Corey McFadden (35 page)

Both Emma and Tom were standing quietly beside her. She blessed providence that they seemed too sleepy and befuddled to be taking in what was being said, perhaps lulled cruelly into a sense of safety by her soft, warm grip on each shoulder.

“Well, I’ll send him to the scullery for now, but if he cannot perform simple tasks or if he frightens the staff I’ll get rid of him,” the woman said, as coldly as if she were talking of throwing out some fish that had gone off.

She apparently had signaled in some way because the door opened softly and a large, burly man stepped in. He said nothing, but stood respectfully waiting to be told what to do.

“Take these two upstairs.” She gestured toward Joanna and Emma. “Give them over to Isobelle to clean up. Tell her I’ll come up later. Then come back and get the boy some clothes and take him to the scullery. That will be all.”

Without a word, the man moved forward and laid a heavy hand on Joanna’s arm.

“No!” Joanna shrieked, bending down and grabbing Tom. “Let him stay with me! He won’t understand if you separate us! Please! I’ll do anything!” She choked on the last words as the tears of terror and despair fell. She buried her face in the boy’s neck and clung to him.

“Shut up this instant, you slut!” snapped the woman, standing, her icy rage apparent. “We have no scenes here, is that understood? Now, if you do not leave that drooling idiot and go upstairs quietly, I’ll summon Teddy. Teddy will be glad to take the boy out into the streets and leave him wherever I tell him to. It matters not to me one way or the other. It’s your choice.”

For the briefest moment Joanna stared into the adder-like eyes, then she took a deep breath and put her face next to Tom’s.

“Go with this man, my darling,” she whispered, swallowing her sobs. “Listen carefully to whatever they ask you to do and try to do it. Emma and I will try to find you when we can.”

Tom looked into her eyes for a moment, then gave a brief nod. As Joanna leaned in to plant a kiss on his cheek, the man behind her jerked her to her feet. He steadied her none too gently, then with a vise-like grip on Joanna and on Emma he propelled them roughly from the room. Joanna twisted her head back around and gave Tom the biggest smile she could plaster on her face, but she felt it twist as she was racked again by sobs. She did not hear the door close behind them.

* * * *

Alone with Hawton and Tom now, the woman took her seat calmly, as if she had just fussed at a parlor maid for missing a speck of dust. “You may sit, Mr. Hawton,” she said coolly, gesturing peremptorily at a high-backed, uncomfortable-looking seat. Tom was forgotten and he stood unmoving in the shadows. “I said nothing in front of the girl, because it was apparent that you have kept her in ignorance, probably the one sound thing you have done with regard to this venture,” she continued. “But you must know that our patron is likely to be extremely annoyed that you have managed to kidnap two children of the gentry and their governess as well. You will start at the beginning, please, and tell me precisely what occurred. We have no trouble with the London constabulary for obvious reasons, but I have no wish to become embroiled in a kidnapping charge from Cumberland.”

“You need have no fear of that, ma’am,” said Hawton. She had not even bothered to give him her name, and it was surprising how something so slight as that kept him off-stride. “It is the governess herself who will be accused of the kidnapping, and there will be no one else to refute the charge. Indeed, Lady—er, my partner is the only one there who will be giving any relevant evidence, and she knows what to say.” Hawton took a deep breath, willing his words to be true. If Eleanor had fouled everything up, all was lost anyway. He had been too unnerved to correct the coachmen’s tale that Joanna was merely the governess. What did it matter anyway, with Sir Giles dead and no possible connection to be made between this brothel and Queen’s Hall?

“And how did all this come about, Mr. Hawton? It is apparent something has gone badly wrong. Our patron favors very clean, neat operations, and he would never have allowed something so sloppy as a kidnapping to jeopardize the success of his venture.”

“Well, he didn’t plan this one carefully enough,” snarled Hawton. He was tired of being made to feel like a schoolboy who had pinched his little brother. “One of the Irish girls damn near brought the whole county awake screaming. She was supposed to be sedated but she was not.” He went on, briefly describing the aftermath and why he and Eleanor had decided on the course of action that had brought him here with Joanna and the children.

“I see,” was the woman’s enigmatic comment as he finished, but he noticed that she did not seem quite so austere, leading him to hope that their next topic of conversation, fair compensation for Joanna and Emma, would not go too badly for him.

“I shall have to contact our patron, Mr. Hawton, and that is something that is not done directly, as I am sure you will appreciate. No doubt you will want to haggle with him over payment, but I must warn you, he’ll be terribly upset at this turn of events. He is a careful man, a pillar of society, and he does not sully his hands with risky ventures. You may stay here if you wish until he can speak with you, but you are to touch none of the merchandise, none. Do I make myself clear?”

Another arrogant bitch. By damn, he’d like to take this one down a notch or two. Unfortunately, it was he who was in the weaker position at the moment, but when Beeson realized that he had two prize beauties on his hands and no possible ugly repercussions, they’d see who had the upper hand.

“I do not find myself in the mood for anything except a bath and a clean bed at the moment, ma-dame,” Hawton answered, allowing his voice to drip with the same haughtiness that she employed on him.

“Excellent. I imagine we can expect to hear something shortly, at least by this evening. I do expect our patron to be in attendance tonight. We are having a little private gathering for our best clients who’ve been avidly awaiting this latest shipment.”

The door opened again, silently. Hawton only knew it by the rush of air against his neck and the fact that the woman raised her eyes and looked behind him.

“Did she cut up rough, Bobby?” she asked.

“No, ma’am. I ’eard nothin’ from neither of ’em,” came his brash voice in response. “Quiet as mice they both was, but the older one cried all the way and was still ’angin’ on to the little ’un when I turned them over to Isobelle.”

“Fine. You may take the boy to the scullery now. Tell Marline to set him to washing up. He may also be able to help with the laundry. Tell her if he is a hindrance in any way, or if he lacks the wit to do the job to her satisfaction to let me know.”

Nodding his head, the man clapped his large hand around Tom’s arm and pushed him from the room.

“I’ll show you to your room, Mr. Hawton, and order you a bath and some breakfast. You may nap, if you wish, but if our patron arrives and wishes to see you, I expect you to present yourself at once.”

“Certainly, madame,” Hawton said, his teeth grinding. This woman was the madame of a whorehouse and she gave herself enough airs to take on the queen. He would like to throw her and Lady Eleanor in a room together and lock the door on them for a while. He wasn’t at all sure which one would be left standing when the door was opened again.

* * * *

Upstairs, Joanna felt as if her nightmare was just beginning. Emma and she had been separated. Joanna had deemed it best not to protest, noting carefully which door in the long corridor Emma had been taken through. Joanna herself had been stripped bare and examined by the woman, Isobelle, and it had been the most embarrassing moment of her life. Isobelle had pronounced that she “would do,” clucking over her lack of virginity as if it were a seam that had come loose on her gown.

Otherwise there had been no conversation. Joanna’s attempts to ask about Emma or about this establishment had been met with thin-lipped silence.

Joanna had been dunked into a tub of barely tepid water and scrubbed within an inch of her life. Under any other circumstances, she would have enjoyed being fussed over—hair washed and brushed, perfumed, powdered—but these were ungentle hands, and when the two surly young maids came at her with pots of white leaded paint for her face, she balked, pulling away, and throwing up her hands.

“Leave it anyway, Alice,” said Isobelle, her first words in a good hour. “I do not yet know what the plans are for this one. She will likely be sent elsewhere, and there is no point in painting her up yet.”

Alice backed away, glaring malevolently at Joanna. Isobelle gestured imperiously at a dressing gown which lay across the back of a chair. “Put it on,” she said coldly.

Joanna was only too glad to cover herself, but her heart sank as she put the wispy gossamer fabric around her. It hid nothing. Indeed, she could see herself reflected in any one of a number of mirrors that stood about the room, and the gown revealed more than it hid, in a most provocative way.

Isobelle took Joanna’s arm, holding her with tight fingers, and propelled her from the room. They walked through the hallway, and Joanna’s heart lifted as they paused in front of the door she was sure she had seen Emma taken into. Indeed, as Isobelle unlocked the door and pushed Joanna through, Emma’s bright little curls were visible on the elaborate bed.

With a cry she could not help, Joanna stumbled toward the bed. Emma seemed to be sound asleep.

“You will wait here until you are sent for. Do not awaken the girl. She will need her sleep. Food will be sent up eventually. If you make any trouble you’ll be sold to Madame Fanny on the docks. It is said her girls don’t survive longer than a week. Understood?”

Joanna nodded miserably and waited while the door closed behind Isobelle. She heard the key grate in the lock and the sound of the woman’s footsteps receding down the hallway. Then she turned to examine her surroundings.

The room was sumptuously, ostentatiously furnished. It reminded Joanna of Lady Eleanor’s taste, without the money to lend it true elegance. Everywhere she looked were hangings and swirls, bows and flowers. But it was not the decoration that held Joanna’s attention. Her eye was drawn immediately to the window, and in several short strides she was across the room, pulling back the heavy draperies that shut out all light.

There were bars on the window, thick iron bars, closely spaced. Not even Tom could squeeze through such a small space. Still daring to hope, Joanna tried the window, pushing up as hard as she could on the sash. It would not budge. She dragged a small chair over to the window, but when she climbed up on it she could see that heavy nails had been driven into the top of the sash, securing it to the window frame. There would be no escape through the window, and from what little she could see, they were some four flights up.

“Aunt Joanna?” came a tiny voice.

“I’m here, darling,” Joanna answered quickly, hurrying over to the bed. Emma was sitting up, her gray eyes troubled. The child’s face was painted garishly, Joanna noted, with kohl on her beautiful little-girl’s eyes and rouge and paint on her cheeks and lips. With a snarl to herself, Joanna sat on the bed and, dampening a towel from the washbasin, she wiped away at the offensive paint, singing a pretty lullaby, as much to calm herself as Emma. She wondered how much time they had, and where Tom was. There was no way out. No hope. Nothing but this small warm body hugging her. And a fate for both of them worse than death itself.

Chapter Eighteen

Lord Beeson’s face was as black as a thundercloud. His footman stood at what he hoped was enough of a distance to avoid the blow that seemed so imminent. The boy would have retreated if he could, but he had not been dismissed and he knew better than to quit the room without leave. It was obvious there was bad news in the note his master had received. The missive had arrived early this morning, not long after dawn, but it had lain in the hallway on a silver salver until this afternoon when Lord Beeson had made his usual first appearance of the day. There had been nothing about the note itself to indicate that the matter was urgent, and even if there had been, no one could have been found on the staff brave enough to awaken the master for a bit of correspondence.

“Have my carriage brought round at once,” Lord Beeson snarled at his retainer. “See that there is no delay.” The man stormed from the room, leaving the boy sighing with relief and scrambling out to the stables.

In the small breakfast parlor, Lord Beeson slathered marmalade on his toast with a viciousness that nearly broke the bread. He should have known that nothing involving Eleanor would go right. But he had trusted her man, Hawton, had thought him sharp enough and hungry enough to do the job well. And now it was a disaster. Mrs. Boyd’s note was short and to the point—one of the reasons Beeson did business with her was there was no nonsense about her—but she had conveyed enough information for him to recognize the potential for disaster. He would have to go over there this afternoon, breaking his ironclad rule never to be seen in the establishment in a guise other than that of satisfied patron. He was under no illusions that a society which tolerated the existence of such places would equally tolerate his ownership of one.

He would have someone’s head for this, and if this man Hawton was still on the premises, his would be the head to roll.

* * * *

Giles drove the coach slowly down Hanover Square, looking for number thirty-four, the address elegantly engraved on the back of the envelope of Eleanor’s letter. He was weary to the bone. He had wanted to drive the last leg of the journey into London, because Will was not familiar with the lie of the streets, even though it had meant cutting short his rest time in the carriage. Not that either of them had gotten much rest along the way. Stopping at nearly every inn and asking questions made for sleeping in short snatches, particularly as they had neared the city. But he was sure they were on the right track. There had been the occasional stablehand who had recalled seeing the coach they sought, and that had allowed them to skip the next few inns on the route. Giles was certain he was only a half day behind. He shut his weary mind from the thought of all the evil that could be accomplished in half a day. Hawton had no reason to know he was under pursuit. Eleanor fancied that she had thrown Giles completely off the scent by sending him to Carlisle, and, in any event, it was not likely that she could have sent a message to Hawton while he was on the road.