Maggie MacKeever (8 page)

BOOK: Maggie MacKeever
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He really was quite spoilt. So accustomed to females pursuing him that it put him out of sorts when one did not.

But this was no moment in which to ponder his numerous deficiencies of character. “You’re certain she’s not in the house?”

Samson remained a prudent distance from his employer. “Aye.”

“And she didn’t leave by the front door?”

Samson shook his head.

“Then,” said Quin, through gritted teeth, “she must have gone out through another. Which she would hardly have done of her own accord. Was there anyone who shouldn’t be in the other areas of the house?” And if so, how had that been allowed to happen, he didn’t say aloud, but Samson nevertheless turned pale.

“I don’t see as how anyone could have slipped in unnoticed,” he answered. “Everybody was told to be on the alert. Rosamund did say as she glimpsed an older female when she went down to the kitchen, but figured it must be Miss Manvers’ abigail.”

Kate
should
have been assigned a maidservant. Why hadn’t Quin realized before? In his defense, he was hardly in the habit of acquiring maidservants for the various ladies of his acquaintance, said acquaintance seldom lasting more than a few hours. Still, his failure to provide for Kate was yet another indication of his tendency to think only of himself.

Exposure to Miss Manvers was rapidly shattering what few self-delusions he had left.

The kitchen, Quin discovered, was a spacious room with a lofty ceiling and a stone flagged floor. Cookware of all descriptions — copper pots, bronze cauldrons, pottery bowls, salt boxes, spice holders, butter stamps, graters, and a number of items he didn’t recognize — were displayed on the numerous dressers and open shelves that lined the white-washed walls. Servants bustled back and forth between the large scrubbed elm table and cast iron kitchen range. When Quin entered the room, they stopped to stare, as astonished as if their realm had been invaded by a kangaroo.

Enquiries elicited the information that yes, a strange woman had been glimpsed in the house. One person thought she was this, and another that, but all agreed it wasn’t their place to question which of his females their employer chose to have on the premises, or why, even when the female didn’t seem at all his sort. This attitude further annoyed said employer, who had made it a point
not
to have extraneous females on the premises, save Kate, who could by no stretch of anyone’s imagination be called his.

And furthermore, Figg the footman was also no longer on the premises.

“Come with me,” Quin said to Samson, and strode toward the back door. The kitchen staff watched in silence as they exited.

Samson hailed a hackney. “You suspicion where she’s gone to, guv?”

“I do.” Edmund Underhill, Quin had discovered, owned no London house. When in town, he stayed at Richardson’s in Covent Garden, a well-known hotel.

Mr. Underhill was not to be found at Richardson’s, however. After accepting a generous gratuity, the porter allowed as the gentleman could most likely be located at a certain establishment in Maiden Lane, which was to his way of thinking a low sort of place and not to his lordship’s taste. If the porter were to make a suggestion, which he would be happy to do, for an additional small stipend—

But Lord Quinton had returned to the hackney, and was rattling away.

The porter had misjudged him. His lordship was acquainted with the establishment in Maiden Lane. He gained entrance without difficulty, having visited this and similar establishments more times than he could count. A brief conversation with an individual of singularly sinister appearance, Sprowl by name; another exchange of coins; and then Lord Quinton and Sprowl were moving through the rooms, Samson at their heels.

They found Coffey seated at one of the small tables in a low-ceilinged anteroom. Beside him brooded a dark-haired man.

Sprowl nodded toward a doorway on the far side of the chamber and then took his leave of them. Samson raised his eyebrows. Quin inclined his head.

Samson approached the table, grasped the dark-haired man by the collar, and hauled him upright. “Edmund Underhill? His lordship is wishful of a word.”

Edmund choked, sputtered and struggled. His chair fell over with a crash. Such was the nature of the establishment that none of the other patrons so much as glanced his way.

Samson forcibly escorted his captive over to where Quin waited. “Who the devil are you?” Edmund snarled.

“Nemesis,” responded Quin. “Take him outside.”

 ‘Outside’ was a narrow alleyway, illuminated by light coming through the windows of the adjacent buildings, redolent with sewage and refuse. Samson propelled Edmund through the doorway; released him so abruptly he staggered and almost fell. Quin demanded, “What have you done with Kate?”

Edmund straightened his lapels. “Kate who?”

“Kate Manvers. Your cousin. If you’ve the sense God gave a goose, you’ll not waste my time.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Edmund took in his surroundings with one quick assessing glance. “As it turns out, I have a few things to say to my cousin. If you come across her, perhaps you could persuade her to stop playing least-in-sight.”

Quin said, grimly, “You want to more than speak to her, I think.”

“Mr. Underhill is hunting a particular female,” offered Coffey, who had wandered outside in their wake. “One who limps.”

Quin removed his jacket and handed it to Samson. “Edmund is hunting the limping lady because she is aware he pushed his own mother down the stairs.”

Coffey stared disapprovingly at Edmund. It wasn’t at all the thing to go around pushing mothers down the stairs.

Quin unbuttoned his waistcoat. “He is responsible as well for the accident that left the lady lame.”

“I didn’t!” growled Edmund. “If Kate says otherwise, she lies.”

“I don’t think I’d take his word,” said Coffey. “The man’s a blackguard.”

Quin grabbed Edmund’s lapels and shook him hard enough to dislodge what brains he might possess. “Damn you! Where is Kate?”

Edmund jerked out of Quin’s grasp. “I wouldn’t tell you if I knew.”

Scowling at each other, the men took up a pugilistic position. Samson placed a heavy hand on Coffey’s shoulder, lest he be tempted to interfere.

It was, as Samson later described to a group of fascinated footmen, as neat a bit of cross and jostle work as a man could hope to see. Had he been giving odds on the outcome of the encounter — which he might have done, but Coffey hadn’t survived so long without being fly to the time of day — he would have wagered Mr. Underhill had no more chance of planting Lord Quinton a leveler than a cat in hell surviving without claws. Although the other gentleman displayed well enough, his lordship was not only fast on his feet but had the most wicked of left hooks. Quin landed Mr. Underhill a facer and in so doing drew his cork — “That’s for Kate” — followed by a blow to the bread-basket — “And that’s for Dorothea” — ending with a clout on the jolly nob —“And
this
is for the kitchen cat!” Quicker than a cove could say Jack Robinson, Mr. Underhill landed on his bumfiddle in the muck.

“Now,” said Quin, who despite his various dissipations was barely breathing hard. “Tell me where she is.”

Edmund dabbed at his swollen mouth. “Damn you, I don’t know.”

Quin turned aside in exasperation. Quick as any adder, Edmund drew a dagger from his boot and lunged. Quin spun round, caught Edmund’s wrist and turned the blade toward him. Edmund could not halt his momentum. His eyes widened as the knife plunged into his heart.

Widened, and then clouded. Quin released him. Edmund crumpled to the ground.

Samson withheld comment. Coffey muttered, “Bloody hell.”

“There you are! I have been searching for you everywhere.” Daintily, Liliane picked her way toward them through the refuse. She twitched her skirts away from Edmund, who lay in an ever-widening pool of blood. “Is that man dead?
Alors!
I can tell you where your Kate has gone — but it will cost you dear, milord.”

 

Chapter Fifteen

 

Kate saw no means of escape from the small parlor, which was furnished with a surprising degree of luxury, and located in the rear of what seemed to be a large and very busy house. Only one door opened into the chamber, and that door was firmly closed. The windows, behind their elegant damask hangings, were barred.

At least the pistol was no longer pressed against her ribs, although staring into its muzzle was little more reassuring. “This is a lovely room, Miss— Ah. We have not been properly introduced. What do you prefer I call you?” Kate inquired.

The woman gazed at her mockingly. “How polite we are. Shall I offer you refreshment? Is sherry to your taste?” Kate inclined her head. The woman reached for a decanter and poured, maintaining her grip on the pistol all the while. “In answer to your question, I’m known here as Mam.”

Gingerly, Kate took the glass. “Where is ‘here’?”

Mam laughed, revealing an unexpectedly fine set of teeth. “You’re in a house of civil reception. A nunnery. Where anyone sufficiently flush in the pocket can make the beast with two backs.”

First a gambling hell, and now a bordello. Kate’s experience of the world was advancing at a startling pace.

Judging from those teeth, which Mam was displaying in a most unnerving manner, the woman was younger than she first appeared. Kate took a deep swallow, felt the sherry course through her, warming her throat and belly. “And so you are—”

“Laced mutton?” suggested Mam. “Haymarket ware? I am the abbess of this fine establishment as well.”

Wonderful. Kate was being held prisoner by a bawd. She hoped Quin would soon rescue her.

But why should he think to search for her here?

And why
was
she here?

Kate took another swallow, trying not to think what might be going on in other parts of the house. “What do you mean to do with me?”

Mam looked her over, critically. “Sell you, of course. Maybe at auction: I haven’t yet decided. There’s some as like a cripple. To each his own, I say.”

Kate might have said several things, all of them unwise, had not a sudden horrendous suspicion caused her to clench her teeth.

Was
Quin
familiar with this place?

“Are you ill?” Mam inquired, with mock solicitude.

Kate had been too nervous to eat dinner. She had nothing in her belly but champagne, sherry, and butterflies.

The sherry packed a particularly potent punch. “You’ve drugged me!” Kate gasped.

“Naturally I drugged you, ninnyhammer. What did you think, I snatched you up so we could have a comfy coze?”

Came a tapping on the door. Eyes fixed on Kate, Mam called out, “Who’s there?”

Liliane strolled into the room. Her eyes narrowed at sight of Kate. “Moxley’s closed early due to a spot of trouble. What’s
she
doing here?”

Mam aimed her pistol, briefly, at the doorway. “She’s the cheese in my trap. You should have told me the minute she showed up at Moxley House.”

“Why should I have done?” Liliane came closer. “What’s this one have to do with the price of peas? And how did
you
know she was at Moxley House? If there was others about your business, you should have said, so we wouldn’t trip all over each other and ourselves. Or mayhap you’re forgetting it was you as told me too many cooks spoil the broth.”

 “I had no one else at Moxley’s.” Mam gestured toward Kate’s gown.

“Mme Dubois?” Liliane frowned. “Beau Loversall bought those clothes.”

“Beau Loversall is a notorious nipfarthing,” Mam said impatiently. “Quin paid the reckoning. And now he’s going to pay another that is long past due.”

Liliane looked blank. “She means to sell me,” Kate croaked.

“Sell you?” Liliane echoed. “But you are quite old!”

“Keep a civil tongue in your head,” snapped Mam. “She’s no older than I am. The Black Baron’s partiality for her will compensate for any shortcomings she may have.”

“What partiality? Quin holds me in no fondness.” Difficult to converse rationally, Kate discovered, when one’s tongue didn’t fit properly in the confines of one’s mouth. She tried to lift her hand, discovered she could not, and gurgled a protest.

“It sounds like a crack-brained scheme to me,” Liliane said severely. “We’re waiting for him to put in an appearance here?”

Mam oozed exasperation. “No. We’re waiting for this one to grow properly pliant. His lordship’s invitation hasn’t yet been sent.”

Liliane looked doubtful. “You must know your own business best.”

Kate wasn’t feeling at all pliant. She wanted nothing more than to give Mam a good kick. Still, she couldn’t find it in herself to be especially afraid. It was as if they were actors playing out a scene, the others strutting and declaiming all around her, while she squatted on the sofa like a broody hen.

Mam shifted in her chair. Liliane moved aimlessly around the room, touching this, picking up and discarding things.

Kate had never before been inebriated. Her current condition gave her a better understanding of Quin. It was rather pleasant to be so detached from her surroundings, her thoughts bouncing like a rubber ball from this to that and back again. If she was in a bordello, did that mean Liliane was a
fille de joie
? If so, was Liliane a
fille de joie
by choice or by force? If by force, what hold had Mam over her? Kate imagined any number of potentially extortive situations might arise in the course of an evening’s enterprise. Perhaps Liliane had inadvertently killed one of her customers in an excess of passion and Mam disposed of the corpse.

Would someone be obliged to likewise dispose of Kate?

She’d have a few words to say to Quin about his promise she’d be kept safe, when next they met.

If
next they met.

Kate marveled at her imagination, which was not usually so lurid. And surely she was hallucinating, because suddenly Quin was standing in the doorway, a pistol in one hand. Kate blinked — she was pleased to discover she could still blink — but he didn’t disappear.

Instead he walked into the room, pistol pointed straight at Mam, and said, “Put down the gun.”

BOOK: Maggie MacKeever
11.19Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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