Queen (Regency Refuge 3) (17 page)

Isabel watched from a distance as Owen left Westminster Hall. She wore the dress Owen had purchased for her. He ambled down the steps, his bearing saying the meeting had been a success. The pensive look on his face, though, contradicted the confident line of his back and shoulders.

She waited for Owen to notice her and was rewarded for her patience when he caught sight of her and delight pulled his lips into a wide smile. Some people smiled politely and with reserve. Owen didn't. He smiled unabashedly, his joy bright for all to see.

Owen approached Isabel and bowed. After he straightened, he held out his arm, crooked at the elbow. Isabel rested her hand on his forearm. His muscles moved beneath her fingers, and she wished they were someplace less public so she could draw him closer to her side.

"I wasn't sure you would be here." Owen's voice was better than warm honey on fresh scones. "I've a question to ask of you."

"Then ask it."

"Did you have extra people planted on the ship in Bristol?"

Her step faltered for the barest second before she answered. "Red was on the ship, but not at my request. I saw him when we boarded."

"He gave Phineas the sword?"

She nodded. "It wasn't part of the plan, but I'm glad he was there. The end result might not have been as favorable otherwise."

"I…" Owen paused, and he stopped walking so he could face her. He swallowed before continuing. "I would understand if you'd felt the need. I'm not the agent you are, and it would make sense if you didn't feel I could protect you."

"I don't understand. Where is this coming from?" Isabel studied Owen and saw nothing but sincerity.

"I think we've established that I'm a decent investigator. I'm good with numbers. I can understand intricate legal documents. I have skills, but when it comes to the sort of situations you tend to get yourself into, I'm fairly useless."

"Owen, you're not…"

He cut her off. "I am. I thought perhaps we could have something. I had hoped…" A small shake of the head. "I wanted to spend Christmas with you, and I allowed myself to believe that would be the start of a lifetime together, but I don't think it could work between us. You deserve a man far better than me."

Isabel reached out and brushed the back of her hand against Owen's cheek before quickly returning it to her side. "You and I are very different people."

"Certainly." His voice was filled with resignation.

"But that doesn't mean we don't belong together."

Owen tilted his head to the side and watched her closely.

"I happen to think we make a good team. Isn't that how it's supposed to be with partners?"

"Partners?"

She nodded. "What else would you call us? Together we are stronger than either of us would be separately. I suppose I've thought of us a bit like two halves of the whole. We complement each other in a way that makes us both better."

Owen took a half-step away. "Do you truly believe that?"

Isabel nodded.

"I'm trying to do the noble thing and let you walk away from me so you can find someone better."

"But what if I don't want to walk away? And what if I think there is no one out there better for me than you?"

"I may never give you this chance again."

Isabel bit back a smile. "I think I can live with the consequences of my decision."

Owen once again held out his arm for Isabel. She rested her hand on it so they could resume their walk. Their contact was slight, but the difference was there. A passerby wouldn't notice the minute change, but the man beside her walked with a new swagger, and somehow she found it more than a little attractive.

A couple of paces later, Owen asked, "Have you any plans for celebrating Christmas?"

Isabel could hear the smile in his voice and delighted in knowing she'd been the one to put it there. "I had planned to spend the day with friends."

"I'd like to invite you to join me for Christmas."

"Where do you plan to spend it?"

"With my parents." Energy hummed through Owen's words. "I hoped you could join us this year."

Isabel bit her lip. Would the invitation extend to Red and Maggie? Would they even want to go?

"Your friends could come, too. The place is big enough. Besides, I'd like to meet them."

He had to go and make it hard to refuse. "I would need to speak with my friends. Some situations are…complicated."

Owen reached over with his free hand and gave her fingers a squeeze, much as she'd wanted to do for him the day before. "Ask them. I'm fairly certain the complications are manageable. I won't ask questions if I'm told not to, and I'll make sure my parents don't either."

"It would be nice to see your mother again."

"And I'm sure she feels the same. Your mother was her dearest friend. It would be a balm to her heart to see what a wonderful person you've become."

"I will speak with my friends."

They circled around a fountain in silence. Isabel was content in Owen's company. She was comfortable with him in a way she'd never been with anyone else, and she cherished the sensation.

Then, with no warning, a sizzling lightning bolt of fear shot through her. Isabel stiffened. Owen glanced at her in question, and she forced a smile.

Something was wrong; she could feel it. She didn't know what yet, but her instincts rarely failed her, and right now they warned her of danger.

Her heart sped up before settling into an erratic
rat-a-tat-a-a
rhythm. She needed to get to the address Red had given her so she could make sure he and Maggie had arrived safely, but she was torn. She couldn't bring Owen with her, not without Red's permission. After all, it was his safe haven, not hers. But hadn't she just told Owen what a wonderful team they made, how they were both stronger when they worked together?

The park was in sight, the place where she and Owen would go their separate ways. Isabel tightened her hand on his arm.

"Is everything all right?"

She nodded, biting the inside of her cheek. "Yes, of course. I do need to make haste, though."

He turned to her, and she could see curiosity lurking in the depths of his eyes. "Well, then, I suppose we should part ways. We'll meet here again tomorrow?"

"Of course, and I'll have an answer for you about Christmas."

Owen's smile widened. "I shall look forward to it."

Unable to resist, Isabel leaned up and brushed her lips against Owen's cheek. "Until then."

Owen left Isabel at the entrance to the park and began walking toward the room he'd rented, a whistle on his lips.

Lord, let her say yes.

Her behavior had been a bit pecular toward the end of their walk, but he supposed it was related to the people whose identity she seemed determined to protect. Owen wanted to meet these friends of hers. They mattered to her. He'd heard it in her voice each time she'd mentioned them, which was more often than she realized. They were more than friends to her, more than a team. And if they were important to Isabel, then they would be important to him, too.

Owen was still a couple blocks from his destination, his mind consumed with thoughts of a woman he wanted more than he deserved. He never saw it coming. One moment he was passing an alley. The next, his mouth was filled with the fetid taste of the burlap sack that had been yanked over his head. He fought, but the blows to his body came hard and fast. With the sack over his head, he couldn't see his attackers' movements coming, and with the background noise of a busy London street, he couldn't track their movement by sound, either.

Owen berated himself. He shouldn't have been thinking of Isabel. A better agent would have been on guard, would have anticipated trouble.

Owen soon found himself being dragged, half-conscious, as two people held him, their fingers digging into the soft flesh on the underside of his arms.

****

"He's comin' around!"

Owen tried not to move. He needed a moment for his head to clear. The fog, however, was not hasty in its departure. Unconsciousness had been occurring far too often on this blasted assignment. First had been the fiasco when he'd tried to find out the identity of Isadore/Iola, and now this. The beating wasn't even at fault this time. They'd forced him to drink some foul brew, and now Owen had no idea how long he'd been unconscious, where they'd brought him, or what these people wanted.

By the way the voice had echoed, Owen guessed he was in a solidly built room, possibly with stone walls. He was seated in a hard chair, his hands bound together behind the chair's back. Owen resisted the urge to flex his fingers in the hope they would still believe him unconscious, but he could tell his hands had long since gone numb. Even without moving them, he recognized the large clumsy feeling of extremities that had gone too long without proper circulation.

The impact of something hard — most likely a fist — sent Owen's head snapping to the side. His eyes shot open as pain flashed across the already tender flesh. At least the burlap sack and its putrid stench were gone.

"Tell me about the gold." The voice was dark as the night and smooth as a floor full of rusty tacks.

Owen stared. He tried to pull his scattered thoughts together to form a plan. Just as he was able to place the face — he'd seen this man on the
Âne Hurlants
working as one of the crew — another blow came, this time to his middle. Tied to the chair as he was, Owen couldn't defend himself against the assault, and the position of his hands bound behind the seatback made him feel as if his shoulders were in danger of being pulled from their sockets. He hadn't seen the blow coming, either, which seemed odd until he realized how dark the room was. A single candle had been lit, but its placement so near the chair that held him immobile made it easy for everyone else to see him while he could make out only the shadowed features of the man speaking. He had no way of knowing how many other people were in the room, let alone what they looked like.

"Tell me about the gold." No anger in the voice, no agitation or raised pitch. Owen would bet almost anything the man doing the talking had been hired. He didn't seem to have a personal investment in getting answers. Determined, yes, but not emotionally attached to the outcome.

Owen gave a small nod. "What do you want to know?"

"Where is it?"

"I have no idea."

The man nodded to one of his companions, and Owen received another blow to his midsection.

"Tell me where to find the gold."

"I handed it off. What do you want with it?"

"What was Kitteridge doing with you on the ship?"

Isabel had told him about the conversation she'd had with Phineas Kitteridge, for which he was grateful. "I hired him to help us pull off the theft. What does it matter to the likes of you?"

"How much did you pay him?"

"Gentlemen don't discuss money."

The man with the dark voice angled his head to face someone off to the side. "The knee this time, I think."

A board came crashing down across Owen's left knee. Pain ricocheted through every part of his body. He bit back the scream, but barely.

"Tell me about the woman."

Owen couldn't give up Isabel.
But I can…
"Her name's Isadore. Also hired."

"So who hired you?"

They hadn't figured out Owen worked for the Crown. He might not be as experienced as Phineas, but he could use that to his advantage. "You know how this works. I can't tell you what you're asking."

Another blow to his knee, and this time Owen couldn't hold back the scream.

"I'll be leaving you alone now to think about the choices you're making. I hope you will have reconsidered by the time I return."

The candle was snuffed, and Owen could no longer see even the dark-voiced man. Movement made its way toward the door, though, and he began to wonder how long they'd leave him for. And how long he'd been there already.

Someone brushed near Owen, roughly pressing something cold into his hand. Metal. His fingers wrapped around it in a tight grip, and he winced. A knife, then, blade at the ready.

Had it been one of Tobias' agents? Someone who knew Phineas?

It didn't matter. Owen had the most powerful weapon in anybody's arsenal. He had hope.

The hollow
thwank
of the door closing sent Owen into motion.

Once he sawed his way through the rough jute rope binding his hands, cutting through the binds at his torso and feet was easy enough. Apprehension hurried Owen's movements and made him breathe in quick, choppy breaths.

Momentarily forgetting the brutal blows to his knee, Owen jumped to his feet. He swallowed the yell of pain even as his knee crumbled and he fell to the cold, hard ground. Bursts of light flashed behind his eyes as the pain intensified before subsiding.

A quick assessment of the bone didn't tell him much. His hands couldn't find an obvious break, but that meant little if he couldn't stand on the leg.

The scrape of metal on metal to his left put Owen on the alert. He had the knife in his right hand as he rose back to his feet, using the nearest wall for support. The door opened and quickly closed.

"You still in here?"

The voice was young, male. Owen wouldn't be getting out of there without help, so he sent up a silent prayer that the voice belonged to whoever had given him the knife. "I'm here."

A whisper of movement in the air told Owen the boy had moved closer.

"Phineas said there'd be trouble after the ship, but he didn't figure it'd find anyone but 'im. I can get y'out of 'ere, but then you're on yer own."

"I don't think I can walk."

"You can lean on me, but you best take this."

A pouch was pushed into Owen's hands. Drugs?

"It's for the pain, don't worry. Can't have you screaming like some faint-hearted girl if we want to get away quietly. It won't put you to sleep or kill you, either."

Owen emptied the pouch into his mouth and fought the urge to gag at the bitter taste of willow bark.

"Sorry," the kid said. "I couldn't afford the powder, so I got the tea instead."

Owen choked down the rough-textured shredded bark and put his left arm around the boy's shoulders. "Let's go."

All of Owen's concentration was on moving his legs and not making any sound. He had no choice but to trust the boy's intentions. At the moment, the kid was his best chance of escape.

Voices echoed through the hallway outside the room. By the sound of it, the men played a game of cards. The boy led him to the right then took a left a short while later, followed by another right. They came to a door.

The boy tensed. "As soon as I open this door, they're gonna know you're gone. I'm gonna run. I'm not stickin' around to help you." The boy's voice dropped to an even softer whisper. "Once you're out the door, go about ten feet to your left. It looks same as garbage piled at the back of the building, but there's a tunnel under the heap. Built it myself."

The obvious pride in the boy's voice seemed out of place, given the dire nature of their situation. Even in the worst circumstances, it appeared, boys were still boys. Owen gritted his teeth against the pain and smiled in approval. The animation in the boy's face was Owen's reward for the effort.

"You'll need to get down low to the ground to see it," the boy explained. "But you should fit. Shimmy through. It'll take you to an alley they won't think to search at first."

Before the boy could say anything else, a yell erupted behind them. They'd already been found out.

The boy shoved the door open as the sound of a gun being fired in the acoustically challenged hallway roared louder than a cannon. Owen felt the burn in his side and knew he'd been shot, but he didn't stop. He shoved the boy hard through the door, and stumbled out behind him. As soon as Owen was clear of it, the boy slammed the door closed and dropped a wooden lever into place.

Nodding to the locking mechanism, the boy said, "I installed it earlier when they thought I was out running errands." Those were the boy's last words. Then, faster than a rabbit, the boy ran and squeezed himself behind another building, disappearing from sight in the opposite direction from where he'd told Owen to go.

Granted, it was throbbing less, but Owen still needed to be careful of his knee. He rounded to the left and found the garbage heap.

The moonlight did little to reveal the opening to him, but as he felt with his hands, he found it. He got down on his belly and shimmied through the small, tight space. Adult escapees obviously hadn't been the boy's first priority when he'd constructed it. In the tunnel’s tight confines, it felt like hours had passed but Owen knew his perception was skewed. The time since he'd been spotted would be measured in minutes, not hours. As he emerged into another dark alley, he looked back and realized he'd passed under at least part of the building he'd been held in. He was further east, and the alley he was now in faced a different but parallel street.

The urgent voices of men likely in pursuit of him reached Owen's hears. Running was out of the question with his damaged knee. Instead, he would need to find a place to hide.