The Highwayman (6 page)

Blackwell's one good eye sharpened. “How do you mean?”

“Well, for one thing, she's a right proper widow, and I don't much know a man who's into that sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing?”

“Oh, you know. The bluestocking sort. Cold. Straitlaced. Er—frigid, some might say. Besides, she's closer to thirty than twenty, and though she's the face of an angel, she's about as bedable as a hedgehog, if ye want my opinion.”

“If I
wanted
your opinion, McTavish, I'd promptly inform you as to what it was.”

“Fair enough.” Heart really hammering now, McTavish puffed on his cigar, hoping with each breath that it wouldn't be his last. What did Blackwell want with Mrs. Mackenzie? Records access? Documents? Bribery? Couldn't be he was sweet on her. Men like Dorian Blackwell didn't go for upright ladies like Farah Mackenzie. Word about town was, he employed scores of foreign, exotic courtesans and set them up in his mansion like a private harem. What would a spinsterish widow like Mackenzie have to offer a man like him?

“Where does she live?” Blackwell demanded.

McTavish shrugged. “Couldn't say exactly. Somewhere off Fleet Street in the Bohemian sector, I think I heard.”

Blackwell's nostrils flared with increased breath, remaining silent for a moment too long before McTavish thought he heard him whisper. “All this time…”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.” The Blackheart of Ben More seemed—shaken, for lack of a better word. McTavish couldn't believe his eyes.

“Here is for your services, and continued discretion.” A note was pressed against his palm.

McTavish looked down and almost lost another cigar to shock. “But—this is half a year's salary!”

“I know.”

“I—I couldn't take this.” McTavish shoved it back toward him. “I havena done anything to earn it.”

Dorian Blackwell stepped back, avoiding the money and any physical contact. “Let me give you some free advice along with that note, McTavish.” It was amazing how the inflection of that cruel, cold voice never once changed, and yet the menace palpably intensified. “Scruples are a dangerous thing for men like you to have. If I can't trust your greed, then I can't trust anything about you. And if I can't trust you, your life is worthless to me.”

McTavish snatched the note to his chest. “Right ye are, Blackwell, I'll be thanking ye for yer generosity, then, and be on my way.” If his legs weren't shaking too much to carry him.

Blackwell nodded, donning an ebony felt hat that shadowed his eyes from any light, before turning toward the Strand. “Good evening, Inspector. Give Madame Regina my regards.”

It was like the man had read his bloody thoughts. Foolishly, McTavish had assumed his habits too low on Blackwell's list of importance for the man to take any notice. When you're blackmailing dukes and bribing justices, how did one remember the proclivities of one in a hundred coppers in Blackwell's pocket?

Before he could stop himself, McTavish was seized by a fit of conscience. “Ye're not going to hurt her, are ye?” he called. “Mrs. Mackenzie, I mean.”

Slowly, Blackwell turned, presenting him with his unnatural blue eye. “You know better than to ask me questions, Inspector.”

Swallowing, McTavish took his bowler cap off, crushing the rim in his hands. “Forgive me … It's only that—well—she's a real gentle, kindhearted sort of bird. I couldn't live with meself knowing I had a hand in any … unpleasantness toward her.”

The air around Blackwell seemed to darken, as though the shadows gathered to protect him. “If your conscience bothers you too much, McTavish, there are alternatives to living…” The Blackheart took a threatening step toward him, and McTavish jumped back.

“Nay! Nay, sir. I'll not get in yer way. I meant no disrespect.”

“Very good.”

“I—I didn't mean to question ye. It's just … not all of us are capable of such a black heart as yers.”

Blackwell advanced further, and McTavish squeezed his eyes shut, certain this was the end for him. Instead of killing him, only that calm, cold whisper washed over him like the breath of damnation. “That's where you're wrong, Inspector. Every man is capable of a heart such as mine. They just need to be given the right … incentive.”

Trembling, McTavish crushed the hat back on his head. “Y-yes sir. Though I'd not wish for such an incentive, if that be yer aim.”

A callous, predatory enjoyment lit within Blackwell's eyes, and in that moment, McTavish hated the bastard for unmanning him like this.

“Come close, McTavish, and I'll tell you a secret. Something about me that few men know.”

There wasn't a man alive who wanted to be privy to Dorian Blackwell's secrets. They were the kind that got one killed.

He stepped toward the dark, hulking man. “Y-yes?”

“
No one
wants
that
kind of incentive, Inspector. Not even me.”

Blinking rapidly, McTavish nodded as he watched Dorian Blackwell melt into the mist and shadows of the London evening, certain that he'd not only escaped death, but the devil, himself.

 

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

Farah enjoyed London at night. Mingling with the
beau monde
at Covent Garden, or attending lectures, concerts, and after-parties with the rather transitory crowd of novelists who came to England just long enough to get depressed and move back to Paris to write about it.

Today she'd worn her new finest sea-green silk polonaise over particularly ruffled and beribboned petticoats in deference to her plans to see the latest Tom Taylor production with Carlton Morley as her escort. Seized by a whim of recklessness, she'd pulled the puffed and filmy sleeves of her bodice wide to expose an extra expanse of clavicle and shoulder.

The moment the clock struck six, she rose from her desk and shrugged out of her professionally cut jacket which she replaced with a soft fringed shawl and white silk gloves.

Cartwright, the newest clerk, at least five years her junior, watched her with unabashed fascination. “I don't believe I've seen you wear that color before, Mrs. Mackenzie. It complements your eyes, if you don't mind my saying so.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cartwright.” She smiled, unable to help a small tingle of pleasure at the attractive young man's approval.

“Looking like that, you'll have Sir Morley down on one knee before the night is over,” he continued, smoothing the thin golden mustache that teased his lip as though still delighted he could finally grow one. “If Morley doesn't, seek me out and I might be persuaded to give up my coveted bachelor status.”

Farah's pleasure dimmed, so she brightened her smile. “I'd never dream of perpetrating such a tragedy, Mr. Cartwright, on either accord. I, for one, have no wish to be any man's trouble and strife.” She used the cockney term for
wife
while she fiddled with the edge of her glove. It bothered her increasingly that almost everyone she knew seemed to think that her status as a longtime widow was so pitiable. Over the past decade, a multitude of men had offered to make her their wife if only because their conscience couldn't bear to think of her living, and sleeping, alone.

She'd deflected that behavior by wearing mourning dresses for nearly four years, until she'd reached an age where she was considered to be quite firmly on the shelf. It had abated after a while, and she was lucky enough to be employed in an environment where most of the men were either married or permanently disinclined to the institution. Which was just fine with her, as she felt similarly disillusioned toward the idea of a husband.

Her fortunes, modest as they were, remained her own. As did her time, her pleasures, her opinions, and, most importantly, her will. Being a middle-class widow of an ever-increasingly respectable age, she was afforded societal freedoms of which most women could only dream. She never required a chaperone, was allowed the most indelicate company, and could even take a lover if she liked, and no one but a vicar would so much as bat an eye.

No, Farah's brief and tragic brush with marriage was likely to be the only one in her lifetime. All to the good, in her opinion, for she had more pressing things to take up her time, not the least of which was the pursuit of justice.

Brushing a tightening of melancholy firmly into the past where it belonged, Farah bid Cartwright a good evening, and swept into Scotland Yard's rapidly vacating reception hall.

Sergeant Crompton and the desk sergeant, Westridge, emitted low whistles as she emerged from her office. “Well! Look 'ews trussed for a presentation to 'Er Majesty?” Crompton bellowed, his face ruddy from a chilly afternoon of making his rounds by the river.

“Gentlemen.” She laughed and executed a deep and flawless curtsy.

“Don't you curtsy to the likes o' them, Missus Mackenzie!” Gemma Warlow, a streetwalker known to work the docks, called to her with a bawdy geniality. “They don't deserve to spit-shine your shoes!”

“Stuff your gob, Warlow!” Crompton called, though his voice lacked any true antagonism.

“Stuff it yourself, Sergeant!” Gemma shot back with a toss of her dirty-brown locks. “If you've enough in your trousers to reach me throat.”

Farah turned to the holding square in the middle of the reception room and addressed Gemma. “Miss Warlow, what are you doing back here?” she asked gently. “Didn't I set you up at the reforming home?”

“Druthers found me and dragged me back to the pier. I got picked up for boffing during trading hours.” Gemma shrugged as though it was of little consequence. “Was a bit o' kindness you did for me, Mrs. Mackenzie, but I should have known better than to think 'e'd let me go so easy.”

Edmond Druthers was a pimp and a game maker who ruthlessly lorded over vice trade on the docks. His reputation for cruelty was only superseded by his greed.

“Oh, Gemma.” Farah went to her and reached for her hand. “What are we to do about this?”

The woman's manacles rattled as she pulled her hands from Farah's reach. “Don't be soiling those lily-white gloves now,” she warned with a cheery smile splitting her apple cheeks. Gemma had to be about Farah's age, but the years had been less kind, and she looked maybe a decade older. Deep grooves branched from her eyes and her weatherworn skin stretched tight over small bones. “Tell me where you're off to dressed so fine.”

Farah tempered the sadness and worry for the woman out of her smile. “I'm turned out for a night at the theater.”

“Ain't that grand?” Genuine pleasure sparkled in the woman's eyes. “Who's the lucky doffer wot's escorting you?”

“That doffer would be me.” Carleton Morley appeared at Farah's side, his blue eyes twinkling at her from beneath an evening hat.

“Well, now!” Gemma exclaimed loudly. “Ain't that the 'andsomest couple in London?” she asked the handful of drunkards, thieves, and other doxies stashed in the box awaiting their turn for a cell.

They all readily agreed.

“Shall we?” Morley, resplendent in his evening coat, offered his arm to Farah, who took it with a delighted smile.

Turning back to Gemma before leaving, Farah said, “Please watch yourself. We'll talk in the morning about your situation.”

“Don't you spend a minute worrying about me, Mrs. Mackenzie!” the woman insisted, pulling a tattered red shawl around her scrawny shoulders. “I'll be spending a night on me back
sleeping
for once!”

Officers and criminals, alike, erupted into laughter that spilled into the early evening as Farah followed Morley toward the Strand. They were both silent for a time, their legs disrupting a soupy mist swirling off the river and hiding their feet from view. Gaslights and lanterns kept the dreariness of the gloaming at bay and gave the gray mist a golden glow.

The night was alive with music and merriment, but to Farah it seemed that she and Morley were apart from all that. Instead of being dazzled by the vibrant colors and merry music, they watched the street urchins dart between the legs of the wealthy, and the beggars reach out to callous and disinterested revelers. The city was ever split by an excess of wealth and poverty, of civilized progression and criminal erosion, and that weighed heavily on Farah's mind tonight in the form of Gemma Warlow.

“Sometimes on nights like this, I'd give anything for the sweet-smelling countryside,” she said, feeling guilty for being distracted.

Sir Morley made a soft affirmative sound, and she glanced up at him to note that his light brows were also drawn into a preoccupied frown as he stared into the throng of people along the Strand, but focused on no one. He was very handsome in his evening clothes and white cravat. The consummate English gentleman. Tall, but not too tall. Trim, but strong. Handsome in a classic, aristocratic way that was both pleasing and approachable. His teeth were well cared for and not very crooked, and though he was nigh to forty, his gold hair was still thick and resisted gray. He walked in such a way that people parted for him, and Farah couldn't stop herself from thinking that added to his attraction.

Sir Carlton Morley was a man of distinction, if not blue blood, and was respected by most people on sight, not to mention by reputation, as one of the most celebrated chief inspectors in the history of the Metropolitan Police.

“I think I should like to drink two whole bottles of wine by myself tonight,” she said, testing him, as neither of them ever had more than a glass with dinner.

He nodded and mumbled something, his aquiline jaw working in frustrated circles as though chewing on a thought.

“After that,” Farah continued conversationally. “I shall very much enjoy a swim in the Thames. I'll most likely be nude. I wouldn't want to soil my new dress, you see?”