“Good heavens! You mean to say he’s been abducted?”
Felix nodded. “Kidnapped, I should rather say. They only left me behind to deliver their message. Guess they didn’t know who I was or they’d have taken a far more important hostage. They said Shipwash would be unharmed so long as their demands were met.”
“What do they want?” Artemisia clasped her hands before her to still their trembling.
“They want Beddington,” Felix said. “Or more precisely, this key he supposedly has. Beddington must show himself in the crypt of St. Paul’s at midnight tomorrow. With the key, mind.” Felix raised an admonitory finger to emphasize the key’s importance. “It’s no good coming without it, they said. And they were very particular about not calling in the authorities. If they see so much as a shadow of a peeler, the deal is off.”
“What . . . what if Mr. Beddington can’t come or hasn’t got any key?”
“Then in that case, I hope James Shipwash’s soul is in order,” Felix said gravely. “Ordinarily, I’d judge these chaps as untrustworthy in the extreme, but on this point, I’d not doubt them. If Beddington doesn’t show, or he doesn’t produce the key . . . “ The silence hung above them like the sword of Damocles. “They promised to feed Mr. Shipwash to the fishes.”
* * *
Felix stood in the doorway of Beddington’s office and watched his stepmother bundle herself into the waiting hansom. She was in a state and no mistake. It was almost worth this shiner to see her face blanch whiter than a fish’s belly.
Almost.
Who’d have thought the bespectacled Shipwash would have such a devastating left hook in him? The clerk had surprised Felix and his confederates with his fighting spirit when the Russians began taking the rooms apart.
Felix fingered his bruise and drew back when the pressure caused additional pain. Shipwash’s lucky punch was going to devastate his appearance for at least a fortnight. How was a man supposed to move in the best circles when he looked like he’d been on the short end of a drunken brawl? He’d have to curtail his activities till the bruise faded enough to be covered by rice powder.
Damn shame Shipwash had to strike him like that. Felix held no animosity toward Beddington’s assistant. When he agreed to help the Russians with their plan, they warned him that it was dangerous to release a hostage alive, even once the demands were met. Still, it wasn’t as if he’d plotted for Shipwash to die. He’d fully intended somehow to arrange for the man’s safe passage to Australia or India or some other pox-ridden outpost of the empire once this sorry business was concluded. He’d meant to see to it that Shipwash lived.
But now, he couldn’t.
Artemisia found her father in the wind-blown garden, humbly sweeping the first of the autumn leaves from the stone path as if he were merely a gardener instead of a duchess’s sire. The sight gave Artemisia pause.
Angus Dalrymple had been such a robust man, of penetrating intelligence and full of
joie de vivre.
To see him now, so reduced by his malady, nearly broke her heart. It was an insult against nature.
It was tempting to blame the Almighty for her father’s predicament. When Angus came down with a blindingly high fever, at first it had seemed enough for him just to survive the illness. The family was elated when the fever unexpectedly left him. Then, when it became apparent he’d been permanently impaired and would likely continue his downward slide, her mother turned bitter. Even the vicar stationed at their cantonment had been little help. He cautioned against questioning the will of God.
As if God had purposely struck her father down. The vicar’s version of God seemed too capricious and evil to be named a Superior Being.
Surprisingly enough, it had been Naresh who’d helped Artemisia make peace with her father’s condition.
“All life is precious,” Naresh told her. “Your father, he is still one of the happiest of fellows. Surely a merry heart is pleasing to your God. All the time your father was in my country, he worked like a
pukka
devil, never stopping to enjoy the bounty of his labor. Now he rests. Who is to say this life is less worthy than his previous one?”
At that moment, Angus must have sensed her presence for he lifted his head and smiled at her. It was a smile of childish simplicity, and her heart constricted at the sight.
“Hello, sweeting,” he said. “What brings such a pretty lady to me garden?”
She returned his smile, not certain whether he knew her or not this day, since he used an endearment instead of her name.
“Good morning, Father,” she said. “I need to speak with you on a matter of some urgency. Please, sit with me.”
Angus obliged and settled beside her on the iron-work bench with a long sigh of contentment. As Naresh had observed, he was clearly enjoying himself.
“Some weeks ago, a young man visited you in the garden,” Artemisia said. “A tall gentleman, dark hair and eyes. Do you remember?”
“A young man, ye say. Hmm.” Angus tapped his temple in thought. “We see so few visitors these days, just sparrows mostly. Seems like a body would remember a young man among them. What with him having no feathers to speak of.”
Despair clawed at her throat, but she swallowed back the sob. “He helped you prune the vines.”
Angus squinted as if straining to see the young man in his mind’s eye.
“And he spoke to you.” Artemisia tried to remember the exact words Trevelyn Deveridge had said to her father. “Something about the tigress feeding by moonlight.”
“But the bear feeds whenever it may,” her father said reflexively. A glint of understanding flashed in Angus’s pale eyes, then faded as quickly as it appeared. He gave her a puzzled grimace. “Aye, I think I mind him. What does the young man want?”
“He’s looking for a key,” Artemisia said grasping at the hope her father would remember something useful. “Please, Father, try to think. It’s dreadfully important.”
Angus frowned for a moment; then a smile spread over his wrinkled face. “Beddington’s key!”
“Yes, that’s it precisely.” Relief flooded her chest. “Where is Beddington’s key?”
Angus patted her cheek and chuckled. “Why, with Mr. Beddington, of course. Bless me, if ye aren’t a bit simple, lass.”
Since her father fell ill, Artemisia had borne the weight of her family’s well-being. While she relished taking on the decisions and enjoyed the measure of control her position afforded, suddenly, with Mr. Shipwash’s abduction, she felt the full burden. Now she was even responsible for whether her assistant lived or died and for the first time, Artemisia didn’t know what to do. Her face crumpled in misery.
“There, there,” Angus said when he noticed her distress. “I didn’t mean that, Larla. Ye mustn’t pay any heed to an auld man’s ramblings. Of course, ye’re a right sharp lassie and I’ll have words with any as tries to deny it.”
He put a wiry arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. Nestled against his chest, she was comforted by his familiar scent, brandy and pipe tobacco with an undertone of hedge clippings.
“Oh, Father, what am I to do?”
“Just lay yer head, lass,” he crooned as he patted her hair with a callused hand. “Bide ye awhile. Surely, there’s naught needs doing at present.”
Artemisia allowed her head to sink into his shoulder. For a few moments, she’d obey him. It would give her time to think. For now, the garden was still a riot of blooms. In a few months, dry leaves would scuttle across the path before them, whispering their dying secrets to the dull grass.
Winter is coming
, they’d say.
Winter comes to us all,
Artemisia thought bleakly.
In the winter of Angus Dalrymple’s life, he had no more advice to offer her. But he’d given her plenty when he was able and it was time she put his teaching to good use.
Logic. That’s what this knot wanted. Someone thought Mr. Beddington was in possession of a key of some sort and, given the object’s obvious significance, would presumably know what key was meant. Since she was Beddington and hadn’t a clue, there clearly had been a misunderstanding somewhere.
She needed more information.
The trouble was the only other person who’d ever mentioned a key was Trevelyn.
She sat bolt upright.
That’s why he asked so many questions about Mr. Beddington, why he was so insistent about meeting Beddington. Trevelyn Deveridge was looking for the mysterious key as well.
For a dark moment, the thought that he might have had something to do with Mr. Shipwash’s abduction crossed her mind.
No, it couldn’t be.
Trevelyn had offered to assist her in any way possible. Even in the heat of rebuffed passion, the offer had seemed genuine.
Surely the lust he’d stirred in her hadn’t impaired her judgment that badly. At any rate, her father was no help. Trevelyn Deveridge was suddenly her only option.
“I must be going, Father.” She patted his forearm and stood.
“And where be ye off to in such an all-fired hurry?”
“I’m going to visit Tre—Thomas Doverspike. You know, the young man who helped you with the vines.”
“Och, aye. Fine fellow that.” Angus nodded sagely. “I remember now. Tommy-boy. I liked that laddie.” He snapped his fingers as a fresh thought descended upon him. “Say, a handy lad like that, maybe he’ll help you find that key you’re looking for.”
“From your lips to God’s ear, Father,” she said as she pressed a kiss on Angus’s high forehead. “From your lips to God’s ear.”
The Golden Cockerel on Tydburn Street turned out to be a clean, well-run public house. The scent of freshly baked bread, meaty stew and the yeasty smell of ale brewing in the back rooms greeted Artemisia when she pushed through the brass-trimmed double doors into the crowded common room. Faces blackened from shifts spent in the nearby mines turned as one to assess her. Then, because time on their meal break was short, the men fell back to eating with relish.
“Hallo, mum.” The round-faced matron behind the gleaming bar dipped in a bulky curtsey. With flour smudges on both cheeks and an ample waistline, she bore the markings of an excellent cook. “We don’t usually cater to folk of quality, but if you’re for a hearty meal and a stout pint, I reckon we’re the best to be had in London.”
The tantalizing aroma reminded Artemisia she hadn’t had a bite since her spare breakfast early that morning. Still, how could she think of food when James Shipwash might be under duress for her sake?
“No, thank you. I’m here to see—” Artemisia stopped short. It didn’t seem likely Trev let slip that his father was the Earl of Warre while he was living among salt-of-the-earth commoners. Was he Thomas Doverspike or Terrence Dinwiddie or some other incarnation here? Trevelyn failed to tell her what name she should use to inquire after him. “That is, I believe a certain gentleman lives here.”
“No gentlemen live on Tydburn Street, luv.” The woman eyed her with speculation, taking in the fine cut of her form-fitting bodice and three-flounce skirt. “Leastwise none what your Ladyship might have cause to make acquaintance with. What does your gentleman look like?”
“He looks like me,” Trevelyn’s voice came from the dark staircase in the corner. His booted tread set the old steps creaking. He was still shrugging on his jacket as he crossed the room toward her. “In which case, you’re right, Mrs. Farthingale. She’s not looking for a gentleman.”
The matron loosed a belly laugh that set her whole being jiggling.
Artemisia shoved down the feeling of relief the sight of him sent through her veins. She must still tread cautiously, she reminded herself, until she could ascertain his motives.
“Hallo, cousin,” he said loudly for the benefit of Mrs. Farthingale before he brushed Artemisia’s cheek with a chaste kiss. “I happened to see you from my window and thought I’d better come down to meet you. This is something of a surprise. I hope nothing’s amiss. How fares Auntie Florinda?”
In the blur of events since she spoke with him early that morning, she’d completely forgotten about his betrothal to her sister. Social entanglements seemed much less urgent in the face of Mr. Shipwash’s abduction and the mystery of Mr. Beddington’s key.
“She’s fine,” Artemisia said, realizing he was trying to shield her from idle gossip. A woman visiting a man’s private rooms without a proper escort would be deemed shockingly fast. A relative was a different matter altogether. “But Uncle James has taken a turn for the worse.”
“Has he, then?” His brows knit together in concern and, to her eyes at least, genuine puzzlement. He turned toward the proprietress of the Golden Cockerel. “Mrs. Farthingale, send up some of that fabulous stew of yours, if you please, and a jug of your best ale—not the weak stuff you sell to the miners, mind you. This is my cousin, Hortense Doverspike. She’ll dine with me in my rooms.”
He grasped Artemisia’s elbow and shepherded her toward the stairwell.
“Hortense?” she hissed. “You couldn’t think of a better name than Hortense?”