Elizabeth Thornton (7 page)

“Please,” she said hoarsely. “Please, I’ll do anything you say.”

“George will be glad to hear it, because if you fail me, he knows we’ll do to him what we did to Jerome and Colette when they crossed us.”

She swallowed a bubble of panic. She had to ask. “What did you do to them?”

He answered pleasantly, “We skinned Jerome alive, but we were more merciful with Colette. I put a bullet in her brain.”

Now she knew she was going to be sick. “I won’t cross you. I swear to God. I won’t cross you.”

“No? I bet that right this minute you’re thinking that as soon as you’re free, you’re going to call in the magistrates and constables to track me down and find your brother.”

That’s exactly what had been going through her mind! “No,” she moaned. “No. I wasn’t! I didn’t. I promise.”

“If you go to the authorities, you’ll never see your brother alive again. I’ll cut him up and send him to you in little pieces. And if you go to our competitors, I’ll make you sorry you were ever born. We’ll be watching you, Miss Vayle, and at the first hint of trouble, we’ll cut our losses.”

She believed him. A wave of despair washed through her. If she didn’t have the book he wanted, how could she hope to save her brother? One false step on her part and it would be all over for George. And who were his competitors?

“Don’t leave Bath until you hear from me. Do you understand?”

“Who are you?”

“I’m nobody, Miss Vayle. I’m nobody at all. Don’t confide in anyone. If you do, I’ll find out about it, and you wouldn’t like that either.” He laughed softly. “And neither would they.”

“I—” she said, and got no further. Pain exploded through her head, and she sank back on the pillows as blackness engulfed her.

Nemo was thinking about the girl all the way back to his hotel on George Street. When he entered his bedchamber he locked the door, then took a good, hard look at himself in the looking glass above the washstand. Harry Norton, George’s “friend,” stared back at him.

He’d finally met the girl who had bested him in Paris, and he wanted to laugh out loud. Miss Abigail Vayle was not what he’d expected. She was no match for him. She was as fearful as a mouse. But that might be a façade. She had certainly fooled him in Dessene’s bookshop in the Palais Royal. He’d said something coarse just to get rid of her so that he could deal with Colette. And all the time, this unremarkable English girl was the person Colette had come to meet. Incredible!

Miss Abigail Vayle was, without doubt, quite a surprise. She’d got the book from Colette, and now she was trying to sell it to the highest bidder. Jerome and Colette would be turning in their graves if they knew.

He removed his wig, and then with the precision of an actor, removed all other traces of Harry Norton—the powder and paint, the pale eyebrows and the receding hairline. He’d already removed the wads of tape that had plumped up his cheeks to make him look younger. The tape altered his speech, and he was glad now that he’d used a different voice when he confronted the girl tonight, because he’d decided to keep Harry Norton alive. He was self-effacing and harmless, the kind of young man women trusted. Miss Vayle did not know it yet, but she was fated to meet Harry Norton again.

It annoyed him that he had to waste his energies in tracking down the book. He had far more important things to do. He was an assassin. His real mission was waiting for him in London, and he had still to refine the details of how he would make the kill.

And this kill would be spectacular.

All the same, the book was important. If the authorities learned that Nemo was still alive and in England, it would make his job more difficult. But not too difficult. Jerome had not known who his target was. Even he hadn’t known until recently.

He wasn’t convinced that the girl had hidden the book in her bank vault. She might be terrified of him, but she wasn’t stupid. She must have feared that he would kill her the moment he had the book. It didn’t matter. One way or another, she would lead him to the book.

He’d considered delegating the problem of finding the book to his English accomplices, but he was reluctant to do it. They were rank amateurs. They didn’t have the nerve to kill anyone in cold blood, least of all a girl. He’d infiltrated their cells months ago, given them a new direction, and had set things up so that they would be there as scapegoats when his real mission was completed. After that, he’d returned to France to bide his time for the right moment to arrive. Then Jerome had intercepted his letter to the Emperor.

First Jerome, then Colette, and now Abigail Vayle. And he never would have known about Miss Vayle if one of
his
spies had not intercepted
her
letter.

Abbie
. How English. How boring! It made him think of bland puddings, apple dumplings, and boiled beef. She’d given him quite a start when he asked her to dance at the Assembly Rooms tonight.
He looked familiar
, she’d told him.
She always remembered a face
. He prided
himself on his reputation as a master of disguise. No one ever recognized him. That was why the English had given him the nickname Nemo—‘Nobody.’ He was nameless and faceless, and that’s how he liked it.

Had it not been for Miss Vayle, he would have been in London right now. It did not sit well with him that he’d been put to so much trouble by a mere female. She really must be punished for the inconvenience she’d caused him.

He placed his pistol on the table beside his bed, but his weapon of choice, his two-edged blade, remained in the sheath strapped to his arm. He had too many enemies to feel comfortable without it, and though those enemies were for the most part among his own people in France, the habit of sleeping with his knife strapped to his arm had become second nature.

When he blew out the candle and slipped into bed, he folded one arm behind his neck and contemplated when and how he would kill the girl. He would have killed her tonight if she’d given him the book, and that would have been a pity. She’d been terrified of him, but not nearly as terrified as he could make her. He could picture her on her knees, begging for her life and the life of her brother. He knew how to build that terror until she would kill her brother just to please him. The thought made him smile.

There was no doubt about it, he had a weakness for females. Even at the kill, he couldn’t help flirting with them. But he preferred women who had some spunk. It made the chase all the more interesting. He suspected that Miss Vayle was going to be a big disappointment. In spite of how she’d outwitted him in Paris, she’d turned out to be a poor, sniveling, spiritless creature. Her heart would give out long before the chase ended.

Colette had been more to his taste. She hadn’t been
terrified of him. He’d savored the pleasure of finally breaking her. But at the end, she’d cheated him of his pleasure. She’d leveled an empty pistol at him. She’d forced his hand and that made him angry.

Abigail Vayle was no Colette.

He didn’t know how long the game would last. He could spare three days, perhaps four. That would give him plenty of time before he kept his appointment with destiny.

O
livia Fairbairn peered through the lens of the magnifying glass and feasted her eyes on the name of the publisher of the slim volume she was examining. “Colin,” she mouthed to herself. There was no doubt in her mind that this was the genuine article. This was one of Marat’s tracts that Colin had published during the French Revolution. If her father was alive, he would have paid a tidy sum to add it to his collection. Now Abbie could sell it for a nice little profit, and her own half share would plump up the nest egg she was squirreling away for the proverbial rainy day.

If it hadn’t been for Abbie, there would be no nest egg.

She leaned back in her chair and reflected on her changed circumstances. The turning point had come when she applied for the position of companion that Abbie had advertised in the Bath
Chronicle
. Life for an elderly single woman who had once eked out her existence on the fringes of polite society couldn’t be better. Courtesy of Abbie, she had acquired a wide circle of friends and acquaintances. She’d seen more of the world in the last six months than she’d seen in the previous half century.

But more satisfying by far was the knowledge that it wasn’t all one-sided, that she had something to offer Abbie in return. She was the mastermind behind the little business enterprise they had drifted into. In short, she was an authority on rare books.

She had her father to thank for that. His knowledge and love of books had been phenomenal, and he’d passed that love and knowledge on to his only child. His own library, which he built up book by book, had been the envy of the county. It should have all come to her. Unfortunately, her father’s knowledge of books was not matched by his knowledge of accounting, and on his death, everything had to be sold to pay off his debts.

She’d fallen on hard times. But all that had changed with Abbie. They were partners, Abbie liked to say. Abbie put up the money and she, Olivia, contributed her knowledge. It was a fair exchange, Abbie said.

There was nothing she would not do for that dear girl.

She gave a start of surprise when the door handle rattled and the door swung slowly open. “Abbie!” she burst out. “Dear Lord! What’s happened to you? You’re as white as a sheet.”

Abbie tried to smile, then winced. She put a finger to her swollen lip. Her jaw was sore as well, but only her lip gave any outward evidence of last night’s attack, and even then, the cut was on the inside of her mouth. But she was shaking badly and couldn’t hide it. “The silliest thing,” she said. “I walked into a door and knocked myself senseless.”

Miss Fairbairn jumped to her feet and went to Abbie. “You poor thing,” she cried, gathering her in her arms. “I didn’t hear anything. When did this happen?”

“Not long after we got home last night.” She choked back a teary sob. Olivia’s concern after what she’d been
through the night before made Abbie want to cry like a baby.

Miss Fairbairn led Abbie to a chair close to the fire and pushed her into it. She glanced at Abbie’s warm dressing robe and shook her head. “Have you just come to yourself?”

“No,” said Abbie. “I didn’t feel like getting dressed. I’m all right. Really.”

But she wasn’t all right. She was just a hairbreadth away from hysteria. It was a nightmare. She was just an ordinary girl, and things like this didn’t happen to ordinary people.

“All the same, I think we should send for the doctor. Concussion can have serious consequences.”

“I didn’t have a concussion. I wasn’t unconscious for more than a few minutes.”

Miss Fairbairn’s hands fluttered. “You’re shaking. Let me get you a shawl.”

It was all Abbie could do to sit still while Olivia fussed over her. She wanted to rush around the house and lock all the doors and windows. And even that wouldn’t be enough for her. She wanted to arm herself to the teeth so that she would never feel so helpless again. Much good that would do! She’d found the pistol Daniel left for her in the bureau drawer, and she hadn’t known how to arm it or use it. When she’d come to herself, she’d locked her bedroom door and window and sat in a chair with a useless pistol clutched in both hands for her only defense. She’d been frightened out of her wits, and too scared to call for a maid or Olivia to come and help her.

As the tears welled up, she sniffed them back.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

Abbie swallowed and nodded. “But I wouldn’t mind some tea.”

The worry frown disappeared from Miss Fairbairn’s brow. “I’ll see to it at once.”

When Abbie was alone, she found her handkerchief, blew her nose, and curled up in the chair. Last night, she’d fallen asleep worrying about a trivial kiss, and now look at her! She had something real to worry about now. This was a matter of life and death.

All night long, she’d agonized over George, and his note to her. It didn’t matter if someone had made a blunder. It didn’t matter if she didn’t know any Colettes, or anything about a book that was supposed to be passed to her. The important thing was that the horrible monster who had attacked her believed it, and he’d abducted George.

She put her hand in her pocket and withdrew the note that had been left on her dresser. She could hardly read it because she was shaking so hard. Anyway, she’d read it endlessly, and knew the words by heart.

That “Bea” made her bite down hard on her sore lip. Only George had ever called her Bea. It was his childhood name for her. And the reference to Miss Fairbairn was a private joke. George found Miss Fairbairn a great trial to talk with, because she could never keep to the point of a conversation. But it was said in fun. George was never unkind.

There was no doubt the note was from George.

She carefully folded the note and slipped it into her pocket.

She was going to be sick. Abducted!—and for a book! It didn’t make any sense. Abduction was a capital offense.… The book they were after must be worth a fortune. But she didn’t care what it was worth—they could have it, just as long as they set George free.

She threw off the shawl, jumped to her feet, and began to prowl the room. Would they really kill George over a book? Maybe she should go to the authorities, after all, and let them find George. The authorities had the resources to find George and track down the man who had attacked her as well.

If you go to the authorities, you’ll never see your brother alive again. I’ll cut him up and send him to you in little pieces. We’ll be watching you, Miss Vayle, and at the first hint of trouble, we’ll cut our losses
.

She hated him! He’d enjoyed terrorizing her. He enjoyed hurting people. No, she didn’t dare go to the authorities. Her only hope was to find the book he wanted and hand it over.