Another Country (32 page)

“It doesn’t matter anymore, Taylor,” Riddell said
quietly. “They know, and even if they haven’t put all the pieces
together, they soon will. And why should I bother to defend him?
Cover up? He’s ruined me. I’ll have no place in society now.”

“You are getting ahead of yourself!” Taylor’s voice
was sharp, hardly the tone a servant would take.

“No, he isn’t,” Ian said. “He’s right. We’d sussed
him out already.” Ian turned to Riddell, the blaze of triumph in
his eyes. “So why did you do it? Debt, I suppose?”

Riddell’s face twisted with bitterness. “Yes, debt.
And my creditor just happened to have a scheme to make us all rich.
Or so he said.”

“I remember someone saying something like to me,”
Ian said softly. “It turned out he was a liar and a cheat.”

“Still haven’t forgotten the past, lad, have you?”
Riddell shook his head. “It’s eaten you with rage your whole
life... and all for a field.”

“A field?” Ian took a step closer,
his fist raised. “A
field
? My family’s livelihood, you
mean.” His voice shook. “My family’s life. We’d owned that farm for
over a hundred years...”

“Then you should have read the contract a bit more
closely,” Riddell sneered. “You were so desperate to prove yourself
then! I don’t think much has changed.”

“Perhaps not. But I vow I won’t stand aside and let
innocents be hurt by your greed and cowardice. Not this time.” Ian
started forward, but Rupert laid a steadying hand on his arm.

“This isn’t about your revenge, Ian. No matter how
much you want it to be.”

Ian started as if from a dream, and dropped his
fists. “Where is she, Riddell?”

“Gone.”

There was a tense silence in the room as the three
men digested Riddell’s cold words.

“Gone?” Henry repeated. “Gone where?”

“He’s got her. She tried to run, of course, in those
foolish slippers she insisted I buy! Must keep up appearances, you
know.” Riddell’s lips curled into an ugly smile. “He caught her at
once, and took her to his carriage.” He spread his hands. “And as
far as I’m concerned, he can have her. She was nothing to me but a
bargaining chip, and even as that she failed.”

“Who has her?” Rupert asked.

Ian shook his head. “Of course. Dearborn. Her
fiancé.” He sneered the words, but there was an icy fear creeping
up on him, choking him. “You forced her into that liaison, didn’t
you? It’s Dearborn who’s the mastermind behind all this, pulling
your strings!”

“Didn’t I say as much?” Riddell gave an elegant
shrug, smiling slightly. His cold gaze rested briefly on Taylor.
“And this manservant, so thoughtfully provided to keep watch on me!
Well, it’s over now, Taylor. And you can tell your master I said
so.”

Rupert glanced appraisingly on the cold, hard face
of the butler. “So you were Dearborn’s agent?” he said softly.
Taylor’s gaze jerked to Rupert, and then just as quickly
dismissed.

“I will say nothing,” he said coldly, his eyes on
Riddell. “And I advise you to do the same.”

“It’s too late, Taylor!” Riddell laughed, then
sagged against the cushions. “It’s too late.”

“How can you sit there?” Ian demanded in a furious
whisper. “When that criminal--that murderer--has your niece, one of
your only relatives? Do you have any idea what he might do to her?
Why just being in his carriage alone will ruin her reputation in
this city.”

“Do you think, my dear boy,” Riddell said softly, “I
have any care for reputations now?” He gestured to the room around
him. “All this is but a forgotten dream now. I’ll be fortunate if I
don’t go to prison.”

“Indeed you will!” Rupert said, a
faint pity mingling with his own sense of satisfaction. “But just
because your life might be in shambles doesn’t mean you may throw
your ward to the wolves. Have you no shame, sir? No
compassion?”

Riddell was silent for a moment, his expression
shuttered. “No,” he said at last. “No, I don’t.”

Ian shook his head slowly. “What sort of man are
you?”

Riddell was silent again, looking down, almost as if
his mind were elsewhere. “What kind of man am I?” he repeated
softly. “But you know the answer to that question already.”

“I don’t want to believe it of you.” Ian’s voice was
low. Could Riddell--his enemy--hold himself in as little regard as
Ian did?

Riddell looked up at him, his eyes filled with
misery, his face bleak. “Believe it.”

And for the first time, Ian felt pity for the man
who had cost him so much.

A quarter of an hour later, Rupert, Henry and Ian
hailed a hansom cab outside Riddell’s home, headed for Dearborn’s
offices by the docks. Riddell had given the address to them
reluctantly while Taylor watched in impotent fury.

Rupert longed to arrest the man, but he could not do
the deed himself and it would be impossible to find a U.S. marshal
at this hour, willing to arrest a gentleman’s servant on what could
be seen as a flimsy pretext. No doubt Taylor would be long gone
before they’d even found Dearborn.

Ian was not certain whether fear of personal injury
or a belated concern for his niece had made Riddell offer the
information. Right now, he didn’t care which it was.

He just wanted to see Caroline safe.

“I’m sorry, Ian,” Rupert said quietly as they rode
towards the harbor. “I didn’t believe Riddell could have... I
didn’t believe you, and I should have. It hardly seems possible,
and yet--”

“Desperate men are capable of much,” Ian finished
grimly. “I almost feel sorry for the rogue--at least I might, if
Caroline is safe.”

Henry closed his eyes briefly. “Please God she
is.”

“Why would Dearborn harm her?” Rupert asked in as
reasonable a tone as he could muster. “According to Riddell, she’s
his entree into society. Harming her or her reputation is hardly
likely to serve him well.”

“He’s desperate, and cornered,” Ian replied. “And
men in those conditions attack.”

“Dearborn is cold-hearted. He’ll look to his best
interests first.”

“I hope so,” Ian said. “Because for once, his best
interests might be ours as well.”

The address Riddell had given them was a darkened
warehouse in the North Bay district, much like the other buildings
that lined the harbor. By day, they bustled with trade, sailors and
merchants moving cargo and conducting business. Now, all was empty,
silent. A discarded newspaper blew down the street, and Ian saw the
shadow of a huddled figure in one of the darkened doorways. He
suppressed a shiver. This was not a place he wanted to be on such a
night, and yet...

Caroline was here.

They disembarked from the hansom and stood in front
of the front entrance to the warehouse.

“Dearborn’s most likely in there,” Rupert said in a
low voice. “The element of surprise might be--”

“Gentlemen, come in, come in.” The door had opened
without them realizing it, and Matthew Dearborn stood there,
smiling genially as if for all the world he was inviting them into
his parlor.

“Where is she, Dearborn?” Ian demanded.

“By ‘she’ I presume you mean the charming Miss
Reid,” Dearborn replied. “My fiancé.”

“Your--”

Henry shook his head a fraction, and Ian fell
silent. There was more at stake here than arguing about words.

“Won’t you come in?”

“Of course we will.” Rupert stepped across the
threshold. “You realize, of course, that a U.S. marshal knows where
we are? And that the law is aware of who you are and your actions
as of late?”

“I would not presume to know of what you speak.”
Dearborn’s manner was all civility, but there was a hard, flinty
coldness in his eyes that left no room to mistake just what kind of
man he was.

“You cannot continue to protest your innocence,”
said Henry. “We have evidence...”

Dearborn glanced at the three of them, standing
shoulder to shoulder in the doorway, and laughed softly. “I do feel
as if I’ve being visited by the three Musketeers! I congratulate
you on your show of bravery. It really is most impressive.” And
still chuckling quietly, he turned and walked down the hall.

Rupert and Henry exchanged uneasy glances. The
hallway was dark and cold, and who knew what--or who else--awaited
them in the maze of offices and store rooms.

Ian, however, strode forward. “Where’s Caroline?” he
demanded.

Dearborn glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll ask you to
refer to my intended as Miss Reid, sir. You are far too
familiar.”

Dearborn opened a door and disappeared inside. Ian
followed, with Henry and Rupert behind him.

“You may choose to take this lightly, Dearborn,” Ian
said through gritted teeth. “But I’m not leaving here till you have
surrendered her to me.”

Dearborn stood in the centre of his office, a messy,
sparsely furnished room lit only by a a handful of flickering
tallow candles, dripping wax onto some old papers. He spread out
his hands.

“Do you see her here?”

“Riddell told us you had her,” Rupert said
quietly.

“Ah. I thought he might turn coward. Well, I’m
finished with him at any rate.”

“Are you?” Rupert challenged with a mirthless laugh.
“Indeed you must be, since you are finished yourself.”

“You sound so certain, I wonder if I should be
offended.”

“You are a counterfeiter,” Ian cut across Dearborn’s
words. “A criminal, and we have evidence. I’m sure this warehouse
is full of fake bills. This is where you keep them, isn’t it? And
we know the petty men you’ve roped into your scheme. No doubt they
would testify against you...”

“Oh, no doubt,” Dearborn agreed dryly, “for they
aren’t easily frightened, are they?”

There was a tense silence, and then Rupert said
slowly, “are you saying that you will intimidate them into
silence?”

Dearborn smiled. “My dear sir, if you choose to make
that suggestion, then so be it...”

“You are a rogue!” Ian exclaimed. “Don’t you realize
the game is up? You had aspirations to a gentleman’s status--well,
play the man now, and admit your guilt! It can only go against
you.”

“Can it?” Dearborn smiled so slyly that Ian felt the
first prickle of true unease. “You say you have evidence,” he
continued smoothly. “Yet I do not see it. You say you have
witnesses, yet somehow I think they’ve already scuttled back to
their safe little holes, and cannot be found. It appears, my dear
fellows, that you do not have a case.”

“At any rate,” Rupert said quietly, “your money is
useless. The marshals and every bank will know what the bills look
like. They won’t pass anywhere.”

“Perhaps,” Dearborn allowed, “that might be a small
problem, until, of course, we take them elsewhere.”

Ian’s hands curled into fists and
he suddenly launched himself at Dearborn. “Where is she, you
worthless thief, common criminal that you are!
Where is she
?”

“Ian
.”
Henry pulled him back even as Dearborn stumbled against the wall.
“You cannot---!”

“He’s lying!”

Dearborn’s lip was bloody and there was a bruise on
his cheek. “I told you, I don’t have her,” he said, his voice
ragged and yet still unruffled. “If it’s the girl you want, take
her. She’s useless to me as it is. Riddell’s washed up and she’ll
be shunned by society. I hardly want a pariah for a wife!”

“And you think we’ll see you sneak away with your
counterfeit money?” Rupert demanded. “We’ll have justice--”

“Justice?” Dearborn laughed, a sharp, unpleasant
sound. “There is no justice in this country, haven’t you realized
that? I’ve bought half a dozen of your so-called police to look the
other way already. If there’s something to line their pockets, they
don’t care.” He shook his head. “Do you actually think anyone is
going to listen to your sad little story? Or care? Of course, it’s
very touching that you believe in this idea of justice, but I’m
telling you now, boys, it doesn’t exist. You leave this warehouse
tonight, and stop troubling me, and take the girl if you want her.
I’ll go on my merry way and no one is the wiser for it.”

Rupert shook his head. “If that’s true, why did you
try to kill me? You wouldn’t have had your man at Riddell’s--that
butler--take a rock to my head if you weren’t scared.”

There was a tense silence, while all the men looked
at each other. Then Dearborn’s shoulders sagged.

“Very well,” he said quietly. “You shall have it
your way. I’ll play the gentleman.” With slow, deliberate
movements, he picked up a candle and walked towards the door. “You
want your evidence?” he asked, but no one answered.

Rupert looked worriedly at Henry and Ian, but they
were focused on Dearborn.

Dearborn stepped across the threshold, then turned
to them with a smile. “Here is your evidence,” he said, a savage
note entering his voice, and he threw the candle into the room. It
landed on top of a pile of papers with a hiss, and while Henry and
Ian jumped away from it, Dearborn began to shove the door
closed.

Rupert threw his shoulder against the door, his arm
into the jamb. There was a cracking of bone and he fell back with a
grunt of pain.

Still, it was enough for Henry and Ian to throw the
door open wider. Dearborn, seeing his plan failed, was running down
the corridor.

The papers had taken light, and flames licked
eagerly at the warehouse’s old timber frame.

Ian hoisted Rupert up. “Help me, Henry. I think he’s
broken his arm.”

By the time they’d dragged Rupert
to the corridor, thick, choking smoke was billowing everywhere.
There was a loud crack as an old beam above them split and plunged
to the floor below.

“Just a little bit longer,” Ian urged. Cradling his
arm, Rupert staggered onwards.

There was no sign of Dearborn in the corridor,
although with the smoke and flames it was nearly impossible to see
anything.