A Perfect Scandal (28 page)

Marcus burst through the door of the town house like a tornado. “Where’s Isabel?” he asked a startled Jenkins and Mrs. McLaughlin.

The two servants exchanged a look of alarm before Jenkins stepped forward. “She went with Lord Ardmore.”

“My father?”

“No, sir. Your brother.”

“Roman was here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where did they go?”

“Lady Charlotte fell ill inside her coach during an outing at Hyde Park. Her servant came to fetch Isabel. Your brother accompanied her,” Jenkins said.

Marcus listened with bewilderment. “That’s odd.”

Mrs. McLaughlin twisted her starched apron with callused hands. “I thought the same as well when Jenkins told me what had occurred.”

“How long have they been gone?” Marcus asked.

Jenkins glanced at the long-case clock in the corner. “Over a half hour, sir.”

Just then, the front door opened and Roman stumbled inside. The right side of his face was bloody, his jacket torn, and his fawn-colored trousers covered with dirt and grass stains.

“Christ, Roman!” Marcus shouted. “What happened? And where’s Isabel?”

Roman leaned heavily against the wall, his face ashen. His breathing was labored and his brows drawn together as if the effort of standing caused him great pain.

Marcus strode to his side, but Roman waved him off with a trembling hand. “Isabel is in great danger,” Roman gasped. “We have to get to the art studio where Robby Bones was murdered. My carriage is outside.”

Fear spurted through Marcus.
I’m too late! The madman has her!

His gaze snapped to Jenkins. “Help me with Roman. We have little time.”

Both Marcus and Jenkins held Roman’s arms and helped him back into his carriage. Marcus’s eyes widened at the sight of Roman’s unconscious driver sprawled across the seat, a splotch of fresh blood staining the leather beside the man’s head.

“I drove,” Roman said before Marcus could ask. “We were both pistol whipped.”

A thousand questions flew through Marcus’s mind, but he bit his tongue. Time was critical, each second could be the difference between life and death; they had to get to Isabel.

Marcus gave Jenkins a sideways glance. “Let’s get the driver inside. See that a doctor comes to the house to care for him and inform Investigator Harrison of our destination. He’ll know who to contact at Bow Street.”

Roman’s man was carried into the house, and Jenkins instructed one of the footmen to hop into the driver’s seat. Marcus retrieved his pistol from his desk drawer before jumping back into the carriage.

He sat opposite Roman as they sped through the London streets. The wheels hit a rut in the road, and Roman groaned, holding his head in his hands, a bloody handkerchief pressed to an oozing egg-sized knot above his temple.

“Tell me what happened,” Marcus said.

Roman raised his head. “Harold Benning is the mastermind. He is Bridget Turner’s brother, and he seeks vengeance for his sister’s suicide.”

Shock flew through Marcus. “I thought Bridget’s brother was dead.”

“So did I. But he faked his death and changed his identity. The man is insane and has focused all of his efforts on you and is intent on hurting you by killing Isabel.”

Marcus closed his eyes as despair rushed through him.

“He concocted a story about Charlotte’s well-being to lure us into an isolated area of the park,” Roman said. “His new henchman knocked both me and my driver unconscious. When I roused, Benning was gone. He took Isabel with him. I believe I awakened faster than he had anticipated, but I pray that we are not too late.”

Marcus’s eyes met Roman’s. “Too late for what? What is he planning?”

“To hang her from a rafter just as Bridget died. He wants you to be the one to find Isabel as you did Bridget.”

Panic like he’d never known before welled in Marcus’s throat. If Harold Benning was truly the mastermind, Bridget’s insane brother returned from the grave after all these years, then his deep-seated hatred must have festered like pestilence. He would be merciless when it came to Isabel. Her cries would fall on deaf ears.

Fear and despair clawed at his innards. He thought of the last time he had privately spoken with Isabel in his library office, the morning after they had made love in the Bennings’ conservatory. He had been cold and businesslike as if he were conversing with one of his clients in the lobby of the Stock Exchange. She had told him she loved him, and he had asked her to leave. Worse still, he had led her to believe he had feelings for Simone Winston.

He recalled Isabel’s pain-stricken face as he had escorted Simone into his library office. He had only sought to determine whether Simone had useful information, but he could have interrogated her in front of Isabel. Instead, his calloused actions reinforced Isabel’s false belief that he had feelings for his former mistress.

How could he have acted like such a fool?

He could no longer deny the truth. He loved Isabel. His obsession to keep her safe and protect her had nothing to do with honor or repayment of a debt for her alibi, but had everything to do with love. He had stubbornly refused to acknowledge his feelings and reciprocate her heartfelt words simply out of fear.

Since his father’s emotional abandonment and Bridget’s perfidy, he had thought of love as a weapon to be used against the weak and vulnerable. He had immersed himself in his work and had surrounded himself with outrageously expensive artwork. He had sworn never to love or need another’s love again, and had believed money and art could fill any emotional void.

Then Isabel had burst into his life and added splashes of bright color with which no masterpiece he had ever set eyes upon could compare. He had been instantly enraptured and had fallen helplessly in love with her. Her beauty had initially attracted him, but it was her bold impulsiveness, her artistic creativeness, and most refreshingly, her complete disregard of society’s cruel opinions that had captured his heart. The undeniable truth was that he needed her love to heal his bruised soul. Instead, he had put her in grave danger and failed to protect her as he had promised.

“What are your plans?” Roman interrupted Marcus’s thoughts.

“How well armed are they?”

“I do not think Benning has a weapon, but his new henchman, Horatio Kulzer, is armed and is an experienced criminal.”

Marcus’s mouth twisted into a threat. “Then I must kill him first.”

Roman dropped the handkerchief on the seat and glared at him. “I plan on being of use, Marcus. I’m not dead, you know.”

“Good. I’ll need all the help I can get.”

Roman reached over to touch his hand. “Have faith, brother. You will yet be able to tell her that you love her.”

The muscles in Isabel’s back were screaming in protest by the time Harold Benning’s carriage arrived at the run-down art studio. The ropes Horatio Kulzer had used to bind her limbs were unbearably tight, and she had strained and pulled against them to no avail. Her throat was dry and sore from the filthy rag he had stuffed in her mouth, and she breathed in quick, shallow gasps.

The carriage finally stopped, and Benning leaned his fleshy face to within an inch of hers. His breath smelled of onions and tobacco and she recoiled, pressing her head against the padded bench.

“I’m going to untie you and remove the gag so that we may enter the building without attracting unwanted attention from the neighbors. My man has a weapon. He is a nasty type of criminal, much like Robby Bones, with whom I understand you were well acquainted, and he will not hesitate to hurt you. Do you understand?”

Fresh fear threaded low in her belly; she nodded yes.

The carriage swayed as Kulzer jumped down from his perch, and the door was opened. Shielded by the door, he pulled out a wicked-looking six-inch blade hidden in his jacket. With two quick downward slashes, he cut the ropes binding her hands and feet.

She immediately yanked the dirty rag from her mouth, coughed, and swallowed twice.

Kulzer laughed. “I don’t suspect a lady like ye ’as ever been bound and gagged before. What a waste.”

She shot him a nasty glare as she flexed her numb fingers, trying to get the blood to circulate. She would love nothing more than to punch the odious man in the face.

He must have caught her meaning for his eyes narrowed. “Don’t even think about doin’ something rash. I ’ave no qualms about usin’ my knife, lady or no.”

“She’s been warned, Kulzer,” Benning said curtly. “Let’s get inside.”

Isabel was dragged from the carriage and escorted between Benning and Kulzer. Her eyes darted nervously from side to side, but she saw no one. It seemed the occupants of the shabby neighborhood were all inside, probably hard at work painting to earn a living like most starving artists. She thought of screaming for help, but she had no doubt that Kulzer would use his knife to silence her. Such a man would know precisely where to stab a woman to ensure her silence without killing her.

No, it was in her interest to stay alive as long as possible. There was a chance—however small—that Roman would rouse himself and seek aid.

They entered the shabby vestibule of the building. It appeared untouched since the last time she had been here, only the putrid stench of the garbage that littered the small space had intensified.

With Kulzer’s viselike grip on her arm, Isabel was pulled up the steps leading to the second floor. The wood creaked beneath their combined weight, and as they came close to the landing, her eyes darted to the corner of the top step.

The splintered wood remained.

Her thoughts whirled to that moment she had nearly fallen through the rotten step. If not for Marcus’s quick reflexes, she would have been seriously injured.

An idea sprang to mind, and she pretended to stumble, leaning heavily on Kulzer in an effort to push him toward the treacherous trap. But at the last moment, he jerked her upright and stepped safely to the second floor.

Harold Benning followed suit.

Her heart plummeted at their good fortune, and she was dragged like a rag doll down the hall to the first door.

Benning pulled out a set of keys. “I doubt I’ll need these as the constable broke the lock three days ago, and the landlord is too cheap to make any repairs without securing a new tenant.”

He turned the handle and the door opened. She was thrust inside.

The scene that met her eyes was strikingly similar as before. Evidence of the fight between Robby Bones and the constables remained—the paint-splattered floor, the scattered art supplies, the tipped bookcase, and the splintered easel. A broom and mop leaning against a corner caught her eye, along with an empty bucket nearby. It appeared that the landlord had brought cleaning supplies here, but had not made any effort to use them.

“Get to the back,” Kulzer ordered, pushing her.

She headed for the rear of the room, and as she neared the back wall, Kulzer gave a rough shove. She lurched forward, stumbling over a can of turpentine and falling on all fours. Rising up on her knees, she instantly recognized the dried circle of blood staining the floor.

Robby Bones’s blood.

Dear Lord, flashes of Dante Black’s murder scene seared her mind.

Only Dante’s blood was fresh. Robby Bones’s was days old.

She skirted to the side and made to rise, but Kulzer pressed down on her shoulder.

“Sit,” he demanded, “or I’ll be forced to bind and gag ye again. And don’t bother screamin’. The other studios are abandoned.”

She huddled with her back to the wall, wrapped her arms around her knees, and looked away from where Bones had bled out. Her eyes followed Benning as he went to a supply closet, opened the door, and retrieved a rope. With sure, practiced movements he tied a noose and threw the opposite end over a rafter in the center of the room.

Grasping both ends, he leaned on it, testing its strength.

Her stomach knotted, and she began to tremble. The sight of the noose threatened to shatter her fragile control, and she began to pray that Roman had revived.

Please God, let Roman wake and alert Marcus or the constable.

But would Marcus himself come for her?

Yes, he would. Not because he loved her, but because he had sworn to protect her. He was a man of honor who took his promises and his duty seriously.

She forced herself to take deep breaths. She must not allow panic to overtake her senses and steal her logic. She could not rely on others to arrive in time, but had to use her wits to survive Benning’s murderous plans.

Turning to Horatio Kulzer, she glared up at him with burning, reproachful eyes. “You’re nothing more than his lordship’s newest hired lackey. He’ll use you to do his dirty work, and when you finish his task, he’ll not pay you. When you complain, he’ll deal with you, just like your predecessor Robby Bones.” She pointed to the old pool of blood on the wooden floor beside her. “This is where Bones bled out, killed by Bow Street after his lordship turned him in. I suspect you’ll be next.”

Harold Benning strode forward and slapped her. Her head snapped back from the unexpected blow and pain seared her jaw. “Shut yer bloody hole.”

Horatio Kulzer’s eyes narrowed at Benning’s display of temper and uncharacteristic gutter talk. “I’m no fool. I don’t doubt what she says about old Bones. I want my money up front.”

Benning’s nostrils flared. “You’ll get your blunt after the chit hangs just like we agreed.”

“I don’t think so,” Kulzer said, his voice hardening ruthlessly. “I want it now.”

The two men began to argue heatedly, circling each other with menacing expressions.

Isabel took advantage, frantically scanning the cluttered floor for anything that could serve as a weapon. She spotted a shattered glass jar that had been used to hold a cluster of brushes, and she crawled forward until it was within her reach. Most of the brushes were old, their bristles missing, their long, wooden handles splintered. She chose the two largest, one with horsehair bristles, the other with Asiatic. The brushes were intact, but she easily snapped them in half, using her skirts to muffle the sounds while Benning and Kulzer shouted. The ends were jagged, precisely what she wanted.

She looked up at the men, her eyes narrowing on the squat but wiry Kulzer. She knew from firsthand experience of the hardened criminal’s strength and speed. Even though Benning could easily overpower her, his paunchy stomach and lavish lifestyle of overindulgence had made him slow.

No, it was Kulzer she had to wound first, and her strikes must be deadly enough to kill or—at the very least—disable him. She was out of time; her survival was in her own hands…

The argument came to a sudden stop when Benning relented and, with disgust written on his face, pulled out a wad of banknotes from his inside jacket pocket and threw them down before Kulzer on a scarred worktable. She suspected it was the money Benning had planned to utilize to flee the country rather than pay his immoral associate.

“I held up my end of the bargain,” Benning spat. “Now see to the girl.
Exactly
as I described.”

Kulzer reached for the money and tucked it into his coat, the pistol he carried visible as he did so. He then turned to her. His pupils dilated as he approached; anticipation and arousal were clearly written on his pinched face.

With startling clarity, she realized he enjoyed killing and received pleasure from the violent act. Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears, and she clutched the makeshift stakes behind her back so tightly her fingers ached.

He reached for her, and she flew at him, stabbing him in the left eye and the side of his neck with all her might.

His bloodcurdling scream pierced her skull like a shot. He went wild, thrashing about like a wounded animal. He knocked a jar off a bookshelf behind her head, and it smashed at her feet in a shower of jagged glass.

She darted around him and ran to the door, ignoring the pain as shards of glass cut through the soft leather soles of her shoes. She heard Benning’s shouts and saw the blur of his navy jacket as he ran after her in hot pursuit.

She sprinted down the hall and headed for the stairs. She recalled the dilapidated top step and jumped past it, landing on the next step. She was near the bottom when the entire staircase shook, and a deafening crack rent the air. Glancing sideways, she saw Benning’s flailing arms as the faulty top step crumbled beneath his weight.

She reached the ground level and looked back to see a gruesome sight. Harold Benning’s legs had fallen through, his chest impaled by a monstrous splintered plank. His head lolled to the side, his eyes wide open, the blue irises sightless in death.

She froze, panic welling in her throat.

Just then, Horatio Kulzer turned the corner, his pistol raised in his hand, aimed at her. Blood streamed down the side of his neck where he had pulled out her makeshift weapon, but the stake in his eye remained.

She screamed as a shot rang out. But instead of the anticipated pain of a bullet ripping through her body, Kulzer collapsed to the ground.

“Isabel!”

She whirled around to see Marcus behind her, a pistol in his hand. His eyes glowed with a savage inner fire, brimming with purpose and urgency.

She flew into his arms, and the world tilted on its axis and spun into darkness.