PRAISE FOR AMANDA QUICK AND WICKED WIDOW
“Amanda Quick seems to be writing … better and better.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Wit is Quick’s middle name.”
—The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“[Wicked Widow is] yet another winner from the very successful and prolific Ms. Quick.”
—The Dallas Morning News
“A delicious combination of adventure and romance, this lively tale keeps the reader enthralled from start to finish.”
—Booklist
Bantam Books by Amanda Quick
Ask your bookseller for the books you have missed
AFFAIR
DANGEROUS
DECEPTION
DESIRE
I THEE WED
MISCHIEF
MISTRESS
MYSTIQUE
RAVISHED
RECKLESS
RENDEZVOUS
SCANDAL
SEDUCTION
SURRENDER
WICKED WIDOW
WITH THIS RING
FOR MARGARET GORDON,
a librarian’s librarian at the
University of California at Santa Cruz,
with thanks
FIRST PROLOGUE
Nightmare…
The fire roared as it charged down the back stairs. The glow of the flames cast a hellish light in the hall. There was so little time left. She picked up the key that had fallen from her shaking fingers and tried once more to fit it into the lock of the bedchamber door.
The dead man lying in a pool of blood beside her laughed. She dropped the key again.
SECOND PROLOGUE
Vengeance…
Artemas Hunt inserted the last of the three engraved watch fob seals into the third letter and placed it beside the other two on the desk. He studied the trio of letters in front of him for a long time. Each was addressed with a man’s name.
The vengeance he had planned had been a long time in the making, but all of the elements were now in place. Posting the letters to the three men was the first step. It was designed to give them a taste of fear; to make them start looking over their shoulders on dark, fogbound nights. The second step involved an elaborate financial scheme that would ultimately ruin them.
It would have been a simple matter to kill the three. It was no less than they deserved, and with his unique skills he could have carried out the business readilv enough. There would have been no great risk of getting caught. He was a master, after all.
But he wanted the three to suffer for what they had done. He wanted them to know first uneasiness and then outright fear. He would deprive them of their arrogance. He would rip away the sense of certainty and security they enjoyed by virtue of their positions in Society. In the end he would deprive them of the resources that enabled them to casually crush those who had been born into less fortunate circumstances than themselves.
Before it was over, they would have ample opportunity to confront the knowledge that they were utterly and completely destroyed in the eyes of the world. They would be forced to flee London, not only to hide from their creditors, but to escape the unrelenting scorn of Society. They would be barred from their clubs and excluded not only from the pleasures and privileges of their class, but from any prospect of repairing their fortunes through advantageous marriages.
In the end, perhaps, they would come to believe in ghosts.
It had been five years since Catherine’s death. So much time had passed that the three debauched rakes who had been responsible must surely believe themselves safe. They had probably forgotten the events of that night.
The letters with the seals inside would shatter their certainty that the past was as dead as the young woman they had destroyed.
He would allow them a few months to become accustomed to the notion of looking over their shoulders before he made his next move, Artemas thought. He would give them time to start to relax their vigilance. Then he would act.
He rose and went to the crystal decanter that sat on a nearby table. He poured himself a glass of brandy and made a silent toast to Catherine’s memory.
“Soon,” he promised the invisible phantom who haunted him. “I failed you in life, but I swear I will not fail you in death. You have waited long enough for your revenge. I shall give it to you. It is the only thing left that I can do for you. When it is finished, I pray that we will both be free.”
He swallowed the brandy and put down the glass. He waited for a moment, but nothing changed.
The cold, empty sensation was still there inside, just as it had been for the past five years. He did not expect to ever know true happiness. Indeed, he was certain that such lightness of feeling was not possible for a man of his temperament. In any event, his training had taught him that joy was as illusory as all the other strong emotions. But he had hoped that launching his vengeance would bring him a sense of satisfaction; perhaps, ultimately, even some peace.
Instead he felt nothing except the unrelenting determination to see the thing through.
He began to suspect that he was doomed.
Nevertheless, he would finish what he had started with the three letters. He had no choice. They called him the Dream Merchant. He would show the three rakes who had murdered Catherine that he could sell nightmares.
CHAPTER ONE
They said she’d murdered her husband because she’d found him inconvenient. They said she’d set fire to the house to conceal her crime.
They said she might well be mad.
There was a standing wager in every betting book in every club in St. James Street. It offered a thousand pounds to any man who managed to spend a night with the Wicked Widow and lived to tell the tale.
They said many things about the lady. Artemas Hunt had heard the rumors because he made it a practice to stay informed. He had eyes and ears throughout London. A network of spies and informants brought him an endless tide of gossip, speculation, and snippets of fact.
Some of the flotsam that washed up on his desk was based on truth; some was only probable; some was blatantly false. Sorting through the lot required considerable time and effort. He did not waste either attempting to verify all of the information he received. Much of it he simply ignored because it did not affect his very private affairs.
Until tonight he’d had no reason to pay close attention to the gossip that swirled around Madeline Deveridge. Whether or not the lady had dispatched her husband to the next world had been of no particular concern to him. He had been occupied with other matters.
Until tonight he’d had no interest whatsoever in the Wicked Widow. But now, it seemed, she had developed an interest in him. Most would say that was an extraordinarily ill omen. He was amused to discover that he found it to be quite intriguing, one of the most interesting things to have happened to him in a long, long time. Which, he thought, only went to show how very narrow and circumscribed his life was these days.
He stood in the night-shrouded street and contemplated the small, elegant carriage that loomed in the fog. The vehicle’s lamps glowed eerily in the mist that seethed and foamed around it. The curtains were drawn shut, concealing the interior of the cab. The horses stood quietly. The coachman was an indistinguishable mound on the box.
Artemas recalled the adage he had learned years ago from the monks of the Garden Temples who had instructed him in the ancient philosophy and the fighting arts of Vanza. Life offers an endless banquet of opportunities. Wisdom lies in knowing which ones to taste and which are poison.
He heard the door of his club open and close behind him. Loud, drunken laughter echoed in the darkness. Absently he moved into the pool of deeper shadow created by a nearby doorway and watched two men stumble down the steps. They clambered into a waiting h
ackney and shouted directions to the coachman, demanding to be driven to one of the gaming hells in the stews. Boredom was the enemy of their sort. They would go to any lengths to defeat it.
Artemas waited until the old vehicle lumbered off down the street. Then he glanced again at the dark, ethereal little carriage in the mists. The problem with Vanza was that, for all its arcane learning and instructive philosophy, it did not make sufficient allowance for the very human factor of curiosity.
Or at least, it did not make allowance for his curiosity.
Artemas made his decision. He moved out of the doorway and walked through the drifting fog to the Wicked Widow’s carriage. The stirring of anticipation within him was the only warning he got that he might come to regret his choice. He decided to ignore it.
The coachman shifted and tensed as he drew near.
“Can I help ye, sir?”
The words were properly respectful, but Artemas caught the edge beneath the surface. It told him that the man, hunched beneath a many-caped greatcoat and a hat pulled low over his ears, served as guard as well as coachman.
“My name is Hunt. Artemas Hunt. I believe I have an appointment with the lady”
“So yer the one, eh?” The man did not relax. If anything, his tension seemed to increase. “Get in, if ye please, sir. She’s expectin’ ye.”
Artemas raised his brows at the peremptory orders, but he said nothing. Instead he reached for the handle and opened the carriage door.
Warm amber light from the interior lamp spilled out of the opening. A woman sat on one of the black velvet seats. She was dressed in an expensively cut black cloak that concealed all but a glimpse of the black gown underneath. Her face was a pale blur behind a black lace veil. He could see that she was slender. There was a supple, confident grace about her form that told him she was no green, gawky girl fresh out of the schoolroom. He really ought to have paid more attention to the bits and bobs of gossip concerning her that had come his way in the past year, he thought. Ah well, too late now.
“It was good of you to respond so quickly to my note, Mr. Hunt. Time is of the essence.”
The voice was low with a throaty undercurrent that ignited a spark of sensual awareness deep inside him. Unfortunately, although her words were laced with crisp urgency, he could detect no promise of passion. Apparently the Wicked Widow had not lured him into her carriage with the intent of seducing him into a night of wild, reckless lovemaking. Artemas sat down and closed the door. He wondered if he ought to be disappointed or relieved.
“Your message reached me just as I was about to play a hand of cards that I was quite certain to win,” he said. “I trust that whatever it is you have to say to me, madam, it will make up for the several hundred pounds I was obliged to forgo in order to meet with you.”
She stiffened. Her fingers, sheathed in black kid gloves, tightened around the large black reticule on her lap. “Allow me to introduce myself, sir. I am Madeline Reed Deveridge.”
“I know who you are, Mrs. Deveridge. And, as you obviously know who I am, I suggest we skip the formalities and go directly to business.”
“Yes, of course.” Behind the veil, her eyes glittered with something that might have been irritation. “My maid, Nellie, was kidnapped near the west gate of the Dream Pavilions less than an hour ago. As you are the owner of those pleasure gardens, I expect you to take full responsibility for criminal actions that occur on or near your property. I want you to help me find Nellie.”
Artemas felt as if he had plunged into an icy sea. She knew about his connection to the Dream Pavilions. How was that possible? When he had received her note, he had considered and discarded half a dozen reasons for tonight’s unlikely rendezvous, but none of them came anywhere near this. How could she have learned that he owned the gardens?
He had known the risks of exposure from the outset. But he had thought himself sunk so deep into the Strategies of Concealment and Distraction that no one, with the possible exception of another master of Vanza, could have discovered the truth. And there was no reason another master would come looking for him.
“Mr. Hunt?” Madeline’s voice sharpened. “Did you hear what I said?”
“Every word, Mrs. Deveridge.” To conceal his anger, he deliberately infused his voice with the touch of ennui expected from a gentleman threatened with acute boredom. “But I must admit, I do not comprehend. I believe you have come to the wrong address. If your maid has truly been kidnapped, you must instruct your coachman to drive to Bow Street. There you will no doubt be able to hire a runner to look for her. Here in St. James, we prefer other, less strenuous pursuits.”
“Do not play your Vanza games with me, sir. I do not care if you are a full master. As the owner of the Dream Pavilions, it is your responsibility to ensure the safety of those who patronize your establishment. I expect you to take immediate action to find Nellie.”
She knew he was Vanza. That was even more alarming than the news that she was aware of his ownership of the Pavilions.
The chill in his gut began to spread. He had a sudden, maddening vision of his carefully wrought scheme brought down in ruins. This extraordinary female had somehow acquired a dangerous amount of information about him.
He smiled to cover his fury and disbelief. “Curiosity impels me to inquire just how you came up with the outlandish notion that I am in any way connected to the Dream Pavilions or the Vanzagarian Society.”
“It hardly matters, sir.”
“You are wrong, Mrs. Deveridge,” he said very softly. “It matters.”
Something in his voice obviously affected her. For the first time since he had entered the carriage, she appeared to hesitate. About time, he thought grimly.
But when she finally responded, she was astonishingly cool. “I am aware that you are not only a member of the Vanzagarian Society, but a full master, sir. Once I had ascertained that much about you, I knew to look beneath the surface. Those who are trained in that philosophy are rarely what they seem. They are fond of illusion and inclined toward eccentricity.”
This was a thousand times worse than he had feared. “I see. May I ask who told you about me?”
“No one told me, sir. At least, not in the way you mean. I discovered the truth through my own efforts.”
Not bloody likely, he thought. “You will explain yourself, madam.”
“I really do not have time to go into this now, sir. Nellie is in grave danger. I insist that you help me locate her.”
“Why should I bother to help you track down your runaway maid, Mrs. Deveridge? I’m sure you can acquire another readily enough.”
“Nellie did not run away. I told you, she was kidnapped by villains. Her friend Alice saw it all.”
“Alice?”
“The pair went to see the newest attractions at the Pavilions this evening. When they left the gardens by the west gate, two men snatched Nellie. They bundled her into a carriage and drove off before anyone realized what had happened.”
“I think it far more probable that your Nellie ran off with a young man,” Artemas said bluntly. “And her friend concocted the kidnapping story so that if Nellie changes her mind, you’ll allow her to return to her post.”
“Rubbish. Nellie was seized straight off the street.”
Belatedly he reminded himself that the Wicked Widow was reputed to be mad. “Why would anyone kidnap your maid?” he asked, reasonably enough, he thought, under the circumstances.
“I fear she was taken away by some of those vile men who supply innocent young women to the brothels.” Madeline picked up a black parasol. “Enough of these explanations. We have not a moment to lose.”
Artemas wondered if she intended to use the point of the parasol to prod him into action. He was relieved when she grasped the handle and rapped the tip smartly on the roof of the carriage. The coachman had obviously been listening intently for the signal. The vehicle rumbled immediately into motion.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing?”
Artemas said. “Has it occurred to you that I might object to being kidnapped myself?”
“I do not particularly care about your objections, sir.” Madeline settled back into her seat. Her eyes glittered through the lace veil. “Finding Nellie is the only thing that matters at the moment. I shall apologize to you later, if necessary.”
“Ill look forward to that. Where are we going?”
“Back to the scene of the kidnapping. The west gate of your pleasure garden, sir.”
Artemas narrowed his eyes. She did not sound mad. She sounded extremely determined. “What, precisely, do you expect me to do, Mrs. Deveridge?”
“You own the Dream Pavilions. And you are Vanza. Between the two, I suspect that you have connections in places I do not.”
He considered her for a long while. “Are you implying that I am acquainted with members of the criminal class, madam?”
“I would not presume to guess the extent, let alone the nature, of your web of associates.”
The scorn in her voice was particularly interesting, coming as it did on top of her unsettling knowledge concerning his very private business affairs. One thing was certain: He could not get out of the carriage and walk away at this juncture. Her knowledge of his ownership of the Pavilions was, on its own, more than enough to wreak havoc with his carefully laid plans.
He was no longer amused by his own curiosity and anticipation. It was imperative that he discover not only how much Madeline Deveridge knew, but how she had come to learn such carefully concealed facts.
He lounged in the corner of the black velvet seat and studied her veiled features.
“Very well, Mrs. Deveridge,” he said. “I will do what I can to help you recover your missing maid. But do not blame me if it transpires that young Nellie does not wish to be found.”
She reached out to lift a corner of the window curtain and peered into the fogbound street. “I assure you, she will want to be rescued.”
His attention was caught and briefly held by the graceful, gloved hand that grasped the edge of the curtain. He was unwillingly fascinated by the delicate curve of wrist and palm. He caught the faint, tantalizing scent of some flowery herbs she must have used in her bathwater. With an effort he brought his attention back to the more pressing issue.