As he waited in the dark street, Pearce hunched his shoulders against the cold drizzle that fell over London. Around him, the City slept, the ward unusually dark and quiet beneath a layer of fog that had crept up from the Thames only a few streets to the south. So dark and quiet that he could hear the steady drip of rainwater falling every few seconds off the building behind him.
A figure dressed all in black emerged from the shadows and moved silently toward him, reminding Pearce of a panther on the prowl… Merritt.
“All set then?” Pearce tugged at his white gloves.
Merritt gave a curt nod, but his attention lay on the dark City, listening intently to the night around them. “Everyone’s in place.”
“Are you certain this will work?”
“Let’s find out.” Merritt pulled a pistol from beneath his greatcoat, pointed it into the air, and fired.
The shot split the silence of the night like cannon fire and echoed off the old brick buildings and walls lining the narrow street. A stunned silence followed. And then the streets around them came alive.
Out of the shadows of the narrow streets and back alleys emerged two dozen men and women carrying sticks, clubs, pikes, and torches. As they moved in the direction of Clerkenwell, only a mile or so away, they shouted into the night and swung their clubs at doors, at barrels and crates left in the streets—at anything that would make noise and rouse the city around them. More men came out of the buildings and joined in.
“Well, would you look at that?” Merritt grinned and tossed Pearce the spent pistol, not wanting it on him if the authorities caught him. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a riot.”
He slapped Pearce on the back. Then he jogged off in pursuit of the mob.
Pearce headed in the opposite direction. His boots scuffed over the uneven pavement as he headed northeast toward the edge of the City. The noise of the riot grew dimmer the further he moved away, until he was once more wrapped in the eerie quiet of the midnight fog.
The derelict church of All Souls-on-the-Wall emerged like a ghost from the drizzle and darkness. A blanket of fog lay over its medieval churchyard, cocooning the graves and giving no sense of life anywhere nearby.
“The entrance to hell, all right,” he muttered to himself as he started across the forgotten graveyard toward the door.
He paused outside the front portal to make certain no one had followed him. Then he rapped his knuckles on the wooden panel.
The door swung open slowly to reveal the waiting monk in his brown robe.
“Let me in,” Pearce said quietly, not certain that true demons weren’t lurking among the graves and might overhear.
The man stepped back without a word and let him pass. The door closed after him, shutting out the night.
Pearce made his way through the dusty church. Everything was in place just as before, right down to the same handful of lit candles flickering from the altar.
He descended the stone steps into the crypt where a handful of white robes had been tossed over a nearby tomb. He snatched one up and approached the second monk who guarded the door to the chambers below.
The monk made the sign of the cross.
“Wrong way,” Pearce muttered.
“Apologies.” Alexander Sinclair, Earl of St James, made the sign again, this time with the correct inversion.
“As long as no one else notices.” Pearce slipped on the robe. “How many so far?”
“Three dozen or so.”
“Has the abbot arrived yet?”
“Everyone’s arrived.” He added happily, “Including the nuns.”
Pearce tied the robe and eyed him askance. “Monks are celibate, don’t forget.”
“I thought I was supposed to do everything inverted.” He grinned, adding lasciviously, “Everything.”
“Just wait until you see what’s for dinner. It’s a religious experience, all right.” Pearce pulled the hood down low over his face, until only his chin and jaw were visible. All teasing humor vanished. “Give me ten minutes, then blow the horn.”
“Best be ready when it comes.” He opened the door to the chambers and stepped back to let Pearce pass. “All hell’s going to break loose.”
“Then we’re in a good place for it.” He hurried down into the lower chambers.
When he reached the bottom, Pearce slowed his pace and moved casually through the series of rooms, not wanting to draw any attention to himself. Not that anyone would have noticed, given that the men who filled the rooms were distractedly engaged tonight in the same debauchery as before. Smoke from the same incense pots, cigars, and hookah pipes saturated the ruins, the same exotic music pulsed against the stone walls. Drink flowed into golden goblets just as quickly, and disappeared down throats just as fast. The women were there, too, wearing the same flimsy costumes as they danced or draped themselves over the laps of the members.
Pearce didn’t give a damn about any of it as he slipped past, except that it had allowed the men of the Armory to take their positions inside without being noticed. Only when he reached the dark passageway that led down to the river did he pause. Trusting that no one in the room cared what he did here, he removed a lantern from its hook and started down the tunnel.
With his left hand holding up the lantern to light his way and his right hand beneath his coat on a loaded pistol, he moved carefully down the sloping tunnel in the shadows, expecting a guard to appear out of the darkness at any moment. But none materialized, the passage remaining empty.
When he reached the wooden door that barred his way, he paused to glance over his shoulder. He was alone in the tunnel. No movement, no sound. Not even muffled noise and lingering smoke from the party above. Only the dank, damp, and musty stench of the polluted river splashing quietly beyond the door.
He said a silent prayer and reached for the door handle, prepared to shoot the damn lock open if necessary. But the rusty handle gave way with a faint, metallic groan. He shoved it open just far enough to let himself into the darkness on the other side, then pushed it closed behind him.
Hanging the lantern from the door handle, he took a step toward the stone sarcophagus, and his boot sank into filthy water up to his ankle. The river had risen from the day’s rain and overflowed its culvert, flooding up onto the stone ledge.
Christ! He ran to the sarcophagus, afraid that it had filled with water. The lid rested in place, but a half-inch crack had been left open at the top to let in air.
“Amelia!” His pulse pounded with dread as icy cold as the water that had surely seeped through the porous stone.
Silence.
“Amelia, can you hear me?” Panic surged through him like an electric jolt. Was he wrong? Had Arthur Varnham hidden her someplace else? “Please, Amelia, answer me!”
If the bastard had hurt her, he’d rip the man apart limb by limb with—
“Brandon.” The breathless whisper came so softly that he barely heard it over the rushing river. But her fingertips reached out tentatively through the slit between the stone lid and the case.
“I’m here, darling.” With a strangled sound of relief, he grabbed her fingertips to reassure her that she was going to be all right. Dear God, she was cold as ice! “You’re safe. I’m going to get you out of there.”
Heart-wrenching sobs echoed from inside the stone box. Choking and guttural sounds, as if she couldn’t catch her breath between cries. Each one clawed at him in agony for her.
“You’re safe, my love,” he repeated to reassure her. “But I need you to pull your fingers back down inside, all right?”
When she didn’t let go, he reluctantly released her, only for a muffled scream to tear from the coffin. Her fingers stretched into the air as far as possible, desperately reaching for him.
“Don’t leave me!” Her voice was raw from hours of screaming for help in the black darkness, now little more than a hoarse rasp of terror. “You promised—you promised you wouldn’t ever leave again!”
Guilt slammed through him, and he grabbed again for her fingers to calm her. “I’m not going anywhere.” He leaned over the sarcophagus to try to look inside, only to see nothing but blackness. He lowered his mouth close to the gap and promised, “I’m not leaving here without you. But you have to pull your hands down so that I can move the lid out of the way. I don’t want to risk pinching your fingers against the stone.”
“Then keep—keep talking to me,” she begged, sobbing loudly in hysteria. “Let me hear your voice—let me know you’re still there.”
“All right. What should I talk about?” He forced himself to keep his voice calm, despite the rising panic. They were running out of time. “About that day we went exploring along the river in Birmingham and got caught in the storm? Or when I taught you how to shoot a bow and arrow?”
“You—you nearly shot your uncle’s mule.” Her fingers released their stranglehold on his, and he slowly slipped his hand away.
“Details, details.” He tsked dismissively. “But you have to admit that the old beast never moved faster than when that arrow flew at him.”
“I–I thought… I thought your uncle would sk-skin you alive for that.” Her fingers still shook, but they’d ceased their frantic grabs for him.
“He most likely would have, too, if he hadn’t blamed that group of canal workers who’d stumbled into the innyard right then, foxed to the gills.”
“If you hadn’t told him they did,” she corrected with a forced and strained laugh. One she only gave, he knew, because she thought he’d expected it. The soft sound of her bravery nearly broke him.
“In wars and innyards, it’s every man for himself.” He leaned over the lid to let her touch his cheek, giving her this small reassurance that he was still there. “It’s time now, love.” Clayton would be blowing the horn soon, and when he did, all the men would gather in the Inner Temple, and Pearce could spirit her away. “I need you to lower your hands so I can move the lid back. Wrap them into your skirt at your sides, all right? When the lid falls away, I will be right here.” He placed a kiss to her fingertips. “With you.”
Tentatively, in a show of great trust, she pulled her hands down in small jerks until her fingertips slid over the edge of the slit and disappeared back into the darkness inside the stone coffin.
He placed the top of his shoulder against the lid. “Keep them down. Ready? One…two…three!”
He shoved, straining with his entire body to move the heavy stone. A fierce groan of exertion tore from him, and the lid moved with a grinding of stone on stone. Another shove and groan, more slow grinding of stone. The lid fell away, tumbling into the water on the ledge with a loud splash and thud.
“Amelia!” He yanked her out of the coffin.
Carrying her in his arms, he kicked open the door and set her down in the dry tunnel. She was soaked from the layer of icy water that had seeped through the stone, and her weak arms could barely lift to encircle his neck. She shook violently against him with both cold and terror.
“Amelia, are you all right?” He ran his hands over her to check for any sign of injury on her face and head, down her body, arms, legs—
She nodded even as she sobbed, choking on her tears as she tried to gulp in mouthfuls of air.
“You’re safe. I have you now.” Shedding the white robe, he wrapped it around her like a blanket to stave off the cold, then pulled her into his arms to let his body warm hers. But he couldn’t hold her close enough, even as his arms held round her like iron bands, his hands fiercely rubbing her arms and legs. Her pulse pounded strong and vibrant, and finally, he let go of the terror he’d been holding in check in order to concentrate on rescuing her, finally let the rush of rage at almost losing her sweep from him. “I told you that I would never let you go. I meant every word.”
“Wild horses,” she whispered. Barely a sound, but his heart heard every word.
“Wild horses.” He squeezed his eyes closed as relief overwhelmed him.