Chapter Eight
Evans Principle 8: Sometimes dips in productivity can’t be avoided. Accept it. Dust yourself off. Start fresh with the new dawn.
It would most certainly not be all right. Not a chance. Any hope Lord Devin had that the loss of Honoria’s keys was random misfortune died a sharp and stabbing death as the coach pulled to a halt in front of the shop. As he disembarked, he gave directions for the coach to take his mother home and see her safe, and then for his driver to fetch the police. He handed Honoria out of the coach and stood with her for a moment, silently assessing what they could see from the pavement in the fading light of day.
The double doors hung open with only the first few feet of the interior visible. Through the large front windows, some panes of which had been smashed, he could see emptied shelves, battered fixtures, and shredded volumes. Walking into the store ahead of her, he attempted to shield her from the full impact of the destruction. The perpetrators had moved quickly. From the moment they (there must be more than one, considering the widespread devastation) took possession of her keys, they must have raced at top speed to the shop. More than half the shelves were emptied onto the floor, mixing with random torn pages and shredded pamphlets. An acrid odor wafted up from some damp areas, and he didn’t want to surmise the liquid source. The sales counter had been chopped up. He was impressed by Honoria’s composure; each new devastation showed on her face, but she continued on to survey the wreckage, without a tear or even a gasp.
The building was silent, a small blessing that suggested the culprits were gone. Unable to convince her to remain outside, he made sure Honoria stayed close behind him as they searched the premises, and he was the one to move first into the back room.
The printing press was destroyed. Not only had it been dismantled, but large pieces had been pounded against each other to warp them beyond repair. Twisted, mangled, strewn across the scarred floor. And here was more concrete evidence of human waste than just damp odor. What animals. At least they hadn’t set the place ablaze. Could this really be Withersby’s men? He knew Withersby used unsavory characters on occasion, but this seemed extreme even for them.
“Jupiter! Janus!” she called, before he could motion her to silence. He wanted to be sure the house was empty.
In the darkening of twilight, he lit some candles so they could check the upstairs. Once he confirmed the upper floors were empty of intruders, she went right to her wardrobe, picking her way carefully through broken glass and porcelain. The scent of lilies was overwhelming. One of the wardrobe doors hung off a broken hinge; as she pushed it carefully aside, she gasped and knelt. From what he could see, the interior was as desecrated as the rest of the building. Urgently, she tossed great handfuls of clothing that had been piled on the bottom of the wardrobe until she revealed a low drawer, one that had been taken out and smashed.
“It’s gone,” she said, incredulous. He could barely hear her.
“What is it, Mrs. Duchamp? What’s missing?”
When she looked up, tears welled in her eyes. Her voice quivered as she said, “My father’s signet. I don’t know how they knew where to find it. Out of all this”—she waved her arms wildly—“that ring was the only thing of actual value to me. Now it’s gone.”
“We will find it. I promise you, I will get it back for you.” He had no idea how he would accomplish this, and she didn’t believe him anyway.
“Don’t trouble yourself. It’s impossible.” He hated the tears streaming silently down her cheeks and leaving dark trails on her skirt. More than that, he hated the resignation in her voice, in her slumped form.
“I will have agents monitor the local pawnshops and jewelers. Whoever took it will seek to profit from it, count on that.”
“You are too kind,” she said, but her voice sounded empty.
She stood slowly and opened a closet.
The sudden flurry of motion caught him, shocked him, and he froze. A curse escaped him as he realized he’d let his guard down, assumed they’d searched everywhere and the intruders were gone. Bloody idiot, he thought, as he stared at the dirty blade now being held against Honoria’s throat. He swore to himself that if this scum hurt her in the slightest, he would tear the vermin limb from limb with his bare hands.
He quickly assessed the assailant. Approximately six feet tall, judging by how the doorway framed him. The thug’s face and hair were darkened, perhaps with coal dust or ash, to mask his features, but he might be able to recognize the man by the contours of his face . . . and by his eyes. Dark, vicious eyes. Alex stood motionless, tense—if he had to let that scum go to prevent Honoria from being harmed, he would. But justice would be meted out eventually.
The hand holding the knife didn’t waver. Good. He could reason with a calm, calculating criminal. Someone who felt panicked would be more likely to act impulsively and irrationally; desperation was more likely to result in bloodshed.
“Let her go,” he said in a low voice.
The criminal’s eyes moved back and forth between him and the door, gauging distance and speed, no doubt.
“Give me back my father’s ring!” Honoria blurted. Loudly.
A dark laugh rumbled through the room.
“Sorry, lovey. I ain’t got it. My buddy found it first. Long gone, he is.”
“Let. Her. Go.”
“No, my good sir,” came the mocking response in an exaggerated affectation. “I don’t believe I shall. I quite like this little lovey in my arms just now.”
“If you hurt her, I will kill you,” he said, never more sure of a statement in his entire life.
“If I choose to hurt her, you can’t do a thing about it, man.” The knifepoint bit slightly into Honoria’s neck, close to her ear. She whimpered, and the anger in her eyes abruptly turned to fear.
“Release her, and we will let you walk out freely.”
“I could just as easily kill you both and walk out freely anyway.”
“Perhaps you didn’t hear me just now. If you hurt her, I will end you. If I have to rip you apart with my bare hands and with my last dying breath.... Harm her in the slightest, and you will never leave this room. Just release her and go.”
Just when he thought the intruder was convinced, the man shifted his stance. Honoria gasped and her eyes went wide. Then the man’s free hand moved. That’s when Alex finally understood what was happening. The hand, that disgusting paw, slipped down her body, stopping briefly to squeeze her breast hard through her clothing, hard enough to bring tears to her eyes, and then moving down lower, unspeakably lower. Honoria closed her eyes and seemed to curl inward visually at the awful intrusion.
“I was promised things, I’ll tell ya. Aside from the ring, there wasn’t anything worth stealing. Had some fun downstairs but not worth the trouble. I could use some real entertainment tonight.”
“Get your hands off of her!”
“I’ve just had a promising thought.” The cur lowered his mouth to Honoria’s ear, although he still spoke loud enough to be heard across the room. “I think it’s time to lock ol’ spoilsport over there in this closet and . . . have ourselves a little party.” With the knife digging into the other side of her neck, Honoria couldn’t move as he ran his tongue along her ear—a tongue that Alex vowed to cut out at the first possible opportunity.
Honoria looked directly at Alex then, and her eyes went hard. She wasn’t going to allow this to continue, but he couldn’t tell what course of action she would take. All he could do was be ready to strike.
She visibly relaxed against her attacker, whose response was immediate.
“Oh, so it’s like that, is it?” A sinister chuckle. “I’d heard widows were easy sport. Mayhap you have a taste for the danger . . . or for the dirt.” The knife lifted away from her neck slightly as the other hand roamed her body again. A hand that would be bloodied and ideally dismembered very, very soon.
“Let me turn around,” she said quietly, her hands light on his restraining arm.
“Your man over there ain’t too happy about this.” The man under discussion was working hard to stifle a growl in his throat and tuck his clenched fists against his thighs.
“He’s not my man. I barely know him.”
“Don’t seem that way right now. He can’t be very good if you’re so willing to whore yourself so easily.” Her eyes closed, as if steeling herself against the thought. Surely she didn’t really mean to go through with it! Surely she would move to escape him soon.
“I said I barely know him. Now may I turn around or not?”
“Eager, eh? That’s nice. But we’d better figure out what to do about that one first. He sure objects to our plans. In the closet, I think.”
“You could just let him go. We won’t be needing him.”
“I’m not so stupid, lovey. I let him go, and I’ll as like find him bashing my head in while I’m bashing your—”
She’d spun in his arms and covered his mouth with her hand. She rubbed up against him. It was a sickening sight. But she’d captured his attention fully, if only for a moment.
Alex took that moment to move in front of the dresser and grab a candlestick. He only had his eyes off the couple for a moment, but he heard metal clatter to the floor. Suddenly the attacker was doubled over, moaning, hands between his legs, and Honoria was kicking the knife away from his grasp. Handicapped as he was, the filthy dog still managed to trip Honoria as she tried to rush away from him. Alex’s vision went red as he rushed forward and swung the candlestick hard. The man slumped unconscious, and Honoria scrambled away toward the door, sobbing.
He ran to her, quickly scanned her to make sure she wasn’t bleeding or injured, and held her for a moment. Then he ripped off his cravat to tie the intruder’s hands behind his back. He could still see the man’s chest rising and falling, and he couldn’t guess when or if consciousness would return. Better to take precautions. Then he guided Honoria downstairs and they waited for the police.