Anthony found the door to his bedroom unlocked.
He paused in the corridor for a moment, glancing down both ends to find it deserted, before he entered the chamber. His eyes went straight to the bed. It was the first place he always looked for Sabrina. He liked the thought of her curled under the covers of his bed, waiting for him to return, ready to welcome him into her outstretched arms. And he had great need of her arms tonight. The jaunt to Vauxhall, usually a mediocre event, had been trying and downright lonely. Masses had bustled all around him, and yet he had felt so isolated. Such a solitary condition had never affected him before. He didn’t like the feel of it. And there was only one soul he could think of who could banish the disturbing sensation.
But where was she?
His gaze suddenly narrowed on a cluster of vines laid out on his pillow. The very same vines he had once seen Sabrina take from a bush.
He walked over to the bedside and collected the interwoven twigs, stroking the charm with his thumb, pondering its meaning. And it must have a significant meaning for her to have left it over his pillow in plain sight like that. But what was she trying to tell him? Better yet, where was she? He pocketed the vines.
“Sabrina?”
Anthony scanned the room, glazing over a snoring Vincent sprawled out on the divan. Pocketing the vines, he headed for the bathing room and knocked on the door, calling for Sabrina again, but he received no response. He opened the door to find the privy empty.
Heart beating a bit faster, Anthony went around the room, stalked across it was more like it, and looked behind the curtains, in the armoire, and even under the bed.
No Sabrina.
“What the devil!?” A sound blow to the shoulder stirred a somnolent Vincent to life, who, after rubbing at his eyes, looked up to find a brooding Anthony hovering above him. “Sorry about that, old chum.” Vincent gave a gaping yawn, the air filling with the scent of brandy. “Seems I fell asleep.”
“Where is she, Vincent?”
Still somewhat drowsy, Vincent made the unfortunate mistake of remarking, “Who?” But the two strong hands at his collar, pinching his airway, quickly roused him from his lethargy. “Oh, Sabrina. She’s fine. She’s right here.” As soon as he noticed the empty room, he amended, flustered, “I-I swear she was here when I fell asleep.”
“And when did you fall asleep?” demanded Anthony.
“It was just after nine o’clock.”
Anthony glanced at the clock. Half past eleven. He released Vincent and marched over to his writing desk, yanking open the top drawer and rummaging through the sheaf of papers. The twinkle of gold ended his search. It was still there, the locket. So no had come in search of it.
Anthony grabbed the locket from its hiding place, stuffing it into his inner breast pocket. He turned next to examine the door. There was no sign of forced entry. Had someone tried to break down the door, surely even a sluggard like Vincent would have heard all the commotion.
It appeared as though the door had been opened from the inside. And that meant Sabrina had willingly unlocked it. He was certain she would never have opened the door for one of his servants, so that left him with only one reasonable conclusion—Sabrina had left him.
Anthony didn’t bother to change out of his formal evening wear. He only moved over to the dressing table to divest himself of his hat and gloves. He was heading out to look for Sabrina. He wasn’t going to abandon her to the streets of London. Not with Gillingham still out there searching for her.
Bloody hell! What was the girl thinking to have run off like that? Surely she still wasn’t afraid for her future? Had he not promised to take care of her? Didn’t she trust him yet?
London was such a treacherous place for someone so inexperienced. She knew nothing of the sectors to avoid or which folks to sidestep. How would she survive? Did she even have any money with her?
Impatience was taking root in his gut. Eager to begin his search for Sabrina, Anthony didn’t even think of arming himself. He only strode toward the doorway.
Vincent called after him, expressing his grief and regret, asking if Anthony needed any assistance, but Anthony said not a word in reply. He was too furious with Vincent to exchange any more words. And forgiving his best friend—his former best friend—would all depend on what condition he found Sabrina in, for it was not a question of if he would find her, but when.
Anthony paused at the foot of the stairs and glanced around the front foyer. The grandfather clock, tucked into an alcove against the opposite wall, caught his eye. He walked over to it and removed the locket from his coat before placing it in the belly of the clock. He wanted to be sure the locket was safe. If Sabrina’s disappearance had something to do with the locket, he would need the jewelry as leverage to get her back.
The night air was crisp. Smoke and soot clogged much of Anthony’s view of the skyline. Only a few stars, the very brightest in the heavens, poked through the London smog. He couldn’t decide in which direction to go first. He glanced to his left. Nothing but tall buildings with dots of light peeking through draped windows. He looked over to his right and saw the exact same thing. And then something struck him. An odd and strangely familiar sensation. That he had done this all before. That somehow, he had stood on his front stoop and gazed out into the dark beyond in search of Sabrina.
His dream!
The memory came back to him. He had dreamed of this moment back in the country, the night of the storm . . . the night he had kissed Sabrina for the very first time.
He remembered that kiss now. The warmth, the desire, the peace he had felt when he’d touched his lips to hers. It had been utter bliss to feel her in his arms after such a disturbing dream. A dream in which he’d searched through the darkness for her and wasn’t able to find her.
But it was only a dream, he reminded himself. This time he would find Sabrina and he would not let her go again. She would be with him forever. He’d see to it. If he had to buy her a house in London, so be it. But never again would he wonder where she was or if she was safe. Never again would he feel this pang of abandonment, as though someone had just snatched away his soul and hidden it far, far away from him, where he could never find it.
Anthony retrieved the knot of vines from his pocket and fingered the charm. With a brief prayer, he set out toward the north. But he didn’t get very far. He caught sight of a shadowed figure shuffling about in the servant alleyway next to his house.
Thinking it a member of his staff, but not quite sure of it, Anthony called out to the figure to identify itself. When there was no immediate response, his demanded a reply or he threatened to summon the authorities.
The warning seemed to do the trick. The shadow stirred, hobbling toward him, and Anthony soon realized it was not one of his servants.
An old Gypsy peddler woman emerged from the darkness, leaning on her cane for support.
“I was only lookin’ for somewhere to sleep,” she huffed. “No need to holler at me. I’m goin’ on my way.”
For a moment, Anthony said nothing, looking after the decrepit creature with a mixture of guilt and remorse. Soon the thought struck him.
“Wait.” He came round to block her path and held out the charm in his hand. “Do you know what this is?”
The old woman squinted at the knotted cluster. “Perhaps I do.”
“Will you tell me its meaning?”
“Perhaps I will.”
His sigh was swift and exasperating. He dug into his pockets and removed all the blunt he had, stuffing it into her eager hands.
“Now will you tell me?” he all but pleaded.
First, she tucked away the coins, then her gnarled fingers went to examine the crisscrossing vines. “Where did you find it?”
“On my pillow.”
“Ah, a powerful Gypsy love charm.”
Anthony’s heart bounced at the word. “Love?” He felt as if someone had just punched him in the gut. No, that wasn’t true. He felt as if someone had just ploughed a horse into his gut.
“Hmm.” She nodded, still studying the twisted vines. “Very rare to find a charm the faeries have tied. You place this on the pillow of the one you love so he or she will never forget you.”
Slowly Anthony recovered the charm from the old woman’s grasp. “Thank you,” he murmured and turned to walk away, his soul in turmoil.
“Do you want more charms?” her voice croaked after him. He stopped and looked back at her. “I have lots of charms.” And she proceeded to open her sack and riffle through the articles within.
Anthony could hear metal clanking and wood knocking, and he put his hand up in the air to disabuse her. “No, thank you. It’s not the charm that I want, but the one who gave it to me.”
“But my charms are better than hers. Look here. This will bring you luck.” She held up a horse shoe. “And this will protect you from the evil eye.” She pulled out a polished stone.
“Her?” said Anthony, taking a step toward the old woman. “Do you know the Gypsy who gave me this charm?”
“No, no. Look at this.” She shoved a rabbit’s foot in his face. “This will bring you—”
“Please,” he interrupted her sales pitch, his request earnest. “Can you tell me where she is?”
“Don’t know where she is. But I can make you any charm that you need.”
“I told you, it’s not the charm that I want, it’s the woman.”
She sighed, disenchanted, and stuffed her charms and talismans back into her leather sack, moving on. “She’s gone.”
Anthony fell in step beside her. “Where?”
“She left with three men. In a carriage.” Her crooked finger pointed down the street. “That way.”
Anthony allowed the old Gypsy peddler woman to pass him. He stared down the deserted and misty street after her.
The direction of “that way” wasn’t very specific, but the mention of “three men” told him exactly where he needed to look for Sabrina.
The fury in his belly wrecked havoc on his innards. Anthony let the rage consume him, let it twist and worm its way into every pocket of his soul, for if he did not, fear would surely take its place.
Sabrina had not just found herself in trouble, she had found herself in the hands of Gillingham. And what that man would do to her . . .
Anthony dashed toward the stable at the back of the townhouse and saddled his horse.
* * *
The door to the Lion’s Gate opened without delay.
Anthony was expected.
Waiting for him were two large bruisers, who escorted him down the corridor and into Gillingham’s office. Once inside the dimly lit room, Anthony searched the space for Sabrina. But there sat only a scoundrel, hunched over a desk, shuffling through a stack of papers.
“Have a seat, Lord Hastings.”
Anthony didn’t budge, too furious to acquiesce. Two big hands clamped over his shoulders and pushed him down into the chair. It was only then Luther Gillingham abandoned his papers to observe his guest.
“Where is she?” demanded Anthony.
“Where she belongs.”
He bristled at the cold reply. “And what does that mean?”
“It means she belongs to me now, and I will decide her fate.”
Not bloody likely, thought Anthony. Without the locket, Gillingham wouldn’t be making any decision regarding Sabrina’s fate. He would. “You will give her back to me.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because I have the locket.”
Gillingam’s eyes darkened. “Yes, the locket. My locket. I wonder how it found its way into the hands of a lord and a Gypsy.”
“Coincidence.”
“Coincidence indeed.” The fiend leaned back in his chair, fingers lacing over his midriff. “I assume it was you who attacked my men in the woods a fortnight ago, thwarting their efforts to capture the Gypsy? And I know you’ve been hiding her here in London.”
“What do you mean you know . . .” His words trailed to a stop. This was no mere mishap. Sabrina hadn’t just stumbled upon Gillingham and his men. The scoundrel had been watching them for some time now. She had never really been safe.
Anthony gnashed his teeth. “You have very keen eyes.”
“And yet the locket still eludes me.”
“Then I propose a trade.”
“A trade?” echoed Gillingham, with true interest or mockery Anthony wasn’t sure. Either way, the exchange was going to happen, for Gillingham wanted the locket as much as Anthony wanted Sabrina. And neither was going to get what the other wanted without cooperation.
“The Gypsy for the locket,” said Anthony, studying the unflappable scoundrel, searching his features for any hint of a reaction. The man remained as stoic as ever.
“I reject such a trade.”
Anthony gave him a look of genuine disbelief. “Then how do you intend to get the locket back?”
“You’re going to give it to me, of course.”
“Not until you give me Sabrina.”
“Is that her name?” Gillingham waved a dismissive hand. “It doesn’t matter. I have something of greater value than that filthy Gypsy’s life. Something I’m sure you’ll want to have.”
Those words, filthy Gypsy, uttered in contempt, made Anthony cringe inwardly. Is this what Sabrina had confronted her entire life? Disparaging insults? Threats to her safety? Did she ever have any peace?
Perhaps. With her family. Is it a wonder she grieved so boundlessly at their loss? And then he had come along, promising to stick her in some isolated cottage, denying her, and any child she might bear, protection from such vile abuse. The protection she deserved. The protection he had once so earnestly wanted to give her. And when his chance to offer her that protection had come, he succumbed to the unjust morals of the ton, discarding fatherhood and the woman he cared for.
It was a shameful realization.
“I want nothing from you but Sabrina,” said Anthony.
“What about your family honor?”
He paused to consider the man for a moment. “And what does my family’s honor have to do with this?”
“Well, the Kennington name will be tarnished once you are condemned for treason.”
“Treason! Are you mad?”
Fidgeting with the ruby ring on his finger, Gillingham returned confidently, “If you refuse to surrender the locket, you will be committing treason.”
“Ridiculous.”
“I warn you, Lord Hastings, I have the authority to do as I will. If you want your family free from persecution, you will give me the locket.”
“Horse shit. Now give me the Gypsy.”
The cold façade crumbled. Gillingham slammed his fists against his desk top, knocking away a number of his papers, all fluttering to the floor in disarray. “I refuse to believe you give a tinker’s damn for that vagrant!”
“I don’t care what you believe. I want the girl.”
“The girl must die.”
“Why?” challenged Anthony, as a sickening vision invaded his thoughts: an image of Sabrina’s lifeless body floating down some watery channel, and him fishing her from that channel, cradling her limp body in his arms, howling at his loss. He quickly dismissed the disturbing thought.
The scoundrel stood in frustration, paced before his desk, then paused to demanded, “Do you think I would risk this nation’s security for a Gypsy’s life?”
“Don’t be absurd.” Anthony rejected the suggestion at once. “Sabrina cannot jeopardize the country’s security.”
Cupping the edge of the desk, Gillingham leaned forward. “She knows what is inside the locket, doesn’t she?”
Anthony didn’t answer.
“Doesn’t she?” Gillingham pressed him again.
“I know what is inside the locket. If you want a prisoner, take me.”
“What if I take your family prisoner instead?” A sadistic twinkle of delight flashed through his shadowed eyes. “What if I detain your father in the Tower, humiliate your mother, ravish your sisters? Condemn you all as traitors?”
The viscount bounded for the desk, but two robust arms shoved him back into his seat.
“You see, Lord Hastings?” The fiend offered a satisfying smirk. “I have a hold over you. Your family honor is far more precious to you than a Gypsy. You’re not going to reveal what’s inside the locket. I would destroy you. And your blue-blooded instincts are far too sharp to let such a fate befall you. You will do whatever I tell you. But I have no such hold over the Gypsy.”
Anthony all but growled, “Sabrina doesn’t understand what’s inside the locket. She can’t even read!”
“I’m not willing to take that chance.” Gillingham resumed pacing. “Now, that locket is rightfully mine. It was stolen from me five years ago with very sensitive information.”
Sensitive information? Anthony made an internal snort. Sensitive indeed. The scoundrel wanted money. Money owed to him, no doubt, by the unfortunate resident of the address in the locket. Well, if mere wealth was the issue, Anthony would offer it in abundance. Whatever it took to get Sabrina back.
“How much?”
Gillingham paused and quirked a brow. “Pardon?”
“How much for the girl? That is what all this nonsense over British security is all about, isn’t it? A ploy for money?”
“Oh, Lord Hastings.” He shook his head like a disappointed father scolding a son. “Your wealth could never entice me to betray my country.”
His words triggered a memory. Anthony could clearly see in his mind the arena of the Lion’s Gate, the tables scattered across the main floor, the patrons clustered together at each of the tables. He quickly skimmed over the faces of the gentlemen, recalling those he knew, remembering how he had once thought the group a rather eclectic bunch. But on closer reflection, he realized there was one similarity that all the men shared. Lord Fielding, the third Marquess of Winbourne, for instance, wasn’t always the present marquess. In fact, he was never destined to become the marquess. As second born, the man was devoid of a fortune and was compelled to make the military his career. It was only after his elder brother had died in a riding accident, that Lord Fielding sold his commission and assumed his place as the next Marquess of Winbourne.
Major-General Archibald Adington had served under Wellington himself, so it was no secret the man was associated with the army. And then there was the politician, Bradford Derwent, who, though he had never served in the army, had caused quite a stir when he’d made some rather ambiguous comments in parliament concerning the war with the French. Comments that could be construed as treasonous. And then, of course, there was Vincent, another man involved in the continental war.
The implication was suddenly clear—though Anthony loathed to acknowledge it. “You’re a spy.”
“Very good, Lord Hastings. That’s one matter resolved.”
Anthony didn’t want to believe what he was hearing. He just wanted to pay the scoundrel a hefty sum and be done with the whole ghastly business of bargaining for another’s life. But there was one piece of evidence he could not deny, something he had seen with his own two eyes—Gillingham at Court.
Anthony had tried then to dismiss what he had witnessed, convinced it was only his imagination gone wild, but he could no longer refute the obvious. No ordinary scoundrel would have that kind of access to the royal palace, and Anthony was forced to accept the man’s claim, however much he deplored it.
“And the locket?” asked Anthony next.
“The locket was stolen by a French spy. A royalist supporter who wanted to see the ancien régime restored in France. She joined my coterie some years ago, posing as an English patriot. Her loyalty was vigorously tested, of course, but in the end it was all just a ruse. She needed the information only my spies could acquire.”
“And where is she now?”
“Dead. But we never did find the locket.”
Anthony settled back against his chair in a daze, all sorts of baffling thoughts swimming through his head. “Then I assume your club serves as a front for your true intentions, and yet it is filled with British officers and politicians. Why spy on them?”
“To ensure there are no traitors. Should I happen upon a potential radical, the individual is encouraged to conform.”
“Blackmail, you mean?”
“Precisely.”
“And if you find you have trapped an innocent man?”
“He is released without much fuss—though perhaps stripped of a few coins.”
Anthony grumbled, “Vincent, for instance?”
“Yes, Mr. Longhurst proved to be a threat only to himself. Not much of a card player, I’m afraid.” Gillingham returned to his seat. “I see all this astonishes you, Lord Hastings. With so many balls to attend and whores to bed, I’m not surprised you haven’t noticed our country is in peril. Daily I hear of conspiracies to overthrow the government. There is always a riot needing to be suppressed somewhere in England. Economic and social discontent is breeding violence. And surely you, Lord Hastings, as a member of the realm, do not want to lose your head on an English version of Madame Guillotine?”
Anthony made no reply.
“I didn’t think so. Now let me paint you an even grimmer picture. Habeas corpus has been suspended. I have the authority to throw any suspected conspirator into the gaol without trial or witness. I have executed a number of would-be conspirators, and yet, despite all of my best efforts to crush any sort of revolt, the threats to the crown and government persist. Now what do you suppose would happen here in England, if the frail political stability in France were to snap and the people there were to launch another revolution?”
Anthony let out a deep breath. “England would be inspired to launch a revolution of her own.”
“Precisely. Now do you see my predicament? To keep England safe, I must keep France safe, too. An arduous task. And you, Lord Hastings, are making my duty all the more difficult by withholding the locket.”
Brow wrinkled, Anthony remarked, “I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to understand.”
“You had best make me understand, because I’m not about to let you murder an innocent woman over a scrap of paper inside of a locket.”
Gillingham dismissed the guards before he resumed. “That scrap of paper has the power to hurl France into civil war if it falls into the wrong hands.” He adjusted his neck cloth, which had twisted out of place in his earlier outburst. “The current King Louis has two warring parties inside his moderate government: the ultraroyalists, who want the ancien régime restored, and the ex-revolutionists. Now, the ultraroyalists realize they have very little chance of restoring the old regime, unless, of course, another French king was to come along and challenge the current King Louis for power.”
“But there is no other French king.”
“My spy in Austria believed otherwise.” Propping his elbows on the desk, Gillingham leaned forward to whisper, “Shortly before she was killed, my agent managed to smuggle an address into England. I was away from London when the message arrived. Upon my return, I learned it had been stolen, and inside the locket was gone forever the location of a small Austrian village, where a man, believed to be King Louis XVII, resides.”
Anthony quirked a brow. If he remembered his history books correctly, Louis-Charles, the son of King Louis XVI and Queen Marie-Antoinette, was imprisoned as a boy in Temple Prison and died there from tuberculosis. “But the boy-king died more than twenty years ago.”
“Yes, that is the official report. But my sources tell me the boy was smuggled out of the Temple by royalist sympathizers and into Austria, another youth’s body left in the boy-king’s place. Once safely removed from the carnage of France, Louis-Charles was to remain in seclusion until such time as he could be restored to the throne. But something went wrong. The young king’s sympathizers lost all trace of their monarch. Some sympathizers were beheaded, others fled France for their lives, and little by little, knowledge of the boy-king’s whereabouts disappeared.
“When the time came for the government to establish a constitutional monarchy, an heir was needed, so the boy’s uncle was proclaimed King Louis XVIII. And now he is responsible for France’s recovery. And I am not about to permit another king to enter France and instigate a revolution.”
Anthony remained thoughtful for a moment. Such plots and conspiracies seemed too flamboyant to be true, and yet, why else would Gillingham scour the countryside for the elusive locket these last five years? And there was an address scribbled on the scrap of paper. That much Anthony could acknowledge.
“What will you do with the alleged king in Austria once you find him?” wondered Anthony.
“First, establish his true identity. If he is Louis-Charles, I will ensure he never makes a bid for the throne.”
“You will kill him?”
“Nothing so dramatic. It is unwise to murder a monarch. Should rumor ever escape of his second death, it, too, might trigger a revolution. Better to keep Louis-Charles alive—but out of sight.”
“But Sabrina need not die.”
“Yes, she must!” The dark and wintry glow in his eyes was back. “I have the lives of you and your kin in the palm of my hand. I would crush you all were you ever to betray me, but I have no such hold over the Gypsy.”
“I will guarantee she never reveals what is inside the locket.”
“Preposterous!” Down went a fist. “She is a wandering beggar. You will have no more power over her than I.”
“Then I will take her as my wife.”
The offer had a peculiar impact on Anthony. Here he was, demanding the right to a wife. A more unlikely situation he could not have envisioned. It was the perfect solution, however. One Gillingham would have to accept, since Anthony would never accept the forfeit of Sabrina’s life.
“The law will give me authority over my wife,” Anthony went on to explain the credence of his plan. “You would have a hold over both of us.”
But Gillingham only snorted. “You would never take a Gypsy for your wife. It would be social suicide.”
Anthony heard none of his skepticism. The crushing need to save Sabrina from a brutal, empty death was the sole instinct he followed. “I will surrender the locket if you will give me the Gypsy. That is the final bargain.”
Gillingham leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful gaze. “So you want to marry the wench?” He paused, then, “Very well. I’ll bind you to her myself. You will be married at dawn. If the secret of the locket is ever revealed, her disgrace will be yours—and your whole family’s. I will have you both executed for treason. Future Kennington generations will have no hope of ever showing their faces in England again. Do you understand?”
“I understand. Now where is Sabrina?”
He paused. “In Bedlam.”