A Midsummer Night's Sin (22 page)

“A second way out? Nice of you to let me know. A tad tardy, however.”

“Now, now, little brother. Don’t pout. You know I was never good at sharing.”

Puck helped move aside more crates, which were all empty, mere decoys. “It wasn’t pouting I was thinking of doing. You’re an arrogant ass, Jack, do you know that?”

“Yes, but you trust me, just as I trust you.”

“We do? I think we may both have to work on that aspect of our association a bit more. Is that it? I think you found it, Jack.” He squeezed Regina’s hand. “Ready to go, puss? Time to say our goodbyes to this lovely establishment.”

“There’s really another way out? Oh, thank God!”

“
Shh,
Regina,” Puck warned her. He wasn’t going to forget his belief that someone else was already inside the warehouse. “Jack, you take her. I’ll bring up the rear. There’s a little something I still have to do.”

“Puck, no.” She grabbed on to his shoulders, her fingertips all but boring through his jacket, and he pressed a kiss against her temple.

“You gave me your word, sweetings,” he reminded her as Jack pushed the last of the wooden crates to one side, completely exposing a low wooden door—no more than a hatch, really—cut into the brick. The walls of the warehouse had to be a good three feet thick, which would make the escape hatch a short tunnel.

Damn! They’d have to drop to their hands and knees in order to navigate the low opening, leaving them
vulnerable when they came out the other side. Maybe Hackett wasn’t as brilliant as he’d thought.

Except for one thing Hackett did not know: Puck did not care for small spaces. Small, dark spaces, most particularly. But Jack knew it because he’d been there when Puck, at the age of six, had gotten accidentally locked into a cupboard in the stables—dark and peopled with many-legged things that bit and crawled over him—and had been forced to remain there for hours until he was found. That probably explained why Jack had withheld the information about this particular small, dark space.

“This leads to a wooden shed, built against the wall. I don’t know what it’s like inside the shed, just that Dickie found what he was sure was a tunnel but didn’t want to risk investigating it, in case he was found where he shouldn’t have been. At any rate, be careful as you exit. Can you manage it, Puck?”

Three feet or a little more. He could do this. Any fool could do this. It wasn’t even a real tunnel, as tunnels went. And since Jack was going in first, the many-legged creatures would be scattered before it was Puck’s turn. Not that he had any fear of insects, because he didn’t. At least, not any he’d admit to.

“Of course,” Puck said shortly.

“I’ll go through on my back,” Jack told him quietly, shoving one pistol in his waistband but keeping the other at the ready. “That will help some. Regina, I want you to hold on to my ankle so I know you’re with me, understand? When I tell you to let go, you let go and
remain inside the tunnel until I say you can come out. Puck, I’ll give you the all clear when I can. Let’s go.”

And then Jack had her, and Puck was on the move, the knife pulled from his boot, his eyes and ears on alert as he took up position between two stacks of crates.

And waited. Everything had happened in the space of a minute, two at the most. Yet it had felt like a year, and would be another year until he was sure Regina was safe.

But the wait wasn’t nearly that long before he heard a commotion at the door, the hollow, echoing sound of boots on the plank floor as men began running through the enormous warehouse, the sound of voices raised, shouting instructions. Almost immediately, heavy boots pounded up the stairs not twenty feet away from him, as if the men were sure of their mission. Five pips might have been all Henry’d had time for, because their pursuers clearly numbered more than ten. They were making enough commotion to rouse the dead, noise probably meant to fill the intruders’ hearts with fear.

And closer, a small sound which he hadn’t been meant to hear. He’d been right; someone else already had been inside the warehouse before they’d arrived.

And at least this one man knew about the bolt-hole, knew where to look for the intruders. One of Hackett’s most trusted employees, no doubt.

The man approached cautiously, bent nearly in half but unintelligently holding his knife in front of him, too far ahead of his body, making it mere child’s play
for Puck to kick it out of his hand. It went noisily skittering across the floor.

Before the man could react, the hilt of Puck’s knife came down on the back of his head, and he dropped to the floor.

Puck could have run then, as he’d heard Jack’s short whistle giving the all clear for him to make his way through the tunnel. But he hesitated, even as the sound of shouts and heavy boots once again hitting the stairs, this time on the descent, drew closer.

He was rapidly running out of time.

But how did he give up this prize, this man who had been trusted enough to know the location of Hackett’s escape hatch?

He couldn’t do it. The man was leverage if nothing else. He’d be a fool to leave him behind.

Puck grabbed hold of the back of the unconscious man’s collar and dragged him to the wall, then dropped to his knees and, still holding on to the man, began backing his way through the rough, brick-lined tunnel, dragging the not inconsiderable weight of his prize after him.

He immediately broke into a sweat, not because of his burden but because, when he looked, the brick roof of the tunnel was no more than six inches above his head. And closing in. He could feel it rubbing against his back each time he hefted the dead weight to move it forward. It was like being buried alive. Once again, the urge to abandon his prize nearly overtook him.

“Over this way! I heard somethin’!”

“Damn,” Puck swore, breathing heavily as he tried to maneuver backward, now with both hands cupped beneath the man’s chin, his fingers interlocked. His elbows scraped against the bricks. He’d lost his riband somehow, and his hair fell over his eyes, tangled wetly against his cheeks. His panic intensified, even as he tried to tamp it down. He should let go, but this man might be their only way to Miranda and the other women.

Three feet? He should be well out of the tunnel by now. But he wasn’t. How large was this shed? He felt as if he was dragging the man uphill now, and the floor had turned from brick to packed dirt. How much of the tunnel continued into the shed?

His now scraped and bloody knees on fire, nearly out of breath, he tugged, inched, tugged again. He would not give up or give in to his stupid fears. He couldn’t, even if that meant capture.

At any moment, Puck expected to feel a sharp tug as somebody on the other end of the tunnel saw this man’s feet and grabbed on. Would he let go then? He prayed he didn’t have to make that decision.

The man began to rouse, commenced struggling, so that Puck quickly shifted his grip to that of a strangle-hold, the man clawing at his hands, his nails digging into Puck’s flesh.

Like Grim Death, Puck hung on. Regina needed answers. This man had them.

“Jack! If you’re not dead, grab my damn ankles—
pull me the hell out of here!
”

T
HE RETURN TO
Grosvenor Square was not everything it could be in terms of dignity, but it was quick, and they moved with purpose.

Within an hour, the older ladies had been roused, their belongings packed, and they, Regina and their luggage hustled into the unmarked coach that would deliver them and the reliable Gaston to a nondescript house in Half Moon Street. The coachman had been warned to take a circuitous route and be certain he wasn’t being followed.

Puck and Jack were standing in the drawing room, giving instructions to Wadsworth, whose only reaction was to grin rather wickedly.

“Done this last year, seems to me, sir,” he said, scratching at a spot just above his left ear.

“Last year it was that fool Brean who came here looking to break Beau’s nose for him,” Puck pointed out to the butler. “Reginald Hackett is not in the same league. He’ll demand entry. Give it to him. Understand?”

“Let him
in,
sir? In this house? Never say that, sir.”

“But I am saying it,” Puck told him, looking to Jack, who merely nodded his agreement. They hadn’t
had much time to talk, to plan, but there had been enough to agree that Hackett would arrive here, and soon. Other than that, all Jack had told him was that he would be content to stand back and watch, as the way his brother’s mind worked had begun to interest him greatly. “Bring him directly into this room, and leave him here while you come to fetch me. Offer him refreshments, even with the hour so late. Be kindness itself, Wadsworth, and let it drop that you were told to expect him.”

“If you say so, sir. But it’s that queer, thinking someone is going to come calling in the middle of the night. I’ll go roust a pair of footmen, I suppose. And the cook.”

“You do that,” Puck told the man’s departing back; Wadsworth had been a soldier, and he took orders well, even while able to think for himself. He probably was already thinking that he should tuck a pistol in the back of his waistband, just on the off chance it might be needed. Good man, Wadsworth.

“How far have you and your fellow merry torturers gotten with our new friend?” Puck then asked Jack, who had just poured himself a glass of wine.

“More than halfway there, I’d say. Loyalty wouldn’t appear to be his strongest suit. Dickie’s almost disappointed we’re moving along so quickly.”

“He’s the same man Hackett sent to the park Saturday morning, you know, to see if Regina was being met. I recognized him once we could see him in the light. So I think I was right—Hackett trusts him.”

“He shouldn’t. The man’s become quite the canary,” Jack said, smiling. “Not that I want to interfere with your plan—and it’s clear by that unholy gleam in your eyes that you have one—but how are you going to explain those nasty scratches on the backs of your hands?”

“I’m not. Hackett and I have no secrets about what happened tonight. I would imagine he’ll be offering me something.”

“Yes. Money. His sort always believes it’s all about money.”

“And it doesn’t hurt that I’m a bastard,” Puck pointed out, rubbing at the worst of the scratches. “You’d best get back to it, whatever it is you’re doing.”

“You know what we’re doing,” Jack said quietly. “You also said you wouldn’t question my methods.”

“And I’m not. No one who saw those women today or that room tonight would be idiot enough to cavil at whatever methods you use to get the information we need.”

“Because we need it quickly. It can’t be easy, moving two dozen women a second time in one day, but that’s what he’s going to have to do now that we have his man. Unless he doesn’t have to know that, which would make our job much easier. Let me take care of that part of the problem while you go after Hackett. And you’re still certain he’s coming here?”

“Oh yes. Definitely. He knows someone is on to him. I’m the obvious choice. Although I wasn’t about to trust him to figure that out completely, at least not without
some small assistance. I took a moment to leave one of my cards propped up on the table in that damn prison.”

“Something you neglected to mention earlier.” Jack shook his head, even as he clapped Puck on the back. “Little brother, you’re a strange man. Perhaps even stranger than I.”

“Don’t damn me now, since we seem to be rubbing along together so well,” Puck teased. “I merely thought it was time the two of us met, officially.”

“But Regina doesn’t know. Otherwise, I can’t imagine her meekly going along with your plan to relocate to my small hideaway in Half Moon Street. Have Wadsworth send someone to the cellars once your visitor has arrived, if you please. I, too, would like to meet Reginald Hackett.”

Puck was genuinely surprised. “You? I thought you were the man who doesn’t exist. You’d let him see your face?”

Jack shrugged. “Needs must, I would say. He can’t think you’re operating alone. Not if you’re going to convince him of the danger he’s in.”

“True enough,” Puck agreed, walking with his brother as far as the door to the cellars, making alterations to his prepared speech as he went. “One look at that face of yours would probably prove to turn an entire army on its heels.”

“For the sake of brotherly harmony, I’ll ignore that. If I’ve got what we need, I’ll give you a signal when I join you. Something subtle, I imagine. You’ll recognize it.”

“Something less than
I know where they
are shouted
at the top of your lungs, one can hope. All right.” And then Puck headed for the study at the back of the house to wait out the time before Reginald Hackett came calling.

He sat behind the desk, pulling at his breeches where the material irritated the scrapes on his knees caused by his half crawled, half dragged progress along the rough floor of the tunnel, which had extended a good six feet into the shed before opening up behind a concealing wall with yet another hidden door. He hadn’t had time for more than a quick washup and change of clothing, but before the night was out, he planned to find a tub and soak in it for at least an hour.

It had been a hell of a night, and it wasn’t over yet, not by a long chalk. Leaving his card had probably not been necessary, as Hackett, again, wasn’t a stupid man. He already knew who Puck was and that he’d been with Regina the night Miranda was taken. He had to know that the highly unsuitable Puck was…interested in the man’s daughter.

But couple that with the fact that Puck was a bastard, and bastards were always suspect when it came to their character, Hackett couldn’t be surprised to believe that having ferreted out what was going on, he would not ask to be cut into the profits.

It was now Puck’s job to convince Hackett that he was not only correct in his assessments but that he was still safe. Otherwise, the
Pride and the Prize
might not sail in order to protect its owner…which meant that the current cargo would have to be dumped, jettisoned.

Two dozen women at the least, Regina’s beloved cousin among them, were going to die if Puck made a single misstep, betrayed his hand in any way. If he were ever to be his mother’s child, tonight would be the night to show it.

He flinched involuntarily when he heard the loud bang of the knocker, clearly wielded by a hand that would have that knock heard throughout the mansion.

Puck slowly counted to ten and then stood up, quoting softly, “‘All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts’—yes, Wadsworth, thank you, I heard the knock. How many?”

“Two, sir. A Mr. Reginald Hackett and a Mr. Benjamin Harley. Three other havey-cavey-looking ones outside, which is where they’ll stay if they don’t want their heads knocked together. Sir.”

“Very good. May I say how much I applaud your ferocity. And you’ve sent someone down to—”

“I already told him, yes, sir, with your compliments. And he said to tell you he has what you want, and that his compliments are returned. Rather jaunty, sir, for the circumstances.”

Puck’s step was immediately lighter. He was beginning to understand, if just in a small way, the thrill Jack gained from his
work.
A man felt most alive when in the most danger. Even giddy, unless Puck was more singular in that particular reaction, which wouldn’t surprise him. And was what he was feeling anywhere on a
par with what their mother experienced moments before taking the stage? If so, no wonder she clung to the profession so tenaciously. It was heady stuff.

“Now that is good news, Wadsworth. Thank you yet again. Please make sure my belongings are en route to Half Moon Street, and if I don’t have time to speak with you again for a bit, I’d like to make certain you’ll ask Cook to prepare her special trifle for dessert the evening after next. Oh, and no beets.”

Wadsworth clicked his heels together and bowed most smartly. “Good luck to you, sir. As for reconnoitering, the one is nothing but a smidge, but the other looks an ugly piece of business. A big brown bear in a well-cut suit, I’d say, sir.”

“I’ve only seen the fellow briefly and from a distance, but I would have to say I believe your description borders on the brilliant. Again, thank you.”

Jack joined Puck halfway down the long hallway. Jack quickly agreed to follow Puck’s lead, and together they entered the drawing room to face the adversary, Jack’s dark to Puck’s light, Jack’s scowl to Puck’s broad, welcoming smile.

“Mr. Hackett,” Puck trilled gaily, assuming the role of genial host as he walked across the expanse of the room, his right hand outstretched as if delighted to meet the man. No sense in trying to pretend he’d never clapped eyes on him before this moment. “How good of you to join us. This happy event has already been too long delayed. May I be so bold as to inquire about the
well-being of your daughter? Lovely young woman, if a trifle
outré,
daring masquerade balls.”

Reginald Hackett looked to Jack and then back at Puck. He blinked a single time, obviously a deliberate move meant to intimidate, and then seemed to attempt to mill Puck down with only his intense black stare.

Puck winked back at the man, feeling a sudden desire to see if he could goad more reaction than just the stare. “
Combien délicieux, pourtant scandaleux un risqué, oui?
I was happy to rescue the minx, so no need for thanks there. But shorten the leash, Mr. Hackett, that would be my advice. I know you’ve sent her packing to the country, and I consider that a reasonable first step, although in this case, the barn door had already opened, hadn’t it? And a few other doors opened just tonight, didn’t they?”

Now Hackett looked down at Puck’s hands, at the angry red gouges and scratches that were so very obvious, and then at Puck. “Get on with it, you fool.”

Puck, appearing undaunted—or simply oblivious to insult when directed at him by a mere tradesman—turned to bow to the
smidge,
which was an apt description of Mr. Benjamin Harley, and then quickly introduced Jack as his brother and
business partner.

“H and H, B and B—although Jack and I would never think to lower ourselves to do anything so
déclassé
as to hang out a sign advertising our…ventures. Would we, Jack? No, no, don’t answer. Jack rarely speaks, you understand. He’s…more of a man of action,
I’d guess you’d say. I like to think of him as the brawn, while I lay claim to the brains.”

Puck could sense his brother stiffening beside him and nearly laughed. But after all, if this was to be a play they were enacting, then why not at least open with a farce? Was he not, as his French friends called him,
le beau bâtard Anglais?
More importantly, he had to shift any possible suspicion away from Regina. He’d like to think he’d succeeded on that head.

“Enough of your twaddle! You broke into my warehouse tonight. Three of my men are dead.”

“Only three?” Puck shook his head. “Perhaps not as much brawn as I’d supposed. Do you think to deduct their worth from our share of the profits? How much would that be, precisely? They are dead, which proves they couldn’t be worth more than, oh, say two-pounds-six apiece? No? Oh, all right. I’ll go to three even, but no higher.”

“He said profits, Reg,” Mr. Harley said quietly, speaking for the first time. “You were right.”

“Stubble it, Ben.”

“Oh no, no, no. If your partner told you my brother and I are interested in making a profit, then yes, Mr. Harley, your partner is exactly right. Would you believe our father, now that his year of mourning is over, is planning to marry this chit of a girl in hopes she’ll prove, well,
fécund.
Ah, a frown. You don’t know the word? He’s hoping she’ll push out sons, Mr. Harley.
Legitimate
sons. He has quite cut us off in anticipation of that happy event, as a matter of fact, and Jack and I
have between us decided we would not enjoy a life of penury. What to do, what to do? We were, quite frankly, at our wits’ end, living here as squatters only until the last of the quarter.”

A little truth, a few small fibs, an outright lie—put together, they made a most plausible story, or at least one that should hold up for the length of time they needed.

Puck turned his attention once more to Regina’s father. If he indeed had been performing on a stage, he could imagine those in the farthermost rows now leaning forward on the edges of their seats, intent on his every word. Who here was the villain, they’d be asking themselves—the obvious thug or the seemingly foolish young sprig of fashion who’d suddenly become so interesting?

He began his next monologue.

“And then
you
came along, didn’t you, Mr. Hackett, thanks to your daughter’s small escapade, not to mention the sudden disappearance of her cousin. You kept the cousin your procurers brought to you, even after learning her identity, even knowing her eventual fate? A fate, some would say, worse than death. That’s a cold man, Reginald, a cold man.”

Puck paused, almost believing he could hear the booing and hissing from his imagined audience. By rights, Hackett should already be ducking the rotted fruit and empty bottles flung at him by those in the pit.

“Nevertheless,” he continued. “Meaning only to satisfy my own idle curiosity, I began to poke about, ask
a few questions. But you know that, don’t you? You seemed upset, even went so far as to have me followed the morning I was to meet with your lovely daughter, if I’m correct in that assumption, and I think I am. Well, my interest immediately became more concentrated, as you can readily imagine. Picture, if you please, my surprise as I went about attempting to satisfy my curiosity—and my eventual delight when I found what I found. How fortuitous! Others may look at you and see naught but another climbing cit, but not I. No, no, not I. You are to my brother and myself no less than manna dropped from Heaven. A glass of something wet, Reginald? Would you care for some wine? Although you’ve more the look of a gin man, I think. There must be some geneva somewhere about for the servants, who favor that horrid piss.”