The River Knows

by Amanda Quick

  Anthony walked toward him. “That’s enough, Easton. You’re drunk, and you’re embarrassing yourself.”

  Easton ignored him. He looked at Louisa through the window of the carriage. “You do realize that he’s using you, Mrs. Bryce. You’re not at all his type, you see. The word in the clubs is that he’s fucking some other man’s wife and concealing the fact by hiding behind your skirts.”

  Anthony kept walking toward him. At the last instant Easton seemed to realize that he was in danger, but it was too late. Anthony moved with a speed that took everyone, including Easton by surprise. He caught Easton by the sleeve of his coat. At the same time he put out one foot. It was over in a heartbeat. Easton went down very suddenly, landing hard on his rear. He sat on the pavement, looking dazed.

  “Arden Square,” Anthony said to the driver as he vaulted up into the cab.

  The vehicle rolled forward immediately. Louisa looked back toward the steps of the Lorrington mansion. Julian Easton was still sitting on the pavement. Fury had replaced the confusion and surprise in his face.

  She turned around to face Anthony. “Who is Mr. Easton?”

  “We belong to the same club.” Anthony’s voice was disturbingly neutral.

  “Obviously you are not friends.”

  “No,” Anthony said. “We are not friends.”

  She could almost hear the door slamming shut on that avenue of inquiry. She decided to try another.

  “What was it you did back there that took his feet out from under him in such a sudden manner?” she asked.

  “It is a trick I learned in my travels abroad. I find it useful on occasion.”

  He turned his attention to the night scene outside the window. He did not say another word until he bid her good night at her door.

  “I regret that you were forced to endure that scene with Easton,” he said.

  He sounded grim and strangely weary. Sympathy welled up inside her. She touched the side of his face with her gloved fingers.

  “There is no need to apologize,” she said gently. “Easton was the one at fault. You have endured a great deal in the months since Fiona died. I hope that we will be able to find the answers you seek, Anthony.”

  She turned and went into the house.

  22

  She came awake with a start, hating the familiar too-rapid beat of her pulse and the breathless sensation that always accompanied the dream. She pushed aside the covers and sat up, needing to walk, to move, anything to work off the unwholesome energy that always followed in the wake of the nightmarish images.

  She stood, wincing a little when she felt the tenderness between her legs. Memories of the tryst in the conservatory flooded through her, mercifully pushing aside the worst fragments from the nightmare but bringing with them a new set of fears.

  She pulled on her dressing gown, shoved her feet into her slippers, and began to pace. What had she done tonight? How had she managed to become involved in an intimate liaison with the one man who could destroy her? A man who was friends with the Scotland Yard detective who had investigated the murder of Lord Gavin? What on earth had she been thinking?

  She stopped, all too well aware of the answer to that question. She had begun to fall in love with Anthony from that very first moment at the Hammond ball when he had looked at her as if he knew her deepest secrets. She was going to lose her heart to him. She knew that as surely as she knew her real name. Perhaps it was already too late.

  Do not think about the future. Your love is doomed. You can never tell him the truth about yourself, and you will never be able to marry a man unless you reveal your secret to him. It would not be right.

  No gentleman of Anthony’s rank in Society would marry a murderess. If nothing else, he had his family’s good name to consider.

  Not that he was likely ever to fall in love with her. He had given his heart to Fiona Risby. He would certainly marry someday—in his position it was expected—but when the time came he would look much higher than a woman with no background or fortune.

  Live for the here and now; it is all you will ever have with Anthony.

  She halted in the middle of the bedroom, contemplating another glass of brandy. The one she had taken after Anthony had brought her home from the Lorrington house had proved surprisingly effective. She had not expected to sleep tonight, but evidently the dramatic events of the day and evening had exhausted her more than she realized. Another glass might allow her a few more hours of slumber.

  She went to the window and stood looking out into the night. The scene was dimly lit by the streetlamps and a pale moon. Directly across from the front door of Number Twelve stood a cloaked figure, her face obscured by a black net veil. She looked like a wraith that had drifted out of the mist-shrouded trees.

  The poor, desperate widow who had been forced to turn to prostitution had returned. Louisa was surprised to see her back. Evidently the woman had not yet learned that customers looking to buy what she was selling did not frequent this part of town. Or perhaps she was too frightened to go into the rougher neighborhoods. She was no doubt new to the streetwalking profession.

  On impulse Louisa whirled around and let herself out into the hall. She tiptoed downstairs and went into the study. Turning up a lamp, she unlocked a desk drawer and took out the small amount of money that she and Emma kept there for household incidentals. She stuffed the coins and some banknotes into an envelope. Picking up a pen, she jotted an address on the back of the envelope.

  In the front hall she pulled on a cloak, opened the front door, and peered out.

  The woman in the black cloak and veil was still there, standing in the shadows cast by a tree. She went very still when she saw Louisa walk out onto the front step and pause in the lamplight.

  “Good evening,” Louisa said quietly.

  The woman reacted as if she had been addressed by a ghost. She started violently, took a step back, turned, and began to walk quickly away.

  “Wait, please.” Louisa hurried after her. “I am not going to summon a constable. I just wanted to give you some money and an address.”

  Evidently concluding that she was not going to be left alone, the woman halted and turned around, a cornered creature at bay.

  Louisa stopped a few steps away and held out the envelope.

  “There is enough money in this to see you through the month if you are careful with it. There is an address on the back of the envelope. If you go there and ask for help, you will receive it with no questions asked. It is an establishment run by a woman whose only goal is to assist other women like you.”

  “Other women like me?” The woman stiffened.

  “Women who have been forced onto the streets.”

  “How dare you imply that I am a common streetwalker? Who do you think you are?”

  The words were low and charged with a seething fury. The voice was that of an educated woman who had been reared in respectable circles.

  “I’m sorry,” Louisa said, chagrined. “I meant no offense.”

  Without another word the woman walked off swiftly into the night, the folds of the black velvet cloak sweeping out around her ankles.

  Louisa watched her until she disappeared. When the widow was gone, she went back into the town house, closed and locked the door.

  She tossed the envelope onto the hall table and went up the stairs, the woman’s words ringing in her ears. Who do you think you are?

  It was not that the widow had used the same words that Lord Gavin had employed that fateful night last year. The phrase was common enough, after all. Who do you think you are? People said it all the time. What sparked the chill down her spine was the rage that had vibrated in the woman’s voice. It was as though she hated me. But how can that be? I’m sure I have never met her before in my life.

  23

  Louisa Bryce had mistaken her for a street whore. Rage, hot as steam, scalded her senses. She longed to go back to Arden Square and kill the stupid woman, but gradually common sense prevailed. She b
egan to breathe more deeply. The white-hot fury receded. She would deal with Louisa Bryce in her own good time.

  She walked swiftly, making her way toward a street where she could find a carriage. Night always brought back memories.

  The effects of the chloroform were wearing off, leaving her disoriented and slightly queasy. She was vaguely aware of a sense of motion. At first she did not comprehend. Then it dawned on her that she was being carried in a man’s arms. She lacked the strength to struggle. Perhaps it was for the best. Some murky instinct told her it would be safer to remain limp and lifeless.

  Nevertheless, she could not resist opening her eyes partway. It did no good. She could not see anything. Her face was covered by a heavy cloth. A tarp, she decided. She was suddenly aware that the constricting canvas swathed her entire body. She could not move, even if she wanted to.

  Despite the cloth covering her face, however, she could smell the dampness of fog and the river. Panic surged through her.

  The man carrying her grunted with effort. She wanted to scream, but she could not summon her voice.

  The next instant she was falling, plunging straight down. Striking the water was like striking a stone wall, the protection of the tarp notwithstanding.

  She was aware of the deep, bone-chilling cold as she sank beneath the surface. The shroud in which she had been wrapped had evidently not been well secured. She felt the canvas drift free…

  It was only much later that she realized why Elwin had not bound her hands and feet before throwing her off the bridge. He wanted everyone to believe that she had committed suicide. Such a charade would not have worked if her wrists and ankles were tied when she was pulled from the river.

  Luck had been with her that night. Unbeknownst to Elwin, who had fled the scene as soon as he had rid himself of his victim, there had been a witness to his work. A lunatic who made his home in a rickety hovel on the edge of the river had watched the bulky bundle plunge into the water. Curious, he had rowed his boat out to see if anything of value could be salvaged.

  She had managed to claw her way to the surface, grateful that in her youth she had learned how to swim. It was a rare skill among women. Even given that ability, she knew she likely would have drowned had she not been dressed in her nightgown. She had been asleep when he had come for her with the chloroform. If she had been wearing one of her fashionable gowns when she tumbled into the water the weight of her skirts and corset would have pulled her under.

  The first thing she saw when she surfaced was the outline of a small rowboat. Someone stretched out an oar. She seized it with both hands.

  The other bit of good fortune was the fact that her savior had been a madman who claimed to hear voices in his head. People avoided him, and he, in turn, rarely spoke to anyone. The result was that no one knew he had pulled her out of the river that night.

  The lunatic, convinced that she was some sort of magical creature given into his keeping, had treated her with reverence. He had cared for her in secret until she had recovered from the ordeal. She had stayed with him for a few weeks, letting him provide her with food and shelter while she contemplated her future and made her plans.

  To be safe she had taken care to poison the old fool with arsenic before she left his care. She could not afford to take chances, after all. There was too much at stake. Nothing could be allowed to destroy her grand scheme of vengeance…

  She pulled her thoughts away from the past. There was an empty hansom in the street. She got into it and gave the driver her address. Ladies who cared about their reputations took care not to be seen in hansoms; the vehicles were fast and the women who rode in them were considered to be the same. In her widow’s gown and veil, however, she was anonymous. No one who had known her when she was Elwin Hastings’s wife would ever recognize her.

  She sat back, gloved hands clenched fiercely together. How dare Louisa Bryce assume that she was a cheap street whore?

  24

  The hansom was parked in the shadows at the end of the dark street. Anthony sat in the cab. He had been watching the door of the gentlemen’s club for nearly an hour, waiting for Hastings to appear. It was three in the morning. The early rumors of Thurlow’s death would no doubt have begun to circulate by now. Gossip flowed first through the clubs. He wanted to see how Hastings reacted to the news.

  Although he was here to keep an eye on his quarry, his thoughts were on Louisa. She had expected a transcendent experience. He’d blundered badly, and he had no one to blame but himself. On the other hand, she had deliberately misled him with her mysterious widow charade. Nevertheless, if he’d exercised even a modicum of control he would have realized that he was kissing an inexperienced woman.

  But self-control had not been at the forefront of his thoughts tonight, at least not after he’d initiated that kiss in the Lorrington gardens. At the time he told himself that the embrace had started out as a means of both keeping Louisa quiet and promoting the impression that they were engaged in an affair. But the truth was, he’d been hungering for her since the first moment he’d met her.

  Louisa’s searing response had pushed him to the edge of his self-control, overwhelming rational thought. The realization that she wanted him had created a sudden, indescribably exhilarating euphoria. In those first tumultuous moments the only thing he had been able to concentrate on was finding a secluded place where they could be together.

  In hindsight, however, he had to admit that a gardener’s workbench was probably not the most romantic location he could have chosen, and there was no question but that he had rushed things. Even an experienced woman of the world would have had some legitimate complaints under the circumstances. An inexperienced lady whose only knowledge of passion came from romantic novels and plays had every right to be disappointed.

  The door of the club opened, just as it had several times during the past forty-five minutes. This time Hastings appeared. A familiar-looking figure in a long overcoat and a low-crowned hat straightened away from the railing he had been lounging against, tossed aside his cigarette, and stepped forward.

  “Are you ready to leave?” Quinby asked.

  “Get me a hansom,” Hastings rasped. “I have just received a message. We must be off at once.”

  Anthony rapped softly on the back of the cab in which he was seated. “Are you awake up there?”

  “Aye, sir,” the driver muttered through the opening. “Just resting my eyes for a bit, is all.”

  Quinby whistled for a hansom. One rolled forward and stopped at the front steps of the club. The two men climbed in quickly.

  “I want you to follow that cab at a discreet distance,” Anthony said to the driver. “I do not want the occupants to know that we are behind them, but neither do I want to lose them. There will be a good tip in it for you if you can manage to keep up with the vehicle.”

  “That won’t be a problem, sir. They’ll never notice us in this traffic.”

  The driver slapped the reins lightly against the horse’s rump. A four-wheeled carriage would have had great difficulty pursuing another cab in the busy streets, but the fast, highly maneuverable, two-wheeled hansom easily threaded a path through the traffic.

  After several twists and turns, the cab in which Hastings was traveling entered an older neighborhood, where the streets were cramped and poorly lit, and many of the windows in the buildings were dark. The only bright spot was a small tavern aglow with a sinister yellow glare.

  What would make a man like Hastings risk a journey into one of the more dangerous sections of the city?

  Hastings’s cab halted in front of the tavern. The driver of Anthony’s hansom stopped some distance away.

  Hastings and Quinby got out of the cab, taking no notice of Anthony’s vehicle. Quinby put a hand inside the pocket of his coat and left it there. He carries that gun with him everywhere, Anthony thought.

  “The message said he would meet with me at the end of this passage.” Hastings halted at the opening of a dark, narrow servic
e walk that separated the tavern from the neighboring building. “Strike a light. You will go first.”

  Quinby said nothing, but he struck a light, as ordered. The flame illuminated his hard face. Anthony watched him look around, assessing the scene with flat, streetwise eyes. He glanced at the second hansom. Anthony knew there was no way Quinby could see him in the dense shadows of the cab, but the scrutiny raised the hair on the nape of his neck, nevertheless.

  Evidently concluding that Anthony’s hansom presented no immediate threat, Quinby drew his revolver and led Hastings into the unlit passage.

  Anthony dug some coins out of his pocket and handed them to the driver through the opening in the back of the hansom.

  “That is the tip I promised you,” he said. “There will be another if you are here when I return.”

  The driver made the coins disappear with a smooth, practiced gesture. “I’ll be here.”

  Anthony got out of the cab and went toward the entrance of the walk where Hastings and his companion had vanished. When he reached it he could see the faint, yellowish glow of the guard’s light at the far end. Three figures were illuminated, Quinby, Hastings, and a third man. Voices rumbled faintly, but it was impossible to make out what was being said.

  A moment later the guard’s light went out. Footsteps sounded on stone. Hastings and Quinby were returning, moving swiftly.

  Anthony flattened himself into the heavy shadows of a doorway. Hastings burst out of the passage almost running, followed by Quinby, who, unlike his employer, did not appear to be agitated.

  Hastings climbed into the cab in which they had arrived. Quinby got in after him. The driver set off at a brisk pace.