He went past the old storage rooms, opened a secret door, and went down yet another staircase, down into the long-forgotten chambers that had once served the original owners as a dungeon and an escape route that could be used in times of siege.
When he had discovered the underground rooms years ago, he had told no one about them. Instead he had set about making some modifications. He had created a secret study and a laboratory where he could carry out his important researches without fear of being seen by the Strangers. He had taken pains to secure his hidden chamber with a true Vanza snare.
At the bottom of the last set of ancient stone stairs, he slid aside another panel and prepared to enter the most secret chamber in his house.
The scrape of boot leather on the landing above nearly stopped his heart. He whirled around so swiftly that his bad leg went out from under him. He dropped the candle as he clutched wildly at the edge of the panel door. Shadows flickered on the stone walls.
“Did you think you could conceal your secrets from me, you old fool? I knew that all I had to do was wait. The first thing anyone does after an intruder has departed is check his valuables to make certain that they are still safely hidden. So distressingly predictable.”
Eaton could not see the Stranger’s face in the shadows of the landing, but the candle on the floor had not yet gone out. The flaring light flickered on the barrel of the pistol in the intruder’s hand. It also glinted on the gold handle of a handsome walking stick.
As Eaton watched in horror, the Stranger raised the pistol slightly, aiming it with casual precision.
“No,” Eaton whispered. He staggered back a step.
Why hadn’t he thought to bring a pistol with him? There was one in his desk in his hidden study, but it might as well have been on the moon for all the good it did him at that moment.
“The thing is,” the Stranger said, “I no longer need you to lead me to your secrets. You have just opened the door for me. Very kind of you, sir.”
Eaton flung himself back at the instant he sensed the Stranger’s finger tighten on the trigger. The sudden, twisting motion sent another jolt of pain down his leg, but he knew that the quick, unexpected movement was his only hope.
There was a flash of light. The roar of the pistol was deafening in the stone chamber. He felt the bullet strike him. Not as fast as you were in the old days, Eaton. The impact sent him reeling farther into the secret chamber.
On the floor the candle sputtered one last time and died. Intense, impenetrable darkness flooded the space.
“Bloody hell,” the Stranger muttered. He sounded thoroughly irritated by the sudden descent of night.
Eaton was amazed to discover that he was not as dead as his taper. Too high, he thought. The bullet had taken him in the shoulder, not the heart. Or perhaps the Stranger’s aim had been slightly off, the result of the wildly dancing shadows cast by the dying flame.
Whatever the reason, he had only seconds. He could hear the intruder growling oaths as he attempted to light another candle.
Eaton pressed one hand tightly against his jacket above the wound, hoping to keep the blood from dripping to the floor. He flattened his palm against the nearest wall. The surface was slick and glassy. He kept his fingers in contact with it and made his way to the first intersection. He turned the corner, relying on his sense of touch to guide him.
Light flared dimly behind him. He did not look back. He could see nothing ahead but he could feel the glassy wall beneath his hand. That was all he needed.
He was the one who had designed the maze. He knew its secrets by heart.
“What the devil?” The Stranger’s voice was muffled by the thick, stone walls that formed the floor-to-ceiling canyons of the underground labyrinth. “Come out of there, Pitney. I will let you live if you come here at once. Do you hear me? I will let you live. All I want is the damned key.”
Eaton ignored the furious command. He pressed his hand more tightly against the wound, praying that the blood would be absorbed by his jacket. If it dripped onto the floor, it would create a trail that the Stranger could follow through the maze.
He had to get to his study and the pistol in his desk, Eaton thought.
“Come back here, you stupid old man. You don’t stand a chance.”
Eaton ignored him. He clamped his hand fiercely against his wound and plunged into the darkened maze.
Artemas stood with Zachary in the small, gloom-filled room. Together they looked out the window into the narrow street.
“This was where he concealed himself.” Artemas ran his gloved hand along the scratches beneath the window-sill. “You can see where the hooks of his climbing rope were anchored.”
Zachary shook his head once. “Good thing ye noticed the whore’s candle and realized it was a signal.”
“Do you have a name for the woman yet?”
“Lucy Denton. She took the room downstairs a year ago and worked there regularly until today.”
“Any word of her whereabouts?”
“Not yet. She disappeared into the stews. Short John says one of the lads picked up a couple of rumors outside a coffeehouse this morning, but so far no one’s seen her.”
Artemas glanced at his companion. Zachary’s brows were bunched together in a troubled frown. His narrow face was tight with tension. His customary cocky mien had been replaced by an unfamiliar brooding air.
Zachary was a bastard. He had a last name but, as was the case with many of those who lived on the streets, he rarely used it. He had been in Artemas’s employ for a little more than three years. They had become acquainted when one of the members of Zachary’s small, loosely knit gang of street urchins had attempted to relieve Artemas of his gold watch outside his club one night.
The bold effort had failed spectacularly when Artemas had captured the young ruffian by the collar. Instead of abandoning the younger boy to his fate, Zachary, who had been watching from the shadows of a nearby alley, had made a desperate bid to save his small associate.
He had dashed out of the alley, waving a knife with which he had threatened Artemas. Artemas had relieved Zachary of the blade with a simple move, but the young man had thrown himself at him in a desperate bid to get him to free the urchin.
Artemas had been impressed with Zachary’s fierce efforts to save the smaller boy. When everything had been sorted out, he had taken him aside. “You’re a smart, clever lad,” he had told him before allowing him to escape with his young companion. “I have room in my service for someone with your sort of loyalty. If you ever decide you’d like a post that guarantees a quarterly wage, come and see me.”
He had found Zachary waiting for him outside his club three nights later. The lad had been wary but determined. They had talked for some time and eventually come to an agreement.
The relationship between himself and Zachary had begun with the cool, businesslike distance expected between employer and employee. But somewhere along the line it had evolved into a friendship based on mutual loyalty and respect. Artemas trusted Zachary more than he had ever trusted any of the gentlemen of the ton.
“Never fear, we’ll find her eventually.” Artemas clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “In the meantime well look in other directions.”
Zachary did not appear relieved. If anything, he was more concerned than ever. “He’s Vanza, Mr. Hunt.”
Artemas smiled. “So am I.”
Zachary flushed but he held his ground. “Aye, and now he knows it. That’ll make him all the more dangerous. He’ll be more cunning the next time he tries his tricks.”
“I know you think I’m in my dotage, but age has some benefits. I’ve learned a few tricks, too.”
“I know that better than most, sir. But are ye certain ye don’t want me to guard ye?”
“I need you out on the streets gathering information, Zachary, not watching my back. I can take care of myself.”
Zachary hesitated and then nodded once. “Aye, sir.”
Artemas gazed thoug
htfully around the chamber. “He no doubt paid Lucy well. Enough to allow her to bury herself in the stews for a good length of time if she chooses.”
Zachary shot him another troubled frown. “We’ll find her, but it may take a while. You know what it’s like in that part of town. A regular maze, it is.”
“The money won’t last forever. Sooner or later she’ll venture out to find herself some clients. We’ll have her then.”
“Aye, but it could be too late to do us any good,” Zachary muttered.
Artemas smiled faintly. “That is why we will not pin all of our hopes on finding her. Remember the old Vanza saying, When one searches for answers, one must look where one does not expect them to be concealed.’ We have other places to search besides the stews.”
Zachary met his eyes. “We’ve got some old sayings on the street, too, Mr. Hunt. ‘Don’t go down any dark alleys unless ye’ve got a pistol in yer hand and a friend at yer back.’”
“Good advice,” Artemas said. “Ill keep it in mind.”
Madeline awoke to discover that she had slept more deeply and for a longer stretch of time than she had in ages. Best of all, there had been no dreams of fire and blood tinged with the laughter of a dead man.
Her spirits soared as she pushed aside the covers. When she glanced out the window, she noticed that the city was once again choked with a thick, gray fog, but it did not diminish her sense of well-being. She felt full of energy, ready to take on the task of resolving the mystery of Renwick’s ghost.
Then it struck her that she might very welt have to confront Artemas at the breakfast table.
Her enthusiasm for the new day instantly plummeted. A specter might prove easier to face than Artemas. She stared at her sleep-rumpled image in the dressing table mirror. It was one thing to blackmail the Dream Merchant into helping you hunt for a missing maid and then bargain for his assistance in tracking down the vengeful phantom of your late husband. It was another matter altogether to make casual conversation with him over eggs and toast the morning after you had allowed him to seduce you.
Her trepidation irritated her. Why was she so anxious about the prospect of seeing Artemas today? As she had been at pains to explain to him last night, when one considered the matter closely, one could see quite clearly that nothing had changed. She was still the Wicked Widow this morning, just as she had been yesterday morning. A lady could hardly become any more notorious in the eyes of a gentleman simply because he had discovered that she had been a virgin widow.
Her hands clenched around the edge of the basin. Why did it all have to seem so bloody complicated today?
She glowered at her reflection in the mirror. The sight of herself glowing a shocking shade of pink was extremely annoying.
The flash of anger rallied her spirits. Why should she feel awkward? It was not as though Artemas had any room to be arrogant or mocking. After all, he was a gentleman who had gone into trade.
She groaned aloud and seized the pitcher of water. With any luck he would sleep late, she thought. Or perhaps he was one of those gentlemen who rose early and ate before the rest of the household. Her father had had that habit.
She poured cold water into the large white basin and splashed her face vigorously. Shivering, she gave herself a quick sponge bath and then donned her most severe gown, a black bombazine trimmed with gray satin flowers at the hem.
Steeling herself, she opened the door and went downstairs to brave the breakfast room.
Luck was not with her. Artemas had not slept late. He had not even had the common decency to eat early and discreetly disappear into his library. Instead he was at the table, larger than life, conversing amiably with Bernice, for all the world as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred last night.
Which was precisely the case, she reminded herself grimly. Nothing had changed.
“Good morning, dear.” Bernice’s blue eyes twinkled with delight when she caught sight of Madeline. “My, don’t you look fresh as a daisy today, dear. I see my new tonic worked very well. I shall have to give you another bottle tonight.”
Madeline saw the glint of amusement in Artemas’s eyes. She gave him a frosty look and turned back to her aunt.
“Good morning,” she said politely.
A strange expression flashed in Bernice’s eyes. It was gone in an instant.
Madeline turned at once to the sideboard and pretended to study the contents of the silver dishes that had been set out.
To her horror Bernice continued to prattle on with innocent good cheer. “I vow, I have not seen you looking so refreshed in ages, Madeline. Doesn’t she look wonderfully rested, Artemas?”
“Nothing like a good night’s sleep,” Artemas agreed in stunningly bland accents.
In spite of her resolve to carry on as though nothing had changed, Madeline prayed that the floor would open up beneath her and swallow her whole.
“Mr. Hunt has just informed me about the dreadful events of last night,” Bernice said.
“He told you?” Madeline dropped the serving spoon back into the tray and whirled around. She glowered ferociously at Artemas. “He actually told you what happened last night?”
“Yes, of course, dear.” Bernice made a tut-tutting sound. “I must say I was shocked to the core.”
Madeline swallowed. “Yes, well, I can explain….” She trailed off helplessly.
Artemas’s mouth curved in a sardonic line. “Your aunt is naturally concerned.”
“I have every right to be concerned,” Bernice said briskly. “Attacked on the street outside your club, sir. Outrageous. This villain grows too bold for my liking. I trust you will catch him quickly.”
The sense of relief that washed through Madeline left her feeling dizzy She sat down very quickly on the nearest chair and beetled her brows at Artemas. “Have you any news, sir?”
“As a matter of fact, I met with Zachary early this morning.” Artemas said. He looked more amused than ever now. “We discovered the room where the Vanza fighter hid and had a look around. I regret to report that we didn’t find anything helpful, but Zachary’s Eyes and Ears are hard at work as we speak. Sooner or later one of them will bring me something I can use.”
Madeline was stunned. He had been up for hours. He had left the house, consulted with Zachary, searched the villain’s lair, and returned for breakfast—all before she had even left her bed.
He had been busy with just the sort of tasks she had employed him to perform, she told herself. Nevertheless, his businesslike attitude was somehow unnerving.
He was carrying on just as if nothing had changed.
An hour later Bernice cornered Madeline in her bedchamber. She did not bother with pleasantries, but came straight to the point.
“You are falling in love with Mr. Hunt, are you not?” Madeline dropped the pen she had been using to make some notes. “Good heavens, whatever can you mean, Aunt Bernice?”
“Oh dear, this is even more complicated than I had believed.” Bernice looked thoughtful as she sank down onto the edge of the bed. “The two of you have begun an affair.”
“Aunt Bernice.”
“Naturally I realized right at the start of this business that the two of you were attracted to each other.”
Madeline felt her jaw drop. “What on earth gave you that peculiar notion?”
Bernice held up a hand and ticked off her points on her fingers. “First, you asked him to assist you in dealing with our problem. Second, he agreed to assist you.”
“And from that you deduced that we were attracted to each other?”
“Yes.”
Madeline shook her head. “That is the most ludicrous, ridiculous, nonsensical assumption I have ever heard. How could you have leaped to such a conclusion on such flimsy evidence?”
“Am I wrong?”
“I asked him to assist us because we required the services of a man who comprehends how one who is trained in Vanza thinks. Mr. Hunt agreed to make himself useful because he wants to get hi
s hands on that journal that Papa kept. It was a simple business arrangement, nothing more.”
“Just as I thought. You are having an affair with him.”
Madeline drummed her fingers on the escritoire. “It is not quite so straightforward as you seem to think, Aunt Bernice.”
“My dear, by virtue of your status as a widow, you are a woman of the world, whether you feel like one or not. I would not presume to give you advice.”
“Hah. You know perfectly well you will not hesitate to do so.”
“Quite right. As I was saying, I would not presume to give you any advice, but I would suggest you keep one fact in mind.”
Madeline was instantly wary. “What is that?”
“You say he agreed to the bargain you offered because he wants Win ton’s journal.”
“Yes.”
“He is a master of Vanza.”
“That is precisely why I employed him.”
Bernice gave her a pitying look. “Really Madeline, you are an intelligent woman. How can you overlook the obvious?”
“What is so bloody obvious?”
“Mr. Hunt had no need to accept your bargain in order to get hold of the book. Don’t you recall? You said yourself that with his skills he could have helped himself to that journal without so much as a by-your-leave.”
“Hah.” Triumph surged through Madeline. “That is where you are wrong. I have done some more thinking on that point, and it occurs to me Mr. Hunt knows perfectly well that any attempt on his part to steal that journal would involve a serious risk for him.”
“What risk?”
“Why, that I might retaliate by exposing his ownership of the Dream Pavilions, of course. He cannot take the risk of having the ton discover that he is in trade. You see? He had no choice but to make the pact with me.”
Bernice studied her for a long time. She said nothing.
Madeline began to fidget. “What is it now? What are you thinking?”
“You know as well as I that, had he wished to do so, he could have found a way to ensure that you did not spill his secrets to the world.”