The Gentleman and the Rogue (25 page)

“He has something I need. I have something he needs.” Schivvers nodded, and the upside down bobbing of his head made Jem dizzy. “I believe if I send around a little visiting card, a sort of personalized message, he might be inspired to make the trade.”

Jem knew better than to believe Schivvers would actually free him. Not after he spilled those unpleasant secrets of his. But he suspected the man wouldn't make it a simple cut across the throat. He'd have to be a mouse to Schivvers's playful cat act for a time. If only he could sink back into oblivion and skip the man's idea of fun.

Schivvers completed his circuit of the table and stopped again by Jem's side, studying his nude body with an intense gaze. “The question is, which part of you will deliver the message most effectively?”

Now would definitely be a good time to pass out, Jem thought.

* * *

When Alan woke to find the day had turned to evening, the room empty, and Jem having left him another note, he was enraged.

Sr, Gon to get gril and buks. Be bak son
. Below the message was a postscript. It appeared Jem knew enough about letter writing to include the letters
P.S.

Tuk sum mony and carij.
Not
to steel. Wil pay bak
. He'd tried and crossed out several versions of “carriage” before settling on “carij.”

Alan read the cryptic message twice before fully realizing the import. The little fool! He'd gone off half-cocked and with no support. He'd likely end up in gaol—or worse.

He jammed his feet into his boots and hauled on his coat while dashing out the door and down the stairs. Travelers in the taproom glanced up in surprise as he strode through the room, yelling for the innkeeper to have a boy ready a horse for him.

Then he disregarded his own request and went to prepare a mount for himself. He cinched the saddle, adjusted the stirrups, and led the steed from the livery while a gape-mouthed stableboy looked on.

What time had Jem left? How much of a lead did he have? Perhaps it wasn't too late to catch him before he reached his destination, let alone do anything so foolish as break in.

The road between the inn and Schivvers's house was becoming familiar, but it appeared different in the dark of night with no London streetlights to illuminate the way. The horse's hooves pounded over cobblestone then mud from the earlier rainstorm as Alan left Sheffield and approached the sleeping town of Derwent.

A carriage was approaching on the road ahead. He heard the wheels rattling before seeing the hulking black shape of the vehicle and horses looming out of the darkness. A few yards closer, and he identified it as his own phaeton. His spirits buoyed like a skiff on the Thames.
Jem. Safe. Now I'll kill him for scaring me!

But as his mount drew alongside the rattling carriage and he beheld the figure on the open box, he saw it wasn't Jem. Too short. Too small. The carriage threatened to roll right past him, and Alan held up a hand and shouted, “Whoa!”

The driver hauled on the reins, trying in vain to bring the horses to a halt. Alan wheeled his mount, drew alongside the horses, and reached out to grab the lines. When the vehicle was stopped, he turned to look at the person driving his carriage. “Major? Is that you?”

“Yes, Captain Watleigh.” Annie's piping little voice sounded strange coming from the height of the wagon box, their meeting bizarre and dreamlike. Alan wished his eyes would snap open and he'd find himself back in bed at the inn, with Jem lying warm beside him.

“What happened?” he demanded. “Where's Jem?” He eyed the huge coat wrapped around her shoulders—Jem's coat—and his gut began to churn.

A small gulp and swallow came from the shadowy figure of the child. Her pale face gleamed ghostlike in the dark. “Mr. S-schivvers,” she stammered.

“Schivvers has him?” The bile in his stomach boiled up into his throat along with his hammering heart. “How did you get out?”

“The man helped me. Told me where to find you and to run. So I ran.” Her voice was thick and choked.

“All right. All right. You did the right thing.” He soothed her with his tone as he would a nervous horse, but inside his mind raced in aimless, panicked circles. He'd organized attacks and led men into battle, but at this moment, he couldn't think what to do. He could scarcely breathe.
Jem, Jem, Jem
. The name throbbed with every beat of his heart.

The horse beneath him grew restless, sensing his nervousness. He pulled it up sharply, his mind still churning over possibilities. There was no time to get Annie back to the inn. Jem might not have that long. What if, even now, Schivvers had sent for the watchman to take the lad to gaol? Or worse, what if Schivvers was dealing with him in his own horrible way?

“Annie, I'm sorry I don't have time to take you someplace safe. I have to help Jem. You can wait with the horses.”

She nodded and responded meekly as trained. “Yes, Captain Watleigh.”

He bit his lip and pondered his options, rejecting his initial impulse, which was to march straight through the front door, find Schivvers, and beat him to a bloody pulp. Jem was the goal, the house a fortress to be breached. He must think of it that way in order to operate logically. What would he do in wartime? Reconnaissance. And he had the perfect spy right here with him.

He moved his horse closer to the carriage and leaned toward her to make sure he had her full attention. “Annie, do you believe Schivvers will call the constable to take Jem away?”

She didn't answer at first. Alan fought the impulse to snap at her to give him an answer as he would one of his soldiers.
Gentle. Easy
. She was a nervous child, not a hardened soldier. “Please, Ann. You know Mr. Schivvers well. You know how he thinks. What will he do with Jem?”

There was another long pause. Alan wanted to launch himself onto the carriage, grab her shoulders, and shake an answer from her. But at last she replied, “The Room. He'll take him downstairs to The Room.” The hushed gravity of her tone implied a sacred—or profane—place.

He knew instinctively she was right. Schivvers wouldn't want outside help. He'd want to punish Jem himself for stealing his trophy, and he would enjoy doing it in creative, painful ways. Once more his stomach rose, and he felt ready to fly out of his skin, to rush to Jem's rescue.
Patience. Planning
. He must handle this very carefully if Jem was to come out of the situation alive and unharmed.

One step at a time, and right now he must get the carriage off the road and parked somewhere. “Where did Jem have the carriage waiting? Can you show me?”

The girl pointed over her shoulder.

He held tight to his temper as he jumped off his horse and took the length of lead rope from the back of the phaeton. After he'd tied the horse to the phaeton, he'd calmed enough to ask, “Where exactly?” in a friendly manner.

“Churchyard,” she whispered.

“We're going to go back, and you'll stay with the horses as I said.”

He vaulted up onto the seat beside Ann, took the ribbons from her hands, and drove the vehicle in a loop until the phaeton faced the other direction. After they'd gone only a quarter mile, he saw the chapel with its concealing hedge, and Alan pulled the horses to a standstill.

He tied the team to a post, then climbed into the carriage seat to face the girl shivering beneath Jem's big black coat. As they'd ridden here, an idea had formed in his mind. It wasn't a perfect plan, but it was all he could come up with under the circumstances.

Alan reached for Annie's hand. She started to flinch away, but settled immediately when his hand covered hers, as though conditioned to submitting to unwanted touches. Looking into her face, he met her gaze as best he could in the dark night. He wanted her to see that he meant no harm. He wanted to slowly and carefully present to the girl what he needed her to do, but his pulse was racing, and he was acutely aware of every minute slipping by. Every second Jem was in danger. Visions of Schivvers wielding a bone saw flashed in his mind.

“Ann, you don't know me well, but I hope you can trust me. Do you?”

Her head bobbed once. Her hand was ice-cold beneath his.

“I wouldn't ask you to do this if it weren't absolutely imperative, but you of all people know the danger Jem is in, don't you?”

Another curt nod.

He dipped his head lower, looking steadily into her eyes. “I have to get him out of there before something terrible happens, and you're the key to accomplishing that.”

Her hand tightened beneath his, fingers clenching. She didn't like the direction this was going.

Alan took hold of her shoulder, gripping it gently. “I would never force you to face Schivvers again if it weren't absolutely necessary. But you are the one thing he wants and the only”—he hesitated over the words—“way I can rescue Jem.” Before Ann could panic, he added, “I will
not
give you back to him, no matter what I might say to Schivvers, but I may have to let him believe I will in order to free Jem. Do you understand?”

Tears shone in the dim starlight as they streaked her cheeks. The first sign of tears he'd seen on her drawn face. His heart clenched. He'd like to tell her she had a choice, that she didn't have to do this unless she felt brave enough, but he desperately needed her help. She was the only tool he had in this rescue mission. Would she be strong enough to accept the role he despised himself for thrusting upon her?

Her thin shoulder hitched beneath his palm, and Ann nodded once more.

“That's good,” he crooned, feeling as slimy as Schivvers for pushing the girl. “I won't let anything bad happen to you. I promise.”

Annie opened her mouth and closed it again.

“What? Go on. You may say what you like to me. Don't be afraid to talk.”

She gazed at him, eyes dark against her pale face as she spoke in halting phrases. “I know the mission comes first. Mrs. Cutler… I mean, my mum taught me that. I'll help as best I can.”

In her eyes he saw a spark of the stalwart little Major who had trotted after her mother among the sick and dying, without ever flinching.

And then she gazed solemnly into his eyes with a look that broke his heart and added, “My father trusted you in battle. I do too.”

Chapter Fifteen

The man was humming—a soft, tuneless murmur that unaccountably made Jem's fear grow stronger. He lifted his head off the table, straining to see what Schivvers was doing over there by the sideboard. A drawer opened. There were clinking sounds of metal on metal. Jem pictured an array of sharp, pointed instruments, and his body trembled. He was now drenched in the cold sweat that had popped out all over his skin. Salt stung the razor-thin cuts on his torso and the deeper one on his arm where Schivvers had sliced him in the kitchen. Probably there'd be more cuts before this was over. Likely there'd be body parts missing.

“Sir,” he croaked. “Can I beseech you to listen for a moment?”

Schivvers didn't answer, just kept mucking about with his tools. Perhaps he was polishing them.

Jem entreated his shirt-clad back. “I know you want the little girl back. I know she's special to you.” He plumbed his mind to find words that might reach the man. “You had her trained up just the way you wanted her—obedient, docile, submissive. But losing her doesn't have to be the end of that. There's others that could serve the same purpose for you.”

The surgeon didn't turn, but his hands slowed, and Jem imagined he'd caught his attention.

“Others who might please you even more, who'd be willing to do anything,
everything
you've ever imagined. A person with some experience in giving pleasure.”

At last the man turned to him. Jem wished he hadn't. There was some kind of saw in one of his hands, the sharp little scalpel in the other. Schivvers walked toward him. He wore a large white smock that covered his shirt, waistcoat, and trousers, and the expression on his face was utterly blank. Was he hearing Jem at all?

With no other hope, Jem plowed on, hoping to weave a spell of seductive words to protect his body as long as he could. “See, sir, I know what you want. Utter obedience. Another dolly to play with. I can be that. I will do whatever you want. And I can give you pleasure such as you've never imagined. The things I can do… And there won't be any fuss with Sir Alan that way, d'you see? He'll leave you alone. You forget about trying to win back the girl, and use me instead.”

Not an ideal plan, but from where Jem was sitting—or rather lying—it was better than most. Once he'd convinced the good surgeon not to cut him up into little pieces, then he could concentrate on finding a way out of here. Be the man's puppet for a while, then murder him in his bed and make an escape.

Schivvers stood over him now, gazing down into Jem's face, and his expression was no longer blank. His lip curled in disgust. “You little animal! Is that what you think I want? Dirty, perverted sex? You disgust me, and you have no idea who I am.”

“Why don't you explain to me then, sir,” Jem begged. “You're a man of science, I know. Tell me about your studies and what you've learned about human nature. I want to try to understand you.”

And because every man deep down wants someone to understand who he truly is, Mr. Schivvers began to talk.

“I love that girl because she is pure. And I want to be there to see the moment of change when her purity is gone forever. But once the moment is past, it can never be recaptured. That is why I spend so much time in preparation. There is much pleasure to be had in games played with the mind, even more so than with the body.”

His eyes had the glazed-over look of a man remembering past pleasures, and then they suddenly snapped back to the present and focused on Jem, sharp as scalpels. “Where is the pleasure in corrupting that which is already corrupt, to degrade that which is already degraded?”

“True enough, I imagine, sir.” Jem had been testing his restraints the entire time Schivvers's back was to him, without a speck of success. He could no more break loose of this damned table than Anne Boleyn had from the Tower of London—and he was near as likely to lose his head before this was over. His only hope was to somehow talk the man into letting him up, and to do that, he must continue to soften him.