Leslie Lafoy (36 page)

She’d only thought Larson had been glowering before. The look he fastened on Carden was positively lethal. She was scrambling to think of a way to diffuse the tension and get back to bringing Larson into their camp when Carden took her by the elbow and drew her around.

“We have reason to believe that Barrett’s being held somewhere in Cheapside,” he said as they moved toward the door. “When you’ve decided that it makes more sense to work with us than against us, ask for our whereabouts at the Hen and Chick.”

She held her breath and moved quickly, afraid that Larson would call out and his minions would dash forward to detain them.

“They don’t dare,” Carden whispered, easing her pace. “Larson doesn’t know whether you’re right or wrong and he can’t afford to make a mistake. He’ll send someone to Shaftesbury and Nickel’s before he makes a decision.”

“Even if I’m right, he still won’t know on which side of the fence to fall,” she allowed as her heart hammered and they sedately moved down the stairs. “He could just as well suspect me of the murders as he could Emil.”

“He won’t. Caribe will be his choice.”

“How can you be so sure?”

He chuckled dryly and led her down the outside stairs and toward the carriage, saying, “Larson is one of those men who considers complicated murders to be beyond the capabilities of the female brain.”

She snorted in unladylike fashion and utter disdain. “I should think that I just proved that notion wrong.”

“By the time he’s through mulling it over,” Carden offered, handing her up, “and collecting the evidence you sent him after, he’ll truly believe that the solution was born of his own deductive efforts.”

“I really don’t care, you know,” Belle assured him as he dropped into the rear-facing seat. “All that matters is that he knows that Barrett had nothing to do with the murders.”

And none of that mattered to her as much as having Barrett back alive. She gazed out the window and considered the sunlight. Hours down, hours to go. Too many hours to go. Too many hours in which she had nothing to do but desperately search a rabbit’s warren and keep the dread from growing and paralyzing her mind.

“You were wonderful, Belle,” Carden offered, pulling her from her worries. His smile was soft and easy. “Such poise and careful logic. No one could have done it better. Barrett will be so disappointed that he missed the performance.”

Barrett … That he might never know … That it might be too late … The tears came in a sudden, heated, unstoppable torrent. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed, burying her face in her hands and desperately wanting to be alone with her grief and fear.

He slipped across the carriage to sit beside her, to gather her into his arms. Strong arms, arms that she knew he meant to be comforting. But they weren’t, not like Barrett’s.

“It will be all right, Belle,” he assured her softly, holding her close as the emptiness inside her deepened. “Barrett’s made of steel.”

“No he isn’t,” she hiccuped against his chest. “He’s flesh and blood. As mortal as any other man.”

She felt him sigh, felt him draw a deep breath. “Yes, I’ll allow that he is,” Carden countered gently. “But he loves you, Belle. And he wants to live as he never has before. You have to believe in him just as much and as deeply as he believes in you.”

Isabella nodded and closed her eyes. It took resolve and a thousand heartbeats, but the tide of fear and dread slowly ebbed away. In the void, she pretended that the strong arms wrapped around her shoulders were Barrett’s. And for the first time since she’d been a very little girl, she said a silent prayer and offered heaven a bargain.

Chapter Nineteen

It was mid-afternoon on the streets of London, but the hour of the day was irrelevant in the world of the Hen and Chick tavern. Belle couldn’t say that Carden hadn’t warned her. Neither could she say that she’d never been in a place as dingy, as dark, and as sordid as this. Actually, it was a full cut above Frank Lazro’s tavern on the outskirts of New Orleans. She couldn’t count the number of nights she’d spent in the back room of that place, studying maps and formulating strategies.

But the Hen and Chick was different in one important aspect: the air was thick with smoke. No one in Lazro’s had been allowed to strike a match, much less smoke their various weeds of choice. There had been enough gunpowder stored beneath the floorboards to blow the building and everyone in it halfway to the moon. Smoking had been done outside and some considerable distance away.

Her eyes having adjusted to the near absence of light and the haze, Belle searched the farthest corners of the single room, looking for a familiar face. She squinted, not quite sure, and turned to whisper over her shoulder, “Carden? Is that John Aiden at the back right?”

He chuckled and pressed his hand into the small of her back, urging her forward as he replied, “He has some experience in living at such a low-water mark. Although it’s been a while, it’s obvious that he hasn’t forgotten how to do it.”

She had to give John Aiden Terrell credit for managing to look as though he belonged in a place like the Hen and Chick, as though he were not one whit different from the half-dozen or so other patrons. His clothes were ratty and ill-fitting and definitely the kind worn by working men. Unlike her, she silently groused, reaching back to snatch a handful of skirt and pull it and her hoops through the narrow space between the scarred tables. God, she’d never gone to Lazro’s dressed like a lady, never had to try to disappear in the shadows wearing a fashionable burgundy and plum and gold–striped dress.

What had been appropriate for the meeting with Inspector Larson wasn’t the least bit so for the Hen and Chick. Or Cheapside. Or for what she suspected would happen in the hours ahead. Belle thought of the valise Carden carried for her, pleased that she’d thought ahead.

But, she reminded herself, there were things to be done, information to be gathered and plans to be made before she could take time for her more personal concerns. Aiden wasn’t alone at the table. Another man sat with him, the two of them engaged in a conversation that seemed to be more about polite smiles than actual words. The stranger was a smallish man with a lean face and narrow shoulders that rolled forward and in as though he’d spent every day of his life hunched over account ledgers.

As she and Carden neared, they both rose to their feet, Aiden casting a quick look down as he did so.

“I’m so glad to see you, John Aiden,” she offered sincerely as Carden placed her valise in an empty chair.

Aiden gave her a quick smile and wasted no time with pleasantries or formalities. “Belle, Carden, this is Dr. William George. He’s a surgeon. I thought it best to be prepared for the worst.”

The worst possibility wouldn’t require the skills of a surgeon, she knew, but rather the skills of a mortician. She quickly and roughly shoved away the morose thought. “Thank you for coming, Doctor,” she said, extending her hand. As he cradled it in his own and bent over it, she added, “I sincerely hope that we won’t have need of your expertise.”

“No one ever does,” he replied, releasing her hand to extend his own to Carden. “They are, however, genuinely pleased to see me when they do.”

“As we will be,” Carden offered with a smile that struck Belle as being a little forced and slightly shadowed by worry.

There was no comfort at all in knowing that she wasn’t the only one considering horrible possibilities. Determined to distract herself, to keep her mind occupied with anything other than dreadful imaginings, she ignored all of her mother’s instruction on the requirements of genteel conversation. “Have you seen O’Brien?” she asked without preamble.

Aiden nodded. “He was briefly through here about an hour ago,” he supplied as he bent down and retrieved a small wooden crate and a burlap bag from the floor. Placing both carefully on the table in front of her, he explained, “He left these things for you, Belle, saying that there’d be hell to pay if I played with fire or kicked the box.”

“He’s right,” she allowed, gently lifting the hinged lid of the crate. “But since you’re still very much in one piece,” she added, carefully moving the packing straw aside just enough to examine the contents, “I can see that you took his words to heart.”

“What’s in there?”

“Dynamite.” Both Aiden and the good doctor took a half-step back. “Not to worry, gentlemen,” she assured them as she pushed the straw padding back into place. “It’s well packed. It’s as stable and safe as it gets, as long as none of us do anything rash.”

Carden reached past her for the bag, asking ever so nonchalantly, “What are you going to do with it, Belle?”

“I’m going to rig a trip wire,” she supplied, lowering the lid. “And hope Emil gives me sufficient time to explain how it works.”

Dr. George, a good three shades paler than he had been a few minutes earlier, cleared his throat. “Do you make a habit of playing with explosives?”

His voice was at least an octave higher, too. For the first time since early that morning, Belle felt fully in control, capable of dealing with whatever came her way. “Yes, Doctor, I do,” she replied, smiling as she glanced into the bag Carden held open for her inspection. Everything she’d asked for was there.

“Dynamite is a very new development,” she went on, meeting the physician’s shocked gaze. “It has its drawbacks, of course. All things new do. But it’s ever so much easier to transport and conceal than a keg of powder. Not to mention that, ounce for ounce, it provides a much more impressive effect.”

“You are,” Aiden laughed, his green eyes bright, “without doubt, the most perfect woman in the world for Barrett. You’re two sides to the same coin.”

She wanted to thank him for the compliment, for the assurance. She wanted to tell him that Barrett was the only man she had ever loved, could ever love. But the tickling low in her throat warned her that the words would come on a flood of tears. She swallowed hard. “Did O’Brien say anything at all about finding him?”

“Aside from the warning about handling the box,” he answered, his amusement dimming just the slightest bit, “the only other thing he said was that he hated it when uppity women proved to be right.”

Barrett was in Cheapside! She locked her knees as a brilliant, sparkling hope enveloped her. They were close. It could be only a matter of minutes before they found him. Her heart racing, Belle resisted the impulse to lunge across the table and grab John Aiden Terrell by the lapels of his battered jacket. “Did he say when we could expect him to return?” she asked, too excited to care that she sounded every bit as breathless as she was. “Or is he simply going to send word and have us go to him?”

Aiden’s smile faded as he shook his head. “I’m sorry, Belle. All he said beyond what I’ve already relayed was that we were to wait here.”

Hope evaporated just as quickly and completely as it had swelled over her. “Well,” she said, taking up the handle of her valise and giving them all a weak smile, “if you gentlemen will excuse me for a few moments, I need to speak with the barkeeper.”

She felt their gazes following her as she made her way across the room, heard the low sounds of their hushed voices. No doubt they were discussing how completely out of control her emotions had become. At some point one of them would have to suggest that perhaps a woman bordering on lunacy shouldn’t be allowed to play with fuses and explosives. And she couldn’t really find fault with the logic. As shaky as her hands were … And Lord knew that the only thing predictable about her thoughts was how quickly and easily they could produce a river of tears.

*   *   *

The room to which the keep directed her was more the size of a closet. Or a very large hatbox. But since it was the only private space in the Hen and Chick, Isabella made do as best she could and hoped that none of the patrons—those other than the gentlemanly Carden and Aiden and Dr. George—were trying to peek around the edges of the skimpy curtain serving as the door. Not that there was much chance of it, she knew. Not with her hoops swinging and swaying as she climbed out of them. The curtain billowed out and fell back into place one last time as she lifted it all above her head and shoved it into the rear corner and atop a short stack of ale kegs. With a sigh of relief to be done with them, Belle yanked open her valise and happily dug out her boots and night clothes. She was perched on the edge of a wooden crate and pulling on her boots when the chairs started scraping over the tavern floor. First one, then a couple more, then a seeming chorus of them, followed by something of a stampede toward the door.

Belle peeked out between the curtain and the door frame. As she blindly fished about in her valise for her hat and jacket, she watched Inspector Larson saunter toward the rear corner of the establishment. The two younger detectives were nowhere in sight. Only the sergeant with the badly scarred face accompanied him.

Deciding to give the men time for their introductions and the exchange of thinly veiled insults, she separated her dress from her hoops, abandoning the latter and stuffing the former unceremoniously into her traveling bag. With the handle in one hand and her hat and coat in the other, Belle took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and boldly marched out into the main room.

“Inspector Larson,” she said pleasantly as he and his subordinate turned at her approach. “How good of you to join us. Do you owe me three months’ salary?”

Larson’s—and the sergeant’s—gaze skimmed down the length of her and back up. She had dropped her valise and coat on the seat of the empty chair and tossed the hat onto the table by the time he recovered enough to reply, “You weren’t completely correct in your predictions, madam.”

“Oh? Where did I err?” she asked, her arms akimbo. “Did Emil actually set foot inside Nickel’s Sweet Shop?”

“Not that we have been able to ascertain.”

“Emma’s still alive?”

He managed a tight, thin smile. “You were correct in both your prediction of her fate and the location of the body. Her throat had been cut in the same manner as her sister’s.”

Oh, it had practically choked him to admit that. And she wasn’t feeling benevolent enough to let him off the hook. “Then where did I err, Inspector?”