Priceless (23 page)

“What are you blathering about?” Adam roared.

Her chin trembled, her eyes teared. “Nothing. Nothing, but I brought this man to help you. Talk to him.”

Skirts gathered, she fled, leaving behind a perplexed Adam. He looked to the giant for explanation. The dockworker shrugged, moving his shoulders like mountains during an earthquake. In a slow rumble he said, “I don’t understand th’ gel, neither.”

The fellow said no more, and in exasperation Adam asked, “What do you want?”

“A lady o’ quality tol’ me t’ find Adam Keane, viscount of Rawson.”

“And you are?” Northrup prompted.

Determined to tell the story his way, the man said, “Is one o’ ye gennamen Lord Rawson?”

“I am,” Adam answered. “What young lady are you speaking of?”

The big man shuffled his feet and fingered his hat.

Adam waited, then prompted, “A blond lady?”

A single nod answered him. Adam shot a triumphant glance at Northrup and saw, from the corner of his eye, Gianni sliding out of the room. “Catch him!” Adam yelled.

Northrup started forward. The giant man started forward. They met, tangled, fell in a heap with the giant on top. Ignoring Northrup’s heartfelt groan, Adam raced after the wily Italian. But Gianni was younger, faster, unmarked by cannon fire, and before Adam reached the top of the stair, Gianni was gone.

Adam limped back down to the kitchen, gathered the giant’s shirt in his fists. “What do you know about the young lady?”

Unworried by the implied threat, the fellow answered, “I didn’t trust th’ man what ’ad ’er, ye see.”

Keeping tight hold of his patience, Adam nodded.

“I followed ’er t’ see she took no ’arm.” The big man looked up through greasy hair. “Me name is Oakes.”

“No one’s here, sir.”

Adam massaged the shoulder he’d just used as a battering ram and agreed. “No, Northrup, no one’s here.” From the corner of a chair, he plucked a crumpled glove. “But she’s been here, just as Oakes said.”

The door of Judson’s Curzon Street flat gaped, the lock broken by the two men who stood, desolate, in the middle of the room. Adam was surprised by the blight battering his soul. He had expected to find Bronwyn here. He’d come ready to save her, to break Judson if he’d hurt her, to end this nightmare. He’d been charging in one direction, blind to the alleys that opened to the side, and now he didn’t know what to do.

“Do you think it was wise, sir, putting Oakes on the alert for Judson?” Northrup worried.

“It’s a big city.” Adam tapped his fingers on the end table, awash with the clutter Judson had left. “I doubt Oakes will find Judson.”

“But if he did, and did what he threatened, things would go ill for a man as simpleminded as Oakes.”

“If he finds Judson and does as he threatened, I’ll personally guarantee his safety. Do you think Judson left a clue to his destination here?” Adam pawed through the collection of powder boxes and papers.

With brisk sarcasm Northrup said, “Of course, sir. No doubt Judson left a map for us to follow.”

Adam lifted one paper and stared at it. “Perhaps he did.”

“You didn’t find a map?”

Northrup wasn’t as credulous as he used to be, Adam noted. “Not a map. The floor plan of Walpole’s town house.”

“Good God.” Northrup stood perfectly still. “I didn’t believe Judson would really dare to kill Robert Walpole.”

“For what other reason would he have made such a drawing?” Northrup had no answer, and Adam asked, “How long ago do you think Judson left with Bronwyn?”

“I don’t know, sir.” Northrup stooped, touched the arm of the chair where Bronwyn’s gloves had rested. “Not long ago, I surmise.”

“Why do you say that?”

Northrup shook his head, and Adam’s wit returned.

“What’s there?” Leaning over the place where Northrup had stood, Adam saw the spot. Brown against the green brocade fabric, it still glistened with the damp. When Adam touched it, a red smear shone on his flesh. Blood. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and an awful calm seized him. “Where could they have gone?” He didn’t recognize his own voice, it sounded so guttural, like an animal afflicted by the summer madness.

Adam thought he heard Northrup speaking at a great distance: down a tube, in a tunnel, in the dark. Yet Northrup stood not two feet from him. “The doorman will know, Lord Rawson, and doormen aren’t as loyal as that fiend Gianni.”

“Heaven help the doorman if he is.” The calm still permeated Adam’s soul, putting his emotions on ice as he strode to the outside.

Whether the elegant doorman responded to the coin Northrup offered, or to the waiting menace of Adam, Adam did not know or care. All that mattered was the ease with which the man gave up his information. With a curl of his narrow lips, the doorman said, “I ordered Mr. Judson’s carriage half an hour ago.”

“Did he have anyone with him?” Northrup asked.

“A woman accompanied him.”

“What did she look like?”

Rubbing his forehead, the doorman mourned, “My memory is so faulty at times.”

Northrup slipped him another coin.

The doorman pocketed the silver without a glance at its denomination. “She was heavily veiled.”

“Good God,” Adam ejected. He had seen Bronwyn covered with cosmetics, hidden by a wig, strangled by corsets, but never had she concealed herself with a veil. Had Judson so injured her that he dared not allow her face to show? “Was she well?”

The doorman recognized the cut of Adam’s clothing, and his respect seemed genuine. “I would suppose, sir. She had to be rather forcibly thrust in the carriage by Mr. Judson. Mr. Judson tied the door shut, and she thumped at it most energetically.”

“You stood and watched it happen?” Adam barked.

“’Tis not my place to interfere with the gentry,” the doorman answered without emotion.

Before Adam could blast him, Northrup snapped, “Where were they going?”

“I can’t imagine, sir.” Gold glinted as Northrup held it aloft, but the doorman refused. “There are some pieces of information which can’t be bought.”

Northrup still hugged the coin between two fingers, keeping it within easy reach of the doorman’s greedy fingers. “Then you know Judson’s destination?”

“It would reflect poorly on my reputation if I were to tell the destination of the flats’ inhabitants.”

Adam tucked his walking stick beneath his arm and flexed his hands. “It will reflect poorly on your health if you don’t provide the information we request.”

The doorman eyed the money, tempting and within easy reach. He eyed Adam’s fists, held at the ready and closer still. And he told them what they wanted to know.

The barren road stretched from London to nowhere, bizarre when seen through stained-glass windows. The rain settled in the ruts, making it difficult for Judson to maneuver the carriage in a circle so it faced the city once more. The box quivered as he dismounted; Bronwyn shivered as she awaited his arrival.

He hadn’t called his henchman again, not trusting Fred, so he told her, as he trusted Gianni. Nor had he tied her hands again. Instead he had proved his wiry strength wrestling her into the carriage, and proved it so successfully that hopelessness almost overwhelmed her now. He would kill her, toss her body out for some poor shepherd to discover, and she couldn’t stop him. Oh, she’d struggle, of course. She had too much pride, too much Irish in her, to give up without a struggle. She only knew it would take a miracle to save her now.

The door rattled as he untied the handle, and she prepared herself. As he opened the door, she flung her whole weight at him. Braced for her assault, he knocked her back inside. He grabbed for her flailing hands and missed. She
grabbed for his eyes and missed, catching only the edge of his face and drilling long scratches along his cheek. She followed it up with a blow to his nose. He retaliated with a blow to her chin that slammed her head against the wall. She slumped. Her ears buzzed. The pain crushed her.

In some wonderment, he reached up and touched his cheek. Staring at his hand as if he couldn’t believe the blood smeared there, he hissed, “Shrew. Unworthy twat.” He sat up and tore at his breeches. “I’m going to give you more than you deserve.”

“No.” Even that single word hurt her, but she had to speak. “You’re not worthy to be a man.”

“What?” Dropping his breeches, he revealed himself. “Look!”

“No!” Rejecting him, rejecting everything, she closed her eyes, kicked out with her feet, flailed her hands. “No, no! You’re nothing. You can hit me, but you can’t rape me.” She drummed her heels on the seat until his silence eased into her consciousness.

Then only the patter of rain and the breeze through the door broke the eerie quiet until he whispered, “How can you say that?”

She pressed her palm against her eyes until gunpowder exploded behind her lids. “You poor man. You pitiful excuse for a man.”

Her pity seemed to convince him, for he tugged up his breeches and buttoned them.

When she was sure he was covered, she eased herself upright. She rubbed her jaw, checked her teeth, and wished he would say something.

His gaze fixed on the floor, Judson appeared to be thinking. “You said you knew I couldn’t rape you. How did you know?”

She blushed, in embarrassment for him and for herself. Shrugging helplessly, she said, “I just knew.”

“Women’s intuition?” he suggested.

“I suppose you could call it that.”

“Then everyone knows.”

“Well, I—”

“There’s no place for me here in England. Even if my every plan succeeds, there’s no place for me on this island.” He lifted his gaze and stared at her with such malevolence that she forgot pain, abandoned hope. “Do you know why I murdered Henriette?”

“Because she overheard your plans to—”

“Because she said what you said. Not so politely—the French are so crude—but because she said what you said.”

“I don’t like this,” Northrup whispered. Shoulders
hunched against the rain, he stood on the street before Robert Walpole’s town house. He held the reins of both their horses in his hands and glanced about in distress.

“Why not?” Adam rapped on the door with his walking stick. “It seems quite serene.”

“That means Judson’s not here.”

Adam stared at the door panels, memorizing the wood grain as hopelessness beat through his veins. “I know that. But we really have no place else to look, and there’s a chance—just a chance—he will arrive. Would you take the horses back to the stables, so if he does arrive, he’s not frightened off?”

Subdued, Northrup said, “Of course, sir.”

The butler, when he answered the door, seemed openly delighted to see Adam. As Adam shed his soggy overcoat, the butler confided, “It’s been quite a day, Lord Rawson, with the oddest folk arriving and departing.”

“Madame Rachelle arrived, then?”

Drawing himself up, the butler sniffed. “She is one of the odd folk, my lord.”

It should be funny, but Adam’s face felt carved in stone. “Is she still here?”

“Indeed.” The butler opened the door to the drawing room. “Everyone is still here.”

Adam stepped across the threshold and into the midst of buzzing conversations barren of listeners. “So they are.”

Mr. Jacombe sat beside the big desk, papers in hand, addressing the matter of Walpole’s investments. An attractive young woman, dressed in nothing but her stays, snored on the couch. A tailor leaned over his drawing board, scribbling furiously. Only Rachelle stood silent at the window, looking out on the rain.

“Where’s Robert?” Adam asked. “Where’s Robert?”

Rachelle swung around at his exclamation. “Lord Rawson, thank God you have arrived.” She hurried to his side. “That idiotic man you call your friend has retired to his den to work alone.”

Adam turned to the butler. “Take me to Robert at once.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Lord Rawson. Mr. Robert gave instructions he was not to be disturbed. But if you’d wait here—”

He spoke to Adam’s back as Adam stalked toward Walpole’s den. Rachelle smirked. “Lord Rawson is not one to let courtesy stand in his way.”

The butler sniffed. “Obviously not.”

Adam’s first impulse was to slam back the door, but he contained himself. Judson might, even now, be holding Robert at gunpoint. He put his head to the solid wood and listened, but he heard nothing. Kneeling, he peered into the keyhole, but the room looked dark. Dark?

Too late, he realized he gazed on the fabric of Walpole’s coat and failed to scramble back fast enough. As Walpole jerked open the door, Adam fell forward into an ignominious heap.

Walpole stared at his friend, huddled at his feet. “Good of you to drop in.”

Furious, Adam stood up and dusted himself off. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Working. In privacy, I thought.” To the butler Walpole called, “Are my pens sharpened?”

“Indeed, sir, and waiting in the right-hand drawer of your desk,” the butler answered.

Walpole nodded and asked Adam, “Did you want to come in?”

“Damn it, Robert.” Adam stomped into the den. “Can’t you even be assassinated correctly?”

“Good to see you, too.” Walpole slammed the door. “What’s the meaning of this ridiculous message given me by the salon keeper?”

A great swell of exasperation caught Adam, and he retorted, “It means, you idiot, that Carroll Judson’s going to try and kill you.”

“That worm?” Walpole strolled to his desk and rummaged in his right-hand drawer. “Here they are.” He laid a pen on his paper and asked, “Should I be concerned?”

“The bullet from the gun of a worm is just as deadly as the bullet from the gun of the bird that eats the worm—” Adam rubbed his forehead. “Good God, Robert, do you hear the ludicrous things you’re having me say?”

“I?” Walpole asked blandly. “I have no control over your speech.”

Adam covered his face with his hand and fell back against the wall with a thump.

Chuckling, Walpole insisted, “Whoa! Rein in that somber attitude. I’ve warned you about it before. So you believe this nonsense about assassination?”

“I not only believe it, I wrote you a note about it.”

“
You
wrote that note?”

Exasperation welled in Adam at this Englishman, so smug in his home and his country. “I signed it.”

“It had no seal,” Walpole said.

Incredulous, Adam said, “No seal? Robert, I wrote the
message at Madame Rachelle’s, and in a tearing hurry.” He glanced around the large room. “Where do those doors lead?”

“The one you’re standing next to leads to the hall,” Walpole offered.

“Thank you, Robert, but I know where I’ve been. I want to know where Judson is coming in.”

Walpole pointed at the portals one by one. “That one leads into the library. That leads to the kitchen passage. That one goes to one of my private chambers, where a lovely young whore was entertaining me when your Frenchie insisted on interrupting me on this matter of life and death.”

Walpole glared, but Adam ignored him as he tested each door to see if it was unlocked. “So Judson will probably come from the kitchen.”

“Or a window.” Hunched over, Walpole tiptoed to Adam in his imitation of an assassin bent on murder. “Or maybe he’ll slip some poison under the door, with a polite request I ingest it?”

“Sarcasm is unattractive in a man of your girth.” Adam peered out the window into the garden. “Try to take this seriously.”

Walpole straightened up. “It’s stupid. Why would anyone murder me?”

“Because of your charm,” Adam snarled, turning on him.

“Buck up!” Walpole ordered. “I’m a nobody.”

“Who, with a little luck, is going to be somebody. You’ve already proved your worth with the government once. No one doubts you’ll do it again.”

“Nothing’s as boring as yesterday’s villain.” Walpole clapped his friend on the back. “Unless it’s yesterday’s hero.”

“If that hero has been boasting to all of his plans to direct England’s destiny, someone might find it of interest,” Adam said pointedly.

Quick with guilt, Walpole protested, “I didn’t do that.”

In no mood to humor his friend, Adam said, “Robert, you did. You confessed to it once, and no doubt that confession covered a multitude of sins.”

Walpole had the grace to look sheepish. “Oh, I don’t believe this!” He lifted his hand to still Adam’s protest. “But if it’s true, couldn’t you have sent someone besides a frog eater to warn me about Judson? I would have believed a solid Englishman.”

Adam rapped the floor with his walking stick. “Robert, you’d only believe the Second Coming if it put money in your hands. Now pay attention. We need to make arrangements for Judson’s capture.”

“Capture?” Walpole harrumphed and started for the door. “I’ll tell my servants to shoot on sight.”

“No!” Adam leaped forward. “Please, Robert, Judson still has Bronwyn, and I must know where he’s stowed her.”

Puffed and indignant as a ruffled grouse, Walpole said, “That’s the real reason I didn’t believe that frog woman! She told me your betrothed had been living at a salon. Are you saying it’s true?”

Supremely uninterested in Walpole’s skepticism, Adam answered, “Oh, that. Yes, Bronwyn’s been living at Madame Rachelle’s. You owe Bronwyn a rather large debt, Robert. She’s the one who discovered Judson’s plan.”

Groping for his chair, Walpole began to speak, then thought better of it and sank silently down behind his desk. At last he began again. “Adam, what have you been doing these past hours? I thought you would have rescued the gel by now.”

“Judson has been two steps ahead of us the whole time. But now—” Adam shook his head.

“Now, what?” Walpole asked.

“Judson’s doorman said he was coming here. Why hasn’t he arrived? Did he stop somewhere with Bronwyn and…” Adam couldn’t finish. He’d almost admitted his fears, and speaking them aloud made them too real. “I have to know what has happened. Whatever you do, don’t shoot him.”

“At least”—Walpole opened the left-hand drawer and lifted a gun from his desk—“not to kill. Do you need a pistol?”

“A pistol is not my weapon, you know that.” Adam loosened his seaman’s knife from its case.

“What if he doesn’t arrive?” Walpole asked shrewdly. “What will you do then?” Adam just looked at his friend, and something of his bleak depression must have impressed Walpole, for he protested, “Damn, Adam, you can’t be attached to this woman. Not you!”

Adam was spared a reply by a creaking noise at the kitchen door. He tensed, laid his hand on the hilt of his knife. The image of relaxation, Walpole leaned back in his chair, but his hand rested on the drawer with the gun. They waited, silent, watchful, as the doorknob turned with excruciating slowness. The brass decorations on the escutcheon around the twisting knob branded themselves on Adam’s brain.

Inside him, the desire to kill Judson warred with his need to know—know where Bronwyn was, know how she was, know he could hold her once more.

Squealing on its hinges, the door swung open. Damp, with face powder glued to his frock coat, Judson gazed at Walpole, gazed at Adam, smiled with crooked cordiality. “I never expected to see you here, Lord Rawson.” He laid heavy emphasis on Adam’s title. “Have I interrupted a party?”

Behind him the smells of the kitchen wafted up the passage. A dim light shone through the open window where he’d entered. But no one moved behind him.

Disappointment clawed at Adam. Judson was alone. Madness to hope Bronwyn would be with him, of course, but a madness he had indulged in.

As the seconds ticked by, Judson mocked, “Ineloquence has never been the bane of the honorable Robert Walpole before.”

“Nor is it now.” As the reality of the threat struck him, Walpole marveled, “I thought Adam had run mad. I never thought you would really come.”

Judson’s gaze slid to Adam. “Just a friendly call.”

“Friendly callers come through the front door,” Adam admonished. “But then, friendly callers don’t sketch a plan of the room arrangement and study it until the ink smudges.”

“You’ve been spying on me.” Judson’s hand clenched at his side, and he jeered, “You’re just like your father.”

Adam took a step forward. “My father? My father never stooped to murder.”

“Murder?” Judson repeated in arch amazement. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Voice rising, Adam threatened, “I warned you I would stomp you into the dirt, and now—” Walpole snapped his name, and he subsided, but he discovered his knife now rested in his palm. Forcing himself to relax his grip, he took several long breaths. He couldn’t throw accurately under such tension, and he owed it to himself, to Walpole, to Bronwyn, to pin Judson against the wall.

“You really came,” Walpole said again. “What do you expect to accomplish with this lunacy?”

“Lunacy?” Judson inquired, his painted eyebrows tilted in reproach.

“Did you think no one would notice you killed me?” Walpole slammed his fist on the desk, and Judson jumped.

“Nervous, Judson?” Adam mocked. “You work better alone, in the dark, with no one to watch and expose you. How will you kill us both?”

Walpole glared at Adam. “Damn it, shut up. He wants to kill me, so stop interrupting.” Transferring his attention to Judson, he challenged, “So kill me, but I must warn you—I am prepared for your scurrilous attack.”

“It seems everyone here knows my agenda.” Judson’s hand slipped into his pocket, but he maintained a guileless facade. “I’m curious, though. Why should I attack you?”

“A good question, when your true enemies have led you to financial disaster,” Adam said.

Soft and sweet, Judson asked, “What enemies are those?”

“The directors of the South Sea Company. The company’s stock is plunging. Your stock is plunging with it,” Adam told him brutally.

At the mention of finance, Judson sacrificed his pretense. “This is a false drop in price, much like the drop experienced in June when the king left the country.”

Adam shook his head. “The directors lied to you. The bubble has burst.”

“No.”

Impatient, Walpole interrupted, “Look at the facts, man! The stock has dropped more than two hundred points in five days!”

“They’ve manipulated the market so the stock appears to be a failure,” Judson replied.

“Why would they do that?” Walpole asked.

Judson smiled, almost cocky. “You’re ruined, aren’t you?”

Taken aback, Walpole sputtered, “Why…no. What makes you think so?”

Judson’s smile slipped. “You bought the stock. For all your high principles, you invested heavily.”

“Yes, and I sold it.” Walpole stared grimly, challenging Judson. “I sold it on the recommendation of my friend, Adam Keane. Almost I bought again, not trusting his advice, but luck and poor communication with Mr. Jacombe saved me.”

Breathing heavily, Judson said, “That’s not true. They would have told me.”

“Why?” asked Adam, knowing the answer. “Why did the state of Robert Walpole’s finances matter?”

As Judson’s control broke, he screamed, “He’s a menace! He’s always sticking his nose in the Treasury, telling the king what to do, knowing the best way to handle the fortune of the kingdom. Sir John Blunt is the one who knows what’s best. Sir John Blunt should direct the course of the country.”

“So you’re going to kill Robert for dear ol’ England?” Adam laughed, brief and bitter. “Come now, tell me another tale.”

Judson stuck out his tongue at Adam, for all the world like the child he’d once been. “You think you’re so clever. Sir John Blunt is paying me well, and will continue to pay me well when he is appointed to his rightful post in the government. First lord of the Treasury and chancellor of the Exchequer.” Judson rolled the title off his tongue. “Sir John has assured me I’ll remain behind the scenes to instruct the unwilling in his methods.”

“Blunt is not stupid. After you’ve performed your duties here, he’ll have you put down. He can’t afford to have a rabid dog like you roaming about.” Before Judson could protest, Adam added, “Blunt has already sold his stock, stripping the South Sea Company’s coffers early and often.”