The Darkest Sin (5 page)
Authors: Caroline Richards
Rowena had secured her reticule beneath her cloak but extracted several coins from her pocket. “I'm not here to do good works, madam.”
The woman's eyes glinted. “What you be wantin' to know, then?” Her shrewd glance reassessed Rowena's muted dress and anxious demeanor. “Lookin' for a missin' relative? Well, don't know what ye will find 'ere.” Mrs. Banks deftly pocketed the coins Rowena pressed into her bony hand. “Lots of people certainly are lookin', let me tell ye. She must be somethin' important. Or at least, important to somebody.”
Glancing up and down the narrow street to discern whether they were calling attention to themselves, Rowena sized up Mrs. Banks for the businesswoman she was and seized the advantage. “Mrs. Banksâwho has been here inquiring about the poor woman who lies dead inside?” she asked coolly. “Aside from the gentleman who just left?”
“Ye know 'im, do ye?”
Rowena thought it useless to lie. “Yes, I do. Lord Rushford.”
A tabby cat slunk along the stoop, wisely avoiding Mrs. Banks's skirts. “A strange one, 'e is.” The old woman curled her upper lip, communicating her unease. “Don't happen very often to have all these guvnors sniffin' around. Before Rushford came another,” she said, deliberately vague, her foot shooting out to chase the cat away.
Rowena was loathe to let her eagerness show. “Another man? How do you mean, Mrs. Banks?” she asked, sensing that she was getting somewhere. “Do you have a name or a description?”
A wet series of coughs was the answer. Thumping her chest, Mrs. Banks made a great show of clearing her throat. Rowena dug into her pocket to extract another coin. With a surprising swiftness, it was snatched from her outstretched palm.
Hauling in a deep breath, Mrs. Banks seemed to recover, wiping her eyes with the back of the hand clutching the coins. “Another 'igh born one, 'e was. All dressed for the opera or some such.” Rowena's frustration grew, listening to the old woman describing half of London. “And 'e had black hair, slicked back like from a 'igh forehead, with pomade.”
Of course, he had not introduced himself, as such courtesies were neither necessary nor wise when going about business in Shoreditch. Disheartened, Rowena asked with a painful smile, “I'm certain your powers of observation are acute, Mrs. Banks, so I'm to wonder whether the gentleman in question displayed any other distinguishing features.”
Mrs. Banks followed the cat's progress with her eyes, as though rummaging through her store of memories. “ 'E was alone,” she concluded, watching the cat's tail curl around the broken leg of a stool. “An' yes, I be forgettin'. 'E 'ad an accent, Frenchie, I would say.”
Rowena's heart ballooned in her chest. The voices never far from her hearing reverberated through her mind. A Frenchman. She dropped through the floor and back into the nightmare she was struggling to escape. Her throat closed shut, and she nearly tripped over the cat in her haste to back away from Mrs. Banks's stoop, murmuring an abrupt goodbye. She suddenly wanted to scream, but she could hardly breathe, instead stumbling in the direction that Rushford had taken minutes earlier, the morning sun hot on her face. Securing her cloak around her shoulders, she kept her head low. She almost missed the low doorway into which Rushford had disappeared.
The aroma of ale and sawdust assaulted her nose. She bent down to enter the tavern, opening the heavy door, her eyes adjusting to the dimness of the interior. Wavering on the threshold would do little good. She swept up her skirts from the sticky floor and walked toward the lone man who sat in casual disarray, booted legs stretched out beneath a bench, in the far corner of the hostelry.
Rushford did not feign surprise at her sudden appearance, but nonetheless his gaze was fixed on her with an intensity that made the tavern with its miasma of stale ale and sawdust fade away. She blinked rapidly, her eyes curiously raw. He had been expecting her.
“Difficult to believe that I could be in such demand. Twice in twenty-four hours,” he said, rising to pull out a chair for her, dressed in his usual somber black suiting and white broadcloth shirt, which did nothing to mute the impact of his presence. “Although if you persist in following me, I promise to offer you advice as to how you might better remain invisible. I noticed you two blocks away from Mrs. Banks's establishment.”
Rowena bit back a sharp reply, hoping to muster a civil tone. She needed this manâto help her find the Frenchman. She pretended to fuss with her skirts as she sat down, the echo of her conversation with Mrs. Banks making it difficult to collect herself. She had been catapulted back into the netherworld of her abduction, reluctant though she was to cross the threshold again. When she looked up again she cleared her throat, but the words were tentative nonetheless. “I don't expect you to understand, my lord,” she said, “to what lengths I have been driven. Please believe me when I say that I am hardly practiced in this type of endeavor.” A Frenchman. It could have been Meredith or Julia lying on Mrs. Banks's table. She swallowed her panic, finding strength in her burgeoning anger to continue. “You might have saved us both time and effort had you listened to my appeal yesterday evening.”
Rushford threw an arm across the back of his chair, inclining his head, as though preparing for an attenuated conversation. “I'm beginning to think that you enjoy spending an inordinate amount of time skulking about in dangerous places,” he said. “Clambering about my roofline is one thing, but that alleyway behind Mrs. Banks's is far from safe.”
Safety had nothing to do with anything, Rowena thought, the sharpness of a hundred emotions warring with good sense. Her instincts had been right. Faron would not give up, for whatever his twisted reasons, in tormenting her family. She had returned from the dead and she would climb mountains, swim rivers, challenge armiesârooftops and alleyways were minor encumbrances. “I was indulged as a child and young girl,” she said curtly, not trusting herself to say more. “My aunt encouraged all our interestsâincluding physical pursuits.” Closer to the truth was that they had been raised in a man's world, with Meredith's example anything but that of a conventional female. They had learned nothing of flirting, of empty conversation, of hiding behind a mask of frivolity and silliness. Their existence had been comprised of books and science, of foreign languages, of riding and marksmanship.
“I'm not surprised,” he said. “You demonstrate unusual courage.” It was unclear whether the observation was intended as a compliment.
Rowena regarded Rushford warily, folding her hands neatly on the table dividing them. Keenly aware of his height and the length of his legs, she tucked her ankles beneath her chair. “Were you acquainted with her?” she asked in an abrupt change of subject. They both knew to whom she referred.
Rushford's eyebrows went up at her question, but he shook his head, and she chose to believe him, although why she couldn't say. “I do not know the dead woman in question,” he said, removing his arm from the back of his chair to face her directly, his expression unchanging. Heavy footsteps sounded from behind as the publican came over to their table, apron straining over his girth, and placed two tumblers of brandy, both chipped, in front of them. Rowena was about to refuse the drink and then thought better of it. It was barely noon, but she needed the fortification, and she took a sip of the strong drink, aware that Rushford was watching her carefully. “I don't usually indulge in spirits,” she said for no reason, her tone hopelessly prim in contrast to the welcome warmth in her chest.
It was obvious that he did. Rushford shrugged, taking a healthy mouthful. “Immaterial to me,” he said. “And by the way, the answer is still no.”
Rowena almost jerked from her chair but then sat down again, hiding her disappointment beneath a brittle bravado that barely held her nerves in check. “I haven't even had the opportunity to pose the question,” she said. She wanted nothing more than to leap out of the tavern and return home to Montfort, to reassure herself that all was well with those she loved most. But it was impossible. In the past, hers had been a direct, forthright nature, but now she realized that circuitousness had its place. Setting her glass down carefully, amazed that her hands did not tremble, she tried another tack. “Why were you at that dreadful place this morning? I can only assume that you were investigating the possible causes behind another suspicious death.”
Rushford's glance flicked away from her to the bar, where the publican was arranging a row of glasses on the dusty rack in preparation for the regulars to take their place under his rheumy gaze. “That dreadful place,” he said, returning his attention to her, “belongs to Mrs. Banks, East London's undertaker. There are hundreds if not thousands of suspicious deaths in the city each year, although few receive undue attention, but that is another matter for discussion at another time.” Rowena wondered whether he was thinking of the Cruikshank murders, of the prostitutes about whom no one cared. “And to answer your next question,” he interrupted her thoughts, “which I'm certain is forthcoming, the cause of death in this instance was by way of drowning.”
Drowning
. Rowena's mouth was suddenly dry, her hands in their leather gloves cold. It was not his words so much as the incisive tone that pushed her close to the edge. “Was he or she . . . could she have been . . .” Rowena struggled to finish the sentence.
. Rowena's mouth was suddenly dry, her hands in their leather gloves cold. It was not his words so much as the incisive tone that pushed her close to the edge. “Was he or she . . . could she have been . . .” Rowena struggled to finish the sentence.
“She,” Rushford supplied.
The implications crowded her thoughts. “Is that why you were called to Shoreditch? There is something of a sinister nature behind her death,” she said, answering her own question.
Rushford smiled grimly. “In all probability there is something untoward going on. Most actresses are not partial to midnight swims fully clothed in the Thames. Besides which, bruises on her throat lead one to believe she had been strangledâasphyxiated.” Rushford stared at Rowena over the table. “And her body was weighted down.”
Rowena paled. “Weighted down? To do that to someoneâ” She straightened in shock, struggling to keep her own nightmares from piercing the light of day. Her throat closed on memory of the water flooding her lungs, her heavy skirts pulling her inexorably lower. The cold, stiff body on Mrs. Banks's table could have been Meredith's or Julia's. The horror repeated like an incantation in her mind. Her eyes tracked the scratches on the wooden trestle table. She chose her next words with the exactness of a surgeon, as though they could form a bridge away from madness toward reason. “I know you may choose not to believe me,” she said, her voice sounding hoarse to her own ears, “but there is every possibility that there is a connection here . . . between me and the woman lying at Mrs. Banks. Which would make your involving yourself in my situationâ”
“Advisable?” He completed her sentence and followed with a short laugh, his strong white teeth flashing in the dimness. “I don't quite follow you. Why would there be a connection between you and an actress lying dead at Mrs. Banks's?”
“I do not know how to explain it.” She did not understand it all herself. She swallowed hard. “You see, it began over a year ago, at my home in Cumbria.” She attempted to keep her description spare and unemotional, aware that he could just as easily bolt from his chair and leave the tavern.
A calm, rational explication
. “I last recall riding my horse on the estate,” she continued, “when he stumbled, which is absolutely uncharacteristic of Dragon.” Her beautiful Arabian, headstrong and willful, but as reliable as a rocking chair. “I came off, and then I remember nothing more but awakening to darkness and remaining in this impenetrable fog for what seemed like days or perhaps even weeks.” She stopped abruptly, wondering whether it wise to continue, to tell him about the voices and the dreams, all the while fighting the urge to confide in this man who, she reminded herself with effort, was a stranger. “I remember very little except that I was found all but dead on the banks of the Birdoswald River.” She paused. “I had been left to drown.” For one fleeting second, she thought she caught a hint of whatâknowledge, awareness in his eyes? But it was gone before she could name it, and he did nothing more than tilt his head to one side, as though contemplating a great mystery. “Continue with your story,” he said.
A calm, rational explication
. “I last recall riding my horse on the estate,” she continued, “when he stumbled, which is absolutely uncharacteristic of Dragon.” Her beautiful Arabian, headstrong and willful, but as reliable as a rocking chair. “I came off, and then I remember nothing more but awakening to darkness and remaining in this impenetrable fog for what seemed like days or perhaps even weeks.” She stopped abruptly, wondering whether it wise to continue, to tell him about the voices and the dreams, all the while fighting the urge to confide in this man who, she reminded herself with effort, was a stranger. “I remember very little except that I was found all but dead on the banks of the Birdoswald River.” She paused. “I had been left to drown.” For one fleeting second, she thought she caught a hint of whatâknowledge, awareness in his eyes? But it was gone before she could name it, and he did nothing more than tilt his head to one side, as though contemplating a great mystery. “Continue with your story,” he said.
“It is not a story,” she insisted, her voice strained to the breaking point. “It's the truth. Why else would I be entreating you to help me?” Dear God, she sounded like a bedlamite. “I do not know what more I can say to make you believe me.” She paused to clear her throat, which was thick with emotion. “I sense,” she resumed more slowly, enunciating each word and recapitulating her argument, “that there is a connection between the dead woman and my dilemma.”
Rushford absently fingered his glass. He had beautifully formed hands, Rowena observed, the thought only adding to the rush of confusion muddling her thoughts.
“That's a rather wild connection to make,” he corrected her flatly.
She took a deep breath, ignoring the knots tightening in her stomach. “Please hear me out,” she said, wondering desperately if he admired her at least for standing her ground.
Rushford managed a smile. “If it prevents you from scaling the edifice next door, I will, but let's begin with something simpler, such as your name,” he demanded.
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