The Lady Hellion (23 page)

He uncorked the bottle. “Now.” He started forward once more. “Open up like a good girl.”

 

 

“It would be near the water,” Quint said. His fingers tapped rapidly on the carriage seat, a staccato symphony of barely restrained panic, as he, Colton, and Winchester rode toward Blackfriars Bridge. “Likely an abandoned building so he wouldn’t be concerned about the noise.”

Colton and Winchester exchanged a look. Quint ignored them. He had to think like Hudson, not get bogged down in emotion. If he let himself feel, then the fear and anger would take over. He’d never find Sophie in that case.

“He wouldn’t trust servants or a hackney, so he’d drive himself there in an unmarked conveyance. With his knee, he’d have trouble navigating too many stairs while carrying a dead body, even a small woman, so first or second floor. No windows, not if he could avoid it. He’ll—”

“Quint,” Colton said gently. “Take a breath. We’ll locate her.”

He closed his eyes, dragged in deep pulls of air.

“Why weren’t you with her when she went out as Sir Stephen?” Stood to reason that Winchester would ask, since he tended toward the overprotective when it came to women. “Surely you had to know this was a possibility?”

The censure was quite clear in his friend’s voice, and it was nothing Quint hadn’t asked himself a hundred times.
How could you let this happen to her?

“And why did we have to pay O’Shea a bloody fortune to bring him to you tonight, instead of the other way around?” Colton asked.

There was no way to keep it from them now. He couldn’t. He would need their help again in saving Sophie, not to mention he owed them answers after all this time. He deliberately kept his lids closed. “I am unwell. I started having fits after the shooting.”

“Your father?” Colton asked. Both men knew details of the Beecham family legacy, so there was no need to explain it.

“Yes, precisely. I never know what will induce an attack and found it’s best to remain in my home. Or in a carriage.”

“Goddammit, why did you not tell us?” Winchester’s voice cracked like a whip.

“I am managing. While there may not be a cure, I’ve been attempting experiments on myself. A few have been somewhat successful.”

“Such as?”

Vigorous lovemaking with Sophie.
“Exercise. And meditation.”

The carriage took a corner quickly, causing knees to jostle against one another in the cramped space. When they righted, Colton said, “Still, you should’ve told us. Sophia obviously knew.”

Quint didn’t answer. Yes, he supposed he should have told them, but he did not need anyone worrying over him. Bad enough Sophie had learned of it.

“You father’s fate will not be yours, Quint. I’ll not allow it.” Winchester’s tone was hard, determined. “Whatever resources you need, personally or politically, they’re yours.”

“Thank you,” Quint returned somberly. The smell of the river grew even stronger, the distinctive musty rank odor that emanated from the Thames. They were almost there.

“Have you left the house at all before this?” Colton asked.

“Only recently. A few short trips with Sophie.” His gut clenched at her name on his lips, churned with the fear of what was happening to her at this very moment. If Hudson hurt her, Quint would tear him apart.

“How close are we to the bridge?” he asked, now looking to the window.

“Five blocks. Maybe six.”

“We should get out and walk. Hudson may hear the carriage.”

“Will you be able to get out?” Winchester asked him.

Quint had his doubts. His heart already pounded with anxiety over whether or not he would find her. One thing he knew, he would not prevent anyone from reaching her. God forbid Winchester or Colton stopped to baby him instead of saving Sophie.

At the next corner, they passed a stopped carriage—a brougham that Quint recognized. “Hold up, there’s Jenkins’s carriage. He must’ve followed Sophie here.”

Winchester ordered his driver to pull over. Within seconds, the three of them were on the walk, with Fitzpatrick jumping down from the box. Quint blinked rapidly as his vision began to blur.
No,
damn it. He fought against the rising panic with a few deep breaths.

A hand clapped his shoulder. “All right?”

He nodded at Winchester as Colton said, “The carriage is empty. Think Jenkins went inside?”

“Very likely, if he’s not out here.” Quint pointed at a building two down from where they stood, a large structure with no windows on the second floor. A curricle was posted in front, one Quint bet belonged to Tolbert. “Start there. Your only hope is to surprise him, but you must get in quickly and quietly.” His heart was beating too hard, too fast. A ringing started in his ears. They stared at him, unsure what to do. But it was Sophie who mattered—not him. “Go!”

The three men had four guns between them and they hurried down the street. Quint started after, hating himself, hating his inability to help her.
She needs you, you worthless bedlamite.

He forced his feet to continue on as the buildings around him tilted and swayed. It felt like being tossed at sea while standing on dry land. Sweat broke out on his forehead.
I cannot do this.
He needed Sophie, needed to touch her and have her anchor him. Needed to hear her voice. Needed her reassurance that he wasn’t broken.

He put a hand to the brick building on his right in order to hold it up. Sucked more air into his lungs. It hardly seemed enough, however, and he could feel his chest constricting. He tried to reassure himself that they would find her. Sophie was smart. If there had been a way for her to leave a clue, a trail, a
hint
to where she’d been taken, she would do it.

A thought suddenly occurred as he crossed the narrow street before Hudson’s building. Where was Hudson’s conveyance? Or had he arrived with Tolbert? For some reason, he doubted Hudson would travel about with Tolbert. And the bodies were always dumped in the water. Easier to do from a punt or small boat than the shore or a dock. Less chance of someone observing you.

He squinted down the narrow, brick passage to where the Thames churned and swirled, a low hum from this distance. The sky was fairly clear, with the moon casting a dim glow over the city. Enough to see that the back of the building was close to the bank.

Then he saw movement along the edge of the water. He strained his eyes. A watchman? Thief? Smuggler?

No, it appeared to be someone . . . carrying a body.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Quint did not hesitate. He sprinted along the alley as quietly as he could manage. If those figures were indeed Hudson and Sophie—and if he stopped to calculate the probability, they most certainly were—then surprise would be essential to Sophie’s remaining unharmed. There would be nothing keeping Hudson from killing her if he thought himself trapped.

If she wasn’t already dead, of course.

Fear knotted in his chest as he pressed deeper into the shadows. She was alive. She had to be. He would not lose her now, not after all these years.

Had she any idea what those words meant to him? They were . . . everything. They were solving an impossible equation, discovering a new planet, proving a theorem, and eradicating illness all combined—and he would damn well hear her say them again.

He kept breathing, continued moving forward, his focus entirely on the figures down by the bank. As he drew close, he saw a man moving stiffly, his weight heavily on the right side, toward a punt near the bank. Definitely Hudson. The bundle in his arms was well covered, however, so Quint couldn’t yet tell if it was Sophie.

Winchester appeared at the rear door of the building, now at Quint’s left. “Stop!” the earl shouted, and Hudson gave a start, turned, and then hurried toward the punt.

Quint sprinted for the water, but Winchester got there first. Hudson had dropped the bundle onto the bank and was stepping into the punt when Winchester grabbed him and threw him down on the ground. The rest happened quickly. Hudson reached into the bundle and withdrew his cane. “It’s a sword!” Quint yelled as he ran forward.

Too late. Hudson threw off the end, revealing the blade, and silver glinted in the moonlight as he lunged for Winchester, who barely avoided being run through. The edge sliced across his side, however, and Winchester staggered back.

Quint was now on the soft ground of the river’s edge. Hudson’s eyes were glazed and bright when they locked on to Quint’s, and Quint knew this was what true insanity looked liked. It sent a shiver down his spine. Without waiting to see what Quint would do, Hudson dashed as best he could along the bank, then up toward the next block of buildings.

“Go get him, Quint!” Winchester said, his voice tight with pain.

Winchester was unwrapping Sophie’s blanket, still holding his side. “She’s alive,” he announced. “Drugged, but alive. I’ll stay with her. Go, Quint! You’ve got to catch him.”

When he heard the word “alive,” relief nearly drove Quint to his knees. Hudson would suffer for this. “Take care of her,” he said to Winchester and bolted after Hudson, who had disappeared into one of the dark corridors between buildings. Unless Quint suffered a fit, Hudson could not outrun him. The best Hudson could hope for would be to dodge into a building, and Quint was determined not to give him such an opportunity.

Once on the street, he saw Hudson round a corner ahead. He gave chase, boots slapping on the wet brick as he ran. He tried to control his breathing and not look at anything other than Hudson’s back. The area was largely deserted at this time of day, but the side streets did contain the occasional tavern or brothel. Would Hudson try to escape through one? If so, what was Quint going to do?

Hudson crossed to a large door on the opposite side of the street, disappeared behind it. The monstrous building had no markings, no windows, but a number of horses were posted outside. A gathering of some kind? Had Hudson entered here for a reason, or was it coincidence driven by desperation?

Since he was only a few steps behind, Quint had no choice but to follow.

He threw open the door, unsure what to expect. Roars and cheers erupted from within the bowels of the building, sounding like the crowd at a horse race. The interior was well lit, and he could see no sign of Hudson near the entryway. There was only one way to go, a door that led deeper into the enormous space. Quint paused, rubbed his temples.
Maybe it’s not as bad as you fear,
he told himself. Perhaps the walls were magnifying the sound.

Forcing himself forward, he immediately saw that it was
worse
than he’d feared. It was a pugilist match. A makeshift ring had been set up on a dais in the middle of the cavernous room, and inside it were two bare-chested fighters circling one another while men stood around to watch. Magistrates frowned on boxing matches, so they were held in secret—or outside the city—and they were popular. The crowd tonight easily contained over a hundred men, shouting and clapping.

Under no circumstances would he let that happen, not if he could prevent it. Hudson was here somewhere. Quint merely needed to remain standing long enough to find him. And staring at the dais, he came to a conclusion.

He forced himself forward, to take the steps deeper into the space. The room was hot, made worse by the strong smell of spirits, tobacco, and unwashed bodies. Edging closer to the ring, his vision sparkled as his shoulders brushed against other men in the crowd. His head ached, every beat of his racing heart echoing in his skull, while he twisted and turned through the throng of people observing the fight.
They’re not paying attention to you,
he kept repeating.
They’re watching the fight. No one cares that you’re sweating or about to collapse onto the floor.

His lungs constricted and he struggled for air. He never stopped, however. Reaching the ring was paramount, no matter what happened to him after this. They could drag him off to Bedlam as soon as this was all over, just as soon as he’d prevented any future threats to Sophie’s life. It was taking forever to reach the dais in this crowd, unfortunately. Hopefully Hudson was encountering the same problem in his escape.

Quint was no more than ten feet from the ring when a hand landed on his shoulder. He started, then looked up to find Lord MacLean staring down at him. “Quint, never thought I’d see you here. Are you trying to get closer?”

“The ring,” Quint told the gigantic Scot as loudly as possible. “I need to get onto the dais.”

MacLean blinked. “Why?”

“Lord Hudson. He hurt Lady Sophia,” was all Quint needed to say before MacLean was shoving and pushing his way down front, Quint alongside him.

“Move over, gents,” MacLean yelled. No one dared to stop him, not even in this rough neighborhood, and they reached the ring in seconds.

Quint hoisted himself up using the ropes around the ring. MacLean did the same. “Look in the crowd,” he shouted to MacLean. “Short dark hair, close to the scalp. He’ll be limping.”

“’Ere now,” said one of the fighters, his lip swollen and bloody from his opponent’s fists. A pair of umpires followed. “You can’t be comin’ up ’ere.”

The crowd started to turn as well, screaming for the swells to get out of the ring, to allow the fight go on. No doubt money had been wagered on the outcome, and Quint and MacLean’s presence was preventing the conclusion. Quint did not care in the least, leaving MacLean to deal with the angry mob, as his gaze swept over the room. A sea of disgruntled faces stared back at him—all except one.

He saw it then, the back of Hudson’s head as he picked his way through the horde to the back of the room. “Stop him!” he shouted, pointing at Hudson. “He’s the banker and he’s taking off with the money!” Revealing Hudson as a murderer in this group might not raise eyebrows, but the threat of losing money certainly got their attention.

The men by the ropes quieted, turned, and spread the word to those behind them. The shouting turned to murmurs that rippled along each row. Hudson sensed something was wrong and tried to hurry, but the crowd had turned against him, sentenced him without knowing all the facts.

“Dinna let him get away, lads,” MacLean boomed. “Dinna let him take your money!”

The murmurs grew louder and hands began reaching for Hudson. He slapped them away, pushed forward, to no avail. Reminiscent of the Place de la Révolution years earlier, the situation quickly grew out of hand as the masses converged on their quarry. All hope for a bloodthirsty brawl had now shifted to the back of the room, where a well-dressed gent had been trying to escape. Quint could see Hudson struggle, fighting back, screaming at the attackers.

“We best get down there before they rip him apart,” Quint told MacLean. The two jumped down from the elevated platform. Quint let MacLean lead, the big Scot handily moving anyone in their path. Strange to be in a position where he needed to rescue Hudson, but Quint would much rather see the man tried in front of a magistrate than pummeled to death at a boxing match.

MacLean moved quickly, so it was mere moments before he and Quint reached the middle of the chaos. Men had already started drifting back, some cheers breaking out. When Quint could finally see, he learned why. Hudson had been stabbed repeatedly, his body beaten, lifeless eyes staring up at the rafters.

 

 

Now in the closed carriage, Quint relaxed as best he could. Deep, focused breathing. Clear, uncluttered mind. Sophie had been squired home by Colton. He hadn’t seen her but had been assured she was merely drugged and would be fine once she slept it off.

Winchester was still about, dealing with the authorities. Hudson had been a prominent figure in His Majesty’s government, and several top-level officials had arrived to take control of the situation. As long as no one questioned Sophie or discovered her involvement in this mess, Quint was content to sit back and let others handle the affair.

The carriage door opened. A man stepped inside, a hat concealing his face. When he glanced up, Quint could only stare.

The Marquess of Ardington. Sophie’s
father
.

Quint experienced a rare moment of speechlessness.

“I see you were not expecting me.” The marquess sat and removed his hat. He looked so much like Sophie, with his light brown hair and easy smile. “How are you feeling, Quint?”

“Fine, sir,” Quint answered by rote, straightening. “Why are you here?” Did he know of Quint’s dalliance with his daughter? Did he know of Sir Stephen and the investigations? Several more questions leapt to Quint’s mind, but he held them back until he knew what the marquess was about.

“It seems I owe you a great deal of gratitude,” Ardington said.

Quint’s throat nearly closed with the anxiety choking him. Gratitude? “For?”

“Discovering Hudson’s secret. No one else had, you know. Not many cared about the women murdered and tossed into the water. But for some reason, you were looking into it.”

It was on the tip of Quint’s tongue to correct the man, to herald this as Sophie’s achievement. She’d been the one to gather clues along the way and talk to those affected, eventually ferreting Hudson out. Quint never would’ve even bothered to involve himself if it hadn’t been for her.

But he couldn’t tell her father as much.

“I had help,” was all he could manage.

“I heard. Some lad named Sir Stephen. Well done, the two of you.” Ardington lifted his chin in acknowledgment. “His Majesty owes you both a great debt, as do I.”

Ardington knew of Sir Stephen? Quint wanted to laugh at the absurdity of this conversation. Wait until he told Sophie. “Why?”

Ardington rested his hat on his lap and folded his arms. “Quint, Hudson was not the only person aware of what you were working on.”

“Though I did not learn of it through Hudson,” Ardington continued. “When I did become aware of what you were up to, I started to wonder, why hadn’t Hudson told anyone about it? Cracking Vigenère’s cipher would be a great help to His Majesty’s efforts in many places, yet Hudson kept that information to himself.”

“How did you learn of it?” Quint asked, unable to let that go before learning the rest.

“I put someone in your house. Someone to keep an eye out for you.”

For half a second, Quint thought Ardington meant Sophie—but then it hit him. “Taylor.”

Ardington smiled. “Indeed. I wanted him to protect you, incidentally. He may appear young and is a rather incompetent butler, but he’s damned smart and a good agent.”

Agent?

“Does that mean . . . ?”

“It does. I’ve worked for the Home Office for many years, though it’s been in a reduced capacity for the last several. My second wife is not so fond of the dangers.”

“Does Soph—Lady Sophia know?”

Ardington’s mouth quirked. “No, she does not. I didn’t want her to worry. I protected her the best I could—well, spoiled her, more like it. But I wanted her to have the normal life of a young girl.”

Quint smothered a snort. Had Ardington any idea what transpired in his own household? He’d heard it said that a man too focused on external matters could miss the most obvious things under his nose. Fortunate for Sophie, he supposed.

“What had Hudson planned to do with the cipher solution, if not turn it over to the Home Office?”

“My guess is he’d already sold it to a foreign power, either France or Russia, which is why he put pressure on you to finish. I’ve long suspected he was selling secrets, and I’ve been trying to catch him in the act. That was where you came in.” Ardington sat forward, his brows lowered. “Incidentally, they won’t tell me the name of the girl Hudson kidnapped. Seems she was hurried to safety before anyone arrived. Do you know her identity?”

“No,” Quint lied, looking Ardington dead in the eyes.

The marquess nodded. “Likely another girl from one of O’Shea’s clubs. Well, I merely wanted to thank you and see if you were recovered. I’ll leave you to get to your bed.” He reached for the latch.

Was that it, then? Quint could only conclude that Taylor hadn’t shared news of Sophie’s late-night visits to Quint’s town house. If he had, no doubt Sophie’s father would be calling for the bans to be posted—or for Quint’s head on a platter. Perhaps young Taylor had his uses after all.