London Calling (3 page)

“Ever such a pretty dress, miss,” Annie said.

“What? Oh, thank you.” Susanna, at that moment, could not have cared any less about what she was wearing. Instinctively her hand had closed around the small gold locket that she wore about her throat.

A gift from James, on the occasion of their betrothal. He had fastened it about her neck. And then he had bent to kiss the base of her throat, his voice going husky as he said—

But Susanna would not let herself think about what James had said. Instead, she caught up a paisley shawl against the chill of autumn drafts and went swiftly downstairs to the breakfast room. It was a lofty, spacious room, in the classical style, with walls of pale blue and a white plasterwork frieze around the ceiling. She found her Aunt Ruth already seated at the mahogany table, a cup of chocolate and a plate of hot rolls in the place before her.

Her aunt was reading a letter, and she looked up as Susanna entered.

“My dear, what do you think? I’ve already had a reply from Lady Jersey‌—‌I have it here. She is most sympathetic to your plight of a missing betrothed. And she says‌—‌since I have assured her that you dance very gracefully and will bring no disgrace to the atmosphere of the place‌—‌it is all arranged. She is allowing us to purchase a voucher, and we are to attend the assembly at Almack’s this very night.”

#

The day seemed, to Susanna’s stretched nerves, to drag on an eternity. But at last evening fell. Susanna dressed in an evening gown of yellow satin with a net overlay. Her heart pounding with anticipation, she pulled on her gloves, drew her cloak about her shoulders, and went downstairs to where her aunt awaited her in the hall.

Ruth looked more than ever like some tiny exotic bird in a dress of purple satin, its high waist accented by a band of gold braid, with a matching purple turban wound about her greying curls.

“There you are, my dear. How pretty you look. Are you ready to go?” The footman helped them into the carriage and put up the steps, robes were tucked around them, the coach driver twitched the reins, and they were off, rolling along the narrow, winding lanes towards King Street.

The way was very dark, lit only by the carriage lamps and the occasional torch over a costermonger’s barrow. They spoke little, and Susanna stared into the inky blackness, unable to think of anything beyond what awaited her at their destination.

She had no warning‌—‌no indication that something was wrong—until she heard a sudden cry of alarm from the coach driver, and felt the carriage give a sudden lurch.

A harsh, guttural voice demanded that they stop, “If you value your life.” The window beside her was drawn roughly down, and the next moment Susanna found herself staring into the cold, steel eye of an ivory-handled pistol.

Chapter 3

Susanna’s heart beat with a sickening thud. The light of the carriage lamps was enough for her to make out their assailant’s face. His eyes and nose were concealed behind a black mask, but beneath the mask’s edge, Susanna saw a heavy cleft chin and a thick neck. Dark eyes stared into hers, and the man’s thin lips curved in a smile.

“That’s a nice little bauble you’ve got on, there.” He gestured to the pendant hung around Susanna’s neck. “I’ll just relieve you of it, if you don’t mind.”

His voice was deep, with some slight trace of a foreign accent. French, perhaps? She couldn’t tell.

Beside her, Ruth pressed her hand. “Better do as he says, Susanna.” Her aunt’s voice was quiet, but quite steady and calm.

The man laughed. “Yes, better do as the old woman says. Hand it over.”

The necklace was one James had given her on their engagement, a heart-shaped locket of gold filigree that he had told her had belonged to his mother. But there was—as James had also once told her—a fine line between courage and stupidity. And it was not as though, to judge by the look in the man’s eyes, arguing would have done any good.

Silently, Susanna unclasped the chain from her neck and passed it through the window to the man’s outstretched palm. He laughed again as his fingers tightened around the gold chain.

“And now, let’s have a look at you. Anything else of value?” He leaned in to peer at them through the window, and Susanna felt his breath hot on her face. The pistol was still clasped carelessly, almost negligently, in his hand, but its aim never wavered.

“Well, well, well.” The eyes behind the black mask raked her from head to foot. “We’ve caught ourselves a pretty little bird, haven’t we?”

For the first time, she realized that there was more than one man. The carriage was surrounded by a ring of shadowy figures, all in black, all as ominously still as statues.

Then another man, tall and broad-shouldered, stepped forward into the flare of the lantern. This man was also masked, but his dark tumbled hair and the line of a lean, square jaw were visible in the yellow light. He, too, spoke with a faint foreign accent, and his voice was hard with authority.

“Leave off, Philippe. Do you want to bring the watch down on our heads?”

Susanna felt the world abruptly tilt sideways, her vision darkening momentarily. And even when she recovered and her sight cleared, she still felt as though she had been forcibly detached from her body and was watching the scene play out from afar.

The first man‌—‌Philippe, as Susanna supposed he must be‌—‌was looking sullen. “I’ve a right to help myself to what I can find, I suppose? I’m being paid little enough for this venture. Our employers . . .”

Still with that sense of unreality, Susanna saw the second man make an impatient gesture. “We’ll be late to the warehouse if you delay further. And our employers will be even less inclined to pay us if you go falling into the hands of the law.”

Even as he spoke, Susanna caught the approach of heavily booted feet, and saw the approach of a lighted lantern, bobbing its way down the narrow street.

“Now, then, what’s all this?”

The figure behind the lantern hove into view: an enormously fat, lumbering personage in a flapping greatcoat and thick woolen muffler.

“It’s one of the Charlies‌—‌best be off.”

Philippe’s jaw tightened and he eyed the approaching figure appraisingly. “It’s only one man.” Susanna saw the pistol swivel in the newcomer’s direction, and Philippe’s finger tighten on the trigger.

She acted purely on impulse. Reaching through the window of the carriage, she seized Philippe’s wrist and pulled, as hard as she could. He gave an exclamation of surprise‌—‌and rage‌—‌and then there was a deafening roar as the gun went off.

Susanna’s whole body flashed hot then icy cold with horror. But the watchman remained standing, pausing only to check his step in surprise at the sudden noise. And then he was running, lumbering awkwardly forward, gasping for breath.

“Stop, in the name of the law.”

“You little . . .” Philippe’s face appeared once more at the carriage window, and a hand snaked through, twisting painfully about her wrist. “I ought to . . .”

“Come on.” It was the second man who spoke, his voice curt and peremptory. “No time for that now.”

He stepped forward, reaching to jerk Philippe back by the collar‌—‌and for the first time, his eyes lighted on Susanna’s face. He went absolutely still, a stillness of breath and body both, as his gaze‌—‌dark behind the eyeholes of his mask‌—‌met Susanna’s.

And then‌—‌with Susanna could only imagine what effort‌—‌he shook his head and yanked Philippe away from the carriage with such violence that Philippe reeled backwards and rocked on his heels.

“Run, you fool!” The man’s voice was curt but absolutely controlled.

“Stop, in the name of the . . .” The watchman was almost upon them now, heaving himself forward along the cobbled stones.

Philippe hesitated, then took off at a run, vanishing into the shadows as the second man turned to face the watchman.

His voice was no longer angry or even tight with control, but pleasant and faintly mocking. And as familiar to Susanna as the lines of her own palm.

“My deepest apologies for this.”

He stuck out a foot, the watchman went sprawling and landed with a heavy thud on the pavement.

Susanna thought the shadowed figure turned just for a moment and looked back at her and the carriage. But then he was gone, vanishing like a shadow into the night like the rest of his companions.

“Oof.” The watchman sat up with a painful grunt, and looked about him as though dazed. The light of the lanterns showed him to be an elderly man, some sixty years of age, with a ruddy, weather beaten face and a red, bulbous nose that spoke of a taste for overindulgence. Rheumy blue eyes surveyed Susanna and her aunt, and he rose to his feet, peering at them through the carriage window.

“You all right?” Then, as he caught sight of them, “Two ladies, eh? Lucky for you I happened along. No telling what these footpads might have got up to otherwise.”

He was rubbing his stomach where it had struck the pavement. Susanna could not have spoken if she had had a royal decree and the promise of a thousand-pound reward besides. But Ruth gave him a kind‌—‌if somewhat shaky‌—‌smile. “Yes, we’re very much obliged to you.”

The watchman shook his head in disgust. “Things is come to a pretty pass when a gang of footpads makes free to stop respectable folk right in the middle of London. No respect for the law, they haven’t. No respect at all.”

He rubbed his stomach again, and Susanna felt a half hysterical bubble of laughter pressing against her ribcage. But she managed to choke it down.

“Still,” the watchman muttered, “no use going after them now. Be long gone by this time. Might as well look in at the King’s Arms for a half-pint or so‌—‌night like this, got to have something to keep out the chill.”

Susanna forced herself to draw first one breath, then another‌—‌and was distantly surprised to find that when she spoke her voice sounded almost normal. “Sir, I wonder if you can tell me‌—‌is there a warehouse somewhere close to here?”

“A warehouse?” The watchman raised shaggy gray brows and rubbed his chin. “Well, now. That’d likely be the old tobacco warehouse on Broadmead Lane‌—‌just a few streets up from here. Been abandoned for years, it has, but it’s the only warehouse I can think of nearby.” He jerked his head to indicate direction, then frowned. “But it’s not the safest neighborhood. Wouldn’t suggest you ladies—”

Susanna cut him off. “Thank you.” She managed somehow to keep her raging impatience out of her tone. “You have been most heroic in coming to our aid. We will bid you goodnight.”

She thought the watchman might have lingered. But Aunt Ruth‌—‌after a sharp glance at Susanna‌—‌fished in her reticule and produced a shilling, which she dropped into the watchman’s hand. He lumbered off. And the moment his back was turned, Susanna slid from her seat and leaned out the window to speak to their still-frightened coachman. “Broadmead Lane, please‌—‌and hurry.”

“Susanna—” Aunt Ruth began when Susanna had resumed her seat and the carriage had started to roll. But Susanna shook her head.

“No‌—‌please, Aunt. I promise to explain as soon as I can. But please do not . . . ‌do not ask me any questions now.”

Broadmead Lane proved to bear no relation whatever to its name. It was a narrow, filthy road‌—‌little more than an alley‌—‌lined with tumbled-down buildings that leaned towards each other, all but blotting out the light of the moon and stars overhead.

Susanna rapped on the carriage roof, and the coachman drew to a halt. She got up, pulling her cloak more tightly about her.

“Susanna—” her aunt began again. But Susanna stopped her, taking hold of her aunt’s hand.

“I have to go, Aunt Ruth. I
have
to. I do not think you will be in any further danger here. But if you are, I beg you to think of your own safety. I will be as quick as I can. But if there is some danger, you must leave directly and without waiting for me. I would not have you come to harm on my account.”

The light of the carriage lamps was enough for Susanna to make out her aunt’s face, grave and thoughtful as her eyes searched Susanna’s. But Ruth sniffed and said, “Leave you here? Fiddlesticks. If we are assaulted by any further ruffians, I suppose our coachman may do his duty to defend me this time. And if he does not”‌—‌her hand closed around the carved ivory handle of the parasol she carried in case of rain‌—‌“I suppose I can look after myself.”

The image of tiny Aunt Ruth hitting an assailant over the head with her parasol rose in Susanna’s mind, and she let out a smothered gasp of laughter. “I love you, Aunt Ruth.”

“Well, and so you should.” Ruth settled more comfortably back in her corner of the carriage. “Good luck, my dear.”

The laughter faded quickly, though, and Susanna felt alternately tense enough to start at shadows and slightly sick as she made her way down Broadmead Lane. A lighted lamp over a public house on the corner cast a sickly yellow glow and allowed Susanna to see where she was going. The air reeked of clogged drains and rotting trash. And twice she had to step over the bodies of men slumped in shop doorways. Drunk, she supposed. But they were so insensible and motionless that they might equally well have been dead.

She could see the abandoned warehouse that the watchman had spoken of looming up ahead of her. The place certainly looked deserted‌—‌as though no one had entered in years. The windows were covered with half-rotten boards and the line of the roof sagged.

Susanna felt a qualm‌—‌after all, what did she have to go on? A few words only, hastily spoken and perhaps imperfectly overheard.

Then out of the blackness up ahead, a pair of men came reeling towards her. Both of them extremely drunk, to judge by the off-key rendition they were giving to a sentimental song.

Susanna stepped backwards into an even narrower alleyway that branched off the lane and ran along the side of the warehouse. And then she froze. Up ahead, from behind the broken edges of the boards that had been nailed across one of the warehouse windows, came a faint yellow glow.

The window was too high for her to reach, but she found a broken crate propped against the wall a short distance away. Heart pounding, Susanna carried it over and slowly, carefully, willing herself to make no noise, set it on the muddy ground just below the window.