Burning Lamp (21 page)

“I understand.” She positioned the package of cheese in the bag. “But you must admit, it is all rather romantic.”

Delbert frowned. “How in blazes do you figure that?”

“Slipping off together. Spending the night in a secret location, just the two of them. It’s like one of those lovers’ trysts you read about in a sensation novel, don’t you think?”

“Never read a sensation novel.”

“You don’t know what you’ve been missing.”

“No, I reckon I don’t.” Delbert watched her closely. “What about yourself, Mrs. Trevelyan? Do you fancy slipping off for trysts and the like?”

“Heavens, no.” She closed up the canvass bag. “I’m thirty-nine years old and I’ve been in service since the age of ten. I assure you, I gave up romantic notions years ago.”

“What happened to Mr. Trevelyan?”

“There never was a Mr. Trevelyan. I took the title when I applied for my first post as a housekeeper. I thought it made me appear older and more experienced. Of course, now I am considerably older and considerably more experienced. I could probably drop the ‘Missus,’ but I’ve gotten used to it.”

Delbert nodded. “I understand. Time has a strange way of passing, doesn’t it? One day you’re young with all your fine plans for the future. The next you’re in the future and it doesn’t look at all the way you thought it would.”

“What about you, Mr. Voyle? Was there ever a Mrs. Voyle?”

“Yes. A long time ago. Lost her to an infection of the lungs.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Like I said, it was a long time ago.”

“Would you like some more tea?”

“Yes, please.”

She poured two cups and sat down at the table across from him. Delbert might be a member of the criminal class but there was a solid strength about him that she found inordinately appealing. He also possessed a very manly physique, she thought. A woman would no doubt get lost in those powerful arms.

“Do you ever think about making new plans for a different future?” she asked.

“Too late for that,” Delbert said.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“I think about it sometimes, though,” Delbert said. “You?”

“Sometimes.” She picked up her tea. “But as you said, it’s a bit too late. Dreams are for young people.”

“Not too late for us to make plans for tonight, though.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Strikes me that with the Boss and Mrs. Pyne away for the evening, we’ll have the Abbey to ourselves.”

“Except for Leggett and Jed,” she reminded him.

“Except for them,” he agreed. “But I think they can be persuaded to stay out of our way.”

“What did you have in mind, Mr. Voyle?”

“Some cards in the library, perhaps. And a bit of the Boss’s excellent brandy.”

“Mr. Winters won’t care if you help yourself to his expensive spirits?”

“Got a feeling he’ll have other things on his mind tonight.”

She smiled slowly. “I think you’re right. A game of cards and a spot of brandy sound like a very pleasant way to spend the evening.”

“Not as exciting as a romantic tryst in a secret location.”

“It will do nicely,” she said.

 

 

 

“I GOT YOUR MESSAGE.” MR. SMITH CLENCHED THE ARMS OF the chair. “You said there would be no problem obtaining the woman and the artifact. You told me that the two men you planned to hire were specialists in this sort of thing.”

Luttrell leaned back in his chair and contemplated Smith across the broad expanse of the elegantly inlaid desk. Like everything else in the office, the desk was of the finest quality and workmanship. He took a great deal of satisfaction in surrounding himself with only the sort of expensive furnishings and artwork that would have graced the household of a true gentleman. The antiquities on display were all originals, with the exception of the small statue of the Egyptian queen sitting on his desk. But he would soon deal with that issue.

He had come a long way from the gutter in which he had been born. He savored the knowledge.

“There was a small setback last night,” he said.

“You call it a setback?” Smith was outraged. “We had a bargain, Luttrell.”

His name was not really Smith, but until now Luttrell had allowed the polite fiction to stand.

Smith was tall, with angular features, and he carried himself with the sort of irritating upper-class arrogance that could only be bred in the cradle. At one time his hair had probably been quite dark, but it was now almost entirely silver and starting to thin.

He was a powerful talent of some kind but the energy that spiked and pulsed in the atmosphere around him was disturbed and erratic. Luttrell had survived the treacherous waters of London’s underworld long enough to recognize the telltale indications of mental instability when he sensed them.

“Our arrangement still stands,” Luttrell said coldly. “I told you that moving against the Director of the Consortium would be a tricky business. Nevertheless, you have my word that the project will go forward.”

“Winters will be on his guard now.”

“I think it is safe to say that he has been on his guard since the night your very inexperienced young villain botched the attempt to grab Pyne at the theater. That debacle is why you came back to me, remember? You did not know that it was Winters who took her that night. I’m the one who discovered that he was holding her prisoner in his household. Hell, you weren’t even aware that Griffin Winters
was
the Director.”

“I still find it astonishing to believe that Winters is this notorious crime lord you describe.”

“But now that you know he has taken a great interest in the Pyne woman, everything has changed, hasn’t it?”

“Yes,
yes
.” Smith clenched his hands into fists. “If the Director truly is Griffin Winters, as you say—”

“He is. We inhabit the same world, Winters and I. We know each other as only two enemies can. Believe me when I tell you that the Director of the Consortium is Griffin Winters.”

“Then, indeed, everything has altered,” Smith whispered hoarsely. “If he was willing to risk his life to protect Adelaide Pyne it can only mean that he has the lamp and needs her to work it.”

“And you want both, Pyne and the lamp.”

“Don’t you see? It is clear now that it is my destiny to succeed where Nicholas Winters and his descendants failed.”

“I’ve got one question,” Luttrell said. “Why did you want Pyne even before you suspected that the lamp had been found?”

Smith bristled. “I had recently concluded that I had another use for a strong dreamlight talent.”

Luttrell’s intuition hummed softly. “Something to do with the red crystals?”

“If you must know, I have gone as far as I can in perfecting them.” Smith moved one hand in an irritated fashion. “But there is a possibility I can make greater advances with the focusing power of the devices if I have the assistance of a strong dreamlight reader. When you told me that Adelaide Pyne had reappeared in London, I thought I could make use of her. But now that I know that both she and the lamp are within reach—”

“I will get the artifact and the lady for you, never fear.”

“What did those two thieves tell you?” Smith demanded. “What went wrong?”

“I have not had an opportunity to speak with the two men who were sent to the Abbey,” he admitted. “They have disappeared.”

“That tends to happen to those who annoy the Director. It is the reason why I have gone to such great lengths to ensure that there is nothing about this venture that can be traced back to me.” He paused for emphasis. “Or to you, either, of course.”

Smith surged out of the chair and started to prowl the room. “I can assure you that the crystals were not at fault. Each was properly tuned.”

“I have no idea what went wrong,” Luttrell admitted. “Perhaps the vapor canisters did not function properly. All I know is that the two men are missing and will likely never be found.”

He did not add that he had a man searching for the pair just in case they had escaped the Abbey. If they were found they would disappear again immediately. This time into the river. But it was unlikely they would ever turn up. Winters had a reputation, after all.

“There is no cause for alarm,” he continued. “I assure you that I will have both the woman and the artifact by the end of the week.”

Smith halted in front of the desk. “Are you certain?”

Luttrell smiled. “You have my word on it.”

“I had given up hope of ever recovering the lamp, let alone of finding the dreamlight reader again. You have no notion of how long I have waited.”

“You’re wrong,” Luttrell said softly. “I know exactly how long you have waited.”

Smith scowled. “What the devil are you talking about?”

“You acquired the lamp twenty years ago. It took you another six years to locate Adelaide Pyne. You lost them both in a brothel fire.”

Smith’s mouth worked a few times before he recovered from the shock of the statement.

“You know about the brothel fire?” he hissed. “I very nearly died that night.”

“I also know that the only reason you escaped the blaze was because one of the guards fleeing the scene found you unconscious and carried you to safety. He thought you might reward him, you see. Imagine his disappointment when you recovered consciousness and ran off without giving him so much as a penny. Left him with a very bad impression of the upper classes, I’m afraid.”

“I can’t believe you know all this.”

“I make it a practice to know all the secrets of those with whom I do business. By the way, before you leave, I’ll have the new crystal you promised to deliver today.”

Smith’s sallow features reddened with anger. “I’ll thank you not to talk to me as if I were a carpenter or a tailor, Luttrell. I’m a man of science.”

“I seem to be surrounded by scientists these days. The crystal, if you please. The first one you gave me is exhausted. Nothing but dead glass now.”

“I warned you that they do not last long, especially if one attempts to focus a great deal of energy through them,” Smith grumbled.

But he reached into the pocket of his overcoat, took out a red stone and handed it across the desk.

Luttrell took the stone. “I’ll be in touch.”

Smith hesitated, annoyed. It was obvious that he did not like being sent on his way as though he were a tradesman. On the other hand, he was no doubt relieved to escape the company of a man whom he considered his social inferior.

He picked up his hat and let himself out.

Luttrell examined the crystal, excitement pulsing through him. The stone had the bright clarity that indicated that it had never been used. It was the ultimate personal weapon for a man of great talent, he thought, a man like himself.

All things being equal he preferred to do business with those who were sane. Men who hovered on the border of madness were inherently unpredictable. But he was willing to make an exception in Smith’s case.

In addition to his ability to forge the red crystals, Smith possessed one crowning attribute that more than compensated for the state of his mental health. In fact, it made him invaluable: Smith was a member of the General Council of the Arcane Society.

 

 

 

“ANOTHER TUNNEL,” ADELAIDE SAID, RESIGNED. “I SHOULD have guessed.”

“Sorry,” Griffin said. He ducked his head to avoid the low stone ceiling of the underground passage. “If there were any other safe way to take you from the Abbey to our destination I would have used it.”

“I understand. Just keep moving.”

Maintaining a swift pace through the underground passage helped, she had discovered. So did elevating her talent. What did not help was the pack she had slung over her shoulder. As she had explained to Griffin, she refused to go into hiding without a change of clothes and a set of silk sheets. Griffin was also carrying a pack. It was considerably heavier than her own but it did not seem to slow him down.

They had entered the ancient tunnel from a concealed trapdoor in the basement of the Abbey. It was another convenient architectural legacy of the medieval monks. It was also, Griffin told her, yet another reason why he had purchased the tumbledown pile of stone.

With her senses flung wide she could see layer upon layer of murky dreamlight on the floor. Some of the prints were centuries old. Most were quite faint. But many still burned with fear and outright panic. A number of people who had been forced to make their way through the passage long ago had fought the same unnerving dread that plagued her. They would have been desperate if they felt obliged to use this passage.

Griffin’s tracks, however, were hot and luminous with the unique energy of his talent. She could see that he had come this way many times over the years. It was also clear that the prints he was leaving today were more powerful than those that he had left in the past.

“You are most certainly stronger now,” she said. “I can see it in your prints.”

“But still no sign of madness?”

“None whatsoever,” she assured him. “The slight disturbance that I detected when we first met, which led me to conclude that you suffered from chronic nightmares, is gone.”

He did not respond but she sensed that he was willing to believe her, at least for the moment.

Water dripped. The air was dank. From time to time she could hear the skittering of rat feet in the darkness behind her.

At least she was appropriately dressed for the venture. The jacket and trousers she wore had been tailored to suit her slender frame. Her hair was tightly pinned beneath a masculine style wig. She was quite certain that when she and Griffin eventually emerged from the tunnel anyone who saw her would take her for a man.

“How did you discover this tunnel and the passages in the Abbey?” she asked.