Never Too Late (12 page)

The printing press was destroyed. Not only had it been dismantled, but large pieces had been pounded against each other to warp them beyond repair. Twisted, mangled, strewn across the scarred floor. And here was more concrete evidence of human waste than just damp odor. What animals. At least they hadn’t set the place ablaze. Could this really be Withersby’s men? He knew Withersby used unsavory characters on occasion, but this seemed extreme even for them.

“Jupiter! Janus!” she called, before he could motion her to silence. He wanted to be sure the house was empty.

In the darkening of twilight, he lit some candles so they could check the upstairs. Once he confirmed the upper floors were empty of intruders, she went right to her wardrobe, picking her way carefully through broken glass and porcelain. The scent of lilies was overwhelming. One of the wardrobe doors hung off a broken hinge; as she pushed it carefully aside, she gasped and knelt. From what he could see, the interior was as desecrated as the rest of the building. Urgently, she tossed great handfuls of clothing that had been piled on the bottom of the wardrobe until she revealed a low drawer, one that had been taken out and smashed.

“It’s gone,” she said, incredulous. He could barely hear her.

“What is it, Mrs. Duchamp? What’s missing?”

When she looked up, tears welled in her eyes. Her voice quivered as she said, “My father’s signet. I don’t know how they knew where to find it. Out of all this”—she waved her arms wildly—“that ring was the only thing of actual value to me. Now it’s gone.”

“We will find it. I promise you, I will get it back for you.” He had no idea how he would accomplish this, and she didn’t believe him anyway.

“Don’t trouble yourself. It’s impossible.” He hated the tears streaming silently down her cheeks and leaving dark trails on her skirt. More than that, he hated the resignation in her voice, in her slumped form.

“I will have agents monitor the local pawnshops and jewelers. Whoever took it will seek to profit from it, count on that.”

“You are too kind,” she said, but her voice sounded empty.

She stood slowly and opened a closet.

The sudden flurry of motion caught him, shocked him, and he froze. A curse escaped him as he realized he’d let his guard down, assumed they’d searched everywhere and the intruders were gone.
Bloody idiot
, he thought, as he stared at the dirty blade now being held against Honoria’s throat. He swore to himself that if this scum hurt her in the slightest, he would tear the vermin limb from limb with his bare hands.

He quickly assessed the assailant. Approximately six feet tall, judging by how the doorway framed him. The thug’s face and hair were darkened, perhaps with coal dust or ash, to mask his features, but he might be able to recognize the man by the contours of his face . . . and by his eyes. Dark, vicious eyes. Alex stood motionless, tense—if he had to let that scum go to prevent Honoria from being harmed, he would. But justice would be meted out eventually.

The hand holding the knife didn’t waver. Good. He could reason with a calm, calculating criminal. Someone who felt panicked would be more likely to act impulsively and irrationally; desperation was more likely to result in bloodshed.

“Let her go,” he said in a low voice.

The criminal’s eyes moved back and forth between him and the door, gauging distance and speed, no doubt.

“Give me back my father’s ring!” Honoria blurted. Loudly.

A dark laugh rumbled through the room.

“Sorry, lovey. I ain’t got it. My buddy found it first. Long gone, he is.”

“Let. Her. Go.”

“No, my good sir,” came the mocking response in an exaggerated affectation. “I don’t believe I shall. I quite like this little lovey in my arms just now.”

“If you hurt her, I will kill you,” he said, never more sure of a statement in his entire life.

“If I choose to hurt her, you can’t do a thing about it, man.” The knifepoint bit slightly into Honoria’s neck, close to her ear. She whimpered, and the anger in her eyes abruptly turned to fear.

“Release her, and we will let you walk out freely.”

“I could just as easily kill you both and walk out freely anyway.”

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me just now. If you hurt her, I will end you. If I have to rip you apart with my bare hands and with my last dying breath.... Harm her in the slightest, and you will never leave this room. Just release her and go.”

Just when he thought the intruder was convinced, the man shifted his stance. Honoria gasped and her eyes went wide. Then the man’s free hand moved. That’s when Alex finally understood what was happening. The hand, that disgusting paw, slipped down her body, stopping briefly to squeeze her breast hard through her clothing, hard enough to bring tears to her eyes, and then moving down lower, unspeakably lower. Honoria closed her eyes and seemed to curl inward visually at the awful intrusion.

“I was promised things, I’ll tell ya. Aside from the ring, there wasn’t anything worth stealing. Had some fun downstairs but not worth the trouble. I could use some real entertainment tonight.”

“Get your hands off of her!”

“I’ve just had a promising thought.” The cur lowered his mouth to Honoria’s ear, although he still spoke loud enough to be heard across the room. “I think it’s time to lock ol’ spoilsport over there in this closet and . . . have ourselves a little party.” With the knife digging into the other side of her neck, Honoria couldn’t move as he ran his tongue along her ear—a tongue that Alex vowed to cut out at the first possible opportunity.

Honoria looked directly at Alex then, and her eyes went hard. She wasn’t going to allow this to continue, but he couldn’t tell what course of action she would take. All he could do was be ready to strike.

She visibly relaxed against her attacker, whose response was immediate.

“Oh, so it’s like that, is it?” A sinister chuckle. “I’d heard widows were easy sport. Mayhap you have a taste for the danger . . . or for the dirt.” The knife lifted away from her neck slightly as the other hand roamed her body again. A hand that would be bloodied and ideally dismembered very, very soon.

“Let me turn around,” she said quietly, her hands light on his restraining arm.

“Your man over there ain’t too happy about this.” The man under discussion was working hard to stifle a growl in his throat and tuck his clenched fists against his thighs.

“He’s not my man. I barely know him.”

“Don’t seem that way right now. He can’t be very good if you’re so willing to whore yourself so easily.” Her eyes closed, as if steeling herself against the thought. Surely she didn’t really mean to go through with it! Surely she would move to escape him soon.

“I said I barely know him. Now may I turn around or not?”

“Eager, eh? That’s nice. But we’d better figure out what to do about that one first. He sure objects to our plans. In the closet, I think.”

“You could just let him go. We won’t be needing him.”

“I’m not so stupid, lovey. I let him go, and I’ll as like find him bashing my head in while I’m bashing your—”

She’d spun in his arms and covered his mouth with her hand. She rubbed up against him. It was a sickening sight. But she’d captured his attention fully, if only for a moment.

Alex took that moment to move in front of the dresser and grab a candlestick. He only had his eyes off the couple for a moment, but he heard metal clatter to the floor. Suddenly the attacker was doubled over, moaning, hands between his legs, and Honoria was kicking the knife away from his grasp. Handicapped as he was, the filthy dog still managed to trip Honoria as she tried to rush away from him. Alex’s vision went red as he rushed forward and swung the candlestick hard. The man slumped unconscious, and Honoria scrambled away toward the door, sobbing.

He ran to her, quickly scanned her to make sure she wasn’t bleeding or injured, and held her for a moment. Then he ripped off his cravat to tie the intruder’s hands behind his back. He could still see the man’s chest rising and falling, and he couldn’t guess when or if consciousness would return. Better to take precautions. Then he guided Honoria downstairs and they waited for the police.

Chapter Nine

Evans Principle 9: Accept help when it is offered with a sincere heart. Accept it, but don’t become dependent on it.

“Y
ou will be safe here. In the morning, we can go to the police station to follow up on the investigation.” It was well after two
A
.
M
.
by the time they’d given their statements to the police, who performed a quick survey of the damages and promised a thorough investigation in daylight. “In the meantime, you know you cannot stay here tonight,” Devin had said. “Your locks will need to be changed, windows repaired, and I am not at all convinced that these criminals are done with you. Do you have somewhere else to go?”

Her silence had been answer enough. She’d given Minnie and Erich the day off. They would not return until tomorrow, and she could not bring herself to impose upon them in their tiny apartment. She was unable to convince Alex that she would be safe alone, that barring the upper floors would be sufficient. In the end, he had offered to see her settled in his mother’s keeping and then depart for his own apartments for her comfort.

And so here she was again at Devin House.

Lady Devin . . . Rose . . . was so kind. Visibly drained from hours of waiting and worrying, the viscountess retired soon after their arrival but not until she’d made clear Honoria was welcome to stay as long as she wanted and was to have full and open access to the house—to treat it as her own. And Rose meant it. Honoria was struck anew by her genuine concern and hospitality. She owed this woman so much.

Yet here on the brink, in the front hall, she couldn’t quite imagine how she’d gather the audacity to make her way through this house, a palace compared with the plebeian home she inhabited. Having seen some of the upstairs during her previous visit made it even worse. She knew exactly how out of place she was here. A maid stood a few feet away, as ordered, waiting to show her to her room. She just couldn’t take that first step, an alien in this opulent, foreign land.

“I thank you, Lord Devin,” she said. “I am convinced that your intervention adds gravitas to the investigation. The police have much to do, and the officer who took my statement while you were upstairs was, shall we say, less than diligent before you appeared.” She was silent for a moment, thoughtful. “Funny how you have entered my life at a time when I have the greatest need of you.”

“Funny,” he echoed in a tone she could not identify. “Would you like to sit for a moment? Perhaps a drink?”

“Yes, please God, yes.” A small measure of relief crept into her. The drawing room she recognized. Something as normal as a drink she could manage. And she certainly needed a drink.

He nodded to the maid, who retreated to the back of the house, and then he led her not into the drawing room but to the library. He bade her to sit and then, from behind yet another false panel, he poured two tumblers of brandy. She almost asked for whiskey. They sat in silence, a silence that gave her the space to think about her losses, to decipher the dark emotions crowding in on her from the moment she’d seen the shop’s front doors ajar. She appreciated that he didn’t push her to talk or to think, just paved the way.

“The bookstore has been my safe house for as long as I can remember. Even as the locale went into decline,” she said finally. “It was all I had. It was my stronghold and oasis, my den and my escape. Did you see how systematically the shelves were ruined? Everything was laid to waste. And Jupiter and Janus . . . I have no idea where they’ve gone.” She couldn’t bring herself to give voice to what had happened upstairs. She couldn’t even think about it.

He nodded and replied, “It must have taken quite a crew to do so much in such a short time.”

She considered that and shuddered at the thought of a gang systematically working its way through her refuge, through her most private things. Somehow the image was even more disturbing than the notion of a single random intruder, even the single disgusting intruder they’d encountered. She pictured a gang exactly like him and wanted to cry.

“Mrs. Duchamp.” He interrupted her churning thoughts. “I would in no way question your business dealings, but even honest merchants have enemies. Is there someone who would wish you harm? Is there any reason you can think of for someone to target your shop?”

“No. No one. I’ve never had any complaints from customers. No rivals to speak of.”

“What about the political tracts you print and distribute? Has anyone ever objected or challenged you over them? The printing press, all the print jobs in the back, the destruction of the press implies that someone wanted to stop those activities.”

She thought of the broken, unusable press and of the stacks of handbills she’d found, soaked in solvent, an illegible mess of pulp.

“Customers who don’t want them simply don’t take them. Such things are just as easily found in local churches. I suppose a client or two has frowned upon them, but no reaction so severe as to suggest this. . . .” She trailed off as she remembered her most recent foray in Haymarket.

“Nonetheless, tomorrow, after we talk with the police, you should contact those anonymous authors to warn them of what’s happened.”

“That will be easy to do.”

He looked at her for a long moment, and she realized she may have said too much.

“What?” he asked.

“I—I’m sure it does not signify. A month or so ago, I noticed a child being followed by some shady fellows in Haymarket and made a bit of a fuss with the local police. It came to nothing.” She moved on, deflecting his keen attention. “I think perhaps I’m more upset about the devastation of the store than the burglary of my home upstairs, except for my father’s ring. A part of me has been destroyed with the devastation of the store. The shop is my life. Some of the books have been my closest friends, my talismans, for years.”

“The store can be rebuilt, the building made more secure. Your sense of security has been shaken, but you will feel safe again. And you are completely safe now, here.”