Love's Harbinger Page 12

  “But why would they have locked her up?” he asked, totally confused.

  “No reason is given. It is obviously a mistake. Ring a loud peal over them, and they’ll let her free. I’ll stay here and keep an eye out for Delamar’s return.”

  Elwood pretended to agree to this course as it allowed him to escape the old harpy. He left the hotel but only to speak to his groom. “I’ve got a possible line on Thomas,” he said. “Do you know what Guy Delamar looks like?”

  “Yes, like an Indian.”

  “That’s him. I’ll be down on the promenade. When Delamar shows up, go to the railing and wave your hand. I’ll keep an eye peeled for your signal.”

  “Is the Bloodhound after us?” the groom asked. The expression in his eyes was not quite terror, but it tended in that direction.

  “Not us, Lord Thomas, but he must know we’re involved. I’d as lief not deal with Delamar.”

  “Crikey, me neither.”

  “Wave your handkerchief, and when I’ve seen your signal, I’ll wave back.”

  Mr. Elwood hurried down to the promenade, looking over his shoulder and all around as he went. He was rapidly reshuffling his plans. If Delamar had got this close to Thomas, then he’d find him, no doubt of that. All he had to do was wait and follow Delamar. He’d take the bossy dame’s advice—to a point. No reason he had to give her anything. He’d registered at the Royal Bath under an alias. He’d never remove his things from the Exeter and they’d have no way of tracing him.

  Chapter Ten

  Bournemouth, though growing, was not yet so large that it had a plethora of abbesses. The abbess of Cranborne was the best known and the likeliest for a visitor to patronize. Her title derived from her establishment on Cranborne Road opposite the Winter Gardens. It was convenient to the Maze, the West Cliff, and both major roads entering the city. Lord Thomas was a notable womanizer, and as the hotels had turned up no clue, Guy hoped the abbess might be able to help him.

  The abbess, known as Maggie to her intimes, cast a discerning eye over Mr. Delamar and invited him into her private office. “What can I do for you, Mr. Smith?” she inquired. Her gentlemen came in two varieties: Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones.

  Abbesses, it seemed to Guy, came in only one form: aging, crafty females of faded beauty. They were usually superannuated lightskirts clever enough to have realized the profit in running an establishment instead of working in one. This one was a dark-eyed brunette nearly as stout as Lady Lynne. On her person she wore a fortune in ugly jewelry and a gown of crimson silk, in the middle of the afternoon.

  “I’m looking for Lord Thomas Vane. I’ve been told you might have done business with him recently.”

  “Not me. I hardly ever— Ah, yes. He might have come to my establishment, you mean. We entertain a great many gentlemen. I don’t seem to recall a Lord Vane in particular . . .”

  He knew the best aid to memory and pulled out his money purse. “A tall, handsome fellow. Early thirties, black hair.” As he spoke, bills were deposited on her desk, one for each item of description.

  She counted the take and said, “He begins to sound familiar. Could you tell me anything else? Another detail or two.”

  “Driving a yellow curricle,” he said, and placed another bill on the pile. “He’d have come alone, I expect.” No sooner was the last bill in place than Maggie’s flashing fingers scooped up the pile and deposited it in her bodice.

  “He used Belle. I’ll call her.” She went to the door and hollered.

  A young female soon joined them. She didn’t look a day over sixteen, but already her face wore the harried look of dissipation. She also looked rather stupid. She ran her eyes over Guy and smiled a wan enticement. “Come on, this way,” she said.

  “The gentleman only wants to talk, Belle,” Maggie said.

  “What?”

  “About the Mr. Smith you entertained last night. Tell him what you know.”

  Belle wasn’t much accustomed to talking. “He was all right. Nothing queer in him,” she offered.

  “Did he happen to mention where he is staying?” Guy asked.

  “No, they don’t usually.”

  “Anything at all that might have given you an idea? Did he mention the water, the Bowling Green. the Maze—anything at all?”

  She frowned and bit her thumb. “Bells . . . something about bells,” she said vaguely.

  “A church, perhaps?” he asked, looking to Maggie for help. “Trinity Church?”

  Maggie frowned and shook her head. “He came in from the west—he mentioned something about a cart overturned on Poole Hill Road. What church would that be? St. Michael’s!” she exclaimed. “There’s a new row of flats across the street from it. They’re taking tourists to fill up the rooms till they get permanent tenants.”

  A grin split Guy’s face. “How do I get there?”

  “Turn right at the corner, up Tregonwell, and left at Poole Hill Road. You can’t miss the flats—they’re new and right across from the church.”

  “Just one more thing: Did Mr. Smith happen to mention his real name, Belle?”

  “No, they don’t,” she told him.

  Maggie, more alert, smelled trouble. “Is Lord Vane traveling under an alias? What has he done, eh?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Guy said vaguely. He gave Belle a tip, then left. Maggie, in a fit of generosity, said to Belle, “Keep it.”

  “Thank you ever so! That’s the easiest blunt I ever made.”

  “Let’s hope he comes back,” Maggie replied. Not that she’d give him that idiot of a Belle. Millie, now, would suit him better.

  Guy drove immediately to the flats across from St. Michael’s Church. A discreet sign in the window of the end flat announced “Office.” He made his inquiries and was told a gentleman fitting the given description had hired a room but had never occupied it. “An elderly man was in once or twice—a retainer, no doubt. The tenant just took in his luggage and left. I haven’t seen him since.”

  “Which flat?” Guy asked.

  “Top floor, corner rooms of the east end facing the street, but you won’t find him there.”

  “I’ll have a look all the same. Perhaps you’d come with me and open the door. I’d like to leave a message.

  “You can slide a note under the door. He’s not there, and he was very particular about me not letting anybody in. What’s the lad done, eh?” he asked wisely. “Something he shouldn’t, I warrant, but he didn’t do it here.”

  “Read it in the next issue of the Harbinger.”

  Guy returned to his carriage and sat thinking. Lord Thomas was cagier than he had thought. He had taken the precaution of depositing the money in the flat with a man to guard it while he himself put up elsewhere. If he were caught, there’d be no evidence on him. He could bring a constable and pick up the money now, then have Thomas arrested when he came to collect it. That was the sane thing to do. What was preventing him?

  In his mind, a pair of cool gray eyes pleaded silently. They’d be shooting fireworks at this moment, behind the walls of the roundhouse. Not that it would do her any harm to be brought down a peg! Having her arrested was harsh, but he really couldn’t have the ladies interfering with his work, leading him on more bootless errands while they found Thomas. That was his thanks for bringing them along. He never should have permitted it. Why had he? As if he didn’t know. From the first moment that proud beauty had sneered down her patrician nose at him, he had been lost.

  Lady Lynne was safely incapacitated, but Faith was so sure her noble Thomas was a saint that she might involve herself in the fray. How could he cure her of that infatuation? There’d be the devil to pay after having locked her up. Perhaps if he handled Thomas’s arrest with kid gloves, showed her he wasn’t completely heartless . . .

  He wondered what time it was. He missed his watch. Thomas’s ship was scheduled to leave at nine. He’d be back by eight to collect his money. Could he leave Faith locked up with thieves and worse that long? C
ould the foolish aunt be depended on to keep her out of mischief if he got her out of the roundhouse now? He’d go and get Faith set free, have a good, long talk with her. When she learned that Thomas was really guilty, she’d feel differently. She’d thank him. He pulled the check string and directed his groom to Mather’s office.

  * * * *

  Two hours had passed since her arrest, and the intervening interval had done nothing to assuage her temper. Why didn’t someone come? Why hadn’t her aunt come to bail her out? No one but a fiend would have a lady locked up; no one but a devil would trump up a false charge against her.

  Why had he done it? As her temper mounted, Faith was quite convinced that Mr. Delamar was an agent of Satan. She wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he meant to falsify charges against Thomas as well just to get a good story!

  Poor Officer Mather was nearly as distraught as she. To have a lady arrested for five minutes for a prank was one thing. He thought Guy would be there to set her free and talk her around to smiles. And the aunt—why hadn’t she come? He even went so far as to suggest to Lady Faith that he would send for a solicitor for her if she liked.

  “No, thank you, but I suggest you hire one for yourself,” she replied, cold as an icicle.

  Losing his position was the best he could hope for. If the nobility took it into its head to harass him, he was done for. He’d pack up and go to America, if he ever got out of Newgate. He leaped at Delamar like a wild dog when he came into the roundhouse.

  “Where the deuce have you been? She’s going to sic her solicitor on me! I’ll end up doing the hangman’s jig.”

  “Nonsense. Your duty is to maintain law and order. My watch was stolen; you arrested the thief. You did the right thing, Jem.”

  “It feels mighty like the wrong thing to me! And the young lady says she didn’t steal it, either.”

  “How did she take her arrest?”

  “Like a lady, squalling and protesting to beat the devil. Are you going in there?” he asked skeptically.

  “Yes, I’d like a word with the prisoner, if you please.”

  “You’d best take a whip with you. She’ll scratch your eyes out.”

  “It won’t be the first time,” Guy answered airily.

  Mather unlocked the door and drew as far away from it as he could get, which was not all that far. The entire roundhouse was no bigger than a pantry.

  Faith heard the key in the lock and jumped up from the chair. She expected to see her aunt and was ready to give her a tongue-lashing for the long delay in rescuing her. When she saw Mr. Delamar’s yellow eyes staring at her, she turned a deathly, furious shade of white.

  He took a step toward her, hands extended in peace. “Faith, I want to . . .”

  She drew back, perfectly rigid. She looked at her caller as though he were a dead rat. “There is no need to explain, Mr. Delamar. I have had ample time to figure out your scheme. You put your watch in my reticule on purpose to allow your cohort to arrest me. That is entrapment—or worse—and it will be reported as such as soon as I am free.”

  The unlocked door beckoned. She strode toward it, whisking past Guy and lifting her skirts as though to avoid contamination. His hand shot out and grabbed her arm.

  “Not so fast! You’re still under arrest, and Officer Mather has the evidence to prove you guilty.”

  “You know perfectly well I didn’t steal your watch!”

  “The clerk at the hotel says otherwise. I am shocked at you, Faith,” he said, attempting to lighten the mood.

  She tried to shake off his hand, but he only took hold of her other arm as well, to compound the offense. “How dare you touch me!” she demanded. Her nostrils quivered in disgust, and her gray eyes flared.

  His ire rose up to meet the challenge from this haughty beauty. Dare to touch her, indeed, as though she were sanctified by her blue blood! “I'm not fussy,” he sneered.

  “So I have noticed. If you have any hope of climbing the ladder to respectability, I recommend you become fussy—if you are able to discriminate between lightskirts and ladies, that is to say.”

  “It’s easy. Lightskirts are a deal prettier and usually more polite as well.”

  “If the refined manners of a Millie are what appeals to you, then, of course, you are wise to stick to your own kind.”

  He released her arms and stared balefully at her. “I’ve seen more real manners from Millie and her sisters these past two days than during my entire acquaintance with you and your aunt. You don’t mind using my brains and my connections and my wallet so long as I keep my head bowed and tug my forelock every second minute. And, of course, refrain from touching your noble bodies.”

  “One must draw the line somewhere,” she snipped, with a toss of her shoulders. “Don’t worry, you’ll be repaid as soon as we get back to London.”

  “I doubt that very much.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?”

  A cold sneer settled on his face. “'A very honest woman—but something given to lie,’ as the redoubtable Mr. Shakespeare so wisely said.”

  Her hand rose and whipped across his face with all the force she possessed. The echo of the slap reverberated in the silent room. It had the effect of removing his hateful sneer, only to replace it with a blazing anger. Faith watched, aghast at what her temper had led her into, while Mr. Delamar stared with wildly dilated eyes and the imprint of her hand turned to rose on his cheek. When his hands came out, she thought he was going to strike her or shake her. He almost thought so himself.

  It wasn’t till he touched her and saw the fear in her eyes that he knew what would be a worse punishment—to treat her like the lightskirts she despised. His fingers tightened ruthlessly as he pulled her into his arms. The odd and startling thing was that she didn’t resist. Perhaps she considered a struggle beneath her dignity, which served to heighten his wrath.

  As his face descended to hers, she looked up, wide-eyed, at him. “What are you—” she whispered breathlessly. Before she could finish the question, she was crushed against his hard body and his lips were bruising hers with a fiercely punishing kiss. There was no tenderness now, no gentleness, but the wild ravening of the unleashed tiger. She was stunned into frightened acquiescence at first, but when his hand moved over her back, pulling her closer till she could feel the buttons of his jacket through her cotton gown, something of the untamed animal stirred in her own breast.

  A primal force was unleashed, obliterating common sense. She made one weak effort at staving him off, but as her arms rose from her sides, they went involuntarily around his neck, tentatively at first, but soon tightening as her blood quickened to his rhythm and the increasing pressure of his lips. It was a moment of desperate frustration, when she knew she should be outraged but could only go on clinging to him as if her life depended on it. His lips moved hungrily, arousing dangerous, unknown sensations. Yet hadn’t she imagined something like this ever since she had first seen him? Hadn’t she wondered what it would be like to be in his arms? Her wildest imagining had never soared this high—she felt heady with power, intoxicated, as if she could rule the world.

  But she wanted only to rule this man, whose hot kisses drove her to ecstasy. She felt his body suddenly quiver, then stiffen. He pulled away swiftly, leaving her in a state of emotional chaos. He actually pushed her from him and regarded her with contempt. It was the last thing she expected.

  In confusion, she asked, “Why did you do that?”

  “I’ve just been asking myself the same thing about your sudden warmth. It wouldn’t have anything to do with Thomas, would it? Exerting your feminine guiles on his behalf? Give the commoner a taste of the real stuff and he’ll do your bidding? I’m not so easily gulled as Willie Shaft.”

  “No!”

  “I understand your reasoning.”

  She stared at him silently while trying to make sense of this charge. It had all been some sort of stunt. Pride came to her rescue. Her passions were directed in a new course, lending heat to her reply
. “And I understand yours. You’d do anything to persecute Thomas, wouldn’t you? You’re afraid I’ll convince him to return the money—if he ever took it in the first place! That would make dull reading, indeed! Nobleman not guilty in fraud scheme! Much livelier muckraking to blazon his guilt across the banner. Why, I shouldn’t be surprised if you sell an extra dozen subscriptions. You might even be able to afford two rooms instead of that small pig sty you usually wallow in.”

  Her words, so adamant and insulting and angry, showed him his case was hopeless. Any hope of pacification was at an end, and frustration turned his neck red. “I wonder where you’d be today if you hadn’t been born with a silver spoon in your craw. It’s easy to look down your patrician nose at me. At least I pay for my own pig sty by the sweat of my brow and not by stealing from honest men.”

  “The sweat of your brow?” She emitted a high, ironic laugh. “The sweat of your common, twisted mind is more like it. You’d be less contemptible if you dug ditches. You planted evidence to have me arrested, and I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if you mean to do the same to Thomas. At least you’ve the low cunning to realize the profit in writing about your betters.”

  His voice took on a new, menacing tone as his yellow eyes narrowed. “Don’t goad me too far, milady. There’s more than one noble scoundrel involved in this affair now. ‘Lady Faith Mordain Arrested as Accessory’ would amuse Mam’selle Ondit’s readers.”

  “You go beyond my worst opinion of you. You achieve depths I could never have imagined. I knew you were low, but till this minute I had no idea how low and disgusting a man can be. I can hardly credit that I once admired you. Yes, you may well stare. You waste your talents, sir. You ought to be on the stage, ranting of honest reporting and the duty of a journalist to right the wrongs of society. Hypocrite!” She spat the word at him.

  “I have no intentions of printing that! I was just . . . Dammit, Faith . . .”