The instant Winnifred’s hackney arrived at the mysterious Southwark address, she felt an ominous shiver. In the chary glimmer of a single streetlamp, the narrow house seemed to lurch toward the street. Windows listed to the side in slanted frames, the wooden exterior buckling in the places where it hadn’t yet rotted, and the whole of it was the unsettling color of creosote.
Surely this couldn’t be correct.
But then a familiar face emerged through the opened door. Holding on to the hood of her cloak, Ellie looked left and then right before waving her hand impatiently. “Come quick, Winnie.”
Both alarmed and curious by all the subterfuge, she did just that. Hopping down to the pavement without the step, she bade the driver to wait.
Entering the dim interior of the house behind Ellie, she saw Jane in the small musty foyer, holding a lit taper in a tarnished brass chamberstick. “I wasn’t certain you’d come. It was, after all, your parents’ dinner party.”
“Of course I came. You wrote that it was a matter of great urgency. I stole away after whispering to Father that I had a headache. And I’m certain Mother was glad that I excused myself before the syllabub was served. But tell me why the two of you never arrived, and why we’re all standing inside this ruin, of all places?”
Winnifred took in her surroundings. The meager light flickered over the rubble of fallen horsehair plaster on the floor, great fissures in the wall exposing the lath, and tilted doorways that seemed an instant away from collapsing like a fan snapping shut in dismissal. The vision did nothing to ease her disquiet.
“We were on our way, if that makes a difference,” Ellie said with a nervous glance back toward a darkened doorway.
Jane cleared her throat. “Before I explain, allow me to preface it by telling you that I never intended for this to happen.”
“You said that the time you attempted to make your own gunpowder,” Winnifred added, feeling the continuous wave of dread that had been rolling through her since she’d first received the missive. As they started to walk toward the next room, she carefully studied the flame wavering over Jane’s countenance. “Well, I’m grateful that your eyebrows are still intact this time.”
“I didn’t incinerate anything.”
“It’s much worse,” Ellie lamented, shaking her head. “A small explosion would be lovely compared to this.”
“What could possibly be worse than—”
Winnifred stopped short on a gasp as they entered the dingy parlor, her gaze alighting on a solitary figure. Tied to a chair!
“Tell me you found him that way and are in the process of a grand rescue.”
A trio of thick ropes bound his lean torso to the spindleback. With his arms behind him, his gray herringbone coat parted to reveal a tailored silver satin waistcoat that drew into tight horizontal furrows each time he took a breath. He sat with his trouser-clad legs sprawled scandalously wide, though it was likely to accommodate their length as they were long, tautly muscled, and bound at the ankle. And though he didn’t utter a sound, he emanated a keen alertness—and likely fury—in the rigid set of his broad shoulders.
“In my own defense, I only wanted to speak with him,” Jane said in a rush, nearly guttering the candle.
Ellie nodded in agreement and wrung her hands. “The rest was simply an accident.”
“Oh? He just happened to fall backward onto a chair and a pile of rope that tangled his hands behind his back? And, let me guess, the wind blew that sack over his head and neck?”
“Well, that took a bit of doing actually,” Jane offered, then proceeded to gesture from the chair to the door as if she intended to explain it all in detail. “You see . . .”
Winnifred stopped her before she could. “Who is he?”
“Haven’t a clue.” Ellie shrugged.
“It was dark,” Jane said. “Besides, we weren’t interested in his name, only his information. One minute we were speaking with this man and the next—”
“Flat on the pavement.” Ellie added a single clap of her gloved hands for effect.
“When he started to walk away, I only asked my cousin to intervene. I never imagined a carriage door, opened without even a modicum of malicious intent, could cause such calamity. Of course, I blame the lamppost that struck him the second time. But when I saw him lying there, and with our book still turning in my thoughts—”
“You know how single-minded Jane can be.”
“—a sudden brilliant notion overtook me. I mean, there we were with a scoundrel at our disposal. We couldn’t just waste an opportunity and leave him to the elements.”
Winnifred wondered if she was the only sane one among her friends. “You’re speaking as though you expected insects to carry him away, or for the rain to dissolve him. He’s a man, not marzipan!”
“Precisely why I summoned you. Now that we have him, I don’t know how to get rid of him.”
“Can we not simply . . . put him back where you found him?”
“I’d thought of that,” Jane said, then pointed an accusatory finger at Ellie. “But she refuses to permit me to give him laudanum so that he’ll be asleep when we remove the ligatures. It is, after all, the obvious solution.”
“You’ve already kidnapped him . . . and you were hoping to drug him as well?” Winnifred huffed. In fact, she was starting to hyperventilate. Light-headed, she imagined that it would be just her luck to die as a disappointment to her parents, suffocated by her own corset, dropping dead at the feet of the strange man tied to a chair in Southwark. “I cannot . . . afford to be . . . embroiled in a scandal. For heaven’s sake, I’m getting . . . married. Wednesday! The contracts have already been signed.”
“It isn’t too late,” Jane said, matter of fact. “You don’t have to tether yourself to a boorish man you will never love, simply because your father has arranged it.”
“I am obligated all the same.”
Ellie frowned. “Surely you wish for something more than to merely endure the rest of your life. What about joy and laughter and—”
“Stop,” Winnifred warned with a wag of her finger at both of them. She took in a steadying breath. “We are not venturing down this fruitless path again. I haven’t slept a wink ever since you mentioned your plan.”
Jane’s eyes caught the candle flame, glimmering with midnight blue triumph. “Because you’re tempted by it. I knew you would be! And I have faith that you’ll come to your senses and run away from disaster.”
Winnifred set her hands on her hips. “Well, if that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black. At least my disaster won’t land me in irons.”
“No. Yours will be worse,” Ellie said with a sniff. “You’ll be shackled in misery for the rest of your life.”
“Again. Thank you for your support.”
Jane laid her free hand over Winnifred’s shoulder. “Our support will be the carriage, waiting to abscond with you outside the church.”
“But you’ll be glad to know that she’s abandoned the pigeon aspect of the plan.”
“My brothers set them free,” Jane said with an exhausted sigh. “I cannot begin to tell you how many of my experiments they’ve ruined.”
Winnifred snapped her fingers. “Shall we focus on our current dilemma, ladies?”
“Oh, yes, right.”
The three of them stared at the accidental hostage. The way he cocked his head to the side, he seemed to stare back.
Winnifred felt a chill skitter down her spine. “Are you certain he cannot see us?”
“Yes,” Jane offered with authority. “I had two sacks in my reticule and tried it myself. Couldn’t see anything more than shadows.”
A harsh exhale puffed the sack out over his mouth. Almost as if he were laughing at them.
“And you’re certain he’s fully conscious? Not injured or impaired? After all, he isn’t speaking.”
“He’s merely being stubborn. You should have heard him curse at us when he awoke to find himself in this . . . situation.”
Winnifred could just imagine. Her father had quite the colorful vocabulary when merely inconvenienced by traffic. The only thing that might pacify him during those moments would be if all the other carriages disappeared and he was left alone on the road.
Hmm . . . she thought, an idea sparking to life. Then she drew her friends out of the room. “I think I’ve got a plan.”
* * *
Asher slipped free of the wrist bindings his captors had so helpfully loosened. Jerking the hood from his aching head, he made quick work of the other ropes. He could still hear the crunch of their carriage wheels on cobblestones. But it was fading quickly.
In the dark room it was difficult to get his bearings. Yet there was a sliver of light bleeding in through a rip in the dusty drapes and he found his way to the window, then peered out onto the lamp-lit street. Not a soul in sight. Turning back to the room, he glimpsed the shadow of the doorway.
Determined to catch them, he rushed through the foyer, the front door, and then burst outside with a growl in his throat.
But there was nothing to bark at when he reached the wet pavement. There was no carriage on the narrow, winding street. And no assistance to be had from the surrounding houses either. They were nothing more than ruins, crumbling into misshapen piles of rubble.
He cursed, wondering what time it was. The air felt damp and cool against his skin, the sky graying around the edges. He patted his waistcoat, forgetting for a moment that the engraved watch his grandfather had once given to him had been filched by Shettlemane and lost in a game of hazard years ago.
With the reminder, Asher searched his pockets to ensure that everything was as it should be.
A solitary cheroot—broken in half, damn it all. A bent calling card. A silk handkerchief.
Hmm . . . nothing was missing. Apparently, those girls truly had abducted him for the purpose of answering their odd questions.
Would you say that you’re more gentleman than scoundrel or vice versa? Do you live your life flitting from one act of debauchery to another? Have you recently attended a party at Sutherfield Terrace? Ever been in love?
Idiots, the lot of them.
Considering the misfortune debutantes could inflict upon an unsuspecting male, was it any wonder that he’d never been induced to marry? Never been stricken by the poetic impulses of the romantics? As far as he was concerned, a man susceptible to falling in love deserved his fate.
Agitated, Asher straightened his coat with a tug. Now that it was over, he was even more overjoyed by the fact that he would soon be sailing away from all this utter non—
Wait a moment . . . something wasn’t right. He shifted, stretching out his arms.
At once he was quite aware that he didn’t feel anything up his sleeve. He began patting again, furiously. Fishing inside, he tore off his coat and jerked up his shirtsleeves, hard enough to rend seams. Nothing.
He’d been robbed!
“They’re worse than idiots. They’re thieves!”
He supposed he’d been a fool to have the £1,000 he’d collected over the weeks tucked up his sleeve and ready to deliver. Yet prior lessons from his father had taught him how easy it was to filch a man’s pockets or rob his home. And the henchmen that were set on him from time to time to collect one of Shettlemane’s debts never thought to look for a money clip hooked in a cuff buttonhole.
Apparently, the same could not be said for bluestockings.
Rushing back into the house, he found a three-legged table with a lamp resting on top and flint and steel in the drawer beneath. He lit the taper, but his search was fruitless.
The money for his share of the expedition and his only chance for a new life were gone.
* * *
By the time Asher had made his way to the Hollander townhouse, the sun had risen. So had his fury. In fact, he wasn’t entirely sure if there were crimson bands of clouds on the horizon or if he was seeing everything through a murderous red haze.
Staring out the morning room window, he recounted his tale of unfortunate events to One and Two.
“Rotten luck,” Lord Avery Hollander—the aforementioned One—said, ruffling a hand through a widow’s peak of sandy brown hair as he slumped down onto an overstuffed chair by the hearth.
Lord Bates Hollander—Two—launched a rust-colored pillow at his head. “Close your banyan, brother. Want me to maw-wallop on the rug? No one wants a gander at your bits and pieces.”
One rolled his jade-green eyes, adjusting the blue silk robe. “We’re identical twins, idiot. We’ve got the same bits.”
“Fat lot you know. My piece happens to be much larger. Lady Clarksdale couldn’t stop her roving eye at dinner last night.”
“Because you had your shirt bunched in your trousers like you were still in nappies.” He fired the pillow back at his brother. “Honestly, Holt, I cannot wait until the ship sails, just so I can push this inferior spare overboard.”
“Well, we won’t be sailing until Wednesday next,” Two said, launching the pillow back with enough force to earn a grunt out of the other.
Prophesizing that he was about to become embroiled in another infantile Hollander battle, Asher stepped between the chairs and snatched the pillow from the air, ready to smother the pair of them. “And what, precisely, is the reason for the delay?”
“The captain said he’s superstitious,” Two answered with a disgruntled shrug. “Saw a black cat yesterday or something of the sort. Not only that but everyone knows you don’t set sail when the sky’s red. Looks like a storm’s headed our way.”
Asher looked again to the window. “Then I’ve got a week to get the money.”
“Not that I have my doubts or anything, but that’s a tall order. Even for you,” One said, not unkindly.
“It’s a shame those girls kidnapped you just to rob you. I’d have wanted them to have their way with me first.”
As a matter of principle, Asher fired the pillow at Bates’s head. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw yesterday’s newspaper, lying open on the mahogany Pembroke table. Precisely to the page announcing the wedding of the heiress and her vulgar dowry.
With a sudden burst of recollection, the conversation between the two nitwits who’d abducted him and their late-arriving cohort played through his pia mater like the echoes of a mockingbird. And a plan started to form out of the ruins they’d left him in.
Sometimes there was only one way to deal with a thief . . . and that was to become one.
Asher was going to get his money back one way or the other.