Vanquished (37 page)

It was in that fragile state between acute misery and semi-intoxication that Lottie found her later that day. Smartly turned out in a princess-cut visiting suit of rose-colored wool, she breezed in. "Why darling, there you are. When you didn't come home for tea last night, I was a whit worried, I must confess, but then again I suspect I knew where you'd gone."

The reference to confessions sent fresh tears welling. Looking away, Callie counted herself fortunate to manage a mute nod.

Drawing closer, Lottie ventured, "How went the meeting with the PM?"

Staring ahead into the fire lest her aunt see her puffy eyes and tear-streaked face, Callie tried for a normal tone and answered, "Better than I'd expected. Lord Stonevale has been most vocal in his endorsement, and his good opinion seems to hold considerable sway with the PM." She cleared her throat though she was so hoarse from sobbing she scarcely recognized her own voice. "I believe we may have a supporter in Salisbury though he will hold back to see which way the wind blows before casting his lot publicly."

Lottie rounded the settee on which Callie sat. Slipping slender hands out of her muff, she set the bit of fur and lace aside and said, "Why darling, this is wonderful news. But why the long face?"

Knowing that any further pretense was useless, Callie set her glass down on the gate-leg table and turned to meet her aunt's concerned gaze. "Oh Auntie, I've been such a bloody fool. I actually had myself believing he cared something for me, that perhaps he might even be on his way to loving me if only just a little."

"Lord Salisbury?"

"No aunt, Hadrian, or rather Harry Stone, if you must know."

Eyebrows lifting to her hairline, Lottie asked, "Who is Harry Stone?"

Callie shook her head, which was throbbing like a toothache. "He is Hadrian St. Claire, or rather, Hadrian St. Claire is he. Oh, Lottie, either way, it's the most dreadful mess."

Slipping onto the cushion next to her, Lottie wrapped a comforting arm about her shoulders. "If we're to sort it all out, I think you'd best begin at the beginning."

The compassion in her aunt's face was all it took to start fresh tears flowing. Hiding her face in her hands, she said, "In all honesty, I'm still struggling to sort it out myself."

Pulling her closer, Lottie patted her back. "There, there, pet. If I've anything to give you, it's time."

Sensing that time was of the essence, Hadrian left Sally's and took a hansom cab back to Westminster where his intention was to quickly shave and change before presenting himself at the Rivers' residence and begging both women's forgiveness. Although his hope that Callie might take him back was slim if not next to nil, as Sally had pointed out, it was hope all the same. But when he fit his key to the lock of his shop's entrance, the door swung ominously open.

Icicles freezing his blood, he stepped inside, every fiber of his being on full alert. In one sweeping glance, he took in the smashed glass countertop, the overturned worktable and chairs, and the framed photographs wrenched from their wall hooks and heaped in the center of the room. Bloody hell!

Feet crunching on glass, he bounded up the stairs. Like his studio, the flat door stood ajar, the room inside in utter disarray. His heart dipped when Dinah didn't materialize to meet him. Whatever his just deserts might be, the thought that yet another innocent might be made a victim in his stead was almost more than even he could bear. Sick with anticipation over what he might find, he went about calling for her. After several heartrending minutes, an answering meow emerged from the vicinity of the pantry. Weak with relief, he went down on his hands and knees and crawled over to where she crouched behind the meat safe, terrified but apparently unharmed. Lifting her into his arms, he stroked her small, trembling body, cooing soft words of comfort before continuing his inventory of the destruction. The door to his darkroom closet stood open as well. Ordinarily that would guarantee the ruin of any recent work, but the only photograph he'd made in the past twenty-four hours was the nude he'd shot of Callie. Eager to see the finished piece, he'd developed it before they'd gone back to bed.

Callie! Heart in his throat, he set Dinah down and dashed into the darkroom. A cursory search confirmed the room had been picked bare. Unwilling to face what that must mean, he searched every nook and cranny, not once but several times, until there could be no doubt as to what had happened. The intruder had made off with the boudoir photograph of Callie.

Dandridge! For the span of moments he stood in the center of the closet of a room and ran a shaking hand through his sweat-dampened hair. The MP must have hired someone to turn over his apartment. Whether that person had found the intimate photograph by accident or design scarcely mattered at this stage. Hadrian had carried out his Judas mission after all, delivering Callie to Dandridge on the proverbial platter.

Shaky, he made his way back into the main room. Someone had slit the upholstering of his divan and hacked away. Sitting down amidst the stuffing, he considered what his next move might be. Call in the police? But no, if they wouldn't have believed him before, what chance had he now when admittedly he'd been a party to Dandridge's plan? Even if by some miracle they did credit his story, he would have to admit that such a photograph of Callie existed and that would never do.

No, there was only one course of action that made any sense to him, and carrying it out called on the talents of Harry Stone, not Hadrian St. Claire. If Dandridge had ordered the photograph stolen, he would simply have to steal it back. He'd been a crack thief in his day and though snitching purses wasn't quite house-breaking, the same core skills applied. And if he were caught, and there was a good chance he would be, what of it? At this point, he really had nothing to lose. Dandridge had seen to that, stripping his fledgling life as bare as any wintertime tree. Whether he called himself Hadrian St. Claire or Harry Stone no longer mattered in the least. Either way, he was a man with no prospects and no future--and that made him a very dangerous man indeed.

"For Chrissake, man, make your move, why don't you, and put us both out of our misery? I've taken your queen a'ready and your king is but one move away from being in my pocket. You've naught to lose at this point."

Pointer finger hovering above the onyx chess piece, Gavin looked up from the board into Rourke's frowning face and admitted, "I'm distracted with thinking about Harry. I didn't care for the look of him when he left the other day. I think he may have gotten in over his head this time."

They were at the Garrick, Gavin's club, sipping glasses of Madeira in the card room, its plasterwork walls flanked with portraits of playwrights and other past and present luminaries of the stage. A few other gentlemen had wandered in to play cards or talk quietly; otherwise the club had mostly cleared after the supper hour.

An eye cocked on Gavin's finger, which for the past ten minutes and counting had yet to commit to any move, Rourke said, "Och, Harry's like a cat with nine lives. He's got through other scrapes before. He'll get through this one. Betimes, I've my man-of-affairs working on having that bank draft ready by noon tomorrow. As soon as he pays Dandridge back in full, he should be in the clear." He looked about, and dropping his voice, added, "Despite the blackguard's threats, I canna ken he'd go so far as commit murder over a vote on a wee bill."

Gavin shook his head. During his short time as a barrister, he'd witnessed cases where murder had been done over as little as a coveted hat or a pie left to cool in a window well. When it came to mankind's capacity for committing acts of folly and senseless destruction, next to nothing surprised him. In this case, the "wee bill" to which Rourke referred had the capacity to significantly altar the landscape of the British electorate for centuries to come. It was no trifling matter.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that, my friend. Even if Dandridge is bluffing, a great deal of mischief can be made in twenty-four hours time."

"Are you suggesting we pay a call to Harry's shop and make sure he's tucked in safe and sound?"

Finger still circling the piece, Gavin said, "I wasn't suggesting any such thing, but I must admit that sounds a capital plan."

Rourke shifted in his chair, a straight-backed affair upholstered in hard leather that, Gavin privately admitted, felt easily as uncomfortable as his barrister's bench. "In that case, you maun as well make your move or forfeit; either way, your goose is cooked."

Gavin felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as all at once the sought-after pattern emerged with crystalline clarity. "I wouldn't be so certain of that were I you. The old adage about patience being a virtue isn't without merit, after all." His hand settled on the piece, which he slid into place without hesitation. Looking up from the board to his friend's stupefied face, he said, "Checkmate."

By the time Callie finished her story, her aunt had joined her in hitting the sherry. Seated side by side, glasses in hand and the near-empty decanter on the table between them, Lottie said, "I can't help but think there's more to all this than meets the eye."

Setting her empty glass aside, Callie said, "Meaning?"

"If Hadrian is truly the bounder we make him out to be, then why would he cry off with Dandridge and confess all to you knowing you might never speak to him again?"

Callie shook her head. Despite the quantity of spirit she'd imbibed, she felt depressingly sober. The only tangible result of all that drinking was an aching head to match her aching heart. "Perhaps he's come down with a case of cold feet and was afraid he'd get caught or . . ." All at once, Hadrian's remark from the previous day came rushing back to her.

"Well, Dinah, what say you to Paris next? Or maybe it's Venice you fancy, eh?"

He'd been speaking aloud to his cat, as yet unaware of her presence upstairs. At the time she'd been too much passion's prisoner to give the statement a second thought, or even a first, but in the context of all she'd since learned, it stood out as an important clue indeed.

"Or what, Callie? Pray don't leave me on tenterhooks." Sitting on the edge of the seat cushion, Lottie moved to top off both their glasses.

Callie could no longer contain her misery. "I think Hadrian may mean to leave the country."

Replacing the decanter's crystal stopper, Lottie said, "But dearest, if he cried off with Dandridge, surely that means he has to give back the money. If it was a dire want of funds that drove him to accept the villain's proposal in the first place, how could he possibly finance a trip abroad now?"

"Take my picture, Hadrian. Make it as a remembrance of our beautiful night together, of how it was between us before the world and all its folly had the chance to intrude."