Rakes and Radishes (24 page)

The guests streamed from the ballroom, their bodies crashing against hers as she pushed her way to the opposite stairs.

Kesseley shouted her name, begging her to wait. She covered her ears and rushed down the curving staircase, and out into the street. The rain splattered her face and soaked through to her shift.

A hackney was pulling to a stop. She ran up to the driver. “Can you take me to The Green Man Inn near Greenwich Park?”

“It’ll be a whole crown for me to get there and back.”

“I’ve only got a half crown. But my father can pay you at The Green Man. He can pay you extra. Please?”

The driver leaned down from his seat and yanked Henrietta’s hair, pulling out a pearl and several strands of her hair.

“I’ll be keeping this pretty pearl, just to be making sure he pays alright,” he said, grinning wide enough to display his black, crooked teeth.

Henrietta pulled herself inside the carriage, hearing the seam of her gown rip. The man clicked at his horse, and the hackney took off. She wrapped her arms around herself to try to stop the cold shivers convulsing her body. The hackney turned by the Duke of Houghton’s estate. Out of the rain-streaked window, she could see Kesseley running down the twin rows of boxwoods at the entrance of the mansion. She slid back into the shadows and covered her eyes.

A footman in green livery ran out from The Green Man Inn and opened the hackney door. Henrietta latched on to his hand and stepped down, feeling her heart slow. She had made it to safety. The rain was coming down harder, and she shouted above its roar, asking the hackney driver to wait.

The inn had red walls with etchings of castle ruins scattered about. A glossy black wooden balcony ran around three of the walls. Men sat about in chairs, glasses of ale on the tables beside them. Their conversations were no louder than whispers. Henrietta’s presence caused several curious stares. She crossed to a small window where a bored attendant sat, reading a journal. He motioned to a footman, who led Henrietta up the stairs and down the hall to a small paneled room.

Her father and Mr. Van Heerlen sat at a table with discarded china and silver, a bottle of wine and several stacks of paper. They shot up, surprised, when they saw her.

She ran to her father and wrapped her arms around his thin frame. His scent filled her, reminding her of home and everything safe.

“My daughter, whatever is the matter? You’re all wet. We were coming to get you tomorrow.”

“Oh, Papa,” Henrietta repeated over and over as she buried her face in his cravat.

“Hush now,” he said. “You’re back with me. Old papa. You haven’t seen our new work.” He gestured to the papers.

Henrietta ran her finger along the numbers and symbols on the pages, grounding herself in the universe so much bigger than her problems. Planets, stars and comets millions of miles away from her, moving in the silence of space. “It looks wonderful. I’m so proud.”

She told him about the hackney driver outside, and her father went to his chamber to retrieve the money. She and Mr. Van Heerlen were alone.

The hem of her gown dripped water on the floor. She crossed her arms over her chest. Cold bumps were all over her skin. “Mr. Van Heerlen, I apologize that you should see me thus.”

“Not at all.” He pulled his chair closer to the hearth. “Come sit by the fire. You are too cold.”

“Thank you,” Henrietta said feebly. He pulled the blanket off the back of the chair and nestled it around her shoulders. The soft fabric of his shirt brushed her skin.

Henrietta grabbed his hand, surprising him. “I have received your letters, sir, with your sentiments. You should know that something terrible has happened. I’m not quite sure of the exact details, but my reputation has been compromised beyond repair. I am disgraced, it seems.”

He put his index finger to his lips, as if to quiet a child. “Did I not warn you of London? Now you understand my concern. How I wish you had stayed at Rose House. I knew it would all end thus. But I was not in a position then to stop you.”

“But you understand the meaning of my words.”

“I do.” He knelt down beside her and tilted his head. “Still I am unaltered in my feelings. Now rest. Tomorrow will wash all this away.”

She doubted whatever sins she carried would be washed away in the London rain. Nothing made this ugly town clean. The coal would be in the air again tomorrow, the gutters swelling with brown, stinking water and waste. And her name would be whispered in parlors all over Mayfair. But she wouldn’t be there to hear it.

Henrietta started. “I need to send a note! They don’t know where I am!”

“No, you must rest. I will take care of it.” A protective glow manifested in his eyes. “I will take care of you, dearest Miss Watson.”

***

Kesseley flung open the door of the house at Curzon Street, slamming the knob into the wall. The house was dark. No sound but the splatter of rain against the windows.

“Henrietta!” he called, hearing only his echo. “Henrietta!”

Boxly appeared from the shadows.

“Is she asleep?” Kesseley asked.

The butler bowed, then reached for Kesseley’s coat. “Miss Watson has not come home.”

Kesseley yanked himself free. “But…she never came home?”

“No, my lord.”

Kesseley tore off his hat and threw it against the wall. He ran his hands through his wet hair, then down his cheeks.

Where could she have gone? He had run up and down the streets of Piccadilly looking for her for at least thirty minutes. If she had taken a hackney, she would have been home. Surely she wouldn’t have done something so foolish as to walk home on the London streets at night.

He sank onto the sofa, hung his head in his hands and waited. Nothing seemed louder than the quiet tick of the mantel clock. It continued, mercilessly.

Tick. Tick. Tick.
Thirty minutes passed. Terrifying thoughts began to gather in the corners of his mind. He pushed them back.

Tick. Tick. Tick.
For a torturous hour. Then Kesseley called for his horse.

The rain fell in sheets, whipped by the wind. It flooded the brim of his hat and soaked beneath his wool coat. He clenched the reins. His wet gloves did little to protect his hands. He navigated the grids of Mayfair to Cavendish Square at a gallop, looking into every hackney that passed. “No, Lady Winslow did not return this evening, my lord,” her butler told him. “No, a young lady did not come by.”

Nor was the princess at her home in Berkeley Square. The butler said she had stopped by momentarily, then left in the company of Lady Kesseley and a gentleman. What did he look like? Gray hair in a queue, a scar down his left cheek. No, he had not seen a young lady with black hair. No, he didn’t know where they had gone.

Kesseley returned home, hoping she had come back.

Just silence. Another hour passed.

He could no longer hold back his fears, as irrational as they were. Hurt. Raped. Alone. Dead. The image of brutal masculine hands restraining her smaller ones. Smeared blood on her pale skin. Crying out for help.

Goddamn it, get a hold of yourself!

There was only one more person she may have gone to.

The rain was almost impenetrable, coming down on Kesseley like bullets. He could scarce see in front of him.

Kesseley tied the beast to the iron gate outside Edward’s townhome in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. He said a silent prayer and slammed the knocker down so hard the adjoining houses could hear.

Edward opened the door. He wore a collarless shirt and black pantaloons. Ink stained his fingers. His face changed from anger to puzzlement, then back to anger. “What are you doing here?”

“I can’t find Henrietta,” Kesseley shouted above the rain.

Edward grabbed his arm and hauled him inside. A light flickered from the front parlor, casting the shadow of a female form onto the entrance hall walls.

“Is she here?” Kesseley cried.

“No.”

Kesseley’s words fell out in a jumble. “I can’t find her. She left the duke’s ball and didn’t come home. She is upset. I hurt her.”

A thin female stepped in from the parlor. Lady Winslow! Her curls hung loose, all haughtiness gone from her face. She looked almost fragile. Edward took her hand. “Henrietta’s missing.”

Her eyes widened with alarm. She fixed them on Kesseley. “You never found her! But we thought—”

“Where’s Mama? Do you think she went back to her?” He was almost screaming.

“I don’t know. We left the ball and went to the princess’s. Then Eleanora and the princess went to Lord Damien’s home. And I came here. No one said anything about Henrietta. We had assumed she was with you.”

“Where the hell does Lord Damien live?”

“I don’t know.”

“How did Henrietta know him? Where did they meet?”

“I didn’t know she knew him,” she replied.

Kesseley banged his hand on the wall. “What the hell do you know?”

Edward took a step forward, putting his face less than an inch from Kesseley’s. “Watch yourself.”

“I’m sorry.” Kesseley backed away and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Forgive me. I have to go.”

“I’ll go with you,” Edward said.

“There are several parties this evening,” Lady Winslow said. Kesseley could hear the fear quivering in her voice. “I could—”

“No, it’s too dangerous out tonight,” Edward interrupted. “I would feel better if you stayed here.”

“But she could be in trouble,” she cried.

He kissed her cheek. “We’re going to find her. Don’t worry.”

He turned to Kesseley. “Where should I go?”

“I don’t know.” Kesseley blurted out his worst fear. “London Hospital.” Where the bodies were taken.

Lady Winslow stifled a cry in her hand.

“Get a hold of yourself, man.” Edward slapped Kesseley’s shoulder, hard. “I’ll wager she rejoined your mama at that Lord Damien’s. Go back to your home and see what you can find, an address or something. I’ll ride over to the duke’s and talk to the footman.”

Kesseley galloped home. He rushed to the parlor and tore open his mother’s bureau. One by one, he pulled out each paper until every drawer and shelf was empty. Not a damn thing about a Lord Damien. Who the hell was this man?

He stumbled to the sofa, quaking. It was two in the morning. In his mind, her eyes were filled with terror in some dark place where he couldn’t find her.

The candles flickered and spitted, about to burn out. Something red glinted under the bureau. He got down on his knees and ran his fingers along the floor, feeling cold metal. He slowly pulled out Henrietta’s necklace.

He clutched the ruby pendant and held it to his lips.

The front door opened. Kesseley’s sharp laugh sounded like something echoing down the halls of Bedlam. He ran out into the entrance hall.

That Lord Damien fellow stood with his mama, her head on his chest as he stroked her hair. When the blackguard saw him, he tightened his arm about her, as if to protect her from her own son.

“Where the hell is Henrietta?” Kesseley demanded.

His mother stepped from her lover’s embrace. She appeared confused, as if she had just woken up. “You didn’t take her home?”

“No!” Kesseley yelled. “I can’t find her anywhere.”

Damien tried to put his hand on Kesseley’s shoulder. Kesseley slung it off. “Get your goddamned hands off me!”

Lady Kesseley pulled her son to her. Her warm, sugary scent made him feel like a small boy. Tears sprung in his eyes.

“I think she said her father was in town. She might have gone to him.” She tried to smooth over the worried edge in her voice.

“Where is he staying?”

“I don’t know. She just said her father was coming to London to look for comets or whatever he does—”

“He has proven another planet exists behind Uranus,” Kesseley shouted.

“She said she would be leaving with him.”

Kesseley bolted upstairs, yanked a candle from the sconce on the corridor wall and went into her chamber. A brush rested on the commode, books were stacked by her bedside table beside a cracked portrait of her mother—all waiting for her to come back. He pushed aside the feeling that he was somehow violating her and opened the lid to the delicate writing desk. Her correspondences were neatly stacked in a pile, beside two pens and blank stationery. He lifted the first letter and scanned Van Heerlen’s eloquent hand. Self-loathing washed over Kesseley. This man could have written “I love you” on every line.

He pulled out the next letter. It was from her father. His eyes scanned the lines until he found what he needed. They were staying at an inn called The Green Man.

He flew down the stairs, calling to anyone to supply a dry coat.

The knocker banged.

Let it be her!

Damien opened the door. A courier waited on the step, rain dripping from his hat. He bowed quickly, handed Damien a letter.

Kesseley snatched it from the man’s fingers. He popped the seal while Damien paid the courier.

Lord Kesseley,

Miss Watson has returned to the responsible care of her father and myself. Please send her belongings to The Green Man on Blackheath Hill. I ask that you spare a female servant for two days to assist her. Her arrival is most unexpected, and we were unable to provide proper preparations for her greatest comfort at the inn.

If it is of any concern to you, please be assured that Miss Watson is safe and well.

We shall meet at a later date to discuss the neglect and mistreatment she has suffered under your guardianship.

Sincerely,

Mr. Pieter Van Heerlen

He felt his mother’s arm brush his.

“Is she safe?”

He handed her the letter. “Please send a footman to Mr. Edward Watson’s home,” he said. “Tell him that his cousin was safely recovered.” Then Kesseley walked upstairs to his chamber.

He laid the necklace on his desk, sat down and studied the ruby sparkling in the candlelight. Samuel, who had been shivering in his bed by the fire, padded over and put his nose in his master’s lap.

“She’s gone, Samuel.”

The hound whimpered.

Over his head, the portrait of his father hung. Kesseley gazed beyond his father’s gray eyes, seeing the remainder of his own life. It wasn’t the lush fields of Norfolk, the feel of the tilled earth under his boot, the expansive skies heavy with the clouds that rolled in from the sea. No, it was a blur of smoke, brandy, cards flipping in his hands, hungry eyes of moneylenders.

There was a rhythmic tap on the door. “Lord Kesseley,” a low rumbling voice said. “I thought we might talk.”

“Not now.”

The door cracked, and Damien peered cautiously from the shadows. “She loves you.”

Kesseley was too tired to be polite. “Pardon me, but who the bloody hell are you?” he demanded, rising from his chair.

The man must have viewed Kesseley’s rude remarks as an invitation to enter, for he sauntered in, impervious to the hostility in the air. He looked about the room. His eyes stopped on the portrait of the late earl, darkened, then drifted to Kesseley. He considered him for a moment.

Kesseley leaned against the wall, crossed his arms, and glared at the man. “You are an angry one,” Damien said.

“I think you are going to tell me who you are.”

The man shook his head and sighed. He sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders sloped, hands clasped together. Then he took a deep breath as if to begin a long story.