He reached for his pocket, digging for money to give the girl. “Thank you very much, miss. . .”
“Just Ermie, my lord. And I don’t wants no money—Mrs. Cadbury—she saved my life, and got me this job too, with a good wage. She’s a good woman, far better than that sorry lot.” She cast a contemptuous eye at the huddle of men who were watching them. “You find her and keep her safe.”
“I’ll do that, Ermie,” he said, clasping her hand in thanks, and she looked aghast. The gentry didn’t touch the lower orders. Too bad. He didn’t live by the rules. He’d made a stab at it while he’d been down here, but he’d had enough. “You need anything, you apply to Viscount Rohan and he’ll see to it. Will you do that?”
She nodded, pulling her hand away and looking at it gingerly, as if had turned into a foreign object. “I do just fine, my lord. But if something happens, I’ll tell the viscount.”
“Good girl,” he said, deciding it was better that he didn’t touch her again, though in truth he wanted to hug her in gratitude. He turned his head to his companion. “Noonan,” he said. “We need a fast carriage.”
Noonan nodded. “That we do, lad. That we do.”
The smell hadn’t improved, Emma thought with bitter satisfaction. Fenrush was sitting opposite her, crammed onto the bench seat with the bulky Collins, clad in vest and shirt sleeves, his ruined coat tossed out a window. She’d manage to direct the entirety of her stomach disruption on the man, and if he hadn’t been so disgusted he might have killed her on the spot.
“You’re awfully squeamish about a little indigestion for a man comfortable with hauling corpses,” she observed in a tranquil voice. Her wrists were tied too tightly in front of her, so there was no way she could work at the knot, and the bonds around her body kept her movement limited, but her spirits had improved. She wasn’t defeated yet, for all that things looked dire.
“Cadavers,” Fenrush corrected her sullenly. “They were entirely for medical purposes.”
“Except for the women, because treating women is of no importance.”
He glared at her. “Any medical advancements we discover with men are applicable to women’s bodies. They’re essentially the same.”
She managed to produce an actual laugh at that. “No, they’re not. I would have thought with your predilection for whores you might have realized that.”
“You were one of them.”
She didn’t even blink. Now wasn’t the time to get distracted. “So I was. Actually I’d forgotten you. But then, I never paid the slightest attention to my clientele. There were simply a pack of rutting dogs, and I had better things to occupy my mind.”
He flushed, and she felt another trace of satisfaction. Whether she could escape or not, she could use her sharp tongue to weaken him as best she could.
She knew about syphilis and the terrible affects it had on the mind and body. Many of the women under her care had died from it, and the mental instability was one of the hallmarks of its latter stages. There had always been pressure to send the dying women to Bedlam, to end their lives in squalor and misery, but she had done her best to keep them at Temple Hospital, where they could be looked after until their death.
She had no idea how close Fenrush was. His normally high complexion was pasty, with a sallow undertone, and some of his bulk had lessened, leaving the waistcoat loose around his once-massive paunch. His hands trembled, his feet twitched, and he grimaced in pain. His initial infection could have been as recently as five years ago, as long ago as twenty, and she knew a moment’s panic. They had always done their best to keep the women safe when she ran the house, but after the first outbreak of the vicious infection came a period when all symptoms vanished, and there’d never been a guarantee.
And then her bitter amusement took charge. Chances were she was going to be dead in twenty-four hours, so anything else hardly mattered. In truth, had she been infected, symptoms of the early stages would have cropped up. Several of the women they’d rescued had contracted it, but none of them had earned her living under Emma’s care, and her oldest friends were safe.
“There’s no treatment for it, you know,” she said lazily, leaning back as best she could.
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Do you think me a complete fool?”
She decided not to answer that.
“Don’t listen to her,” Collins advised. “She’s just trying to get yer goat.”
“I know that,” Fenrush snapped. He glared at her. “You know, I could be merciful. I could have Collins snap your neck before he sets the fire, but now I don’t think so. I want you to feel the flames licking at your skin, your eyeballs melting.” He was drooling.
“Eyeballs don’t melt in a fire.” Her voice was flat, prosaic. “Everything singes, then chars. Have you never examined a cadaver . . . oh, wait. You’re more than familiar with them. Perhaps you contracted your disease from one of them. I gather there are a specialized few who prefer relations with the recently deceased. . .”
This time it was Fenrush who lunged at her, and Collins who held him back with seemingly little effort, which could mean that Fenrush had been weakened by his disease. It was a useful thing to consider—any bit of knowledge might help.
“Now, now, Mr. Fenrush,” Collins chided in a soothing voice. “You don’t wants to go losing your temper, do you? She ain’t worth it, she ain’t, and you know it. You don’t want to be doing anything that might throw things off, do you now? These things can be very difficult, very difficult indeed, I can tell you. How many times has she managed to escape your careful plans? First, she breaks out of that rats’ nest of whores that Charity Carstairs set up. Then she makes such a fuss when I push her into the river that someone fishes her out again. Then, when I’ve got her dead to rights in a deserted field what happens but that ugly soldier with the torn-up face comes, and I’ve got no choice but to run.”
“You’re forgetting I kicked you in the bollocks,” Emma said helpfully. “You must admit that slowed you down a bit.”
The look in Collins’s tiny dark eyes promised a particularly evil retribution, but otherwise he ignored her. “And now everything’s set in motion. No one has any idea we’re behind this—the girl lives a dangerous life, after all, and it’s no wonder she’s had a few accidents. And these old buildings are bound to be firetraps, and what do whores know about anything? One untended candle and the place goes up in flames, taking everyone with it.”
“You said it was foolproof before.” Fenrush sounded like a sullen child, deprived of a sweet.
“Well, we learned from that, didn’t we? Everything’s been taken care of, all nice and tidy like, and the men we sent from London said everything was ready. The fire should burn so hot there won’t be anything left of the whores to bury. We’ve got some of them new Rockite kettles to bring the coals, and it won’t be but the work of a moment to move the debris to the doors, trapping them inside. It’ll burn, all right, and her and all the others with it.”
“What if one of the women wakes up and tries to stop you?”
Collins let out an exasperated sigh. “I’ll club her senseless and get on with me work. But I knows how to be quiet. You don’t live to be my age without a lot of experience—that’s why you hired me so long ago, and I haven’t failed you yet.”
“She’s still alive,” Fenrush pointed out fretfully.
“She won’t be for long.”
The carriage was slowing, and Emma’s empty stomach began to tighten. The drive to Suffolk, usually endless, now seemed to have been over in a blink. She had no idea how long she’d been unconscious, she only knew that they were already nearing their destination. There was still some light left outside—it had been early when she’d stumbled into the hospital, and while shadows were looming it was not yet dark enough to enact the events that Collins had obligingly outlined. They would have to wait, and waiting gave her time to think, to plan.
She didn’t want to die. Brandon wouldn’t like it, and Melisande
would be distraught. If she simply disappeared, as she’d first intended, they would be angry rather than grieving, and they would both recover.
Even more important, she didn’t want the Gaggle to die in the flames set by a madman. Each and every one of them had been through enough horrors, and they’d dragged themselves up and out of an almost inescapable world. She knew far too well that they’d already paid dearly for a life that hadn’t been of their own choosing, and she was damned if she was going to let them suffer any more.
Not the least, of course, was her iron-hard determination not to let monsters like Fenrush and Collins win in the end. Too often the poor unfortunates, usually women, suffered while the men enjoyed the results of their cruelty. She wasn’t going to let that happen again.
The carriage pulled to a stop, and Fenrush slid down the window, letting in a blast of chilly, wonderful fresh air, enough to make a small dent in the miasma of the cramped space. She had her first look at the coachman, and she knew he wouldn’t be of any help. If anything he looked more evil than Collins, and he merely glanced at her, as if a bound woman was normal in his daily duties.
“I’ve parked us in an outcropping,” he said, standing in the open door of the carriage. “No one will see us in the shadows, and it should be full dark in an hour. The lads will be meeting us with the kettles just before midnight—you want me to go check on them?”
“Yes,” said Fenrush.
“No need,” said Collins at the same time. “They know what will happen to them if they fail me—that little chippie from the big house paid the price already. No one wants to end with their parts scattered from here to the coast like she did.”
The coachman looked unfazed. “I expect not. No worries. This is all going to go smooth as silk. You’ve got the best working with you.”
Fenrush sniffed, and Collins chuckled. “I know I do, me lad. And you know what might happen if something goes amiss. I made the mistake of working with amateurs before. Wouldn’t do it again.”
The man jerked his head in her direction. He had a small, rat-like face, a long, thin nose and broken teeth. “She up for some entertainment before we set to work? She’s a prime piece.”
Emma held herself very still, refusing to look at him. She’d survive if he raped her. She’d survived worse.
But Collins shook his head. “Himself says we’re to keep our hands off her. Don’t rightly know why, but there it is.”
Fenrush had lapsed into a mumbling silence, ignoring everything, and Emma’s stomach tightened further. Too bad she didn’t have limitless food to spew over everyone, but she hadn’t eaten much in the last few days. She’d been too busy thinking about Brandon.
He might never know what happened to her. If the flames were as hot as Collins had said, there might be no way to identify the bodies, and she would be buried as one of the nameless women who had tried to better themselves. In a way it would be fitting.
But that wasn’t going to happen. She glanced at Collins from beneath half-closed eyelids, then at Fenrush. He still had the surgical saw tucked into his pants, more visible with the loss of his fancy coat, and she suspected he might have more of his surgical tools tucked on him.
Fenrush lifted his head and caught her watching him. She quickly lowered her gaze, but he was alert now, sounding marginally more rational. “How long do we have to wait?” he said plaintively.
“No more than a few hours,” Collins said. “Why don’t you sleep a bit while we wait? Beedle, you go make sure the fires at the back doors are ready to go. It’s late enough that no one would be using them, and I don’t wants any more mistakes.”
“There’d better not be any,” Fenrush growled, his eyes narrowing, and Emma accepted his mood swing with resignation. She’d have an easier time of it if she only had to deal with Collins, but no matter what the circumstances she had every intention of surviving, and saving the Gaggle as well.
“What say we take her out into the woods and have a little fun with her?” Collins suggested, seemingly ever hopeful. “We’ve got hours of waiting.”
Fenrush shook his head, and Collins made an exasperated sound. “Why not? She’ll be dead by midnight—why not enjoy her in the meantime while we wait? You can’t have any reason to spare her.”
The man outside the coach was looking avid, his mouth open, and Emma could barely control her shiver of disgust.
“No!” Fenrush snapped again.
“Why not? We can all take turns, mebbe have ‘er at the same time. . .”
“I can’t!” The words came out in a cry, followed by a shocked silence. Then Fenrush managed to calm himself. “I find I am unable to perform adequately, due to my illness,” he said in precise little voice, “and I have no intention of sitting and watching.”
“You’ve liked it well enough before,” Collins pointed out, unmoved.
“Do not dare to question me!” Fenrush cried. “You will follow my orders or I’ll find someone who will.”
The possibility of that was far-fetched, but no one remarked on it. “Yes, sir,” Collins muttered, then lumbered down from the coach to join his accomplice. “Just keep her company, Mr. Fenrush, and we’ll be back.”
The voices, the coarse laughter faded quickly, and she was alone with the man who wanted her dead. She raised her lids and looked at him calmly, racking her brain for distraction, but words failed her when she saw his face.
Tears were pouring down his fat cheeks, splashing onto his soiled shirt and stained waistcoat. His lower lip was trembling, like a child’s, but he made no sound whatsoever, he simply sat there and wept.
She blinked, momentarily at a loss. Was he regretting the horrible things he’d done, the things he’d planned? Should she feel compassion for him as well, for a life gone so terribly wrong?
Fuck that, she thought succinctly, using the word she’d always tried to avoid, as she eyed the surgical saw. Could she throw herself on him, somehow manage to grasp the knife with her bound wrists and free herself before he could stop her? Was that her best chance, when the two more able-bodied men weren’t around? How likely would it be that she’d succeed?
And then Fenrush raised his weeping face, his eyes meeting hers, and she froze. Those eyes, overflowing with tears, held no sorrow. Instead, they held a mad glee, and Emma knew she was going to die.
Chapter 28
“You’ll kill yourself!” Noonan shouted at him.
The light carriage was in a ditch, one wheel thrown a dozen feet away, and if they hadn’t jumped in the last minute they both would have been dead. That wouldn’t have helped Emma, Brandon thought, scrambling down into the ditch to help Noonan release the panicked horses.
“We survived, didn’t we?” he shot back, running a soothing hand along the back of one of a matched set of bays Benedick kept for the light, fast curricle. It took all he had to keep from communicating his panic to the gelding, but he knew he had to take the time or he’d end up sabotaging himself again.
“If you hadn’t been driving like a madman and taken that corner too fast we wouldn’t have lost that wheel. Now we’ve got to find a new carriage somewhere, and we’re miles from the nearest village.”
“No, we don’t,” Brandon said grimly, leading one of the high-strung horses up the embankment. “If you tell me you can’t ride without a saddle I won’t believe you.”
Noonan looked horrified in the early evening shadows. “It’s a carriage horse, lad! Not one for holding your weight or mine!”
“They’re strong enough to pull the curricle with two passengers. You can stay behind—I won’t. We’re still a good two hours from Rippington, and I need to stop that bastard before it’s too late.”
He surveyed the horse for a moment. It was nervous, eyeing him warily. He’d ridden bareback often enough as a child—he and his brothers had tumbled around their country estates like wild savages, his mother used to say, and his sister had joined in as well. They would ride, swim in the ocean, play bandits in the forests and wiz
ards and fairies in the caves. He’d been Oxtaine the Foolhardy, Benedick’s name for him, and he’d need every ounce of that foolhardiness to get to Emma in time.
Noonan was watching him, skepticism writ on his face. “He’s not used to being ridden—he’ll try to buck you off.”
“He can try.” He surveyed the horse, which stood at least fifteen hands. Somehow taking a flying leap at a pony in a field had always seemed simple enough when he and his siblings had been ready for a lark. It no longer looked quite so easy.
“And how are you planning to get up on that big monster? His back is as high as your shoulders.”
He swung his head to look at Noonan. “You’re giving me a leg up.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I pummel you and climb on your fallen body,” he snapped.
“You and what army? You may be bigger and younger but you’ve forgotten one thing.”
“And what’s that?” said Brandon.
“I fight dirty.” Noonan then let out an exaggerated sigh. “You don’t even know the girl is there—it’s just a guess.”
“I know,” he said, completely certain. He didn’t dare consider any alternative.
Noonan scowled. “There’s no making you see sense, is there?”
“Is it sensible to let the woman I love be murdered?”
“Love her, do you? You should have thought of that earlier,” the man grumbled. “I wish to bloody Christ we’d never left the Highlands. Our peaceful life is at an end. You’ll be saddled not only with a wife but a mistress as well, one you lo-o-o-ve,” he mocked the word, “and we’ll never have any peace again.”
“There’ll only be one woman in Scotland, or wherever she chooses to live, one wife, and that will be Emma.”
“You’ll marry a whore?” Noonan took a step backward. “Don’t give me that look, my boy. I’m only saying what everyone else will.”
“To hell with you and everyone else,” Brandon said succinctly. “Are you helping me or getting in the way?”
He half expected more argument, and time was flying by. At least Aristide, the gelding, was growing calmer by the minute. He wouldn’t like being mounted, but he’d survive it well enough. He was a strong horse with good heart, enough to carry him the last two hours of hell-bent riding. He had to be.