Too Wicked to Wed (25 page)

Like dice tumbling across a table, Connor’s insides began to bounce and roll against his ribs. Keeping a cool head in his old life was easy. Victory or defeat—he had viewed them both with equal detachment.

It was, however, no longer just a game.
And he was no longer the same cynical wolf.

His expression must have betrayed some hint of his thoughts, for Cameron sought to lighten the moment with a drawl of his usual sardonic humor. “I hear that settling into a marriage is never easy.”

The earl expelled a sigh. “You seem to have an answer for everything. I take it you also have an expert strategy for coping with the opposite sex?”

“Of course. I avoid them altogether.” Cameron’s voice maintained its mocking note, but his movements lost a touch of swagger as he drew a fresh sheet of paper from the desk drawer. “It makes life so much simpler.”

Too simple.
Connor had watched the body language of too many gamesters to miss the subtle change. Until now, he had not given much thought as to what lay behind Cameron’s devil-may-care attitude.
Hell, he had been careless about a good many things…

But Cameron was quick to deflect attention from himself. Uncapping the inkwell, he nudged it to the center of the blotter. “Here, do the note to Gryff, asking him to come around this evening.” Paper rustled. “Then write down all the names you’ve heard mentioned as possible owners of The Soiled Dove and let’s take a look at them.”

The scratch of the nib dominated the crackle of the banked coals. After sealing the first paper and sending it off with a servant, Connor passed over the list.

“Hmmm.” Cameron took his time in studying it. “Not Hingham,” he murmured, crossing off the name. “He’s running a pack of lightfingers in Pall Mall, not lightskirts. And as for Whitbeck, I can’t see him as having the backbone to be in charge of anything like this. He skulks around the stews because he likes to be beaten, rather than the other way around.”

“Actually, I would delete Brighton as well,” said the earl. “Too stupid. He blackmailed Lord Upton over an affair with another man’s wife and nearly ended up eating grass for breakfast.”

One by one, they eliminated the rest of the suspects.

“Bloody hell.” Connor stared glumly at the row of black slashes on the page. “Are you sure there weren’t any other clues as to the villain’s identity lying about?”

“Quite sure.” A tiny pause. “And yet…” Cameron tapped the pen to his chin.

After several moments, the earl’s fingers began to drum a matching rhythm upon the blotter.

“Have you considered the possibility that your enemy is a female?” asked his friend slowly.

“That is absurd,” scoffed the earl.

“Is it?” countered Cameron. “Come now, we both know members of the opposite sex who possess the requisite cleverness and imagination to mastermind such a complex plan.”

Connor’s gaze stole to Alexa’s notebook.
As if he needed to be reminded of that.
“But not the muscle. Don’t forget that DeWinter was stabbed in the chest, and he was not a small man.”

“Muscle can be easily hired.”

“I suppose that is true,” he conceded. “Still…what made you think of a woman?”

“Just a feeling,” replied Cameron. “Or, rather, a certain scent. There was the trace of perfume lingering in the air. Attar of roses is not something a man would wear.”

“Certainly none of my acquaintance,” said Connor. “I am familiar with the damn fragrance. It tends to cling to clothing as well.”

“Yes, it is one that is more at home in a bordello than in any sort of refined household.”

The earl ran a hand over his stubbled jaw. “It seems an awfully insubstantial clue to pursue.”

“Perhaps. But it is the only one we have to go on at the moment.” There was a slight pause. “Unless you can think of any former employee who might hold a grudge.”

“I never mixed business with pleasure,” growled Connor.

“Well, it was just a thought.” Cameron rose. “Look, I have a few friends in certain circles who owe me favors. Now that we are honing in on what sort of individual we are looking for, I think it wouldn’t hurt for me to pay a few morning calls and see what further information I can scare up.” His gloves slid back in place with a supple ease. “It may take me a good part of the day, for these particular fellows do not tend to stay in one place for more than a few days at a time.”

As Connor watched, he was struck again by how quickly his friend assumed another role. Like the art of disguising his true self had become second nature. The observation made him shift in his seat, for it cut a little too close for comfort.

“In the meantime, do get some sleep,” added Cameron. “You are looking a bit pinched around the gills.”

The earl made a face. “To sleep, perchance to dream.”

Cameron pulled the black cap low on his brow. “Rest easy. We’ll get her back.”

“Would that I were as sanguine as you are,” replied Connor, threading a hand through his hair. And yet, he didn’t dare consider the alternative. Life without his wife was…unthinkable.

“My dear Wolf, if you wish to quote Shakespeare, allow me to suggest another line.” Cameron paused in the doorway. “All’s well that ends well.”

Chapter Twenty-four

T
he day passed with agonizing slowness, but finally twilight began to tinge the sky, deepening the shadows outside the townhouse windows. Cameron had still not returned from his mysterious errands, but Gryff arrived at the appointed hour, and without preamble asked, “What can I do to help?”

“Pay a visit to The Soiled Dove,” replied Connor. “And play the role of a jug-bitten rake on the prowl for more sinful pleasures than can be found in usual haunts of the
ton
.”

“That won’t be difficult. As you know, I have a great deal of experience in acting like an arse.” Gryff cocked a self-mocking smile. “In this case, however, I shall contrive to keep my wits about me.” He stared for a moment at the gold fob and playing cards on the desk before going on. “Once I have made myself at home, what is it I should be looking for?”

“I will sketch out a basic layout of the private upstairs chambers, and what sort of activity each one offers,” replied Connor. “In cozening up to the girls, try to learn if there is anywhere in the place that is off-limits.”

Gryff nodded in grim understanding. “Don’t worry, I will find a way to get a look around.” He began to toy with the penknife by the inkwell. “But if I find out something important, I shall need an excuse to go outside and then return—”

“No, you won’t,” said Connor. “Just take your leave. Your job will be done.”

“The hell it will.” The blade jabbed into the blotter. “Of all the bloody awful things you have snarled at me over the years—many of them deserved—that is perhaps the most insulting.”

The Wolfhound stopped dead in his tracks.

“After battling by your side through the brutal heat and savage guerillas of the Peninsular campaign, I’m not about to abandon the field of battle before you have Alexa safe. Besides, you may have need of a diversion inside.”

Limned in the glow of the fire, his friend’s features suddenly appeared harder, more clearly defined than in the past. Perhaps, realized Connor, that was because he was seeing everyone around him in a whole new light.

“My apologies, Gryff,” he murmured. “You may say you have a item you wish to retrieve from your carriage. A…sex toy.”

For an instant, the marquess’s brows winged up in surprise, then waggled in humor. “You never mentioned
that
sort of thing around the Lair. You know, I remember a certain establishment in Lisbon—”

“Not now,” muttered the earl. “This is no time for games.”

The smile was gone in a flash. “No. I’m well aware it is deadly serious. And you can trust that I will not gamble with your future a second time.” Prying the knife loose, Gryff carefully inspected the blade. “I take it you and Cam have come up with a strategy for Alexa’s rescue. What do you have in mind?”

A good question.
Connor looked away. A message had come earlier, setting up a rendezvous at midnight near The Soiled Dove. But Cameron’s continued absence was yet another cause for concern. Within the slums of London, even the best-laid plans could easily go awry.

“We have not worked out the exact details.”

An odd expression played on his friend’s lips. “It’s strange to hear you say ‘we.’ I have never known you to put much faith in other people, not even your fellow Hellhounds.”

“Well, I suppose we both have changed of late,” replied Connor. “For better or for worse.”

The jingle of the lock gave Alexa just enough time to curl up on her side and feign sleep. The folds of her skirts covered the bits of broken metal on the counterpane and the hairpin still clutched in her hand. It was the third one she had tried, but aside from a few maddening snicks, she had achieved nothing save for a bloodied thumb and a broken fingernail.

The hallway sconces cast a flicker of elongated shadows on the far wall. Two figures…and the snout of a long-barreled pistol.

“She’s asleep.” Alexa heard the soft rustle of silk as Helen turned to her companion. “Leave her alone for the moment.”

“I thought ye promised I could have her.” The accent sounded Dutch. And none too pleased about being denied his fun.

“You can, but later, when the time comes to finish her off. Right now, I don’t want any distractions.” Helen tested the bolts of the door. Metal scraped against metal, a harsh echo of the man’s grumblings. He added another comment, too low for Alexa to hear.

Whatever was said, it drew a flurry of words from Helen in some foreign language before she reverted to English. “I am in no mood for argument.” She sound vexed. “I don’t like what I just saw downstairs. Lord Haddan has paid us a visit.”

“What of it?” came the sullen reply. “A great many English lords come here to dip their wicks, or indulge in a taste of the rod or whip.”

“Not this one,” replied Helen. “He has never sought his pleasures here before. That in itself does not mean much—many gentlemen get the urge to try something new. However, as I know Haddan to be one of the Wolfhound’s few friends, I cannot help but wonder…”

“I thought ye said this plan was foolproof.”

“It is.” For all the steel in her voice, a certain shrillness had crept into its ring. “I don’t anticipate any trouble, but one of the reasons for my success is that I leave nothing to chance.”

“How much longer do we have te wait?” demanded her companion.

“Just an hour longer. Then I shall send the note to the Wolfhound, setting up the exchange. You have Van Dreisen ready to alert the magistrate?”

“Aye, he knows what to say.”

“Good. Keep a close watch on the stairwell. I am going to fetch my cloak and have a look around outside.”

“And if the gentry mort tries to make his way up here?”

“Tell him the floor is closed for a private party. I am sure you can be convincing.”

“A private party—heh, heh, heh, ye are a right clever one, Mistress Helen.” The man’s laughter had a nasty, razored edge. “Don’t be gone too long. It’s growing harder and harder to wait fer the fun te begin.”

Alexa felt an involuntary shiver cut down her spine.

“You will soon have your fun,” promised Helen. The door fell shut and the bolts rammed home, cutting off the scant spill of light.

Alexa fought against the enveloping blackness. Reason might cry out that her tiny twist of metal was no match for the steel of her enemy. And yet her heart whispered that no matter how dark things looked, hope must keep a flame kindled.
Warmth. Light.
The thought of Connor was like a beacon, beckoning in a storm. She had but to reach out and embrace it.

Flexing her stiffened fingers, Alexa renewed her attack on the legshackle. The hairpin jammed into the keyhole, nearly snapping in two as it probed left and right. A faint snick stirred a momentary spark of excitement…and then the point slipped.

Sweat-dampened hair was now sticking to the nape of her neck. Her hands were going numb.

Swearing softly, Alexa tried again.

Lord Haddan was here.
Her mind was working as feverishly as her fingers. By now, Cameron would have received her notes. Had he and Connor stumbled over some clue in the alleyway that had led them to add up two and two? Elation was tempered by a sharp squeeze of alarm. The marquess would not have come on his own. Connor would be somewhere close by. And about to walk into a trap.

Imagining her hairpin as a dagger, and the heartless hunk of iron as Helen Snow, Alexa summoned up the strength to give a ruthless thrust.

Click.
The tip quivered, but this time kept hold in the catch of the lock.
Click.
With a last little rasp, the metal jaws fell open and slipped free of her ankle.

The buildings were shuttered to all light and a veiling of clouds covered the sky. Connor angled his gaze from the sagging shingles and rotting timbers to the intersection of Plover Alley and Green Street. It was a miserable little place, two trails of dirt that hardly merited the recognition of a name.

Still no sign of Cameron…

To his left, something moved in the shadows.

The earl flattened against wall, alert to the rustle of footfalls approaching the corner. Gripping the butt of his pistol, he drew it noiselessly from his pocket.

A figure, too dark to identify, stepped out from between the remains of an archway. There was, however, something familiar about the tilt of the cloaked head, the angle of the shoulders.

“Cameron,” he whispered.

The shape spun around. “Killingworth?”

It was not Cameron’s smooth tenor, but a distinctly feminine voice. One that was threatening to dissolve into a sob.

“Oh, thank God it is you!”

“Helen Snow?” He stepped out from the alcove, scarcely believing his ears. “What the devil are you doing—”

Flinging her arms around his neck, Helen buried her face in his collar. “L-looking for a hackney. I had to find you…w-warn you…”

“Calm yourself.” He brushed a hand over a cluster of raven curls, hoping to still the trembling of her tone. “I won’t let any harm come to you.”

“You were always…too kind, sir. I should have…but the past cannot be changed.”

“It is not important,” murmured Connor. His own voice remained steady but his insides were twisting into a knot. Gently untangling himself from her hold, he tipped up her chin. “You wished to warn me of what?”

“Your wife. S-she is a prisoner in The Soiled Dove. They mean to…” Helen pressed a fist to her mouth. “Oh, it’s too horrible for words.”

Connor gave her a small shake. “I know you to be a clever girl, Helen. Take a deep breath and think. I need you to tell me all that you know.”

“Yes. Of course.” Blinking back tears, she managed a game smile. “I shall do my best.”

Releasing the cock of the hammer, the earl slid the pistol back into his coat and drew her into the shelter of the recessed brick.

“I am not proud to admit it, but I am now employed at the Dove,” stammered Helen. “It is not the same as working for you, but…” Her voice trailed off.

“Don’t think to apologize to me for your professional choices. We all have our reasons to do as we do to survive.”

“Very well, sir. I won’t apologize.” Drawing a gulp of air, she began a halting account of what she had discovered. “I was taking a respite between clients in one of the back stairwells when I overheard the master of the house going over the plan with several of his henchmen.”

“Who?” he interrupted.

She shook her head. “I don’t know his name or his face. Only that he speaks with a trace of a foreign tongue.”

“Damn,” muttered Connor. After a fraction of a pause, he could not help asking, “Are you quite certain the master is indeed a male?”

“You think the owner of The Soiled Dove might be a
female
?” She eyed him as if she were not quite certain of his sanity. “Whatever brought such a thought to your head?”

Said aloud, it did seem absurd. “A wild flight of fancy.” He pulled a grimace. “Go on.”

Her gaze softened, then slid away from his. “They mean to lure you into a meeting in the stews by offering your wife in exchange for The Wolf’s Lair. But in truth, they intend to murder her and make it look as if you committed the foul deed. A magistrate will be tipped off as to the time and place. He will arrive to witness you standing over her body. She—she will have a bloody handkerchief with your monogram clutched in her death grasp.”

It took a moment for him to comprehend the full depths of such depravity. Connor had run up against professional killers in the Peninsular campaign, and vicious predators in the London stews. But he had never encountered a…fiend.

“Can you show me a way to enter the building unnoticed?” he demanded.

Helen nodded. “I can do even better than that. There are a number of hidden stairways and passages that connect the upper floors. I can lead you straight to where your wife is being held without any danger of being seen.”

Connor hesitated, forced to choose between gentlemanly honor and the law of the wilds. But need quickly overpowered any twinge of guilt. “I don’t like asking you to take the risk, but I fear that I must.”

“I don’t mind taking a risk.” Helen’s smile turned a touch more pronounced. “After all, I feel I owe you for all you have done for me.”

“Consider the debt paid. With interest.”

“We shall tally up the accounting when all of this is over.” She tugged at his sleeve. “Follow me. It is best that I lead the way. There is a shortcut that will bring us around to the rear of The Soiled Dove.”

Helen doubled back and cut through an abandoned warehouse whose doors had long since been smashed for firewood. She seemed confident of her bearings, thought Connor, and moved through the maze of byways with a stealthy quickness he would never have been able to manage on his own. Feeling extraordinarily fortunate at the chance encounter, he took care to keep up.

Perhaps Luck was indeed a lady.

It wasn’t until they had traversed the next cross street that he realized he had left Cameron in the dark. His step slowed for an instant, but then he decided not to mention the appointed rendezvous. It was too late to backtrack, and besides, the actual identity of the villain was no longer important. Only that he—or she—be stopped before any harm came to Alexa.

Ducking under a broken shutter, the earl focused his attention straight ahead. He wasn’t going to worry about Cameron. His friend had an uncanny knack for improvising. As for Gryff…

Connor checked that his pistol was close at hand. He had no intention of having to fall back on his friends.

A sudden signal from Helen waved him to a halt. She crept back and indicated a thin blade of space cutting between two of the brick buildings. Barely visible in the rising mists was a set of shallow stone steps leading down to a recessed doorway.

“The entrance to the storage rooms,” she whispered. “I left it unlocked, but I had better check.”

Connor waited, the thud of his quickening pulse a grim reminder of each passing second. It seemed like an age before she beckoned him on.

A damp chill, sharp with the scent of soap and vinegar, hung heavy over the cramped space. His mouth crooked upward. The distinctive mix was intimately familiar. A brothel had specialized housekeeping needs, with laundered linens and necessities for the girls topping the list.