“Sorry,” Flood said shortly. “All the shares have been sold. Shouldn’t have mentioned it at all. The shareholders have been sworn to secrecy.” He looked worried now. “I say, you won’t tell anyone about this, will you?”
Artemas smiled slowly. “I will say nothing to anyone, Flood. You have my word on it. The very last thing I wish to do is interfere with your investment.”
Flood stared fixedly, as though something in Artemas’s smile had put him into a trance. Then he blinked once and seemed to give himself a shake. “Right you are. In your own best interests to keep your mouth shut, eh? Won’t get your money if you interfere with my investment prospects.”
“Very true.”
Artemas turned to walk toward the front hall. Three young, fashionably dressed men, all of whom appeared to be thoroughly foxed, lurched into his path.
One of them stepped forth, eyes widening with theatrical astonishment. He thrust out a hand with a dramatic flourish.
“What ho! My friends, who do we see before us? I do believe it is the bravest, boldest, most fearless man in all of England. I give you Hunt.”
The other two chanted a chorus.
“Hunt, Hunt, Hunt.”
“Look closely upon that noble visage, study him well, for we may not see his like again in this fair club room.”
“Hunt, Hunt, Hunt”
“Upon the morrow our brave Hunt will either be a thousand pounds richer, or—”
“Hunt, Hunt, Hunt”
“Or he will have left this mortal plane forever, dispatched to the great beyond by none other than the Wicked Widow.”
“Hunt, Hunt, Hunt”
“We wish him well tonight. At the very least, we wish him a stout, unflagging cock so that he may enjoy his last night on this earth.”
“Hunt, Hunt, Hunt”
Artemas walked deliberately toward the three young blades. They laughed uproariously and gave him sweeping bows as they scrambled out of his path.
“Hunt, Hunt, Hunt.”
Artemas paused at the doorway and turned halfway around. He gave the three a long, thoughtful stare. A hush of expectation fell on the club room. He removed his watch from his pocket. All eyes were riveted on him as he opened the lid and examined the time.
When he was finished, he closed the lid and casually dropped the watch back into his pocket. “I fear I must take my leave somewhat early tonight. I have affairs that require my attention. I’m sure you all understand.”
The three rakes snickered. Muffled laughter sounded from a card table.
“But tomorrow—” Artemas paused for effect. “Always assuming I survive the night, of course—”
One of the young dandies guffawed. “Assuming that degree of optimism, sir, what will you do tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow I shall look forward to making dawn appointments with every man in this club who is so impolite as to insult my new houseguest in my hearing.”
The three men stared at Artemas, eyes stark with shock, mouths agape. The interested hush that had settled on the club room became an appalled silence.
Satisfied with the effect he had made, Artemas walked out into the hall. He collected his greatcoat and gloves and went down the steps to the street.
He was less than three strides from the front door when he heard hurried footsteps behind him.
“Hold on there, Hunt,” Flood called. “I’ll share a carriage with you.”
“There aren’t any available in the vicinity.” Artemas indicated the empty, fogbound street with a slight inclination of his head. “I’m going to walk as far as the square. I expect there will be some hackneys for hire there.”
“No carriages?” Flood glanced around with an uncertain expression. “But there are always a few waiting out front.”
“Not tonight. The fog, no doubt. Perhaps you would rather slay inside until one appears.” Artemas turned his back on Flood and started walking again.
“Wait, I’ll accompany you,” Flood said quickly. There was a thread of underlying anxiety in his voice. “You’re right, bound to be some hackneys in the square, and it will be safer if we walk there together.”
“Suit yourself.”
Flood fell into step beside him. “The streets are dangerous at this hour, especially on a night like this.”
“I’m surprised to hear that you are afraid to walk these streets, Flood. I thought you were in the habit of spending a great deal of time in the stews. This is certainly a far less dangerous part of town.”
“I’m not afraid,” Flood growled. “Just using a bit of good sense, that’s all.”
Artemas listened to the unease in Flood’s voice. He smiled slightly. Flood was afraid.
Flood angled him a quick, uncertain glance. “I say, what the devil was that all about back there in the club? Do you actually intend to challenge any man who makes a comment concerning Mrs. Deveridge?”
“No,”
Flood snorted. “Didn’t think so.”
“I will challenge only those who make comments that I deem insulting to the lady.”
“Bloody hell. You’d risk a meeting at dawn over the likes of the Wicked Widow? Are you mad, sir? Why she’s naught but—”
Artemas stopped walking and turned to face him. “Yes, Flood? You were about to say?”
“Damnation, sir, everyone knows she’s a murderess.”
“There was no proof.” Artemas smiled. “And we all know that one cannot convict a person of murder without proof.”
“But everyone knows—”
“Is that so?”
Flood’s mouth worked but he uttered no intelligible words. He stared at Artemas, who did not move, and took a jerky step backward. In the diffused glow of the nearby gas lamp, his face, coarsened by years of debauchery, looked sullen and fearful.
“You were about to say something else on the subject, Flood?”
“Nothing.” He made a show of straightening his coat. “Wasn’t going to say anything else. Just asked a question.”
“Consider it answered.” Artemas started walking again.
Flood hesitated and then, apparently deciding that he did not want to risk walking back to his club alone, he hurried to catch up with Artemas.
They walked without speaking for a time. Flood’s footsteps echoed eerily in the night. Artemas, out of long habit and training, moved without making any noise.
“Should have brought a lantern along.” Flood glanced back over his shoulder. “These bloody gas lamps are useless in the fog.”
“I prefer not to carry a lantern if I can avoid it,” Artemas said. “The glare of the lamp makes one an ideal target for footpads.”
“Bloody hell.” Flood looked back over his shoulder again. “Never thought of that.”
There was a faint, skittering sound from a nearby alley.
Flood grabbed Artemas’s sleeve. “Did you hear something?”
“A rat, no doubt.” Artemas glanced pointedly at Flood’s gloved fingers on his sleeve. “You are wrinkling my coat, sir.”
“Sorry.” Flood released him immediately.
“You seem to be somewhat anxious, Flood. Perhaps you ought to consider a tonic for your nerves.”
“Damnation, sir, I’ll have you know that my nerves are as stout as iron.”
Artemas shrugged and said nothing. A part of him automatically registered the small sounds of the night, sorting out the familiar, cataloging the shadows, listening for the soft scrape of shoe leather on pavement.
Hooves echoed distantly at the other end of the street.
“Maybe that’s a hackney,” Flood said eagerly.
But the carriage moved off in the opposite direction.
“Should have stayed at the club,” Flood muttered.
“Why are you so anxious tonight?”
There was a short hesitation before Flood spoke. “If you must know, I was threatened a few months ago.”
“You don’t say.” Artemas studied the candle in the window up ahead. “Who t
hreatened you, sir?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“Surely you can describe him?”
“No.” Flood paused again. “The thing is, I’ve never seen him.”
“If you’ve never even met the man, why in God’s name would he wish to threaten you?”
“I don’t know,” Flood whined. “That’s what makes it all so damned odd.”
“You have no notion at all why this stranger has singled you out to threaten?”
“He sent—” Flood broke off on a loud gasp as a cat shot across the pavement and disappeared into an alley. “Friggin’ hellfire. What was that?”
“It was only a cat.” Artemas paused. “You really are in need of something for those nerves, Flood. What did this man send to you?”
“A seal. The sort one attaches to a watch fob.”
“How could you possibly consider that a threat?”
“It’s … it’s difficult to explain.” Now that he had started to talk, Flood did not seem to be able to stop. “All goes back to something that happened a few years ago. Some friends and I had a bit of sport with a little actress. The stupid woman got away and ran off. It was dark. We were in the country, you see, and there was an accident and she … well, never mind. The point is she vowed that her lover would one day avenge her.”
“And now you think he’s come for you, is that it?”
“It’s impossible.” Flood looked over his shoulder again. “Can’t be the one she told us would avenge her. Even if the silly little lightskirt had had a lover, why would he bother to come after us now? I mean, she was just an actress. And it’s been five years.”
“You know the old saying, Flood. Revenge is a dish that is best served cold.”
“But we didn’t kill her.” Flood’s voice rose. “She fell to her death when she ran off into the night.”
“It sounds as though she fell in an attempt to escape you and your friends, Flood.”
“I’ve got to find a way to talk to him, whoever he is.” Flood looked around anxiously again. “I can explain to him that we meant no harm. Just a bit of sport. Not our fault that the little fool—”
“Save your breath, Flood. There is no need to explain yourself to me. I do not want to hear your excuses.”
A prostitute in a candlelit window smiled at Artemas and let the shawl fall from her shoulder to display one rouge-tipped breast. He looked at her without any interest and then he returned his attention to the street.
“It’s been some months now,” Flood said after a while. “Mayhap it was only a malicious joke.”
“If that is the case, the avenger certainly has an odd sense of humor.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Artemas caught the faint shift in the shadows behind him. For a second he could not put his finger on what had altered. Then he understood.
“Bloody hell,” he said softly “She put out the candle.”
“The whore?” Flood glanced back at the darkened window. “What of it? Perhaps she—”
He broke off when he saw that Artemas had flattened himself against the stone wall and was paying him no heed.
The attacker did not spring from an alley or shadowed doorway. Instead he plummeted down toward the street from a high window. The swirling folds of a black cloak flared out around him, blotting up what little light emanated from the gas lamps.
There would be a knife, Artemas thought. Most Vanza moves did not rely on weapons, but there were exceptions. The spider-in-the-cloud attack always involved a knife.
He seized the trailing edge of the cloak so that the garment could not engulf him as his assailant intended. Jerking it aside, he barely avoided a slashing kick from a booted foot.
The Vanza fighter landed deftly on the pavement, facing Artemas. His features were concealed by a mask fashioned from a black cravat. Icy light glinted off the knife. He lunged forward.
Artemas glided aside. He knew that he had already disrupted the pattern of this particular maneuver. He had to act quickly before the attacker could switch to another strategy.
The masked assailant saw that he was going to miss his target. He tried to recover. He managed not to fetch up against the wall, but he was off balance for an instant.
Artemas kicked out at the fighter’s knife arm. The blow connected. There was a grunt and the blade clattered on the pavement.
Having lost his advantage, the attacker apparently decided that he had no wish to pursue the matter. He spun away His cloak flew out behind him like a great black wing.
Artemas grasped the hem of the garment and hauled heavily on it. He was not surprised when it came free in his hand. The masked man had released the clasp.
The attacker disappeared into the deep shadows of an unlit lane. His footsteps echoed faintly in the distance. Artemas was left holding the wool cloak.
“Hell’s teeth, man.” Flood stared at Artemas, stupefied. “He went straight for you. The bastard tried to slit your throat.”
Artemas looked down at the cloak that trailed from his hand. “Yes.”
“I must say, you handled him brilliantly. Never seen that sort of fighting style before. Most unusual.”
“I was fortunate. There was a warning.” Artemas glanced at the now darkened window where the prostitute had put out the candle just before the attack. “It was not intended for me, but that is neither here nor there.”
“These bloody footpads grow bolder by the day,” Flood declared. “If the situation gets any worse, a man won’t be able to walk the streets without a runner to watch his back.” Artemas caught hold of the rope that dangled from the window. A brief glance at the intricate knots tied in it was sufficient. London boasted a great variety of footpads and thieves, but few of them were trained in the ancient fighting arts of Vanza.
CHAPTER TEN
The flames leaped high. They were still confined to the laboratory on the floor above, but they threw a hellish light down the long hall. Smoke unfurled like a dark banner heralding a legion of demons from the Pit.
She crouched in front of the bedchamber door. The heavy iron key was wet with his blood. She tried not to look at the body on the carpet. But just as she was about to fit the key into the lock, the dead man laughed. The key slipped from her fingers….
Madeline came awake with a shivering start. She sat straight up in bed, gasping for breath, hoping that she had not cried out. She was damp with icy perspiration. The thin lawn of her nightgown was stuck to her back and chest.
For a few seconds she could not imagine where she was. A new wave of fear flashed through her. She scrambled out of bed. When her bare feet hit the cold floor, she suddenly remembered that she was in a bedchamber in Artemas Hunt’s large, brooding mansion.
His well-guarded, large, brooding mansion, she reminded herself.
Her fingers trembled, just as they did in the dream. She had to concentrate to light the candle. When she succeeded, the small flame cast a reassuring glow that gleamed on the carved bedposts and the washstand. The trunks full of books that she had hurriedly packed herself were stacked in the corner.
A glance at the clock showed that it was nearly three o’clock in the morning. She had actually slept for two full hours before being awakened by the dream. Quite astonishing, really. She rarely slept at all before dawn. Perhaps it was the knowledge that in this household the locks were sturdy and a guard with a very sizable dog prowled the gardens at night that had allowed her to doze off.
She went to the door and opened it cautiously. The corridor outside was dark, but there was a muted glow on the staircase. It came from the downstairs hall. She heard muffled voices. Artemas was home.
It was about time, she thought. He had told her that he intended to make inquiries in the gaming hells and clubs tonight. She was eager to hear what he had learned.
A door closed quietly somewhere down below. Silence fell. She waited for a few minutes but she did not hear Artemas on the stairs. She realized that he must have gone into his library.
> She went back to the bed and took her wrapper down from the post. She put it on, tied the sash, and slipped her feet into a pair of slippers. Her ruffled cap had been dislodged in the course of her dream. She found it on the pillow and plunked it back down on top of her sadly mussed hair.
Satisfied that she was decently attired, she let herself out of the bedchamber and hurried along the shadowy corridor to the wide, curved staircase. Her soft slippers made no sound as she pattered down the carpeted steps.
She crossed the hall and hesitated at the library. There was something forbidding about the firmly closed door. One would think that Artemas did not want company. It occurred to her that he might have come home quite drunk. She frowned. It was hard to imagine Artemas in his cups. There was an aura of self-mastery, an aspect of stern control in his nature that would seem to preclude that sort of weakness.
She knocked lightly. There was no response.
She hesitated a moment longer and then cautiously opened the door. If Artemas actually was in his altitudes, she would leave him alone and confront him in the morning.
She peeked around the corner of the door. A fire crackled on the hearth but there was no sign of Artemas. Perhaps he was not in the library after all. But why build afire?
“I trust that is you, Madeline?” The low, dark voice came from the depths of the vast wing-back chair that faced the fire.
“Yes.”
He did not sound the least bit intoxicated, she realized. Relieved, she stepped into the library and closed the door. She kept her hands on the knob behind her. “I heard you return, sir.”
“And came straight downstairs for a report, I see, even though it is nearly three o’clock in the morning.” He sounded coldly amused. “I perceive that you are going to be an extremely demanding employer, Mrs. Deveridge.”
He was not drunk, but he was also not in a good mood. She pressed her lips tightly together and released her death grip on the doorknob. She walked across the carpet.
When she reached the rug in front of the fire, she turned to look at Artemas. At the sight of him sprawled with ominous grace in the great chair, she caught her breath. She knew at once that something dreadful had occurred.