She could imagine Adam’s reaction—being taunted by a jackstraw like Judson. “What happened to bring you down from your mighty perch?”
“A trumped-up charge of counterfeiting.”
Shocked, she asked, “Isn’t that the same charge that brought Adam’s father to the gallows?”
“The late Lord Rawson implicated my father. He couldn’t keep his mouth shut, couldn’t go down without pointing his finger in random, widening circles.”
Deliberately obtuse, she asked, “But if your father was innocent, wouldn’t the court have dismissed the charges?”
“My father invested a bit of money in the business to help Rawson along, and that ensnared him. How was my father to know Rawson was so clumsy he would be caught?”
Too shrewd to accuse the elder Judson of misconduct, she asked, “What did your father do to create the wealth you speak of?”
“He held the position of trading justice in the worst part of London.”
“Ah.” She understood immediately, but because she wanted to be released, she kept her tone bland and unaccusing. “Could you untie me?”
Cocking his head, he thought about it.
She shrank down to make herself look smaller than she was and pasted a simper on her face. “A trading justice is a very important person.”
“People don’t realize how important. Do you know how many of the aristocracy complain the trading justices are unfair to the peasants?” He opened a drawer in the end table and rustled through the contents, tossing aside complexion creams, powder boxes, papers.
The handle of the knife he found was decorated with ornate carving, but the blade glinted with utilitarian strength. It attracted her eye like a magnet attracted iron. Only last night, Adam had held a knife, brought it close against her skin, and she’d reveled in it. She’d never once considered he could hurt her, for her faith in him transcended the bounds of good sense. The contrast of her plain, strong man and this stylish, murderous fop brought a heated sweat to her palms. Oh God, where was Adam? She wanted him so badly she fanticized about the taste of him, the scent of him, the touch of him.
“Are you sick?” Judson demanded.
She lifted her dry, burning eyes. “What?”
“You look sick.” He flicked his thumb against the true edge of the blade. “Lovesick.”
His considering gaze brought a fantasy to mind. How easily the knife would sink between her shoulder blades under the guidance of Carroll Judson. How happy he would be to so direct it. Yet she didn’t want to give him ideas; she turned her back to him without obvious inhibition and said, “I can’t imagine anyone complaining about the justices. Who else could keep the London underworld in order? And so cheaply, too.”
“Quite right, quite right.” He grabbed the rope that bound her hands and jerked her hands up. Her shoulder blades strained together. The sinews of her back complained. She grunted, found the moment too brief to prepare for her death.
Then her hands were free.
Moving slowly and painfully, she brought them to rest in her lap. As the blood flooded back, they pricked with a thousand needles just below the skin. She inched off her gloves and tucked them into the chair beside her hip. For some reason she wanted to look at her hands, bare and unornamented. They were nice hands, long and narrow with a few tiny freckles that floated atop the golden skin. She wiggled her fingers. She rotated her wrists in gentle circles, then massaged the reddened skin where the ropes had burned her. Funny, to be so absorbed in the sight of her own hands, almost as if she were looking at them for the first time—or the last.
Yet Judson seemed oblivious of her, still bragging about his wicked father and how well he did his wretched job. “All the fines he assessed for criminal activities went into his pocket. All the monies collected when a criminal was committed to prison, all the bail-out monies also. That’s how my father met Rawson, and out of the kindness of his heart he allowed the man to move his family onto a hut at the edge of our property. Little did he know the perfidy that ungrateful wretch embodied.”
“I see.” She did, more than he could imagine, and she wondered at his audacity. Did he hope she would tamely submit to his tyranny? He was not a large man; did he hope she would not fight him? She turned to face him and found the blade held close to her cheek, right against the bone. Cautiously she turned to face forward, keeping the point within her peripheral vision. “So when your father was exiled to the Continent, he dragged you along?”
“I went along gladly.” He shrugged. “Better that than a seaman’s fate.”
“Better murder than work?” She gazed at him. He held the knife in a fighter’s grip, blade tilted up, point extended. It seemed only to emphasize the contrast between Adam and the beast before her. “You have an odd sense of morals.”
“Morals are for wealthy men, my dear, not for those who are left to fend for themselves at the age of fourteen.”
Forever secure in the bosom of her family, she was shocked. “Your father died when you were fourteen?”
“He married a woman with money, and she found me repulsive.” He touched his penciled brow with his little finger. “I had to grow up then, you see. I lived on the streets of Rome. I learned Italian, especially the word for ‘freak.’ I worked in a kitchen. I worked in the fields. I worked like a slave. I survived, survived by my wits. Through the years, I’ve brought myself up in the world, and I swore I would never have to work with my hands again.”
“Work with your hands?” She spread her fingers, looked at them incredulously. “You’ve been killing people.”
He looked down at the knife as if he’d forgotten he grasped it in his hand. “So I have. And I’m very, very good at it.”
“He’s no footman,” Northrup said with scorn. “He’s Carroll Judson’s valet. Don’t you recognize him? He followed Judson about Change Alley, adjusting Judson’s clothing and chirping about his makeup. You’re Gianni, aren’t you?”
The footman made a gurgling noise, and Adam unwrapped his fingers from around his throat. It took effort, for Adam wanted, so badly, to strangle him, but Northrup’s composure acted as the perfect foil for his own savage inclinations.
Indeed, as Gianni stumbled backward, Adam realized how well he and Northrup acted as a team. Inclined to exploit their unity, he watched Gianni bump against the kitchen table and come to rest against the closed pantry door. “Speak, scoundrel,” he snarled, but Gianni massaged the marks Adam’s fingers had left, stalling until Adam propelled himself forward.
Hastily he agreed, “I am Gianni.”
“You are dead,” Adam said. “If anything has happened to Bronwyn, I’ll dismember you with my own hands.”
“Lord Rawson,” Northrup reproved. “Intimidation will avail us nothing. There’s a proper way to do these things. First we offer a bribe. Then we threaten him.”
Adam glowered at his proper young secretary and the suave valet. “I stand corrected.”
Gianni sniffed. “The English are so barbaric.”
Adam’s resolve died a swift death under Gianni’s disparagement, and Northrup halted Adam’s forward rush with a stiff arm across the chest. “Gianni, I won’t be able to control Lord Rawson if you don’t keep a civil tongue in your head.”
Subdued, Gianni nodded.
“Now, about the money—” Northrup began.
“You cannot offer me enough to betray my master.” Dramatic as an opera singer, Gianni pulled himself up. “His wealth is beyond measure.”
Northrup and Adam chuckled in unison.
“It is!” Thumping his chest, Gianni bragged, “My master has the inside line to information about the South Sea stock. He has assurances….”
In a carefully measured tone, Adam asked, “From whom?”
The Italian wilted under Adam’s frosty gaze as he hadn’t beneath the threat of violence. “From someone high in the South Sea Company.”
“And what does this mysterious person say?” Adam demanded.
“That
as a reward for his services”—Gianni inhaled but seemed to find no sustenance in the air—“Mr. Judson will be informed when it is time to sell his stock.”
“The time has passed to sell his stock.” Northrup sounded shocked at such ignorance.
Rolling his eyes in alarm, Gianni said, “No, no, he has assurances.”
Northrup asked, “Does Judson truly believe the stock will rise again?” Gianni nodded, and Northrup tsked as if he were saddened.
Adam laughed briefly. “Poor imbecile.”
More than Adam’s sarcasm, Northrup’s pity convinced Gianni, and his conviction showed on his handsome face. “So. We are devastated once more.”
“He is devastated,” Adam corrected. “You need not be.”
“I will not betray him.” Gianni’s brown eyes flashed with indignation. “You are the imbecile if you think I will. We have been devoted for years. He is all I have in the world.”
“You don’t have to betray him,” Northrup soothed. “Miss Edana is our only interest. All you have to do is tell us where he has taken her.”
“And ruin the one true pleasure he takes in life?” Gianni sighed in exasperation. “I cannot do that.”
Adam’s patience broke like a log licked by fire. He sprang at Gianni. Northrup made no move to stop him, but when a woman screamed, he swung on her like the angel of vengeance.
A large man, the largest man Adam had ever seen, stood at Daphne’s elbow, and she pushed him forward as she shrank under the flame of Adam’s gaze. “I’m sorry,” she babbled. “I’m sorry. I’d do anything to take it back. Promise you won’t tell Rachelle.”
“What are you blathering about?” Adam roared.
Her chin trembled, her eyes teared. “Nothing. Nothing, but I brought this man to help you. Talk to him.”
Skirts gathered, she fled, leaving behind a perplexed Adam. He looked to the giant for explanation. The dockworker shrugged, moving his shoulders like mountains during an earthquake. In a slow rumble he said, “I don’t understand th’ gel, neither.”
The fellow said no more, and in exasperation Adam asked, “What do you want?”
“A lady o’ quality tol’ me t’ find Adam Keane, viscount of Rawson.”
“And you are?” Northrup prompted.
Determined to tell the story his way, the man said, “Is one o’ ye gennamen Lord Rawson?”
“I am,” Adam answered. “What young lady are you speaking of?”
The big man shuffled his feet and fingered his hat.
Adam waited, then prompted, “A blond lady?”
A single nod answered him. Adam shot a triumphant glance at Northrup and saw, from the corner of his eye, Gianni sliding out of the room. “Catch him!” Adam yelled.
Northrup started forward. The giant man started forward. They met, tangled, fell in a heap with the giant on top. Ignoring Northrup’s heartfelt groan, Adam raced after the wily Italian. But Gianni was younger, faster, unmarked by cannon fire, and before Adam reached the top of the stair, Gianni was gone.
Adam limped back down to the kitchen, gathered the giant’s shirt in his fists. “What do you know about the young lady?”
Unworried by the implied threat, the fellow answered, “I didn’t trust th’ man what ’ad ’er, ye see.”
Keeping tight hold of his patience, Adam nodded.
“I followed ’er t’ see she took no ’arm.” The big man looked up through greasy hair. “Me name is Oakes.”
“No one’s here, sir.”
Adam massaged the shoulder he’d just used as a battering ram and agreed. “No, Northrup, no one’s here.” From the corner of a chair, he plucked a crumpled glove. “But she’s been here, just as Oakes said.”
The door of Judson’s Curzon Street flat gaped, the lock broken by the two men who stood, desolate, in the middle of the room. Adam was surprised by the blight battering his soul. He had expected to find Bronwyn here. He’d come ready to save her, to break Judson if he’d hurt her, to end this nightmare. He’d been charging in one direction, blind to the alleys that opened to the side, and now he didn’t know what to do.
“Do you think it was wise, sir, putting Oakes on the alert for Judson?” Northrup worried.
“It’s a big city.” Adam tapped his fingers on the end table, awash with the clutter Judson had left. “I doubt Oakes will find Judson.”
“But if he did, and did what he threatened, things would go ill for a man as simpleminded as Oakes.”
“If he finds Judson and does as he threatened, I’ll personally guarantee his safety. Do you think Judson left a clue to his destination here?” Adam pawed through the collection of powder boxes and papers.
With brisk sarcasm Northrup said, “Of course, sir. No doubt Judson left a map for us to follow.”
Adam lifted one paper and stared at it. “Perhaps he did.”
“You didn’t find a map?”
Northrup wasn’t as credulous as he used to be, Adam noted. “Not a map. The floor plan of Walpole’s town house.”
“Good God.” Northrup stood perfectly still. “I didn’t believe Judson would really dare to kill Robert Walpole.”
“For what other reason would he have made such a drawing?” Northrup had no answer, and Adam asked, “How long ago do you think Judson left with Bronwyn?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Northrup stooped, touched the arm of the chair where Bronwyn’s gloves had rested. “Not long ago, I surmise.”
“Why do you say that?”
Northrup shook his head, and Adam’s wit returned.
“What’s there?” Leaning over the place where Northrup had stood, Adam saw the spot. Brown against the green brocade fabric, it still glistened with the damp. When Adam touched it, a red smear shone on his flesh. Blood. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and an awful calm seized him. “Where could they have gone?” He didn’t recognize his own voice, it sounded so guttural, like an animal afflicted by the summer madness.
Adam thought he heard Northrup speaking at a great distance: down a tube, in a tunnel, in the dark. Yet Northrup stood not two feet from him. “The doorman will know, Lord Rawson, and doormen aren’t as loyal as that fiend Gianni.”
“Heaven help the doorman if he is.” The calm still permeated Adam’s soul, putting his emotions on ice as he strode to the outside.
Whether the elegant doorman responded to the coin Northrup offered, or to the waiting menace of Adam, Adam did not know or care. All that mattered was the ease with which the man gave up his information. With a curl of his narrow lips, the doorman said, “I ordered Mr. Judson’s carriage half an hour ago.”
“Did he have anyone with him?” Northrup asked.
“A woman accompanied him.”
“What did she look like?”
Rubbing his forehead, the doorman mourned, “My memory is so faulty at times.”
Northrup slipped him another coin.
The doorman pocketed the silver without a glance at its denomination. “She was heavily veiled.”
“Good God,” Adam ejected. He had seen Bronwyn covered with cosmetics, hidden by a wig, strangled by corsets, but never had she concealed herself with a veil. Had Judson so injured her that he dared not allow her face to show? “Was she well?”
The doorman recognized the cut of Adam’s clothing, and his respect seemed genuine. “I would suppose, sir. She had to be rather forcibly thrust in the carriage by Mr. Judson. Mr. Judson tied the door shut, and she thumped at it most energetically.”
“You stood and watched it happen?” Adam barked.
“’Tis not my place to interfere with the gentry,” the doorman answered without emotion.
Before Adam could blast him, Northrup snapped, “Where were they going?”
“I can’t imagine, sir.” Gold glinted as Northrup held it aloft, but the doorman refused. “There are some pieces of information which can’t be bought.”
Northrup still hugged the coin between two fingers, keeping it within easy reach of the doorm
an’s greedy fingers. “Then you know Judson’s destination?”
“It would reflect poorly on my reputation if I were to tell the destination of the flats’ inhabitants.”
Adam tucked his walking stick beneath his arm and flexed his hands. “It will reflect poorly on your health if you don’t provide the information we request.”
The doorman eyed the money, tempting and within easy reach. He eyed Adam’s fists, held at the ready and closer still. And he told them what they wanted to know.
The barren road stretched from London to nowhere, bizarre when seen through stained-glass windows. The rain settled in the ruts, making it difficult for Judson to maneuver the carriage in a circle so it faced the city once more. The box quivered as he dismounted; Bronwyn shivered as she awaited his arrival.
He hadn’t called his henchman again, not trusting Fred, so he told her, as he trusted Gianni. Nor had he tied her hands again. Instead he had proved his wiry strength wrestling her into the carriage, and proved it so successfully that hopelessness almost overwhelmed her now. He would kill her, toss her body out for some poor shepherd to discover, and she couldn’t stop him. Oh, she’d struggle, of course. She had too much pride, too much Irish in her, to give up without a struggle. She only knew it would take a miracle to save her now.
The door rattled as he untied the handle, and she prepared herself. As he opened the door, she flung her whole weight at him. Braced for her assault, he knocked her back inside. He grabbed for her flailing hands and missed. She grabbed for his eyes and missed, catching only the edge of his face and drilling long scratches along his cheek. She followed it up with a blow to his nose. He retaliated with a blow to her chin that slammed her head against the wall. She slumped. Her ears buzzed. The pain crushed her.
In some wonderment, he reached up and touched his cheek. Staring at his hand as if he couldn’t believe the blood smeared there, he hissed, “Shrew. Unworthy twat.” He sat up and tore at his breeches. “I’m going to give you more than you deserve.”