Page 42 of Only Pleasure Will Do

A relieved smile replaced the worried look. “First landing, last door on the right.”

“Thank you.” He waved her off and started his climb once more.

Even if Maddy hadn’t come back here, perhaps he could discover a clue to where she might’ve gone. His boots thumped loudly as he strode down the corridor, past sconces with candles that flickered in the draft he created. He reached the door and rattled the latch. Pressing his ear against the dark panel, he tried to ascertain if anyone was there. Should he call out? Opening his mouth to do so, he stopped at the distinct sound of a chair scraping across the floor then pounded the wooden surface with his fist. “M…Madam Vestry!” He’d almost called her Maddy. “Madam Vestry!”

When no response came, he rattled the latch once more then dropped to his knee and took out his set of lock picks. Moments later, he opened the door on silence. No movement, no rush of air as if a person had moved back suddenly. The room was darker than sin. He groped on the sides for a table with a candle, but none came to hand, so he stepped back into the hall and grabbed a light from one of the sconces.

Maddy’s room was well-furnished, though not as garishly as the rest of the house. Slowly, he made his way around it, noting nothing out of place or looking freshly used. The deep wine-colored coverlet on the tall poster bed lay smooth and untouched. The toilette table showed signs of use, but it was impossible to tell if it had been more recent than four weeks ago. Oddly, there seemed to be no basin but only an ewer. Of course, Maddy may have had something else brought up to wash in daily.

As he continued around the room, the armoire in the corner drew his attention next. The perfect hiding place for a small woman. Or anyone, really. The motto “take nothing for granted” had served him well over the years. He stooped, not taking his gaze off the wardrobe, then slipped his knife out of his boot and eased toward the elegant piece of furniture. Carved with intricate curlicues at both top and bottom, the polished wood—mahogany, if he didn’t miss his guess—gleamed in the candlelight. In one smooth movement, he grasped the handle and pulled.

Various gowns, both everyday wear and costumes one might don for a masquerade, hung on the left side of the armoire. Reginald let out the breath he was holding and pulled the right-hand door open as well. More clothing, neatly folded on shelves, met his gaze. Shaking his head, he closed the wardrobe and continued around the chamber, but nothing else came to light, save Maddy’s close stool situated behind a decorated screen. Perhaps he should check that as well, although he was loath to view such a private piece of furniture. True, it should’ve been cleaned weeks ago and left as no one was supposed to be using the room. A niggling feeling in the back of his head said to do it just to be certain.

He put his hand on the screen when a scraping sound, like the one he’d heard earlier, came from the room directly above Maddy’s, followed by a man’s husky voice. The ladies had begun their nightly routine. That was probably the sound he’d heard earlier. The walls were far from thick. Maddy must’ve heard everything under the sun in her time here. If only he could find her, he swore to make that change, for her and for Pearl.

Enough time wasted for one night. His shoulders cramped, and he shrugged them to release the muscles. God, but he was tired, weary to the bone. He’d managed to hold back the raw emotion that threatened to overwhelm him whenever he allowed himself a second to think about the loss of Katarina, Duncan, and their son, but he’d pushed the thought away so many times it now had an air of unreality to it. Like a fresh wound before the air could reach it and the agony began. It would come soon enough.

Reginald returned the candle to its sconce and pulled the door to until it clicked. Tomorrow, he’d continue his search for Maddy. For now, let him leave this place before he witnessed things that would keep him up all night.

* * * *

The rattling of the latch spurred Amorina to action. She set the basin on the chair, grasped the back edge of the armoire, and gave it a great tug. The heavy piece of furniture skittered across the floor, revealing a small door in the wall behind the wardrobe—a well-used priest hole, built when the original building had been constructed.

She hastily opened the door, grabbed the basin, and stepped into the cramped little room. An ingenious hiding place if one did not mind small spaces. And in this case, she absolutely did not. The person seeking entrance to her room might very well be Tommy Redmond, who’d learned the truth and was here to take his revenge on her. She set the basin on the floor, closed the door, and reached through a clever slot in the slats to grab a handle on the back of the armoire. With another tug, the wardrobe slid back toward the wall, concealing the door, the handle now neatly fitting through the slot.

Gripping the handle with all her might, she tensed when someone pounded on the door. A low, muffled voice called to her, but the distance was too great to identify the speaker. Best to assume it was not someone who wished her well. Waiting for his next move, she continued to brace herself, pulling back on the handle.

A glimmer in the dark chamber told her the man had found a candle. Had she been able to remove all traces of her short time there? Holding her breath, lest he hear her, Amorina closed her eyes and prayed.

A quick tug on the handle almost startled a yelp out of her. Instead, she redoubled her efforts to keep the wardrobe from moving. Stay still and don’t breathe. She concentrated so hard on those two tasks she almost didn’t recognize the sound of boots heading back down the corridor, away from her room. Had he gone? Was she free once more? Cautiously, she released her death grip on the handle, her hands aching in protest as she stretched them. Once the blood flowed freer, she sat down in the room’s single chair and flexed her fingers. The release of tension, not only from her hands but her whole body, almost made her giddy. Some things were going well for her. She would concentrate on those.

The comfortable chair was a trap, she understood that. Soft and warm, it wanted to seduce her to close her eyes and rest a bit. But the bed was out there, just beyond the wardrobe. All she need do was push the armoire away, crawl out of the hole and into her bed—in which she hadn’t slept for more than a month. That was what she would do. She would just rest her eyes here a minute…

Her elbow sliding off the chair arm jolted Amorina awake as her head bobbed on her neck, a crick making itself immediately known. Gasping as she sat up, she peered around the dark room, completely confused by the dimness and small space. A glimmer of early light shone on the floor, enough for her to make out the outline of the door…to the priest hole. Of course. She’d hidden here last night when someone had come to her door looking for her. And she’d fallen asleep before she could crawl out of the cramped closet.

Rubbing her hands across her face to finish waking herself up, she gingerly stretched first one then the other leg. She hated the prickly sensation of needles and pins along her legs and feet. Thank goodness it wore off quickly. Her back was a bit stiff—the chair had little back cushion to it—but, all things considered, she felt remarkably refreshed this morning. Rising, she stretched some more, repressing a groan at the sore muscles. That would go away as soon as she set off to find the morning’s newssheet. She had to trust the gentlemen had managed to pull off the blast with no one injured and finish her part in this sorry drama by producing the evidence. If she survived, she’d never set foot in a Drury Street theatre again. She’d had enough tragedy to last her a lifetime.

A hard push moved the wardrobe and Amorina stepped into the room. A quick glance told her the intruder hadn’t disturbed anything. Whoever he’d been, he’d likely discovered her absent and simply left, thank God. She needed no more unexpected twists in this already twisted scheme.

After using the close stool and tidying her hair as much as possible, Amorina tried to straighten her now even-more rumpled traveling gown., but it simply would not do. Anyone seeing her in this bedraggled state near Berkeley Square would likely take notice, and she needed to be as unobtrusive as possible. In moments, she’d shed the disheveled garment and dipped into the armoire for a fresh gown of blue, printed indienne cotton. She pulled it on and swiftly fastened it up the front. Lord, but it felt wonderful to be in clean clothes. Balling up the soiled gown, she moved back to the armoire and tossed the garment into the priest’s hole then pushed the piece of furniture back in place. A moment to calm her racing heart then she carefully let herself out.

She crept back down the servant stairs as quietly as possible, although this early in the morning no one ever stirred save Nancy. She’d decided to leave by the back door instead of retracing her steps through the root cellar. It was early enough—she didn’t know the time, but by the sun it couldn’t be more than seven. The maid never rose before eight, so the kitchen should be empty.

Her stomach was too. She’d had next to nothing to eat yesterday, and precious little for the weeks before. There was plenty of food in the larder and she needn’t be at the park for another five hours. But nerves had stolen her appetite. A celebratory feast would be in order as soon as this ordeal was over. Preferably one she could share with Reginald and Pearl.

Thought of where they were this very moment, of whether they were alive or dead made her stomach roil. Let her go find the wretched broadsheet and take it to the park at Berkeley Square. Perhaps Redmond would be early as well, and they could get this cruel farce over with.

She let herself out the back door and pulled it shut. As she did, the click of a pistol being cocked sounded loudly in her right ear and a cold piece of metal was shoved against the flesh of her temple.

“Good morning, Amorina.” The sickening voice of Tommy Redmond so close to her made her skin crawl. “I think this is a good day for you to die, don’t you?”