The Devil Wears Tartan (25 page)

D
avina had had enough experience with sleepless nights lately that it wasn’t difficult to gauge that it was close to midnight. Both Nora and Jim slept on the ground beside her, far enough to retain some sense of propriety, but still close enough that she used some caution as she stood and walked toward the Black Castle.

The portcullis was lit by a single lantern, and her knock was answered by a tall, hulking man dressed neatly in white shirt and brown trousers. He opened the door without a word, and she stepped inside the asylum.

She’d expected something different, perhaps. Some sights or sounds that would repulse her, but the interior of the Black Castle was surprisingly ordinary-looking, with rough, whitewashed walls and arched doorways. Nor was the furniture a surprise, being thick oak, scarred, and obviously old. Still, it looked as if it had been oiled and polished on a regular basis. There were no gas lamps on the walls, only oil lamps and a few candles scattered here and there, protected from passing drafts by glass shields.

He was waiting for her, just as she suspected he would be. Dominic Ahern, with his little rat face. She could almost see his whiskers twitching. He was sitting in a chair in front of a table, a sheaf of papers in front of him. More certificates? More poor souls destined for this place?

She forced a smile to her face and drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

“Who is Dr. Marsh?” she asked.

Ahern evidently did not expect the question, because he blinked at her in surprise.

“I confess that I have had few dealings with him myself. His name is not very familiar to me, but he has followed the letter of the law, Your Ladyship.”

“Is it the law or money that concerns you most, Mr. Ahern?”

His only answer was to incline his head. At least he didn’t bow to her.

“Is my husband’s imprisonment here paid for by his uncle, Garrow Ross?”

“We do not imprison our patients, Your Ladyship. On the contrary, we offer them a respite from a world that is often cruel, harsh, and judgmental.”

“And is that respite paid for by my husband’s uncle?”

“Were I to divulge the identity of our many benefactors, Your Ladyship, then we would have no patients. We strive to offer a certain—”

“Anonymity?” she asked.

He smiled. “Just so. Most of the families of our patients do not want it bandied about that their loved ones have difficulties. We offer that service.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled free one of the objects she’d retrieved from the Egypt House. The queen’s necklace dangled from her fingers, the rectangular green stones glinting in the candlelight.

His mustache twitched.

“What is that?”

“An inducement,” she said softly. “A payment.”

“I’ve been paid already.”

“I would pay you more, Mr. Ahern. I would pay you the whole of my husband’s fortune if necessary.”

“It will not buy his freedom, Your Ladyship. I am bound by the law. He must remain here at least three days.”

“Then if it will not buy his freedom,” she said, “will it buy some comfort for him?”

“We treat all of our patients as if they were guests, Your Ladyship. There is no need for extra bartering. Your husband is being well treated.”

“Then will it shorten your evaluation time? Instead of three days, would one suffice?”

He seemed to consider it. She placed the necklace on the table and stepped back.

“Consider it, Mr. Ahern. There are many more just like that. I will reward you for every day you release my husband early.”

“How do I know he is not a danger to society, Your Ladyship? I could not live with myself if I turned a madman out into the world. Your husband might be an earl, Your Ladyship, but in this matter he is just like any other person. His rank will not protect him.”

His rank had never protected Marshall, but it was not a comment she chose to make to Ahern.

She continued as if she’d not heard him. “A change of clothes, then? Would you allow me that?”

He drew the necklace closer.

“Consider it,” she said again, and left the castle before he could refuse.

The minute she was certain Garrow had left the house, Theresa was out of bed. She threaded her fingers through her hair, tightened her wrapper, and donned her shoes. After listening at the door for several long moments and hearing only silence, she opened the door cautiously.

Garrow’s staff was well-paid, but not necessarily loyal. She’d taken the precaution of slipping several five-pound coins into her pocket, just in case she was interrupted by a diligent servant.

She took the stairs slowly, prepared to explain her presence there in the middle of the night. Or perhaps any maid she’d encounter would have enough tact to simply not ask. But she didn’t see anyone prior to entering Garrow’s library, nor was the room occupied even though a lamp was still lit on the desk.

Had Garrow left it lit in preparation for his return? Or had the servants simply forgotten to check? She decided that it wasn’t bright enough for her to be seen through the ceiling-to-floor window facing the street, and just enough illumination to aid in her search.

Garrow’s library as a work of art, tall mahogany shelves with dentil molding lining the long side of the
room. The shelves glittered with the sheer number of gilt-etched leather bindings. The man did know how to collect books. A pity that she’d never seen him actually read one. But the room gave him the aura of being a studious gentleman.

She made her way to the other side of his desk. In the weeks since they’d become lovers, he’d never before left her alone. She might never get this chance again.

There was nothing incriminating on the surface of the desk or beneath the blotter, but she’d already suspected that what she needed to find would be carefully hidden. Garrow wasn’t a fool. She moved behind the desk. All the drawers on the right-hand side opened smoothly, an indication that there was nothing valuable inside.

The middle drawer on the left pedestal, however, was locked, capturing her attention. She opened it with practiced ease, using a tool she’d been given years ago. The drawer slid out slowly, revealing a sheaf of papers. She didn’t bother to examine them. Instead she dropped to her knees and pressed her hand all the way to the end of the drawer.

Slowly and methodically, she fingered the area between where the drawer ended and the back of the desk. There was nothing there. But there was something affixed to the bottom of the drawer just above. She found the end of a string and followed it, her fingers tracing the pattern of a net tied to the underside of the drawer. A hammock. How inventive of Garrow. But what did it hold?

A book. Dear God, let it be what she needed.

She extracted the journal from its hiding place and, still on her hands and knees, began to read. The numbers on the right-hand side of the page seemed to be quantities. The number of humans shipped from Macao to ports all over the world? The figures on the left-hand side evidently represented his profit from these sales.

The names at the back of the book, however, made her smile. London would be ecstatic to contact these men. Some of the names were Chinese, but there were enough Dutch and English surnames to shame each country equally.

There was something so satisfying about holding this proof as she rose to her feet. There was something so eternally right about the moment that she almost wanted to share it.

“In the future when you’re stealing from someone, Theresa, you might take the precaution of dousing the light. You can be seen quite clearly in the window.”

Theresa looked up to find Garrow standing on the other side of the desk, a pleasant expression on his face, his smile firmly anchored on his lips. But the look in his eyes cautioned her that he was not nearly as affable as he appeared on the surface.

“I regret to say, my dear, that you had me completely fooled.”

She slipped the journal into the left-hand pocket of her wrapper.

“That will never do, Theresa. Give me my book, please.”

He extended his hand, palm up. She debated whether
she could escape from the room and the house before he caught her.

Probably not.

“I wasn’t exactly stealing, Garrow,” she said just as pleasantly. “But I will admit that it was foolish to leave the lamp lit. But I try to learn from my mistakes. Next time, I’ll be more cautious. As for your book, I have absolutely no intention of giving it back to you. I’ve sacrificed a great deal to find it. My dignity, actually, if not my reputation.”

She smiled. Would he consider the truth an insult? Evidently so, because his face darkened, his eyes narrowed, and he dropped his hand to his side.

“Just who are you?”

“A woman who believes in justice. Regrettably, I do not always obtain it. In your case, however, I’ve made your punishment my singular goal. You’re an evil man, Garrow, and a thoroughly unlikable one as well.”

Without any warning, he threw himself across the surface of the desk, intent on reaching her. She quickly stepped back, but he managed to grip her arm and pull her closer. She tried to get away, but his arm was suddenly around her neck.

She had absolutely no intention of being murdered by Garrow Ross.

She pulled the derringer out of her right pocket and pressed it hard against his chest as she turned and pushed herself against him.

He was so surprised that his grip lessened, enough that she could breathe again.

“Don’t be foolish, Garrow,” she whispered. “While
it would be an imposition to explain exactly why I was forced to shoot you, I’m willing to endure it.”

His grip around her neck lessened still further, but he didn’t release her.

“Rest assured that before I die, I’ll see to it that you have a nice little hole in your chest. Right where your heart might be. That is, if you had one.”

She’d never had to use the weapon before but she knew how to do so well enough. Also, she was fully prepared to kill him. Garrow must have seen the resolution in her eyes, because she was suddenly free.

She took a precautionary step away from him, keeping the gun leveled at his chest.

“Being with you has been interesting, Theresa,” he said, as she began moving backward toward the door.

She’d send a messenger to Lord Martinsdale tonight. His men could pick up Garrow now that she had the proof they needed. Hopefully, those poor souls already trapped in the holds of countless ships could be freed.

She walked backward to the door, still watching him.

“I can honestly say that while it has been interesting, Garrow, it hasn’t been exceptionally enjoyable. You are the very worst lover, Garrow; it’s only fair that you should know. Is that too direct?”

She smiled brightly at him, closed the door, and made her escape.

Marshall awoke to screams.

For a long moment, he kept his eyes shut. His captors would expect him to protest, but he’d learned that
it was better to keep them unbalanced, uncertain of his mood or his actions.

He expected to hear his name being called—his men were always compelled, somehow, to shout his name. He wondered if that was part of the torture. Or perhaps he was simply imagining that part of it: his guilty conscience being given voice.

The screams subsided but the sound of running feet increased. That was different. Perhaps his captors had learned his little trick and were keeping him unbalanced as well. He slitted open one eye and looked for Jim in his corner, but the boy was gone.

Vanished. Taken? Was he the man screaming?

God, please. His morning prayer, nothing more substantial than that: God, please. Please let him endure and be courageous. Please let him not shame himself, his family, or his country. Please don’t let his men suffer. All were equally and fervently and devoutly wanted.

Jim. He was barely more than a boy, and of all the men in his command, Marshall felt a particular duty toward Jim. He barely had a past, being out of childhood by only a few years. God, grant him a future, at least.

Marshall closed his eyes and willed himself into oblivion.

Davina.

He wasn’t in China. He’d come home to Ambrose by way of London. He’d seen the Queen, who’d expressed the gratitude of a nation, of the Empire, to him. He’d not mentioned the twenty-two men who’d died in agony so that she might be proud. They were the ones deserv
ing of respect. Instead he’d bowed, always deferential to his monarch, but in the back of his mind was the thought that she’d known, all along, about the bargain with the devil England had made.

Now he slitted open one eye and looked around him. The room in which he lay was small, nondescript, and completely unfamiliar. He tried to sit up, but dizziness pushed him back against the bed. Nor was his stomach all that steady.

He wasn’t in China and he most assuredly wasn’t at Ambrose. Where the hell was he? The screaming had faded. There were no footsteps outside his room, and the mattress on which he’d slept—for how long?—was surprisingly comfortable.

He stared at the door. Was it locked? The small window in the top indicated to him that it would be. Where was he? He vaguely remembered being in a coach. Had he lost his mind completely? If he were insane, would he be able to reason out that he was somewhere different?

He tried to sit up again, but the dizziness that overwhelmed him was suddenly too much to fight.

Ahern still had not answered her, but in the morning he sent out water for their washing and offered them breakfast. Davina graciously accepted, and the three of them ate relatively well, considering that they were perched on a rock that served as both table and chair.

“Can he keep the earl there, Your Ladyship?” Jim asked.

She was very much afraid Ahern had a great deal
of power at the moment, but she smiled reassuringly at Jim.

“I tried bribing him last night,” she said to their obvious surprise. “Ahern is either a very honest man, or not at all interested in Egyptian jewelry.”

“Then are we going to stay here for the three days, Your Ladyship?” Nora asked.

“It isn’t simply the three days, Nora,” Jim said. “It’s what the man said later. He could keep the earl here as long as he likes. All he needs is to think that the earl is mad.” He glanced over at Davina. “Isn’t that true, Your Ladyship?”