shadows, reaching one hand inside the flowing folds of the cloak.
Too late Ibbitts understood that the stranger was not reaching for money. When his hand reappeared, moonlight danced evilly on the pistol he held.
“No.” Ibbitts stumbled backward, clawing for the knife in his pocket.
The pistol roared, filling the small room with smoke and lightning. The shot struck Ibbitts in the chest and flung him hard against the wall. A searing cold immediately began to close around his vitals. He knew that he was dying, but he managed to cling to the knife.
The damned Quality always won, he thought as he started to slide down the wall. The ice spread inside him. The world began to go dark.
The intruder came closer. He took a second pistol out of his pocket. Through the gathering haze that clouded his vision, Ibbitts could just make out the wings of the cloak that swirled around the man’s polished boots. Just like one of those winged demons out of hell, Ibbitts thought.
Rage gave him one last burst of energy. He shoved himself away from the wall, the knife clutched in his fingers, and flung himself toward his killer.
Startled, the villain swerved to the side. His booted foot caught on the leg of a chair. He staggered, trying to find his balance, the cloak flaring wildly. The chair crashed to the floor.
Ibbitts struck blindly; felt the blade pierce and rip fabric. For a second he prayed that he would bury the knife in the demon’s flesh. But it snagged harmlessly in the thick folds of the cloak and was jerked from his hand.
Spent, Ibbitts collapsed. Dimly he heard the knife clatter on the floor beside him.
“There is a third reason why a man might tell you to name your price,” the intruder whispered in the darkness. “And that is because he has no intention of paying it.”
Ibbitts never heard the second shot
that exploded through his brain, destroying a large portion of the face that had always been his fortune.
The killer rushed from the room, pausing only to put out the candle and yank the door closed. He stumbled down the stairs, his breath coming and going in great gasps. At the bottom of the steps he suddenly remembered the mask. Yanking it out of the pocket of the cloak, he fitted it over his head.
Things had not gone entirely according to plan tonight.
He hadn’t been expecting that last desperate assault from his victim. The two old men had died so easily. He had assumed that the damned butler would be equally obliging.
When Ibbitts had flung himself at him, knife in hand, blood soaking the front of his shirt, it was as if a dead man had been shocked by an electricity machine into a semblance of life.
The sense of raw terror he had experienced was still upon him, rattling his nerves and clouding his usually well-focused brain.
Out in the darkened street the unlit hackney waited. The coachman huddled into his greatcoat, nursing his bottle of gin. The killer wondered if the man on the box had heard the pistol shots.
No, he thought. Highly unlikely. Ibbitts’s lodgings were at the back of the old, stone building, and the walls were thick. In addition there were several carriages in the street, rattling and clattering loudly.
If the coachman’s ears had picked up any sounds at all, they would have been greatly muffled.
For a second or two he hesitated, and then he decided that there was nothing to be concerned about in that quarter. The coachman was quite drunk and had little interest in his passenger’s activities. All he cared about was his fare.
Even if the driver were to grow curious or decide to talk to his friends in the tavern, there would be no risk, the killer thought as he bounded up into the cab of the vehicle. The hackney driver had never seen his face. The mask concealed his features quite adequately.
He dropped onto the worn cushions. The coach rumbled into motion.
The killer’s breathing gradually steadied. He reviewed the events of the past few moments, going over each twist and turn with his brilliantly honed, logical mind. Methodically he searched his memory for errors or clues that he might have inadvertently left behind.
Eventually he was satisfied that the matter was under complete control.
He was still breathing a little too fast; still a bit light-headed. But he was pleased to note that his nerves had calmed. He raised his hands in front of his face. There was no light inside the cab, so he could not see his fingers clearly, but he was fairly certain that they no longer trembled.
In place of the frantic sensation he had experienced after the unanticipated attack, waves of giddy excitement were now sweeping through him.
He wanted—no, he needed—to exult in his great success. This time he would not go to the exclusive brothel he had used after he had killed George Lancaster and the other old man. He required a far more personal celebration, one that befitted his unfolding destiny.
He smiled in the darkness. He had anticipated the need to savor this thrilling achievement and had planned for it, just as he had planned all of the other aspects of the business.
He knew exactly how he would mark this bold triumph over his opponent.
18
The old man gazed into the crackling fire, one gouty foot propped on a stool, a glass of port in his gnarled fingers. Arthur waited, his arms resting on the gilded sides of his chair. The conversation with his companion had not gone smoothly. It was obvious that for Lord Dalling time had become a deep pool in which the currents of the past and the present were intermingled, rather than a river that ran in only one direction.
“How did ye happen to learn of my interest in old snuffboxes, sir?” Dalling asked, frowning in a befuddled manner. “Collect ’em yourself, do ye?”
“No, sir,” Arthur said. “I visited several shops that specialize in selling fine snuffboxes and asked for the names of those clients the proprietors considered their most knowledgeable customers. Your name came up in several of the best establishments.”
There was no need to add that it had been considerably more complicated obtaining the old man’s current address. Dalling had not made any additions to his snuffbox collection in years, and the shopkeepers had lost track of his whereabouts.
In addition, the elderly gentleman had moved two years previously. Most of his contemporaries were either dead or suffering great gaps in their memories and could not remember the location of their old friend’s new lodgings. But fortunately one aging baron who still played cards every night at Arthur’s club had recalled Dalling’s new street and number.
They sat together in Dalling’s library. The furnishings and the books on the shelves dated from another era, as did their owner. It was as if the past thirty years had never happened, as if Byron had never written a word, as if Napoleon had not been defeated, as if men of science had not made astonishing strides investigating the mysteries of electricity and chemistry. Even his host’s tight breeches dated from another time and place.
The tall clock ticked heavily in the silence. Arthur wondered if his last question had sent his companion back into the murky depths of the pool of time, never to resurface.
But Dalling stirred at last. “A snuffbox set with a large red stone, you say?”
“Yes. With the name Saturn worked into the design.”
“Aye, I recall a box such as you describe. An acquaintance carried it for years. Quite a lovely little box. I recall once asking him where he had purchased it.”
Arthur did not move for fear of distracting the old man. “Did he tell you?”
“I believe he said that he and some companions had commissioned a jeweler to create three similar boxes, one for each of them.”
“Who was this gentleman? Do you remember his name?”
“Of course I remember it.” Dalling’s face tightened fiercely. “I’m not senile, sir.”
“My apologies. I never meant to imply that.”
Dalling appeared somewhat mollified. “Glentworth. That was the name of the man who owned the Saturn snuffbox.”
“Glentworth.” Arthur got to his feet. “Thank you, sir. I am very grateful for your assistance.”
“Heard he died recently. Not long ago. Within the past week, I believe.”
Hell’s teeth. Glentworth was dead? After all the effort it had taken to track him down?
“I didn’t attend the funeral,” Dalling continued. “Used to go to all of them, but there got to be too many, so I gave up the habit.”
Arthur tried to think of how to proceed. Everywhere he turned in this maze, he met with a blank wall.
The fire crumbled. Dalling took a jeweled snuffbox out of his pocket, flipped the lid open and helped himself to a pinch. He inhaled the pulverized tobacco with a quick, efficient little snort. Closing the box, he settled deeper into his chair with a heavy sigh of satisfaction. His heavy lids closed.
Arthur started toward the door. “Thank you for your time, sir.”
“Not at all.” Dalling did not open his eyes. He fingered his exquisite little snuffbox, turning it over and over in his hand.
Arthur had the door open and was about to step out into the hall when his host spoke again.
“Perhaps you should talk to the widow,” the old man said.
19
The costume ball was a crush. Lady Fambridge had displayed what Elenora had learned was her well-known flair for the dramatic in the décor she had chosen for the evening. The large, elegant room was lit with red and gold lanterns rather than blazing chandeliers. The dim illumination steeped the space in long, mysterious shadows.
A number of potted palms had been brought in from the conservatory. They had been strategically placed in clusters along the walls to provide secluded niches for couples.
Costume balls, Elenora had quickly discovered, were all about dalliance and flirtation. They provided opportunities for the jaded members of Society to play their favorite ga
mes of seduction and intrigue even more openly than was usual.
Arthur had admitted that morning at breakfast that when he had elected to accept the invitation, he had not realized the event would require a domino and a mask.
That was what came of leaving social decisions to a man, Elenora thought. They did not always pay attention to the details.
Margaret and Bennett both appeared to be enjoying themselves thoroughly, however. They had disappeared half an hour before. Elenora had a hunch that they were making good use of one of the palm-shrouded bowers scattered strategically around the room.
She, on the other hand, was making her way through the crowd toward the nearest door. She needed a rest.
For the last hour she had dutifully danced with any number of masked gentlemen, rarely bothering to hide her own features behind the little feathered mask she carried in one hand. The point was for her to be recognized, after all, as Margaret had reminded her.
She had carried out her responsibilities to the best of her ability, but now she was not only bored, her feet were also beginning to hurt inside her soft leather dancing slippers. A steady diet of balls and soirées took its toll, she thought.
She had almost reached the door when she noticed the man in the black domino making his way determinedly toward her. The cowl of the enveloping cloaklike garment had been drawn up over his head, casting his face into deep shadow. As he drew closer she saw that he wore a black silk mask.
He moved like a wolf gliding through a flock of sheep in search of the weakest lamb. For an instant her spirits rose and she forgot all about her sore feet. When he had left the house earlier that evening, Arthur had taken a black domino and a black mask with him. He had said he would meet her at the Fambridge ball and accompany her home.
She had not expected him to arrive so early, however. Perhaps he had met with success in his inquiries and wanted to discuss the new information with her. She took some comfort in the knowledge that, although he seemed intent on ignoring the attraction between them—at least for now—he had more or less made her a consultant in this affair.
