Too Wicked to Wed (24 page)

Alexa tried to concentrate.
A prostitute by the name of Snow.
That should be a telling clue, and yet she could not quite fit the person with a motive.

“That does not explain why you seem to hate Killingworth so,” she said slowly. “Such relentless pursuit speaks of a grudge far more personal than a general dislike for people of rank and privilege.”

“Ah, so you are not quite as dumb as you seem,” replied Helen. “Yes, with the Wolfhound, it is a matter of both personal and professional slights.” The sculpted lips thinned to an angry slash, the first real show of uncontrolled emotion. “For which he shall pay dearly.”

A wave of nausea churned her insides. Swallowing hard, Alexa forced back the bitter taste of bile. “I should like to know why.”

“I suppose there is no harm in telling you all the details.” Indeed, Helen looked rather eager to do so. “Have you any idea what your highborn husband does to earn his money?”

“He runs a brothel and gaming hell in the stews.” It might have been more prudent to remain silent, but Alexa could not help herself.

A spasm crossed Helen’s face, betraying that the reply had caught her off guard. But she quickly masked her surprise. “Then perhaps it won’t come as too great a shock to your maidenly scruples when I tell you that I used to work at The Wolf’s Lair.”

Though Alexa had been expecting something of the sort, her expression must have given away a hint of her dismay. The other woman’s lips formed into a smug smile. “Oh, yes, I was one of the most popular—and profitable—girls.”

“With your particular talents, I can see why,” said Alexa evenly.

“Can you?” Helen crossed her shapely ankles, shifting the reticule by her side. From its depth peeked an ivory-handled pistol, sized for a petite palm, and a plain poniard.

Alexa swallowed hard, sure that her captor would show no hesitation in wielding either weapon.

“No, I don’t think you appreciate the full range of my talents quite yet.” Helen clearly had no compunction about causing pain. Her next words were certainly chosen to draw blood. “I soon drew the Wolfhound’s special notice.”

“Like Suzy Simmonds?” said Alexa.

“That stupid cow?” The mocking jeer could not quite hide the edge of anger. “She actually enjoyed
talking
with a gentleman.”

Realization began to dawn on Alexa. “You mean to say you were disappointed that Killingworth did not invite you into his bed?”

The facade of cool composure shattered with a resounding crack. “How dare he reject my charms!” Her gloved hand slapped into the squabs a second time. “He singled me out. Only to say he admired my
mind
!” The last word was spit out as if it were something obscene.

“There are some females who would have taken that as a great compliment,” said Alexa softly.

Helen went on as if she had not heard. “I offered him a wealth of pleasures and all he wished to do was teach me how to add up a column of monthly expenses. For that alone, I shall never forgive him.”

The lamp flickered wildly as the carriage lurched through a sharp turn and picked up speed. “But I am curious about something, Alexa Hendrie from Yorkshire.” In the yawing play of light and shadows, Helen’s eyes took on a more malevolent glitter. “I have attended many of the recent soirees, taking great care to stay in the shadows. Killingworth never spotted me, but I had ample opportunity to observe him. And you.”

“Watching several sedate spins around a ballroom could not have been all that entertaining.”

“It afforded some interesting moments. As did a stroll in a moonlit garden, where the figures of the dance became a trifle more heated. You and the Wolfhound couple quite well together.”

The first flush of embarrassment quickly turned into a surge of outrage at the violation of her most private intimacies. But after a moment, Alexa willed the two hot spots of color on her cheeks to cool. Anger would only further cloud her already shaky judgment, and the clench of her fists only caused the rope to cut more deeply into her flesh.

Helen laughed, but the sound quickly died away. “I have seen the way he watches you, both on and off the dance floor. Connor Linsley—the aloof and arrogant Irish Wolfhound—is besotted with his country bride. It can’t be looks, and neither your fortune nor your family offer the prospect of power.” Her eyes narrowed. “Tell me, what hold have you over him?”

Despite her fears, Alexa crooked a wry smile. “I own half of his business.”

“You lie! The Wolfhound would never sell his Lair.”

“No,” agreed Alexa. “I won it in a game of cards.”

“Ha!” scoffed Helen. And yet, a shadow of a doubt shaded her voice. “You think I am a Bedlamite, to believe such a farrididdle as that?”

“Nonetheless, it is true. We are partners in more than the conventional union of man and wife.”

The assertion gave the other woman pause for thought. “Perhaps I underestimated you after all.” Her fingers caressed the pistol. “How very convenient that I shall kill two birds with one stone. It would have been very vexing to have gone to all the trouble of exterminating the Wolfhound, only to discover his Lair remained in business.”

Alexa was thrown off balance. She had not expected business to enter into the equation. “Why does it matter to you if The Wolf’s Lair stays open?”

“The reason is quite simple,” said Helen. “Money.”

“But you have long since left his employment—”

“To set up my own houseful of whores.”

Things were finally beginning to add up.

“Oh yes, Connor Linsley taught me well, but why would I want to waste my talents running a respectable business?” continued Helen. “The prospect for profits is pitiful and the drudgery a bore.”

“Still. I don’t see why it is necessary to seek the Lair’s demise,” said Alexa. “From what I have seen of the
ton
, there are plenty of clients to go around.”

“More than enough, but the Wolfhound was going to ruin it for all of us in the business! High wages, comfortable quarters, days off—and worst of all, the prospect of a pension for retirement.” Helen grimaced. “Damn his hide, he was much too
nice
to the girls. Word was beginning to spread, giving my sluts airs above their station. Rather than being grateful for a place off the street, they were starting to ask for a raise, and other benefits. Revenues would have dropped dramatically.”

“So you decided to kill him?”

“Not at first. I would have been satisfied with stripping him of his pride and his purse, which would have put him out of business.”

“You were, of course, familiar with Killingworth’s private office, and its contents,” said Alexa.

“He is rather careless with his possessions. It was absurdly easy to steal his money and his dagger.” Using the point of her own poniard, Helen nudged a lock of hair from Alexa’s cheek. “And his wife.”

Refusing to be intimidated, Alexa continued with her questions. The odds against escape were awfully high, but there was still a chance, and her knowing all the information might come in useful. “However, it must have taken some effort to find someone skilled enough to cheat Killingworth at his own tables.”

Helen laughed. “I didn’t have to look too far from home.”

Snow. DeWinter.

If her foot hadn’t been trapped between the seats, Alexa would have kicked herself.

“Cousin Dickie had a certain cleverness with cards,” went on her captor. “He was useful…up to a point.”

“A rather cold-blooded way of putting it,” murmured Alexa.

Helen’s smile was chilling. “We had a profitable working relationship going, but then he got greedy, and tried to blackmail me for more. Subtlety was never his strong suit. Or savvy.” She gave a casual toss of her head. “One of his friends found my offer quite satisfactory.”

A small shiver coursed up the length of Alexa’s spine. The woman had ice in her veins.

“But even in death, dear Dickie was good for one last trick. I thought it one of my more inspired ideas to arrange his demise in a way that set yet another hunter on the Wolfhound’s tail.”

“You may have put a flea in Bolt’s ear, but he will require more evidence than a stray dagger to have Killingworth taken up for the crime.”

“And he shall have it!” Helen leaned forward, the flare of malice in her eyes overpowering the pale lamplight. “You are a rather dull creature—have you not yet worked it out? I shall use you as the ultimate bait to lure the Wolfhound to a meeting in rookeries. Where Bolt will catch him red-handed with a corpse and apprehend him for murder of his wife.”

The laugh had an eerie, inhuman crackle to it. Despite her resolve to appear unmoved by the woman’s hatred, Alexa found herself shrinking back from the sound.

“Combined with the incriminating evidence of DeWinter’s death, and his well-known wolfish temper, Connor Linsley will hang from the Newgate gibbet,” gloated Helen.

“Very clever, indeed.” Bracing her shoulders against the squabs, Alexa regained a measure of composure. “What a pity that for all your brilliance, you overlooked one small detail.”

A flicker of uncertainty dimmed her captor’s smugness. “Impossible. I have worked everything out perfectly.”

“You yourself noted that Killingworth does not guard his possessions very carefully. Perhaps it is because he doesn’t care overly if he loses them.” Alexa drew in a breath. “You mistake his display of desire for something deeper. I wouldn’t count on him coming after me.”

Helen shifted back into the shadows. “Oh, the Irish Wolfhound will come. I will bet my life on it.”

Chapter Twenty-three

C
rouching down, Cameron lit the stub of candle. “Footprints. Quite fresh by the look of them.”

Connor peered over his friend’s shoulder. “It’s Alexa, without a doubt. I recognize the shape of her shoe.” Lifting his gaze from the mud, he tried to control his rising panic. “Come, let us see if we can discover where they lead.”

A quick search of the alleyway brought them to the narrow opening between the buildings. Drawing back the hammer of his pistol, Cameron prepared to step forward.

“No, I’ll go first.” Though armed with only a knife, Connor elbowed him aside. “Put out the light.”

Swearing silently, he moved as quickly as he dared, but the treacherous footing and twisting confines slowed progress to a snail’s pace. Sweat began to trickle down his back, and at the thought of stumbling upon Alexa’s lifeless body, he felt the hilt of his weapon grow slippery in his fingers.

Dear God Almighty
…With a start, Connor realized that his oaths had given way to prayer.

As if in mockery of his appeal to the heavens, the way pinched in tighter around his head, forcing him to bend over nearly double. He paused to listen, hearing only the harsh echo of his own ragged breathing.

Was it possible that somewhere in this hellhole he had missed a turn?

He inched forward another step and suddenly, his outstretched blade nicked up against an oaken beam. Muttering a warning to Cameron, he slipped beneath it and scrabbled out into a dirt lane.

“Damn.”

The scudding moonlight showed that it was deserted.

Striking a flint to his steel, Cameron relit the candle. “Look here,” he murmured, picking a flutter of white from debris littering the ground.

Connor was on him in an instant, and snatched it from his hand. “Damn,” he repeated, his fingers all too familiar with the delicate pattern of the lace fichu. It still bore the feminine sweetness of verbena and lavender. “Damn, damn, damn.”

As the earl stood, clenching the tenuous connection to Alexa, Cameron turned away and began a methodical search of the area. A circling sweep soon turned up a length of iron pipe. Grim-faced, he held it up to the light. “A bit of blood—but not so much as there could be.”

Connor stared mutely at the strands of wheaten hair stuck to the pitted metal.

“Come, Wolf.” Cameron reached out and, one by one, slowly loosened the earl’s fingers from the bit of lace. “You can’t pull her back that way.”

Connor thrust the crumpled cloth into his pocket. “No,” he agreed. “For that I shall have to wrap my hands around the bastard’s throat.”

“Nor will an explosion of the fearsome Wolfhound temper be of any help,” counseled Cameron. “You need to keep a cool head.”

“You may feel compelled to offer advice on the female mind. But war is one thing I understand perfectly.” Though his insides were molten with worry, he steeled his voice. “What else did you see?”

“A number of footprints. Two, maybe three, different sets, along with scuffmarks of some weight being dragged over the ground. And evidence of a carriage having passed through here recently.” Cameron paused for a fraction before adding, “No sign of struggle.”

“Or a body,” said Connor, trying to keep his voice even. “If they have bothered to take her away, there is a good chance she is still alive.” He started to follow the muddy ruts, but Cameron caught hold of his coat.

“Don’t be a fool. We haven’t a chance in hell of following the tracks once they leave this lane. We need to return to your townhouse, in case there is a clue there.”

Kicking at a shard of glass, he clenched his jaw. “I suppose you are right,” he said, allowing his friend to lead him away.
Move—he had to keeping moving.
It was the only way to keep one step ahead of the paralyzing dread snapping at his heels.

Cameron walked beside him in silence until they reached the corner where their hackney was waiting. “I have been thinking—it’s even more imperative that I have a look inside the place you were watching.”

“Our thoughts are marching in line.” Connor was already reaching for the door latch. “I am coming with you.”

“Think again.” Cameron came to a halt. “The same arguments I raised with Gryff hold true for you. Any errant move might further endanger Alexa. You would only be in the way.”

Connor opened his mouth to argue, but he knew his friend was right.

“As I said earlier, you must return home, and see if she left any other clues as to the mysterious Mrs. Weatherly. And while it may be too early as of yet, there is a chance that a note is waiting. If Alexa has been abducted, her captors will no doubt seek to use it to their advantage. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can.”

The earl’s hand hovered over the handle. “I am trusting that one of those many skills you mentioned earlier includes being a bloody good cracksman.”

“You won’t find a better one between Brighton and Bombay.” Moving with catlike quickness, Cameron already slipped off into the shadows. “I shall not let you down, Wolf.”

That Cameron’s strategy was the only logical one did not help quell Connor’s feelings of utter helplessness. A careful examination of Alexa’s bedchamber yielded nothing save for haunting little reminders of her—an azure hair ribbon, a bottle of lavender water, a strand of pearls. Slamming the dresser drawer shut, he crossed the hallway and entered the study.

The only papers on the desk were a scribbled chronology of the attacks and a list of questions she had drawn up for Mr. Bolt. Setting them aside, Connor picked up the small leather notebook. The pages fell open to an architectural sketch for expanding the stables of Linsley Close. The notations, written in a careful hand, indicated that Alexa planned shearing pens, a goat barn, and several out buildings for the storage of wool and weavings.

As Connor studied her handiwork, he found his throat growing tight. She had taken blank paper, an empty book, and envisioned…a future. Leafing through the rest of the sketches revealed a number of other details. A Kashmir goat, complete with historical notes on the breed. New brass fittings for pantry cupboards. A design for a new set of drawing room draperies, the pattern and color spelled out in the margin.

And a portrait, unmistakable despite the whimsical curl of the pen strokes.

An odd rumbling sounded deep in his chest. The book slipped from his grasp as Connor sank into the chair and buried his head in his hands.

If only God would grant him a chance to tell her how much he yearned to share in her dreams.

It was, he admitted, supremely ironic. For most of his life, he had viewed the world—and women—with a sense of cynical detachment. There had been many torrid dalliances. But despite the twining of limbs, the heat of flesh against the flesh, he had never been touched by any of them.

Until Alexa had come storming into his Lair.

Passionate. Provocative.
She had, from their very first meeting, both exasperated and enthralled him. Her spirit seemed to defy the boundaries of mere words, and ignore the barriers he had so carefully constructed around his innermost self. Alexa Hendrie had gotten not only under his skin but also into his heart, a place he had always thought impregnable. It frightened him to his very core.

Was that love?

Perhaps the plaguey poets were right. Connor had always thought it ridiculously melodramatic to veer from very depths of despair to the heights of ecstasy, all within the space of a sonnet. Now he wasn’t so sure. Love inspired doubt and hope, not to speak of confusion. It had wrought a profound change on him, beguiling his jaded senses, awakening elemental longings, making his heart sing.

Which was ridiculous—he was the snarling Wolfhound.
Wasn’t he?

But no matter that his own words were more likely to come out as a rough bark than a polished pentameter, the next chance he had, he would tell her of his feelings.

Alexa strained at her bonds. Her captors had loosened the rope around her wrists after carrying her up to the tiny room, but any hope of escape had been ruthlessly cut off by the snap of the iron manacle around her ankle, chaining her to the bedstead. Still, the thought of gaining a bit of freedom, however illusory, prompted her not to give up in her struggles. She would not feel quite so helpless if she could gain the use of her hands.

Biting back a cry, she gave another hard twist to the knots. The physical discomfort helped keep her mind off a far deeper pain. She ached with regret at how much had been left unsaid between her and Connor. There had been so little time together. She hadn’t had a chance to tell him how much she loved the little things about him—the shape of his jaw, the way she fitted into the crook of his arm, his gruff laugh, and the quicksilver flashes of humor in his eyes, though he took pains to hide the lighter side of his nature.

It was wrenching to think she might never see his austere visage again, or hear his growl…

A last desperate tug and she slipped free of the rope. Pushing up to a sitting position, Alexa found her prospects were not greatly improved. The shackle around her leg prevented her from leaving the mattress, and the sight of matching chains attached to the other three bedposts sent a shudder through her limbs. Her wits were still a trifle dulled but it did not require much imagination to think of what they might be used for.

She fell back against the crimson counterpane, averting her gaze to the ceiling. Which proved a mistake. A large oval mirror, held in place by four leering satyrs, covered most of the painted plaster, its dim reflection catching not only her bruised face and torn garments but the assortment of leather whips and spiked rods hanging upon the wall.

Squeezing her eyes shut did not block out the wicked curl of the lashes and menacing bite of the sharpened metal. But after a moment, she steeled her nerve, refusing to give in to despair. She would
not
lie down like a lamb, and submit meekly to being staked out as bait for the Wolf! Twisting back into a sitting position, Alexa tugged at a knot of her hair.

She had once laughed herself silly on reading a popular horrid novel, thinking it an absurd contrivance of plot that the heroine had managed to open a dungeon door with a hairpin. Now, however, she prayed that truth would prove stranger than fiction.

Bending open the bit of metal, she set to work.

“The house appears uninhabited,” reported Cameron. “There is no sign of servants and all the rooms are under holland covers, save for a small library on the second floor, which looks to be a meeting place of sorts. The desk is being used, but it’s obvious someone is being careful to leave no telltale trace of identity lying around.” After peeling off a knitted cap and a pair of skintight black gloves, he removed three items from his coat pocket and, with a theatrical flourish, lined them up on the desk. “But not quite careful enough.”

A deck of playing cards, a gold watch fob, a wine merchant’s bill.

Without comment, Connor picked up each in turn, making a careful scrutiny before placing them back on the leather blotter. “Bloody hell.”

“So you see a connection?”

“It’s hard to miss, if you know what to look for.” He flipped one of the cards face down, revealing an intricate pattern on the back of the pasteboard. “Two stylized birds, one white, one gray. A rather unique design, made only for The Soiled Dove, an expensive brothel near Regent’s Park.” His forefinger then grazed over the pair of tiny gold wings. “The fob is given out to special clients, who have dropped a hefty amount of blunt, along with their breeches, in the private parlors on the third floor. And this…”

The paper crackled as Connor smoothed out the accounting from Flood and Taylor. “…This bill is made out to an establishment at the corner of Crescent Street and Gilpin Lane.”

“The exact location of The Soiled Dove,” finished Cameron. “A curious coincidence, is it not?”

“I shall know more about that once I have plucked some bird bare, feather by filthy feather.” The earl’s chair scraped back, but Cameron laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.

“Let’s not go flying off the handle quite yet, Connor. We need to decide on a strategy before we go hunting.” Perching a hip on the edge of the desk, Cameron asked, “Who owns the establishment?”

Connor pulled a face. “I am not the only proprietor who prefers to keep his identity a secret. I have heard rumors, but never paid the matter much heed. It didn’t seem overly important.” Taking up the gold fob, he turned it slowly between his fingers. “A grave mistake, I see. One of the basic tenets of business is to know the competition.”

“If it is of any consolation, I know a great many others who have made the same mistake,” murmured his friend. “Such knowledge does not come without a price.”

“No,” he said softly. “But in this case, I pray that the cost will not prove too dear.”

Shuffling through the cards, Cameron turned one of the Queens face up. “Let us not lose heart. We shall have to play our hand very carefully, but I have a feeling Lady Luck will not turn her back on such a stalwart female as your wife.”

The earl stared at the painted pasteboard lips, uncertain whether the smile was playing him false.

With a flick of his wrist, Cameron placed the Jack of Diamonds alongside her. “First of all, I suggest that we call in Gryff right away. We might not know who has taken Alexa prisoner, or why, but we have a good idea of where she is being held. Neither you nor I ought to show our faces at The Soiled Dove.” The King of Hearts fluttered down to the desk, followed by the Ace of Spades. “But Gryff’s carousing is well known throughout Town. He could pay a visit to the place this evening without raising undo suspicions, and have a closer look around.”

Until that moment, Connor had not been aware that night had given way to the first rays of dawn. He looked away from the window, finding the pale reminder of the passing hours inexpressibly bleak. “The Devil take it, there must be a way to do something before then.”

Cameron shook his head. “We can’t risk tipping our hand. Our opponent doesn’t know what cards we hold. When the time comes, we shall have to use that element of surprise to trump his every move. So we must be patient. A man of your experience in high-stakes gambling knows emotion cannot come into play.”