Keston’s smile was feral. “We shall stop first near the south gate of the Dream Pavilions. I want to leave a last message on the grounds for Hunt.”
“I see,” she said coldly. “You’re going to murder Mr. Flood and leave his body for Hunt to find just as you did with Oswynn.”
Flood jerked around, mouth gaping. “What’s this about murdering me?”
“Calm yourself, Flood.” Keston sounded amused. “It is not your body I intend to leave inside the Dream Pavilions. It is the boy’s body Hunt will find on the grounds.”
Madeline felt cold sweat trickle down her back. “You cannot kill the boy Please, there is no reason to hurt him, and you know it. He cannot harm you.”
“It will teach Hunt a lesson.”
Madeline glanced uneasily at Flood, who was swaying in his seat. She had to create a distraction. The only thing she could think of was to try to pit Flood against Keston.
“Why don’t you tell Mr. Flood the truth? He is the one you intend to murder.”
“Huh?” Flood squinted as though he could not focus clearly. “Why d’ye keep talking about murder, you silly bitch? I’m his partner in this venture. We made a pact.”
She felt the carriage slow. “Don’t you understand, sir? He no longer needs you.”
“He can’t kill me.” Flood tried to steady himself as the carriage came to a shuddering halt. But he fell forward once more. This time he landed facedown on the opposite seat, partially covering Short John’s legs. “We’re partners,” he mumbled into the cushions.
Making no move to right himself, Flood lay crumpled awkwardly in the middle of the carriage. As he let out a belch, his big frame rolled farther onto Short John’s much smaller one. Madeline prayed that the boy could still breathe. A couple of twitches of his arm reassured her.
“My congratulations, Mrs. Deveridge.” Keston surveyed Flood with raised brows. “What exactly was in that little flask he took from your aunt’s reticule?”
“My aunt is very skilled with herbal tonics.” She looked at him, trying to hold his gaze, willing him not to glance down at Short John. “It occurred to her that whoever snatched her reticule tonight might decide to help himself to the brandy.”
“So she poisoned it. Well, well, well. A talent for deviousness must run in your family, my dear. First you managed to kill Renwick, no mean feat, and now your aunt has done in my so-called partner. The two of you are a surprisingly efficient pair of females.”
“Flood is only asleep, not dead.”
“Pity. I thought perhaps she had saved me the trouble of getting rid of him. Now I shall have to take care of the business myself.” He motioned with the nose of the pistol. “Open the door, my dear. Quickly now, I do not want to waste any more time. Hunt will reason out soon enough that I intend to leave him another message in his precious gardens.”
She hesitated and then slowly opened the carriage door.
“I will get out first,” Keston said. “You will follow and drag the boy out behind you. You needn’t bother calling out to the coachman. He knows full well that I am the one who will be paying his fee tonight. He will not want to get involved in this affair.”
Keston kept the pistol trained on Madeline as he moved toward the open door. He jumped down lightly onto the pavement, then turned to face her and reached into the carriage for an unlit lantern.
“Now come out slowly, Mrs. Deveridge.” Keston lit the lantern as he spoke.
She reached down to touch Short John. He nodded his head once. She caught a glimpse of his unbound ankles, but he was pinned beneath Flood. He could run if she found a way to gain him the opportunity to escape.
“Tell me, Mr. Keston,” she said as she prepared to alight. “How long do you think you will be able to elude Hunt? A day or two, perhaps?”
“I will allow the bastard to find me when and where I choose. And when we do meet again, I shall kill him. But first I want him to know that I have bested him in this affair. He may be a master of Vanza, but he is no match—”
The dark cloud swirled out of the night sky without warning. The many-caped greatcoat dropped straight down on Keston, enveloping him in folds of heavy wool.
“What—?” Keston’s shout of surprise and rage was muffled by the coat, which covered his head and shoulders. He struggled wildly to throw it off.
“Get down, Madeline!” Artemas shouted as he followed his greatcoat to land on top of Keston.
Both men hit the ground with a sickening thud. The pistol roared as Keston blindly pulled the trigger. The shot went wild but the horses reared and lunged in panic.
“Short John!” Madeline whirled around to grab the boy.
Apparently sensing what was about to happen, he was trying desperately to scramble out of the carriage. But his movements were severely hampered by his bound hands and the dead weight of the heavy Flood.
Madeline felt the carriage lurch as the frightened horses heaved against their harnesses. In a few seconds they would plunge forward in tandem.
She managed to catch hold of one of Short John’s shoulders. She tried to haul him toward the door, but she could not free him from underneath Flood.
Short John stared at her with helpless, terrified eyes. He knew as well as she did what could happen to passengers caught in a runaway carriage. Broken necks were common.
Frantic now, Madeline ignored the two men writhing on the ground and climbed back into the vehicle. A shudder went through it as the horses fought the harness. She knew the animals were on the verge of bolting.
She wedged herself against the seat and used it to gain leverage. She planted the sole of her half boot against Flood’s ribs and shoved as hard as she could.
The carriage rolled forward.
She pushed harder. Flood’s heavy frame finally shifted. Short John managed to wriggle out from under it. She seized him in a more secure grip. Together they leaped from the carriage and tumbled out onto the hard pavement.
The coach thundered off down the narrow street. At the corner the horses dashed to the left. The heavy coach swayed violently and overturned with great force. The horses broke free. Thoroughly maddened now, they pounded away into the darkness, leaving the carriage on its side, wheels spinning aimlessly
Clutching Short John’s arm, Madeline got to her feet and turned around in time to see that Keston had got free of Artemas. She expected him to try to flee into the night. Instead, with a shout of raw fury, he groped for his walking stick where it lay in the gutter.
Madeline thought that perhaps he would try to strike at Artemas with the stick. Instead he twisted the knob with a savage movement of his hand. In the light of the lantern, she saw a long, wicked blade emerge.
“Artemas!”
But he was already in motion. Half lying on the pavement, he swung his booted foot in a short arc that caught Keston hard on the thigh. With a scream of pain Keston fell back onto the hard stones.
Artemas was on him before Madeline could blink.
“Oh God, the knife,” she whispered.
Short John wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face against her cloak.
The combat ended with horrifying suddenness. Both men went still. Artemas lay beneath Keston.
“Artemas!” Madeline shouted. “Artemas!”
“Bloody hell.” Short John raised his face and stared at the two men in shock. “Bloody hell.”
After what seemed an eternity; Artemas heaved himself upward and rolled free of the unmoving Keston. Blood gleamed in the glare of the lantern.
Madeline threw the edge of her cloak around Short John, instinctively trying to shield him from the sight.
Artemas got to his feet and looked at her. He seemed unaware of the blood that dripped from the knife in his hand.
“Are you all right?” he asked harshly.
“Yes.” She stared at the knife. “Artemas, are you—?”
He looked down at the knife. Then he glanced at Keston. “I’m fine,” he said quietly.
Short John shoved aside Madeline’s cloak and demanded, “Is he dead?”
“Yes.” Artemas flung the knife aside, which clanged loudly on the pavement.
Madeline ran to him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Who would have dreamed that Flood was involved?” Bernice shuddered. “And here I thought I was being so clever by putting that sleeping potion into my reticule. I intended Keston to drink it, not Mr. Flood.”
“What matters is that Flood did drink it.” Artemas eyed the glass of brandy he had just poured for himself. “And I, for one, will never look at brandy in quite the same manner again. I must thank you again, madam. Just as I thank you, Madeline, for rescuing Short John from the runaway carriage. All in all, there was very little left for me to do.”
Madeline glared at him. “Do not make light of the events, sir. You could have been killed.”
“Speaking of which,” Bernice murmured, “I trust you are not too annoyed by Flood’s untimely death in the carriage accident. I realize you had wanted him to suffer through his recent reversal of fortunes.”
“I am done with elaborate schemes of extended revenge.” Artemas glanced at Henry. “I have discovered that they tend to entail far too many complications and unforeseen consequences.”
“A wise decision, sir,” Henry murmured. “You have better things to do these days.”
“Yes.” Artemas looked at Madeline, who was curled on the sofa. “Most definitely.”
Madeline looked up from the key she had been studying. “What of the sleeping herbs?”
“I found what remained of the supply that Keston had stolen from Lord Clay when I searched his rooms this morning,” Artemas said. “I also discovered small quantities of other herbs that he must have used to drug his victims.”
“Did you find anything else of interest?” Madeline asked.
“Yes. Keston’s journal. The long and the short of the matter is that he has been on the trail of the key since he first learned of its existence several months ago. It took him some time to track it to London. After he got here, he narrowed his search to those gentlemen in the Society he deemed most likely to be capable of translating it. Then he systematically searched their libraries.”
“It must have given him quite a shock the night Linslade discovered him,” Madeline said.
“Yes. But it also gave him the idea of pretending to be his half brother returned from the dead. He determined to use the charade to terrify you after he realized you might be the one who had the key.”
Henry swirled the brandy in his glass. “But by that time, Madeline was safely installed here in your house.”
“Yes. He made one quick bid to get rid of me early on.”
Madeline frowned. “The night he attacked you on the street.”
Artemas took a swallow of the brandy and nodded. “When that failed, he realized I was going to be a bit of a problem.”
“And that,” Madeline said smugly, “was the understatement of the year.”
“So he tried to encourage me to remove myself from the affair by interfering with my plans for Oswynn, Flood, and Glenthorpe, threatening to leave bodies lying about on the grounds of the Dream Pavilions.”
“Which would have led to the discovery that you owned the pleasure gardens,” Bernice noted.
Artemas smiled. “He was quite certain that I would do anything to conceal my connection to trade, you see. He assumed I put a great value on my position in the ton.”
“When the truth of the matter was that the only thing you cared about was your vengeance,” Madeline concluded.
Artemas met her eyes. “He could not have known I was rapidly losing my taste for that.”
She smiled. “You really are an extraordinary man, Artemas.”
“Even if I am Vanza?” he asked politely.
“Not every gentleman of the Vanzagarian Society is a complete crackbrain,” she said magnanimously.
“Thank you, my dear. It is very reassuring to know that I have at last risen above the level of a crackbrain in your opinion.”
Henry chuckled. Bernice looked amused.
Madeline turned pink. She waved the small book in her hand. “About the key, sir.”
“What of it?”
“We really must decide what to do with it.”
“Yes.” His answer was unequivocal. “It is of no practical use without the Book of Secrets, but it will likely attract more trouble.”
“I agree with you, but it is knowledge and it goes against everything my father taught me to willfully destroy knowledge. Who knows what value it may hold for those who come after us?”
“What would you suggest that we do with it?”
“The Book of Secrets, if it is ever found, belongs to the Garden Temples of Vanzagara,” she said slowly. “I believe the key to the text belongs there, too.”
Artemas thought about that for a while. “You may be right.”
“A certain logic to that,” Henry agreed.
“As far as I am concerned, the farther away it is from England, the better,” Bernice put in with great depth of feeling.
“The question, of course, is how can it be safely conveyed back to Vanzagara?” Madeline mused.
Artemas smiled. “I can think of no safer way to transport it than as cargo on one of Edison Stokes’s vessels. His ships call regularly in Vanzagara. Let him take the responsibility for protecting it en route. Whatever happens, we shall be free of the bloody book.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
He promised himself that he would not put it off another day. He had to have the answer or he truly would become as crazed as any crackpot in the Vanzagarian Society.
But he could not ask the question inside the house. Perhaps it was his Vanza nature, but he craved the cover of darkness.
Madeline frowned when he asked her to accompany him on a walk in the garden.
“Are you mad?” she asked. “It’s cold out there tonight. The fog is quite thick, too. We might very well take a chill.”
He set his teeth. “I promise you that we will not stay outside long.”
She opened her mouth. He could see the next objection forming on her lips. He braced himself for another round of arguments. Then she gave him a strange look. Without a word, she put down the book she had been reading and got to her feet.
“Give me a moment to fetch my cloak,” she said. She brushed past him and went out into the hall.
He collected his greatcoat while he waited for her. When she joined him, they walked down the rear hall together, opened the door, and stepped out into the night.
The fog pooled in the garden but the night was not as cold as Artemas had anticipated. Perhaps he was distracted by what lay ahead.
“I trust my aunt and Mr. Leggett are enjoying themselves at the theater tonight,” Madeline said in a bright, conversational tone that sounded oddly brittle. “They make a charming couple, don’t you agree? Who would have guessed?”
“Mmm.” The last thing Artemas wanted to discuss was the rapidly blooming romance that had developed between Bernice and Henry. He had his own romance to worry about.
“I expect this is about getting rid of your houseguests, is it not, sir?” Madeline pulled the hood of her cloak up over her head. “I realize we have been a nuisance. I assure you, Aunt Bernice and I can be packed by morning.”
“There is no hurry. My household appears to have adjusted rather nicely to your presence.”
“It is all right, Artemas, I assure you. We will be gone by noon.”
“I did not bring you out here to discuss your departure. I want to—”
“We are both very grateful to you, sir. Indeed, I do not know what we would have done without your assistance. I hope that you are satisfied with your payment.”
“I am content with your father’s journal, thank you,” he growled. “I don’t want your bloody gratitude.”
She clasped her hands behind her back. “Before I take my leave, I wish to apolog
ize for several occasions on which I may have inferred that you were a trifle eccentric.”
“I am eccentric. Probably a good deal more than just a trifle.”
“I certainly never considered you a complete crack-brain.” In the deep shadows her eyes were very earnest. “I want to make that clear. Indeed, it has been brought very forcibly to my attention lately that there is a strong strain of eccentricity in my own family from which I am not entirely exempt.”
“Mmm. Well, there is that. Thank you for reminding me.”
“You need not agree with such alacrity, Artemas.”
“Early on in our association, you mentioned that you were quite taken with the logic that one must fight fire with fire, catch thieves with thieves, et cetera, et cetera. What do you think of the notion that it takes an eccentric to deal with an eccentric?”
She slanted him a distinctly wary look. “What do you mean?”
“If one follows your line of reasoning, one might conclude that the marriage of two noted eccentrics might prove quite satisfactory to both parties.”
She cleared her throat. “Marriage?”
“Provided, of course, that the various eccentricities of the individuals involved proved complementary and compatible.”
“Of course.” Her words came hesitantly.
“I am of the opinion that you and I exhibit some mutually compatible eccentricities,” he plowed on determinedly. “From time to time you have given me reason to believe that you might be in accord with that opinion.”
She froze in the deep shadows of the high wall. Beneath the hood of her cloak her eyes were unfathomable. He realized that he was holding his breath.
“Good heavens, Artemas, are you by any chance asking me to marry you?”
“As you have noted, I have some serious drawbacks as a husband. I am Vanza, I am eccentric, I am in trade—”
“Yes, yes, I know all that.” She cleared her throat. “I never felt that your being in trade was a serious barrier, sir. And as for your Vanza connections and eccentricities, well, I have my own, do I not? I can hardly complain.”
“Nevertheless, you did complain.”