With This Kiss (34 page)

The sound of footsteps coming from behind him made him reel about in terror. He peered through the darkness, his heart in his throat. His father. He had found him. He walked steadily toward him, his face red with fury, his cane clenched in his fist. Lazarus stood frozen in horrified uncertainty. He could try to hide or run, but that would only make matters worse. Eventually his father would find him. He always did. Next would come the punishment. Quivering in fear, he braced himself for the harsh lash of his cane.

“Evening, m’lord.”

Lazarus blinked in foggy confusion. It wasn’t his father at all. Merely a night patrolman swinging his truncheon.

“Good evening.”

The patrolman peered at him through the darkness, the frown on his face visible even beneath his bushy mustache. “Anything wrong, m’lord?”

Lazarus managed a shrug. “Merely a wife who doesn’t appreciate that her husband likes to take a night now and then to share a fine bottle of port with his friends.” He smiled, pleased at the ease with which the lie had sprung from his lips. With a vague gesture at a row of men’s clubs not far from where they stood, he continued. “She’s a fine woman, but the temperance type, you know. I thought I might clear my head a bit before returning home.”

The patrolman nodded in commiseration. He leaned against the wall next to him as though they were old friends who had all the time in the world. Apparently glad for someone to relieve his boredom, he discussed his own wife, a woman who Lazarus determined was probably a fat, boring cow, just like her husband. As the minutes ticked slowly by, his frustration built to a near-fever pitch. He wanted to scream at the man, to rail, to pummel him with his fists. Instead he leaned casually against the rough brick wall, his face fixed in an idiotic expression of placid joviality.

“I don’t suppose you’d have a wee nip of something on you?” the patrolman asked, glancing hopefully at Lazarus’s pockets. “Something to take the ache out of my feet?”

“That’d be lovely, wouldn’t it? But I’m afraid I drank my last pint.”

“Ah, well. I’m sorry to hear that.”

At last the patrolman sighed and straightened, sending him a reluctant nod of farewell. “Watch yourself for thieves, m’lord. Never can be too sure who you might run into. All sorts of riffraff hereabouts.” That said, he went on his way, whistling and swinging his truncheon as he disappeared around a corner.

Lazarus watched him go, then moved automatically in the opposite direction. He had no idea where his feet were taking him. He simply walked and walked, his head spinning. He found no relief from the muggy warmth that filled the night air. His hands shook, his stomach churned, and sweat drenched his clothing. Twice he was certain he heard his father’s footsteps behind him, but when he turned, the man wasn’t there. But he was watching. Lazarus could feel him watching.

He stopped and pulled his copy of the
London Review
from his pocket. Yes. He hadn’t read it incorrectly. The Cat’s Paw. A brothel located on Garner Row. Yet they had been there waiting for him. It had been a trap. He was certain of it. He had come to cleanse, to purify. To burn the sinful house to the ground, just as Flame had directed.

Just as Flame had directed.

She had tried to destroy him. As his mind stumbled toward that inescapable conclusion, a sensation of crushing loss swept over him. For a moment he was broken, filled with such inconsolable grief that the weight of it nearly bent him in two. He had trusted her, and she had returned his trust with betrayal. He had seen something different in her, something rare and pure and bright. A glorious flame. He had thought she could be saved. But there was no hope.

His panic and despair turned to rage and self-loathing. His father’s words echoed in his ears.
Fool! Idiot!
Did she think he wouldn’t see? Did she think he wouldn’t know? Whore. She was no different from any other of her kind. He didn’t want to do it, but he had no choice. Just as his father had had no choice. She had to be punished. She had to be shown the way.

He became suddenly aware of a hoarse, gasping sound and realized it was coming from him. Laughter. He had been running, but he wasn’t aware where his feet had taken him. He looked up and smiled in recognition. Of course. The Lord had brought him to this place to do His work, and so it should be done.

He cautiously approached the building and peered in through a window. He saw a man and a woman writhing together. Fornicating. Their eyes glazed with lust, oblivious to everything around them. He could hear every sordid and despicable noise they made. Their moans, their purred whispers, even the sound of their flesh slapping together as they moved. He watched in horrified fascination, choking back the bile that rose in his throat.

Such evil. Such ugly sin.

He waited until their lust had been sated and the couple drifted off into a sound sleep. With sweaty, shaking hands, Lazarus dug the phosphorous matches from his pocket. The window was already ajar, making his task that much simpler. All he had to do was lean forward and touch the burning flame to the drapery. In a matter of seconds the fire leaped to the rug. The flame swept around the room, licking and devouring everything it touched with a brilliant, righteous purity. He stepped back from the window as a thick stream of smoke poured from the room.

That was when the couple awakened and realized what was happening. He watched the man and woman as their lustful writhing turned to agonized pain and shrieks of terror. The sights and sounds sickened him. He wanted to stop it but he was powerless, incapable of moving. He could almost feel his father’s heavy grip on his shoulder, firmly fixing him in place, commanding him to watch.

Eventually their screams faded away, leaving nothing but the sounds of cracking timber and billowing flame. Lazarus stared at the fire in gut-wrenching horror as tears streamed down his face.

She had left him no choice. He had to do it. She had to be taught a lesson.

All for you, my love. All for you.

A thick film of greasy ash coated everything. Scores of smoldering timbers lay strewn about. They glowed eerily red, sending shimmering waves of heat pulsing toward the sky. Scattered bits of debris, most of it charred beyond recognition, lay juxtaposed next to items that had barely been scarred, reflecting the brutal leapfrog pattern of the flame.

The grim spectacle of the aftermath of the blaze should have been awful enough on its own. But there was also the matter of the stench to contend with. Buckets of water taken from the Thames had been used to quench the blaze. As a result, the docks reeked of raw sewage. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The odor of badly burned human flesh drifted through the muggy air. Four bodies, burned nearly beyond recognition, lay stacked in a nearby dray. One blackened appendage protruded from beneath the rough wool blanket that had been used to cover them.

The men from Home Secretary Chivers’s office worked side by side with the men from London’s newly established Fire Brigade, combing through the smoldering ash with handkerchiefs tied over their noses. A horde of spectators hovered nearby, shaking their heads and making the sign of the cross, filling the air with the sound of their dire whispers and gloomy murmurings.

Julia stood among that crowd, frozen in a stupor of horror and disbelief as she gazed at the devastation before her. Tom’s Rest… or what was left of it. The occasion of her last visit, a mere week ago, had been to sell her interest in her father’s warehouse to Henry and Annie. They had toasted the bright promise the future held for them all. Now the tavern was rendered to smoking ash.

And Henry and Annie? Julia’s anguished gaze drifted back to the burned appendage that hung from the dray.

She felt Morgan place his hand on her arm. Although he stood beside her, his words sounded as though they were coming to her through thick layers of cotton and gauze. “You look as though you’re going to faint.”

His words served to shake her free from her stupor. “Of course I’m not,” she snapped. “I wouldn’t dream of doing anything so ridiculous.”

Although she knew her reaction was nothing but misdirected anger on her part, she nevertheless took immediate offense at his words, as though they were some reflection on her mental stability or moral fiber. She was not a frail female who was subject to fits of vapors. No one had used her or forced her into doing anything against her will. She had deliberately baited Lazarus, knowing there would be consequences. This was her fault.

There was no escaping the fundamental truth that Henry and Annie would still be alive if it hadn’t been for her. It should have occurred to her that if their trap failed, Lazarus might try to extract his revenge by hurting those around her. She simply hadn’t considered it.

Mr. Chivers, spotting her and Morgan amidst the crowd, approached. He was dressed in his customary immaculate fashion, despite the early hour and the heat. “Word travels quickly, doesn’t it?” he said by way of greeting. Turning to the scattered debris that covered the docks, he shook his head and let out a dark sigh. “I’m afraid Lazarus didn’t come near the brothel all night,” he said. “This looks like it might have been his work. From what we can tell, the fire was set deliberately. It could have been him, or maybe just someone trying to line their pockets with a bit of insurance money. We’ll know soon enough. I’m sending one of my men down to the property records division to see who owns the place.”

“Don’t bother,” Julia said, amazed that her voice sounded so strong. “Tom’s Rest belonged Henry Maddox. He was my father’s bosun mate for years. His wife Annie ran the tavern.”

An expression of shocked surprise showed on Chivers’s features. He nodded, mulling over the ramifications of that statement. “I see.”

“I don’t suppose…” she began, but she knew even as the words escaped her lips that the question was pointless.

“An older couple?” the Home Secretary asked.

She nodded tightly.

“I’m sorry.”

His words fell on her shoulders like a great weight. Breathing suddenly became difficult, the heat was more intense, the buzz of the crowd grew unbearably louder. Amazing. She had felt so prepared for the worst. But then, preparing oneself for something and having it occur were two very different things.

Chivers cast a glance at the dray, then turned toward Morgan. “I wonder if you would be able to help, Lord Barlowe? We haven’t found anyone else who could identify—”

“Of course,” Morgan replied tightly. He gave Julia’s arm a reassuring squeeze, then stepped away, silently accompanying the Home Secretary.

She was only too willing to leave the ghastly chore to Morgan. She said a brief prayer, indulging one last time in a few seconds of irrational denial. Let them be safe and unharmed, she pleaded silently. Perhaps Annie and Henry had left the city for a few days, and it was another older couple who had been found among the ashes. Perhaps—

Chivers lifted the rough wool blanket to allow Morgan a glimpse of their faces. Julia watched in horror, unable to take her eyes away as Morgan’s features tightened in grim recognition. She felt bile rise in her throat as her knees went weak and an icy shiver swept down her spine. Despite her earlier protestations of hearty fortitude, she leaned against a stack of wooden crates, suddenly grateful for the support.

Mr. Chivers lifted a second blanket, exposing the remaining two bodies. Morgan gave them a quick glance and shook his head. The grisly task accomplished, the men returned to her side.

“Any chance one of those two might be Lazarus?” she heard Morgan ask.

Mr. Chivers shook his head. “Highly doubtful. I thought if you recognized one of them, that might lead to something…” He let his words fade out, giving a somber shrug. “They’re both older men, and neither one is in any condition to run from a pursuer. The pub owner across the way knew them only by their Christian names. They didn’t have any trade. Just a couple of old salts who did odd jobs down here by the docks. We found empty pints in both of their pockets. If I were to make a guess, I’d say they had their fill of gin and crawled into that alleyway to sleep it off for the night. Cursed timing on their part.”

The three of them watched in uncomfortable silence as Chivers’s men sifted through the debris, looking for anything that might lead them to Lazarus.

Morgan let out an impatient sigh and raked his hand through his hair as he surveyed the rubble in disgust. “Christ.”

“What happened at the brothel?” Julia asked Chivers. “You and your men saw no sign of him?”

The Home Secretary grimaced. “No sign. If he was there, I don’t know how he saw us.” He looked at the smoldering ash and shook his head, an expression of bitter disappointment on his face. “We must have given ourselves away. I thought he might not have seen your column, Lady Barlowe. Or perhaps he had seen it but he chose to ignore it. I never expected—”

“None of us expected it,” Morgan said.

“But why this?” she asked. “If he wanted to hurt me, why not come directly at me? Henry and Annie had nothing to do with any of this.”

Morgan answered before Chivers had a chance. “If Lazarus discovered you had set a trap for him, he may have decided to punish you for your betrayal. That has been his way all along. He uses fire as a means to punish his victims. Not to hurt them directly, necessarily, but to show them the error of their ways.”

“I’m afraid I must agree,” Chivers said. His sharp, considering gaze moved over Julia. “Who else knows of your connection to this place, Lady Barlowe?”

She thought for a moment. “Any number of people,” she said with a sigh. “I came here regularly before my marriage — at least once a week. I made no effort to hide my destination. We have seen in Lazarus’s letters that he made a game of following me. Given that, it’s highly likely that he might have seen me here.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Chivers concurred dismally.

Their conversation turned to the information the Home Secretary had been able to glean from witnesses. Unfortunately, most of it struck Julia as either contradictory or simply unhelpful. One man had seen a suspicious stranger dressed in a cape. A woman had seen a stocky man with a limp. A seaman on leave reported a middle-aged, well-dressed man running through the docks, laughing almost hysterically to himself. And there were more. Tall, short, fair-haired, dark-haired, so bald his scalp shone in the moonlight…