The three men said little to each other during the drive. Michael could hear Hewitt shifting around on the rumble seat behind him. Michael didn’t have much to say to Scudamore. They had never liked each other, truth be told. Michael had always thought Scudamore was a bit of a snake, the type of fellow who would sell his own mother if it would net him twenty pounds.
He shook his head. Apparently the man had turned over a new leaf. He shouldn’t hold old schoolyard grudges against him.
Scudamore reined in the horses then turned to face his companions. “We’ll burst in on them unawares. I’ll go first, then Hewitt, then Morsley.”
“Why don’t I go first, since I’m the one who’s armed?” Michael asked.
Scudamore shook his head. “No. I really feel like it should be me. I’m the one who caused this mess. It’s my responsibility.”
Michael shrugged. “As you like.”
“Here,” Scudamore said, “since I’m going first, let me have the pistol.”
Michael handed it over and they all climbed down from the curricle.
Scudamore led them toward the nearest house. Something about the plain grey brick buildings, the laundry overhead obscuring the moonlight, felt strangely familiar.
Michael dragged his gaze back to the house before him. Those features were probably common to every row of tenement houses in London.
Scudamore grasped the knob with one hand, pistol gripped in the other. “All right, here we go!” He turned the knob and charged through the door with Hewitt and Michael right behind him.
The room was quiet. There was a battered table and a pair of chairs to one side, and a narrow bed along the opposite wall. The dirty plates atop the table were the only signs of habitation. The mantelpiece was bare and save for a few rags hanging from a clothesline above the bed, there were no possessions.
“I’ll check upstairs,” Scudamore said, striding toward a staircase at the back of the room.
Michael was about to follow when he heard a muffled groan coming from a dark corner.
He hurried over and found a willow-thin boy of about eight years of age. He was lying on the wooden floor, bound and gagged.
Michael knelt down and began picking at the knots. He removed the gag first, and the boy took a few gasping breaths.
“What’s your name?” Michael asked, starting to work on the bindings at the boy’s wrists.
“Nick, sir.”
Michael’s eyes flew to his face. “Nick? Are you the same Nick who was kidnapped from Lady Anne’s lodging house?”
Nick nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Thank God,” Michael said as the knot gave way. “We were afraid Gladstone would have killed you already. I’m Lord Morsley. Lady Anne sent me to rescue you.”
Nick used his newly freed hands to grip two fistfuls of Michael’s coat. “You’re in terrible danger, my lord.”
“Yes,” Michael said, moving to work on the bindings at Nick’s ankles. “We’ve got to get out of here before Gladstone arrives. Are there any other boys here?”
“Yes, six or seven, but—” Nick shook his head. “What do you mean, before he arrives? The man who first took me—the man from the black carriage—he’s already here. He came here with—”
Nick froze at the metallic click of a pistol being cocked. Michael looked over his shoulder and saw Scudamore standing near the stairs.
Except now he was flanked by four men.
One of those men was Mr. Hewitt from Bow Street. Another, Michael realized with a start, was the man they had encountered last night, the tall, skinny cretin who had grabbed Anne. He was now sporting an impressive black eye.
Something clicked into place. This isn’t Pottery Lane. No wonder the row of tenement houses had felt familiar.
Warily, Michael dragged his eyes back to Scudamore. The viscount smiled at him, but it wasn’t a nice sort of smile.
And he was pointing Anne’s pistol at Michael’s heart.
Anne wasted no time in dispatching notes—to Samuel, to the men guarding her lodging house, to everyone she could think of who might be able to assist. She sent them the address Lord Scudamore had indicated in Notting Hill, and requested they go reinforce Michael with all possible speed.
She had just sent the last one off when the sound of someone clearing his throat made her start.
It proved to be Lord Gladstone, standing in the doorway.
Anne’s heart started racing. How… how could he be here? He was supposed to be over by Pottery Lane, and—
Anne swallowed. The carriage bearing all of her footmen had just departed. There were a couple of maids in the house, but…
But she was alone. Unprotected.
And face-to-face with a murderer.
“Pardon the late hour,” Lord Gladstone said, wandering into the room. “I could see you at your writing desk through the front window, so I knew you were up.”
“What… what are you doing here?” Anne asked, struggling to tamp down her rising panic.
“I never gave back your handkerchief.” At Anne’s blank look, he elaborated. “You handed it to me after the punch spilled on my glove. I thought, since I was riding by, I might as well return it.” He dropped a freshly laundered square of white linen on Anne’s desk, then pointed to the decanter. “Do you mind if I help myself?”
“N-not at all.” Anne squinted at Lord Gladstone, trying to parse his bizarre behavior. He was certainly a good actor; he gave every appearance of being completely at ease. She cleared her throat. “Lord Scudamore mentioned you’ve been away. Where have you been these past few days?”
“Wait, do you mean Scudy’s in town?” he said, pouring himself four fingers of brandy. “He was supposed to meet me at this house party in Somerset. He was so excited about it—he insisted we leave the Sunderland ball right after our dance to go pack, and then he loaded me onto the mail coach at the crack of dawn. Said he would join me in a day or two. We got set upon by a pair of highwaymen a half hour outside of London. They both came after me—I guess my clothing marked me as a gentleman—but one of them missed, and the other’s gun jammed. It was quite the adventure, let me tell you!”
He paused to take a swig of his drink. “And do you know what? When I got to Somerset, I couldn’t even find the house party! Everyone told me they’d never heard of a Lord Warklesworth, and the place I was supposed to be, Dumbtree Manor, didn’t exist.” He shook his head. “I must’ve gotten it mixed up. It’s not like Scudy to make that sort of mistake. He’s the organized one.”
Anne peered at the baron. Her heart was still racing, but now she was feeling a mixture of terror and befuddlement. It seemed that Scudamore had been trying to protect his friend after all, taking steps to get him out of town before he could be arrested. Did Gladstone truly not realize the net was closing in around him?
Something occurred to Anne. “Wait, you took the mail coach? Why not take your carriage?”
“Oh… uh…” Lord Gladstone trailed off, his ears reddening. “Mail coach is faster.”
“Faster, and significantly less comfortable.” Anne took a step forward. “And tonight you said you were riding by. Did you have another use for your carriage this evening?”
“No! Uh, that is—”
Anne cornered him next to the decanter. “What are you doing with your carriage? What? I demand you tell me!”
“I… I had to pawn it!” he confessed, his eyes wide with alarm and confusion.
Anne recoiled. “Pawn it? What do you mean, you had to pawn it?”
He ducked his head. “It’s not the sort of thing a man likes to admit, but—well—it’s no secret that I’m not exactly plump in the pocket. I had to pawn my carriage.”
Anne’s heartbeat had kicked up again, for a different reason. “To whom did you pawn your carriage?”
“To Scudamore.” Gladstone laughed. “It’s the perfect arrangement, you see. The cost of storing it alone is crippling here in London. Had to get it off my hands. And Scudy will let me buy it back someday. Assuming I can raise the funds, that is.”
“So, Lord Scudamore has possession of your carriage.” Anne huffed. “I don’t suppose you also pawned him your signet ring?”
The baron flinched hard enough that brandy sloshed over the rim of his glass. “How did you know?”
“Do… do you mean to tell me it’s true?”
Gladstone tugged at his cravat. “No one knows about that. No one. I mean,” he pulled off his glove, “this ring has been in my family for more than two hundred years. To have to sell a family heirloom like that… my grandfather probably turned in his grave.”
Anne was staring at his hand. “Your carriage is in Lord Scudamore’s possession. But you still have your ring.”
“Yes. Scudy let me hold onto it. Should he ever ask for it, though, I’d have to give it to him.”
Something occurred to Anne. “And has he ever asked for it?”
“Only once. He said he needed to take it ’round to the appraiser for insurance purposes.” He laughed. “I don’t know what kind of appraiser he used, he came and demanded it at seven o’clock at night and had it back to me by the next morning. But that’s the only time he’s ever asked for it.”
Anne’s heart was in her throat. “When was this?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Four years ago, maybe five.”
Oh God. It fit. It all fit perfectly. Scudamore had possession of Lord Gladstone’s carriage. He had demanded use of his signet ring right around the time he came to collect Nick, the one and only time he knew he would be seen!
A final question occurred to Anne. “Tell me, my lord. You’re the secretary of the R.M.A.” She looked at him, gaze piercing. “Do you handle its correspondence?”
“I’m supposed to. It’s just that I’ve never been much good at that sort of thing.” He shook his head. “I told Scudy I was useless at keeping track of letters and what not, back when he was badgering me to join the R.M.A.’s board. He was insistent, though. Said I needed to make connections if I wanted to improve my fortunes.” He snorted. “Well, that hasn’t happened. But at least Scudy takes care of the correspondence, just like he promised.”
Anne felt like she might be physically ill. Scudamore hadn’t been protecting Gladstone.
He’d been framing him.
Scudamore was the real villain.
And he’d just taken Michael off into the night.
Michael had no idea of the danger he was in. The whole thing had been a trap. Anne would bet anything they weren’t really headed to Pottery Lane.
The problem was, she had no idea where they were heading.
She slumped into the chair behind her desk. “I don’t suppose Lord Scudamore owns any property near a kiln.”
“Do you mean like that row of tenement houses he owns over by the Coade Stone manufactory?”
Anne’s gaze flew to Lord Gladstone’s face. “He owns some houses near the Coade Stone manufactory? Truly?”
“Yes—it was after he bought them that his fortunes really started turning around.” Lord Gladstone shook his head. “I’ve got to buy me some of those tenement houses. Whoa, there—what are you doing?”
Anne had pulled her other gun, her little Queen Anne pistol, out of her desk drawer. She began unscrewing the barrel.
“I need to borrow your horse,” she said as she loaded the gun.
“Borrow my horse? But I—” Lord Gladstone looked even more perplexed than usual. “I didn’t ride here on, you know. A sidesaddle.”
“I had not supposed that you did,” Anne said, rising from her desk and striding from the room.
Lord Gladstone jogged after her as she hurried out the front door. “But—but what’s going on?”
There was no mounting block, but Anne was tall enough that she was able to get her left foot into the stirrup. She managed to pull herself up into the saddle. She had to hike her skirts almost to her knees in order to sit astride in her dress, but considering Michael was about to die, she had far greater concerns than whether someone saw her ankle.
She wheeled Lord Gladstone’s bay gelding around. “It’s a bit complex. I’ll explain everything when I get back.”
Lord Gladstone asked another question, but Anne couldn’t hear it over the horse’s thundering hooves as she galloped south toward Westminster bridge.