An Unlikely Alliance (6 page)

It was all her own fault. She knew the risks and had hired Matt Sweeney to escort her to her engagements as Mademoiselle Magda. But Matt had been late, no doubt drinking at a nearby alehouse. Too impatient to wait for his arrival, Magda decided to fetch him herself. And now that impatience could cost her her life.

“I’ve only a farthing in my pocket, but you’re welcome to it.” It was difficult to speak with the knife blade pressing against her throat at every breath.

“Keep quiet,” he hissed. “I don’t need your brass.”

Magda’s blood froze at the implications of that statement. She licked lips that had gone dry with fear. “What do you want?”

At the corner of the alley, the doors of an alehouse opened and a group of rowdy revelers spilled into the night. Her captor gripped her shoulder so tightly she feared it would break, but his caution was for naught, as the drunken men passed by the mouth of the alley without a second glance.

“The master wants a word with you. Just tell him what he wants to hear and he’ll let you go.”

He had been sent to find her. Somehow this made the situation more terrifying than a random act of violence. But what did his mysterious employer want with her, a lowly seamstress? Or was it Mademoiselle Magda that they were seeking?

Her captor moved to stand beside her, grasping her right forearm. Then he slid the knife slowly across her throat until it came to rest just under her ear. The knife point was now a blossoming star of pain, but at least she didn’t have to worry about cutting her own throat should she stumble.

“Start walking,” he ordered.

Magda hesitated. Only a fool would believe his promises. Deep inside she knew that if she went with him she would be killed. She had to get away from him now, before it was too late. But how? The prick of the blade at her throat was a constant reminder not to make any careless moves. What she needed was a distraction.

He tugged her arm and they began to walk toward the Grimes Street end. She would make her move there. The alley was a trap, but once in Grimes Street there were half a dozen ways she could run. All she had to do was pretend to stumble. Surely he would loosen his grip rather than risk killing her. After all, his employer needed her alive to question, didn’t he?

It was a slim thread to base her hopes on, but it was all she had. Her lungs wanted to gasp for air, but she forced herself to breathe slowly, as if nothing was amiss. She concentrated on counting the steps. Five more. Four more. I can do this, she thought. Three more. What had she ever done to deserve this? Two more. If this failed, her friends would never know what had happened to her. One more. She gathered her courage—

“What’s going on here?” Matt Sweeney stepped into the alley.

She had never been so glad to see anyone in her whole life.

“Keep walking if you want to keep breathing,” her captor growled.

“Sorry, mate, but I can’t,” Matt replied, hefting his cudgel meaningfully. “That gel you got is mine, in a manner of speaking.”

Her captor was not impressed. “Well, then I’m sure you’d hate to see me carve up her pretty face. She’ll be no use to you then. Why don’t you run along and find yourself a new toy?”

A frown creased Matt’s normally placid features as he considered his opponent. Magda’s heart sank. She had known that Matt was no angel when she asked him to be her escort. Lacking the speed to make it as a prizefighter, he’d turned his hands to a dozen trades since then. Not all of them were strictly legal, but Magda knew better than to ask any awkward questions. He’d been willing to work for the shillings she offered, and his size and fierce demeanor should have meant that ruffians steered clear of them.

Magda stared at him pleadingly, but he would not meet her eyes. “Matt, please, you’ve got to help me,” she begged, her voice cracking.

“Sorry, gel,” he said. “It’s just not worth it.” He turned around as if to go.

Magda felt the tension ease out of her captor as his grip on her arm became less fierce. “So much for your hero,” he taunted.

But even as he spoke, the incredible was happening. Matt Sweeney turned to go, but then kept turning, spinning in a circle to face them once again, hurling the lantern he carried.

Her captor ducked and swore, but the lantern sailed easily overhead, landing with a crash on the cobblestones behind them. Magda took advantage of the distraction, stomping on his foot then twisting her body sideways, ducking out from under his arm. Fabric tore with a screech and then she was free.

She ran back toward Damon Lane, skirting the burning oil from the broken lamp. Her captor turned to pursue her, but then Matt called out, “Not so fast, boy.”

Her captor turned back to face this threat. Magda stopped as well, confident that Matt could deal with this ruffian now that he no longer had a hostage to hide behind. Her torn cloak began to slip from her shoulders, so she held it together with one hand. With the other she absently rubbed her neck where the knife had scratched her as she made her escape.

Burning oil illuminated the scene with a flickering glow. Matt Sweeney was a big man, with the barrel chest and heavily muscled arms that came from a lifetime of hard labor. He swung an iron shod staff menacingly. “Come on, me boy, let’s see how good you are with that pigsticker,” he said.

Her erstwhile captor lacked Matt’s impressive build, but the look on his face was one of disdain, not fear. “You won’t live to regret this,” he promised. Magda’s confidence wavered in the face of his bravado.

The fighters circled each other warily. A small knot of onlookers gathered at the mouth of the alley, drawn by the commotion and the prospect of free entertainment. Matt’s eyes kept moving, searching out a weakness in his opponent. His eyes widened with shock as he saw that she was still there. “Run, you stupid girl, run!”

Leaving felt like a betrayal, but she knew Matt was right. There was nothing she could do to help. Her presence could only prove a distraction. Magda ran down the alley. Reaching Damon Lane, she turned back for one last look.

The villain lunged with his knife and Matt parried it easily with his cudgel. His next swing grazed his opponent’s forehead, but the stranger backed away before Matt could follow it up with a disabling blow.

One of the idlers detached himself from the crowd and came toward the fighters. Matt paid him no heed, his attention focused on the enemy in front of him. This proved a fatal mistake as the newcomer struck Matt a savage blow from behind. The cudgel slipped out of his grasp and he began to crumple to the ground. As he fell, his opponent plunged his knife into Matt’s stomach.

“No!” She must have screamed, for the two men turned toward her. Magda didn’t wait a second longer. Fear lent her inhuman speed as she turned and began to run. But no matter how fast she ran, she couldn’t escape the memory of what she had seen.

She ran for what seemed like hours, till her lungs burned and her feet began to stumble with weariness. The road she was following ended at a small park, and without conscious decision she stopped to rest, leaning wearily against the iron fence. All she wanted to do was collapse, but she forced herself to look around for signs of pursuit. There were none, no running footsteps, no shadowy figures hastening toward her. The only sound was her own labored breathing.

But where was she? The clouds parted, and the moonlight briefly illuminated a forest of gray rectangles, obelisks, and eerie sculptures. This was no park, it was a cemetery. And the building that she could half glimpse on the other side had to be a chapel.

Magda shivered. Now that she was no longer running, her sweat turned icy in the night air. She reached to pull her cloak around her, but there was no cloak. It must have fallen off sometime during her frantic flight.

She needed a plan. She couldn’t return to her lodgings. They had found here there once before and would be waiting for her to return. Now they would be twice as anxious to find her, for she had witnessed a murder.

A distant church bell began to chime, and soon the churches around London began in echo. Magda counted the strokes. Ten o’clock! It was impossible. She had been running for hours. She knew she had. But the bells told a different story. How could she have gotten so lost in just an hour?

But the bells gave her an idea. Among the chimes she’d heard the familiar sounds of St. Anne’s bells, which meant she was near Leicester Square. From there it was but a short walk to Covent Garden, where Mrs. Brightwell should still be working at the theater. She dared not return home, but hopefully her pursuers would not think to look for her there.

Magda released the fence reluctantly and began limping in the direction of Covent Garden. Her legs ached with every step and her neck throbbed in sympathy, but she kept grimly on. If she could make it safely to the theater she could hide there till morning. Then she’d be able to figure something out. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was all she had.

Another evening wasted. Alexander swore as he realized that Mademoiselle Magda had outwitted him again. He had waited more than two hours at William Dunne’s townhouse until it became clear that the infamous Gypsy was not going to make an appearance. How had she known that the invitation was a trap? And after all the trouble he had gone to, convincing Mrs. Dunne to organize the gathering on such short notice.

He wasn’t willing to admit defeat. There was still one more lead to pursue. The carriage slowed, and a glance confirmed that they had reached Covent Garden. The theater was still a few hundred yards away, but he reached up and knocked on the roof. “Stop here,” he ordered. The performance was still in full swing, and the street ahead was crowded with carriages and pedestrians. It would be faster to walk.

Alexander stepped down from the carriage. “I won’t be long,” he promised.

“Very good, sir.” John Coachmen touched his hat.

He threaded his way through the congestion.

“Wants an orange, luv? Mine are the ripest,” a buxom orange seller offered with a smile that made it clear he was welcome to sample more than her oranges.

“Not tonight,” he replied curtly. The orange seller pouted, but as he passed he heard her making the same offer to the next passerby.

Alexander had no interest to spare for pretty orange sellers. His mind was fixed on one woman, the elusive Gypsy wench. With any luck he would be able to pry her whereabouts out of the person he sought. Discreet inquiries had revealed that all engagements for Mademoiselle Magda had been made through a Mrs. Brightwell who worked at Covent Garden. Mrs. Brightwell had refused to cooperate with the runners, but he was confident he could change her mind.

He made his way to the side door when a movement at the end of his alley drew his eye. There was someone standing there in the shadows. The figure shifted from one foot to another, taking a few steps toward the door, then retreating to the shadows for protection.

He knew at once that it was she. Her luck had finally run out. But she hadn’t seen him yet. Feigning nonchalance, he strolled toward the back door as if he hadn’t a care in the world. His path took him quite near her hiding place. As he drew abreast of her, he took a few quick steps in her direction, then reached out and grabbed her by the arm. “It’s time we had that little talk,” he said.

“Never,” she vowed, swiftly kicking him in the shins and wrenching free of his grasp. She fled toward the theater door and the bright gaslights that promised the illusion of safety. Ignoring the pain in his leg, he gave chase and caught her outside the door.

She struggled like a wild animal and opened her mouth to scream, but he covered it with one hand and was promptly bitten for his trouble. What was the matter with her? From the struggles she was putting up you would think her life was at stake. He pinned her up against the wall of the theater building but she continued to claw at him and struggle even though it was obvious that her slender body held no chance of dislodging him. “All I want is a few answers,” he said.

Her eyes were huge and frightened.

“Just tell me what I want to know,” he said. Cautiously, he took his hand from her mouth. “Now start talking.”

She gulped convulsively. “I’ll not let you kill me,” she said. It was a brave statement, but the trembling of her body belied her seeming courage.

Alexander felt a prickle of guilt. He had meant to throw a scare into her, but it seemed he had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. The girl was truly terrified. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he promised.

“How can I believe that after what you’ve done?”

He stared at her. The Gypsy’s reactions were making no sense. His eyes picked up details that he had missed before—the wig that was now askew, the shawl that was falling off one shoulder. He shifted his grip on her shoulder and felt her wince at the same time as his mind registered the damp stickiness against his palm. A horrible suspicion began to grow in his mind.

He raised his hand to his lips and the bitter taste of blood confirmed his fears. “What the hell happened to you?”

Large, dark eyes stared into his as if she could see his soul. “It was your men,” she said simply. “They came for me.” Her eyes darted from side to side as if assessing her chances of making an escape.

“It wasn’t my men,” he swore. Of course it wasn’t. The runners would never do anything so rash. But someone had tried to harm her, that much was certain.

She swayed as he released his hold on her. Tearing off his cravat, he folded it into a pad and pressed it against the gash in her neck.

“This will have to do for now. Just hold your hand here,” he said.

Obediently she raised her hand to hold the makeshift bandage in place. “I don’t understand,” she said faintly. It was not clear whether she was referring to the attack or to his apparent solicitude. His mind whirled with speculation. Who had attacked her? And why? Had there been a falling-out among the conspirators? But there was no time for questions. She was fading before his eyes.

“Neither do I. But I promise we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

He picked her up before she could collapse and carried her back through the streets to his waiting carriage. Her slender frame weighed nothing at all, reinforcing the impression of fragility.