Elizabeth Thornton - [Special Branch 02] (32 page)

“Ah, Gwyn. We’re going to have that future. Believe me.” Then more fiercely. “Believe me!”

His hand settled on the curve of her neck, and he drew her head up for his kiss. Beneath his fingertips, he could feel her pulse quicken, and an answering
beat began in his own blood. He shifted slightly and her body went pliant beneath his.

Emotion tightened his chest. She was small made and fragile. Her strength was no match for his, or for any man’s, yet a maniac had been set loose to snuff out her life. Something close to panic gripped his throat and his whole body trembled. He had promised he would keep her safe. He would lay down his life for her. But he didn’t know how to fight a nameless, faceless adversary.

His kisses became wilder; the arms around her became like bonds of steel. She made a small movement to free herself, which he ignored. But when she felt his hand tremble as he cupped her face, knowledge and memory fused in her mind. He’d made love to her like this once before, in the fishermen’s hut, the night George died. He needed her, needed this. She wasn’t afraid. Just as she’d done then, she wrapped her arms around him and offered the consolation of her body for all the turbulent emotions that raged inside him.

He swept her nightgown to her waist and undid the closure on his trousers. Spreading her thighs, he guided his sex to the entrance of her body and pushed into her. Gasping now, he reared over her and took her in swift, violent strokes. Her body arched and tightened. When she began to shudder as the pleasure overcame her, his control shattered and he poured into her, flooding her body with his seed.

A long time later, when he could move, he pulled back so that he could see her expression. She looked stricken.

His voice was husky. “Did I hurt you? Did I frighten you?”

She shook her head.

“Then what is it?”

“Harper,” she whispered. “Stop laughing. Get off me. Oh, how can I ever face him again?”

He rolled from her, and the bed creaked. He sat up, and the bed creaked. Every time the bed creaked, Gwyn winced.

“I thought,” he said, “you weren’t going to worry about little things?”

She was, he thought, adorable, and never more so than when she hit him with a pillow and pointed to the door.

With a big smile on his face, he gave her a lingering kiss, then adjusted his clothes, snatched up his coat, and went to join Harper in the parlor.

I
f Harper told her one more time, thought Gwyn, that he’d slept like a log, she would scream. Of course, he was saying it to make her feel better, but she would feel better if he didn’t say anything at all. She knew that he knew that Jason had shared her bed last night, because the cursed bed had sung like a church organ on Easter morning, and Harper was a seasoned soldier, the type who slept with one eye and two ears open. If a feather had fallen on the carpet, he would have heard it.

Harper said, “I feels real rested this morning.” He stretched his arms above his head. “I can’t remember when I had such a good night’s rest. Must have been the hot toddie I drank afore I bedded down for the night.”

To cover her awkwardness and for want of something to do, Gwyn had opened one of her traveling boxes, removed the contents, and was now repacking it. Jason had left some time ago to see Richard Maitland and give him the list of names he’d asked for, as well as the information about Johnny Rowland; then he was going to procure a special licence and visit Armstrong and make him tell him who the donor of the legacy was. When he returned, they
were leaving Brandon’s rooms for something that wasn’t quite so cramped; perhaps, the Marylebone house. On thinking it over, he’d come to see that it was as safe as anywhere, safer, in fact, because the assassin—that’s what they were calling Harry now, the assassin—would have discovered that they’d been there and left. He wouldn’t be expecting them to return.

Assassin
. Just thinking what that meant made her tremble. It seemed incredible. She was a nobody. Why would anyone want to kill her? But it was true. She’d been attacked twice and now more and more threads that connected her to the case were becoming visible: Johnny Rowland, Sackville, Mr. High-and-Mighty, and possibly the library where she worked.

This last thought passed through her mind just as she folded the ill-fated blue coat that Gracie had left in the library, the coat that seemed to be following Gwyn from one house to the next. This was Maddie’s doing. Maddie was still hoping that Gwyn would succumb to temptation and wear the coat. That’s why she kept packing it.

Gwyn sat back on her heels and stared at the coat. It was a little over two weeks since Gracie had left her beautiful coat at the library, and Gwyn didn’t know when she would ever get it back. The library would be open by now. Maybe Gracie had gone there to look for it, or maybe she’d discovered Gwyn’s address and gone to Sutton Row. Much as she wanted Gracie to have her coat back, it was too risky for her to show her face in either place. Gracie would just have to wait a little while longer.

She ran her hands over the velvety nap. She fingered the buttons with their distinctive acorn design. It puzzled her how someone like Gracie could own such a superior garment. Her brow puckered. Gracie,
the library, the coat—were these more threads or just the fancies of her fevered imagination?

She experienced a sudden and startling sense of urgency. Gracie was in some kind of trouble. That’s why she’d run from the library. Maybe Harry was after her, too.

The idea was bizarre. She was overwrought. Gracie was in no danger. But these rational thoughts did not quell her alarm.

Quickly rising, she unfolded the coat and went through the pockets and lining just as she’d done before, but this time more thoroughly. There was nothing.

“What are you doing?” asked Harper.

She looked up at him. “This coat,” she said, “was left at the library where I work, and the young woman who left it took mine instead. One of the maids at Haddo said something—” She frowned down at the coat as she tried to recall exactly what Maddie said. “It has to do with the buttons,” said Gwyn. “Only one dressmaker in London uses these distinctive jet buttons, and that’s some French dressmaker right here on Bond Street.”

“There’s a dressmaker’s shop across the road.” Harper walked to the window and looked out.

“Can you see the name of the shop?”

Harper hesitated, then said slowly, “Carryher, Mantua Maker.”

Gwyn jumped up and ran to the window. “Carrière,” she said. Her eyes shone. “That’s it, Harper! That’s where Gracie got this coat!”

If anyone had to be her bodyguard, thought Gwyn, she was glad it was this slightly battered veteran of the Peninsular campaign, with his solid body and unfriendly scowl. He wasn’t handsome, he didn’t say
much, and his dark coat and beige breeches had never seen the hand of a smart London tailor, but to someone like herself, who had seen the best and worst that the British army had to offer, he inspired confidence.

He stayed close to her side as they crossed the road. He hadn’t been exactly enthusiastic about leaving the house, but her anxiety, coupled with the fact that the shop was directly opposite and they could be there and back in five minutes, had finally persuaded him to give his consent. But just to be on the safe side, he’d tucked his pistol into the waistband of his trousers, and admonished her to do likewise. She wasn’t using Nigel’s pistol now. Harper had supplied her with something smaller, something more easily concealed, and it was tucked into her reticule.

A bell rang as they pushed open the door, and a young woman in mauve slowly rose from behind the counter. On every side, laid out on shelves, were rolls of material—gauzes, silks, velvets, twills—adding brilliant color to the subdued interior that was tastefully decorated in shades of gray and white. There were several alcoves, and in each was displayed a sample of Madame Carrière’s work. It was obvious to Gwyn that Madame’s customers must have money to burn, and they would be burning money in plenty with Princess Charlotte’s wedding coming up.

She took a quick impression of the young woman in mauve. They were about the same age, but this young woman had the presence of an actress on stage. Her smile was a little too artificial.

As Gwyn crossed to the counter, Harper positioned himself just inside the door. There were no other customers in the front of the shop, though girlish laughter and the deeper tones of an older woman drifted out from the back.

The girl behind the counter smiled at Gwyn.
“Madame wishes to make an appointment?” Her French accent was so thick Gwyn wondered if it was real.

“No,” said Gwyn. “I want to find the owner of this coat. It was left at the Ladies’ Library in Soho Square about two weeks ago, and I was told that it could only be the work of Madame Carrière.”

Gwyn was aware of the young woman’s close scrutiny. She would know just by looking, thought Gwyn wryly, that she wasn’t a prospective customer. Her green pelisse and straw bonnet were presentable, but hardly up to Madame Carrière’s standards.

Whatever the young woman saw made a remarkable difference in her. The affected manner, as well as the French accent, vanished. She smiled, took the coat from Gwyn, nodded and said, “I remember this coat very well. It was made for Miss Gracie Cummings of Heath Cottage, Myrtle Lane, Hampstead.”

Gwyn could hardly believe it was this simple. Her eyes flashed to Harper. He nodded and almost smiled. Gwyn turned back to the girl. “Do you remember this well all your customers and where they live?”

The girl laughed. “No. But my name is Myrtle so the address stuck in my mind. Besides, we have a record of all our customers’ addresses, you know,” she winked at Gwyn, “in case we have to send the duns after them to get our money. And you’d be surprised how often we have to do that. But Gracie, well, she was special. That’s why I remember her.”

Gwyn’s heart was beating very fast. “How was she special?”

A look of suspicion crossed the young woman’s face. “I think I’ve told you enough already. At Madame Carrière’s, we’re not allowed to gossip about our customers.”

“Oh, but …” Gwyn hesitated, unsure of how to explain her interest in Gracie.

Harper saw her difficulty and sauntered over. Bracing his weight with one elbow on the counter, he cracked a smile and said, “Sergeant Harper of the Bow Street Office at your service, Miss—?”

The young woman blinked, then sucked in a breath as enlightenment dawned. “You’re a Bow Street runner?”

“I am,” replied Harper, without batting an eyelash at this blatant untruth. “What’s your full name, miss?”

“Myrtle. Myrtle Evans. Has something happened to Gracie?”

“Why do you say that, Myrtle?”

She shrugged helplessly and glanced from Gwyn to Harper. “It was a funny business all round. I mean, odd, you know? Gracie and her ladyship seemed excited, but at the same time they were, well, fearful, always looking out the window, you know what I mean? And then there’s the address, a cottage in Hampstead. No lady who can afford our clothes lives in a cottage, does she? No, she lives in a fine house in town. And her carriage was waiting for her, and footmen, right outside the door. A very funny business, I thought.”

When Harper would have said something, Gwyn put a cautionary hand on his arm.

Myrtle leaned toward Harper and lowered her voice. “And her ladyship paid for everything in gold coin. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

Harper nodded.

“And,” Myrtle went on, “her ladyship didn’t order anything for herself, only for Gracie.”

When it seemed that Myrtle had nothing more to add, Gwyn said, “What was her ladyship’s name?”

“Brand, or something like that. Let me check.”

Myrtle reached under the counter and produced a thick black ledger. After skimming through the pages, she found what she wanted. She looked up at Gwyn. “Lady Mary Bryant,” she said.

An ice-cold fist seemed to squeeze Gwyn’s heart. “Bryant?” she said faintly. “I know that name.”

Harper said, “How old was this Lady Bryant?”

“I couldn’t say. Well, I’m not good with ages. And she was wearing a veil. I don’t really know.”

They turned when a heavily-accented voice called out from behind the curtain. “Miss Ev … ong?”

Myrtle rolled her eyes. “Mrs. Carrie. She’d better not find you here, Sergeant Harper. A Bow Street runner would frighten all our customers away.” She shook her head. “I hope you find Gracie. She was such a nice girl, not at all like some I could name.”

“Miss Eve … ong?
The voice was more strident.
“In the fitting room, s’il vous plaît
.”

Myrtle squared her shoulders. “Coming, Madame Carrière.”

When they were outside the shop, Harper said, “Well, that was interesting.” His eyes, ever watchful, scanned pedestrians and passing carriages. “I think my chief will want to interview both Miss Evans and Mrs. Carryher.”

Gwyn put her hand on his arm to bring his gaze to her. “Harper,” she said, “we can’t leave things like this. It could be hours before Mr. Radley gets back. He has to talk to Colonel Maitland, then find a cleric who can issue a special licence, then he’s going out to Marylebone to make sure the house is safe for our return.”