EscapeWithMe (7 page)

Mrs. Hayes left. Sam heard the soft sound of a key turning.
She looked at the bed and its twisted blankets and wasn’t tired in the least,
but with nothing else to do, she blew out the candles and lay down in an
attempt to sleep.

Her body was stiff under the covers. Her eyes constantly
flicked to the door of her room with every creak of the house, no matter how
slight.

“Damn it,” she whispered. She rolled out of bed, grabbed the
chair and jammed it under the doorknob. Only then was she able to close her
eyes.

* * * * *

Ryder stepped out of the brothel, donned his hat and saluted
the taciturn Mr. Hull, who held a smoking cigar and casually glared at him. The
man lifted the cigar to his lips and tucked his meaty fingers into the pocket
of his vest. Ryder wondered how well Mr. Hull liked his employer.

“Mrs. Hayes is certainly a she-devil,” Ryder commented.

Mr. Hull puffed his cigar and blew the smoke at Ryder. “That
she is, sir. She’ll tempt you into anything, but I’m the one what brings down
hell upon anyone who interferes with business.”

He smiled at Mr. Hull’s attempt to intimidate and headed
toward the Shakespeare’s Head Tavern, where his driver had no doubt found
himself a drink. Or four.

A dozen people milled about on the street. Runners from the
Bow Street station loitered in front of number 4, right next door to another
brothel where a couple of prostitutes called to potential clients. “Aren’t you
a handsome swell?” one of them cooed. “Would you like some company tonight,
dearie?”

He ignored the overly painted harlot and continued up the
street to his destination.

The Shakespeare was crowded and lively, overflowing with
boisterous laughter and smelling of cheap food, tobacco smoke and sweat. A
young pot-boy dodged between drunken adults and rounded up empty glasses.
Sloppily dressed women entertained the male patrons. They wiggled in laps and
pretended to be shocked when their human chairs groped their breasts. The
barmaids weren’t dressed any more modestly. Their loose dresses sagged low and
they bent down farther than necessary to set down fresh glasses of ale.

Assets for sale and even Ryder was a buyer. He ground his
teeth at the way he left Samantha, hating the guilt he felt. He had done more
than needed to spare her the toil of her trade, even if just for the night.
Did
you spare her the task of lying beneath you?

The memory overwhelmed him for a second, and he recalled the
sight of her standing between him and the candelabrum, her gentle curves
outlined beneath her chemise. The warmth of arousal spread within his loins as
he remembered her long legs sheathed in bright-red stockings. The thought of
those thighs wrapped around his hips made his hands clench.

He broke free of his reverie when one of the harlots noticed
him and smiled. He quickly broke eye contact only to see the man he was looking
for right behind her.

Oliver sat at a smaller table with two other men, all of them
laughing. His driver’s ruddy cheeks were a good sign that he had already drunk
quite heavily. Just when Ryder would have crossed the room to fetch the man, a
barmaid appeared in front of him.

“What can I get for you, sir?”

“Ah yes, a round of beer for those men.” He reached into his
pocket. “Including one for me.” Indeed, his loins ached from lack of release
and he found it difficult to walk naturally.

“Certainly, sir.” Her eyes flicked downward almost knowingly
as she performed a perfunctory curtsy.

A round of drinks later, he and Oliver left the Shakespeare
and headed to New Bond Street. It was rather easy to learn the location of Mrs.
Archer’s home, which hosted her illicit gaming hall, but the house was well
disguised. From the front, the first-floor windows were dimly lit and the front
rooms empty of occupants. The second- and third-floor windows were dark, giving
the appearance that the master of the home was out for the evening.

Ryder stepped out of the coach, his gut churning with
anxiety, frustration and unspent lust. Oliver leaned down from his seat. “Shall
I loiter farther up, sir?”

“That’ll be fine,” he answered. After a quick nod, his
driver clicked at the horses. Ryder then straightened his coat and approached
the front door.

The streetwalker who had told him of the gaming hall had
described a certain knock that its patrons used to gain entry. Two quick knocks
followed by two slow ones. Only a few seconds passed before the door opened.

“Welcome, sir.” A very elderly butler stood back to admit him.
Ryder entered the house and removed his hat. The butler offered to take it, but
Ryder waved him away. He wasn’t going to be staying long. “Very good, sir,” the
butler said. He then heard the heels of a woman’s shoes clicking down the
stairs.

“Lovely. We’ve enough for a new game,” she said. Ryder
watched as the woman descended the last set of stairs, quite sure that Mrs.
Archer herself was approaching. She was dressed in a way he could only describe
as politely sumptuous—expensive fabric, exotically trimmed in peacock feathers,
but showing very little of her
décolletage
. She looked surprised to see
him.

“I do not believe you and I have met, sir, but a new player
is always welcome. May I have the pleasure of your name?”

“Simon Carter, madam,” he said with a bow. “An acquaintance
of mine recommended your fine establishment and assured me of its discretion.”

The compliment brightened the woman’s expression. “Indeed,
sir, and what is the name of your acquaintance?”

“Mr. Phillip West.”

“Ah,” she said with a strained smile. “Yes, I know him. I’m
sorry to say he hasn’t had the best luck this past week.”

“He is a far more dedicated faro player than I am. I hoped
he might be here tonight so that I might test my skills against his.” He looked
beyond her at the light coming from upstairs.

“Our tables are on the first floor, sir. Would you care to
see them?”

“Very much,” he said. Mrs. Archer gracefully gestured toward
the stairs and conversed with him as she sedately ascended to the next floor.

“I’m rather curious as to your relationship with Mr. West.
As you are no doubt already aware, he enjoys several connections among esteemed
members of the gentry and rarely spends his time apart from his friends.”

“Yes, I am quite aware.” Indeed, though his father seemed to
more than tolerate Phillip’s “excellent connections”, Ryder had no doubt
Phillip’s friends used him to feed their own expensive habits by promising
invitations to more and more exclusive upper circles if he would only spend to
put them all in the height of fashion, dine at the finest establishments, and
copulate with the most beautiful of whores.

“I only ask because he has never mentioned you, sir.”

“My acquaintance with Mr. West is rather thin, I must admit.
I have not met him often in the last few years as I am often abroad.” That, at
least, was unfortunately true.

“Then have you heard about Mr. West’s father? The poor man
is quite ill, though as his eldest, Mr. West tells me he is soon to inherit.”

Ryder was momentarily rendered speechless. That Phillip
would look to the death of his father as a windfall to further indulge his
vices was beyond cruel.

“Mr. Carter?”

“Forgive me. I was unaware that the father was ill.”

Mrs. Archer did not comment further and guided him into an
opulent, well-lit drawing room. It was not particularly large, but it had space
enough for several tables at which four people could sit. A handful of people
hovered behind the players and watched the games.

Ryder whispered in Mrs. Archer’s ear as he scoured the room
for his brother. “Might I inquire, madam, as to the amount of Mr. West’s debts
to you?” Mrs. Archer gasped and tried to step away. His hand on her arm kept
her close.

“I cannot disclose such information to you, Mr. Carter. I
am
discreet.”

“I ask only because I would seek to relieve some of those
debts,” he cajoled.

The faro hostess was quiet for a few seconds as she
contemplated his offer, though he had no real intention to pay her anything
immediately.

Finally, he spotted him. Phillip sat with his back to the
drawing room door at a table with three others, and one of them at least seemed
to be an acquaintance. Phillip had always been slender like their father
whereas Ryder was broad in the chest and shoulders, but Phillip looked gaunt in
his dandified custom-tailored jacket. His brown hair was unusually messy.

Ryder was now the one who guided Mrs. Archer as he carefully
maneuvered them about the perimeter of the room to get a better vantage of his
older brother.

“His debts are the most extreme of all my patrons,” Mrs.
Archer whispered, “and they increase with his every visit. I grow anxious
that—that his father’s estate will not soon repay Mr. West’s debts.” Ryder had
no doubts as to what Mrs. Archer referred. She hoped their father died sooner
rather than later so that Phillip could liquidate the last of their family’s
property.

Phillip’s face was pale and his eyes were tired. He seemed
much older than his six and twenty years. His brother looked at the cards on
the table with resignation as if he had come to terms with how the world had
seen fit to treat him.

“Of course, madam. Could you approximate his debts to you
currently?”

When Mrs. Archer revealed the amount owed, Ryder nearly
betrayed his shock. He
instead
held his
breath and then slowly let it out, reminding himself that it was less than what
he feared—though only slightly less.

“I am exceedingly curious, sir, as to why you would pay Mr.
West’s debts.”

“Would that I knew the answer myself.”

Ryder crossed the room to his brother. Phillip raised his
head with alarm at his approach, probably expecting to see the dogged Mr. Webb
bearing down on him.

“Ryder?”

“Phillip,” he responded.

“B-back from the colonies, I see. How many days’ shore leave
were you given this time?” His brother shifted uneasily in his seat. His eyes
flicked to the door, betraying his desire to flee.

“I am come to London for an intervention,” Ryder said.
“There is little use for inane chatter while we both know the reason for my
presence in this gaming hell.” He took hold of his brother’s collar and jerked
him from his seat. Several nearby onlookers gasped. Phillip’s acquaintance
reared back in his seat and exclaimed, “Good Lord, man!” His brother resisted,
but a good shake quelled his attempt to wriggle away.

Phillip avoided his eyes and fixed his attention on the floor.
His expression was a mix of embarrassment and terror. “What sort of
intervention would this be?”

“The divine sort, brother, for I will bring the wrath of God
down upon you should your follies bring about the ruination of our family.” He
grasped the back of Phillip’s neck and hauled his brother to the door.

“M-Mr. Carter!” Mrs. Archer stuttered. “This is highly
objectionable.”

“Shame on you for indulging him.” He spoke sharply, no
longer concerned with feigned civility. The day had been tiring, his brother
was obviously unrepentant, and his loins ached fiercely. “I shall contact you
regarding his debts.”

“Ryder,” his brother grunted. “Ow, stop it!”

“It’s the least you deserve.” He quickly donned his hat and
pulled Phillip’s hand behind his back, bending the elbow up until he yelped.
They reached the ground floor, where the butler was already waiting with an
open door.

“M-my coat and hat,” Phillip gasped. Ryder snatched the hat
from the silent butler, stuffing it onto his brother’s head. The coat he kept in
his hand as he forced Phillip out the door and into the street. It was a short
walk to Oliver and the coach. Phillip needed little coaxing to get in, but
Ryder tossed him inside anyway.

“Ow! More gently, please.”

“Thank you, Oliver. You know where to go from here,” Ryder
said solemnly as he stepped into the coach.

“I do, sir.” His driver shut the door and quickly mounted
his seat. The horses were in motion within seconds. Ryder sat silently, fuming
while Phillip climbed into his seat from the floor of the coach.

“Are you taking me to this so-called Mr. Webb then? I’m
bound for Marshalsea at the very least, James. Possibly Tyburn if they smear me
with this lie about some customs man in Lydd.”

“Oliver is taking you to our father, where you will stay for
the duration of Webb’s investigation.”

“What—”

“If Webb finds you, he will drag you before a magistrate,
and not even Father’s passing and the inheritance for which you pray will
protect you from swinging at Tyburn. You will not leave the house. You will not
send letters or receive callers. No one among your precious connections will
know of your whereabouts. You will not even go near a window.” Ryder’s disgust
at his brother’s character could not be contained, and he was both physically
and mentally strained.

“You really don’t intend to bring me to the authorities?”

Ryder closed his eyes and sighed. “Can you think of nothing
but yourself?”

“I am suspected of murder, Ryder,” his brother hissed. “In
case you weren’t aware. Forgive me if I am a little self-concerned as of late.”
He straightened his hat. “Much of Father’s business dealings hinge on his
personal friendships with captains, merchants… How was I to fill his role when
he fell ill? Few would deal with me. Father could never count on you so it fell
to me.”

Ryder inhaled, barely reigning in his temper. “You dare. I
may not be his favorite but never have I been unreliable. You knew for a year
of his poor health, and I learned of it only two months past when Mrs. Johnson
was good enough to send a letter.”

“Father insisted I not tell you.”

“And you should have had the good sense to ignore such a
ridiculous request.”