Dangerous to Kiss (43 page)

From an upstairs window in a house on the corner of a quiet cul-de-sac, Quentin looked out over the Strand, and he watched avidly as Nick turned to pay off the driver of the hackney. Quentin stood well back, careful that no one from the outside would catch a glimpse of him. He wasn’t supposed to be at the window. Uncle Gray had told him that everything in the house must appear normal when they sprang their trap. His door was locked from the inside, and he wasn’t to leave his room until Uncle Gray himself told him it was safe. He couldn’t leave, even if he wanted to. Mr. Jervis was next door in the dressing room with orders to make sure that he obeyed Uncle Gray’s orders. The door to the dressing room was open, but the tutor could not see him looking out the window because he was looking out the window too. Quentin knew this because he had checked. There was another room in the house with a candle lit where he was supposed to be sleeping. He wasn’t quite sure how Uncle Gray meant to trap the murderer, but he knew it had something to do with that room.

He emitted a soft gasp as he saw Deborah suddenly pick up her skirts and dart across the road, away from the house, dodging riders and carriages. Uncle Nick didn’t see her. He was still paying off the driver. What was she doing? She would spoil everything!

Mr. Jervis suddenly appeared in the adjoining doorway. “Wait here,” he barked out, “and lock the door behind me,” and he took off at a run.

Quentin hardly noticed. His eyes were glued to what was happening in the street below. For a moment, it looked as though Deb would hail a hackney, but the cab passed her without stopping. She hesitated for a moment,
then turning aside, she slipped into the grounds of the Savoy Chapel. Nick had seen her by this time and he was giving chase. Then Quentin saw the other figure. He, too, darted across the road and slipped into the grounds of the Savoy Chapel. Did Deb know someone was following her? Did Uncle Nick?

He didn’t think of what he was doing. He flew out the door, along the corridor, and thundered down the stairs to the front of the house. “Uncle Gray! Uncle Gray!”

Mr. Jervis stopped him on the landing. “Get back to your room. Your uncle can’t see you right now. This minute, Quentin. I mean it.”

“But … but it’s Deb. She’s run off, and—”

“Yes, we know. Go back to your room, Quentin. At once!”

Jervis watched as Quentin turned with obvious reluctance to go up the stairs. Satisfied that the boy had obeyed him, he went to the front doors and locked them, as Lord Kendal had instructed before dashing from the house. By the time he did the same to the back doors, Quentin was already gone.

The voice that came to her from out of the shadows was the one she least expected to hear.
Quentin.
Fearing her mind must be playing tricks on her, she did not respond, except to flatten herself against the nearest wall. She had come out on the walled gardens of Adelphi Terrace, on the south side of the Strand, hoping to take refuge in one of the houses, only to find that every gate was locked and barred.

It was sheer agony to hold her breath, and she covered her mouth with her hand to stifle the harsh sobs that tore from her throat.

“Deb?”

Her mind wasn’t playing tricks on her. “Quentin. Over here.”

He came out of the dark with such speed that she went stumbling back when he flung himself into her
arms. His breath was spent, but he managed to make himself understood. “They think you are hiding in the chapel. I saw you from the window. I knew you were not there.”

“They are looking for me in the chapel?”

“Yes, Uncle Nick and another man. I came to warn you.”

“Where were you?”

“In Uncle Gray’s house.”

So Nick had not been lying about the house. That did not mean she could trust him. What should she do? Oh God, what should she do?

From the direction of the chapel, there was a sound that might have been a firecracker going off, or a pistol shot. Her eyes desperately searched the darkness, but there was no clue to how close her pursuers were. “We’ll talk later,” she said. “We must be very quiet. Do you understand, Quentin? We don’t want them to find us.”

“Not even Uncle Nick?”

“Especially not Uncle Nick.”

Her mind worked like lightning as she weighed her options. She had Quentin to think of now. Already, his breathing was labored. He couldn’t go on much longer like this. They had to find refuge, and soon. With the next thought, her mind calmed. Her father’s house was empty and close by. She could hide Quentin there and go for help.

She pointed, indicating the river, and Quentin nodded. The turf was hard with frost and Deborah clutched Quentin close to her to prevent him slipping. Every few minutes, she looked back over her shoulder, and though there was enough light from houses along the Strand to give her her bearings, she could see nothing, hear nothing but the desperate sound of their own breathing.

She chanced one more question. “Does Uncle Gray know about Nick and the other man?”

His voice was as whisper-soft as hers. “I think so, but I don’t know.”

It wasn’t far to the house, but they had taken the long way round, coming at it from the river. Deborah was sure their pursuers would expect them to come out
on the Strand, where there were hackneys and people to whom she might appeal for help. Once she had Quentin hidden away, that’s exactly what she would do.

The walled grounds ended at the river’s edge in a stone boathouse that could have housed several families quite comfortably. In its heyday, Strand House had been one of the wonders of London. By present standards, it was too big and monstrously expensive to keep up. As a consequence, it had fallen into a sorry state of neglect. This worked in their favor. They found a gap in one of the crumbling walls and squeezed through into the gardens. The back of the house rose up against the skyline like an armed fortress. It was a forbidding, gloomy sight, and one that Deborah had hoped never to look upon again. She frowned, observing the lights that shone from several of the ground-floor reception rooms. She hoped they had been placed there by caretakers. Either way, it didn’t matter. They had to go on.

“Almost there,” she said, and froze as she heard someone stumble against the wall.

Her head whipped round to the gap they had just squeezed through. Nick was there, or his accomplice. She could hear him as he clambered over fallen bricks. His breathing was thick and harsh, reminding her of that other time.

“Hurry!” she whispered in Quentin’s ear, and with their eyes fixed on the lights shining from the downstairs windows, they made their way quickly toward the house.

The Earl of Belvidere stood in the center of the former picture gallery of Strand House, admiring its noble proportions. It was one hundred and sixty feet long, twenty-six feet wide, and two stories high. Its former owner had once entertained six hundred guests in this very chamber, to celebrate the coronation of George III. Those days were long gone.

The earl was incensed that Strand House was passing into the hands of strangers, but he lacked the funds to keep up two splendid houses to the standard his aesthetic taste demanded. The picture gallery, in particular, was a great loss. Though he had moved everything of value to Belvidere, one could not remove the magnificent gilt stucco ceiling or the murals that were painted on the walls. The four large crystal chandeliers were another matter. When he met with Lord Holford in the morning, he would try to persuade him that the chandeliers were not included in the sale of the house. These little extras must be negotiated as separate items.

He had come to Strand House for two purposes. The first was to make an inventory, before showing the house to Lord Holford, of all the fine pieces of furniture, carpets, and bric—a-brac that, when put together, should fetch a tidy sum. The other reason was to refresh his
memory on the many outstanding features of the house which should impress a prospective buyer. Strand House did not lack these, and he was more angry than ever that he had to let the house go.

It galled him to think he had been reduced to these straits. If it had not been for that bitch, who was no daughter of his, it would never have come to this. He would have had funds in plenty. On his death, his children would have come into their inheritance, if they had only been the sort of children he had wanted. Instead, they had turned against him, all except Elizabeth, and had provoked his undying hatred. As though coal and cotton could be compared to the things of beauty he had amassed in his lifetime. The one was dross, the other was pure gold and should have been treasured by future generations of Montagues. He should have known that the spawn of a tradesman’s daughter would never appreciate the finer things in life.

He wasn’t done with them yet. Lady Deborah and Lord Leathe had much to learn if they thought they were a match for him. For the moment, it suited his purposes to allow them to think they had won. They had found a powerful protector in Lord Kendal. That would not save them. He would find a way to bring them all down. He would not be satisfied till he had repaid with interest all the indignities he had been made to suffer these last two weeks.

His thin face went from white to purple as he recalled how it had all started. He’d wakened that first morning to find his dressing room in a shambles and every porcelain button on his garments smashed or cracked. He’d understood the message. I’
d see you dead before I would part with a single porcelain button
is what he had told Leathe. He’d been truly amused over those cracked buttons. If this was the best Kendal could do, he might as well concede the game. All the same, he’d doubled his guards and put all his footmen on the alert.

On the second morning, he’d come downstairs to find an Egyptian urn lying in tiny fragments on the marble floor. He’d raged, he’d wept, he’d called in the magistrates.
And the magistrates had told him that charges were pending against him for receiving stolen property. They’d removed several “questionable” paintings until they had time to investigate reports of similar paintings that had gone missing from Lord Lawford’s house.

He’d been fit to be tied, but he hadn’t let his anger master his good sense. Kendal wanted Deborah. He could have her, for a while. He’d taken care of the sworn statements and witnesses, but a large sum of money had changed hands before his good “friend,” Justice Porter, could be persuaded to destroy the evidence and keep his mouth shut. Two days later, his paintings were back on his walls, and the magistrates were fawning all over him, offering him their abject apologies. The day after that, Leathe’s solicitor had arrived with a document disposing of his collections at his death. He’d signed it, but this wasn’t the end of it.

In his mind’s eye, he envisioned an “accident” with boats or possibly with footpads and highwaymen. And once Kendal and Leathe were out of the way, he would be free to deal with Deborah. She’d be glad to marry someone like Albert by the time he was finished with her.

He was still lost in reverie when he heard the sound of breaking glass. He wasn’t alarmed; he was infuriated. He’d set his caretakers to clean the place to create a good impression when he showed the house to Lord Holford in the morning. If they had broken something valuable, he was going to take it out of their wages.

Snatching the candelabra from one of the many mantelpieces, he stormed into the hallway. He was almost sure that the sound had come from across the hall. It took him only a moment or two to go around the circular staircase, traverse the hall, and enter the library. The words to flay them died in his throat when he saw the young woman and boy who turned from the window to face him. His mind immediately jumped to the conclusion that they were thieves. A glance at the French doors confirmed his suspicion. They were open, and broken glass lay scattered on the parquet flooring. He moved quickly to cut off their escape, placing himself between
them and the French doors. They, in turn, retreated to the other side of his huge, flat-topped desk that sat in the center of the room. He had them now.

“So,” he said, “you thought the house was empty and you could rob it at your leisure. Unfortunately for you, you have been caught in the act.”

The girl’s mouth worked and her eyes stared.

“Oh yes, my good woman, I see you know what this means. It’s transportation for you and the boy, and good riddance is what I say.”

“Deborah?” said the boy.

Belvidere’s head jerked, and his eyes slowly traveled over her. “Deborah? No, I don’t believe it. It can’t be! By God, it is you!”

For a moment, he thought it was a trap, and Lord Kendal or Leathe would suddenly materialize, but when he saw the stark terror in her eyes, he knew that the fates had answered his prayers.

Suddenly, he laughed, and the sound of it jumped from wall to wall. “It was foolish to come here, Deborah. Foolish to put yourself in my power. Of course, you would not expect to find me at Strand House. You would think I was at Belvidere. This is fate, Deborah. I have you now, and Kendal will never get you back.”

The shock that had rooted Deborah to the spot was beginning to wear off, leaving her sick and trembling, but at least her mind was beginning to work. She tightened her grip on Quentin’s hand and took a swift step toward the door. The earl moved like lightning, and caught Quentin by the shoulders, dragging him from Deborah’s grasp.