The Hunter (46 page)

“You might not have to change who you are so much as why you do what you do,” Dorian continued. “You don’t have to give up your skill set. Even if you don’t take this position with Morley, I’ll still need you. And as my world … changes … perhaps yours might do so as well.”

“Taking his offer, or yours, doesn’t erase what’s already been done, Blackwell.”

“No,” the Blackheart of Ben More agreed. “No, it doesn’t. But she fell for you, for the assassin, didn’t she?”

“How would you know?” Christopher asked bitterly.

“These walls are well built, but not so thick as to block out everything.” Dorian lifted an eyebrow, and a mock salute.

Christopher’s frown deepened and heat that had nothing to do with Ravencroft’s fine Scotch crept from underneath his collar.

“Also, she told us of her feelings for you.” Dorian stood, walking to the window to watch the last of the evening light fade into darkness. “When it comes to women, I know very little,” he admitted. “But I’ve noticed that intention means more than just about anything. If she knows that you’re trying … If she is secure in how you feel—”

“I don’t even know what I feel.” Christopher put his glass down hard. Harder than he’d meant to. “I barely know
how
to feel.”

“Yes, but you’re learning,” Dorian pointed out. “We both are, I suppose. Before Miss LeCour, before Farah, you and I would never have attempted this conversation. Perhaps that’s precisely why you need her.” Dorian’s breath fogged the glass with a long exhale. “Ladies tend to be emotional creatures. It’s one of the many things they’re better at than we are.”

Christopher leaned forward in his chair, studying the dancing fire as though it held the answers to the cosmos. A legitimate hunter? An agent of the crown … Was this possible? Would Millie even consent to see him again, let alone …

Wait, was he actually
considering
this madness?

“What if I can’t—”

“What if?”
Dorian snarled, slamming his palm against the wall, startling Christopher to his feet. “
Fuck
what ifs.
What if
they’re our last chance at humanity, Argent?
What if
they’re a gift from the beyond for all of the injustice visited upon us? What if we spend eternity burning for what we’ve done, for who we’ve become, but we have the memory of these precious years spent with a goddess?” Black fire flashed in his eye. “I almost let Farah slip through my fingers and you were witness to the misery it caused me. Why repeat that mistake?
What if
you lose her for good because you’re too busy being a
fucking idiot
to seize your second chance?”

Christopher’s mouth dropped open, but a knock on the study door saved him from having to concoct a reply.

“Mr. Argent, there’s someone in the parlor I think you both need to talk to.” Farah’s sweet voice drifted through the door.

Argent’s heart leaped as he wrenched it open, startling Lady Northwalk. “Millie?” he asked.

She shook her head, silver eyes gleaming with concern. “I’m afraid not. It’s Lady Benchley, Philomena St. Vincent.”

“What the devil is she doing here?” Dorian wondered from behind Argent.

“She said she has some information about those dead women and their boys.”

“But the matter has been closed,” Blackwell stated.

“I thought so as well.” Farah shrugged. “Mr. Argent, do you know what’s going on?”

Christopher stormed past her and into the parlor he was beginning to hate. It had been ages since any good news was delivered in this place.

Hot tea steamed, untouched, on the table in front of where Lady Benchley perched, wringing a damp handkerchief in her hands. The reason for her ridiculous orange hat and veil became immediately apparent when she stood and lifted her head. Tears were not the only cause of the swelling of her eyes. Her nose had been broken fairly recently. Though the resulting mask of bruises had faded to an ugly shade of yellow, the inflammation hadn’t completely disappeared.

“Mr. Argent.” She stood and gasped as Christopher was followed by Dorian and Farah into the room. “I’m relieved to find you here, actually.” Dipping a flawless curtsy with not a small amount of difficulty, she gave a surreptitious sniff and held her handkerchief beneath her nose.

Christopher approached her slowly, and she shrank from him, wincing and holding a hand to her ribs.

“You two are acquainted?” Farah asked, gliding to Lady Benchley and taking her elbow to help her sink down onto the couch.

Lady Benchley lowered herself carefully, holding her breath until she was settled.

“We were introduced at the theater,
Othello.
You were Miss Millicent LeCour’s—companion. Both of you were so kind.” Lady Benchley offered a shaky smile.

“You’ve been injured, Lady Benchley, and you’re obviously distressed. Is there aught we can do to help you?” Farah cajoled, taking the woman’s hand in her own.

Next to the slim, angelic Lady Northwalk, Philomena St. Vincent appeared more plump and sallow than she had during their previous meetings. The apricot dress and hat didn’t help, and neither did the healing wounds. Though, as Christopher studied her, he again noted charming dimples next to her full mouth, and her arresting jade eyes, despite the swelling and redness.

“Call me Mena, please, and I’ve been seen to, I’m not here about that.” Her voice was sweet and young, though the shadows in her countenance were anything but.

Farah’s brow wrinkled. “Yes, but—”

“Please,” Mena pleaded. “I—I don’t have much time. My absence has likely already been noted as I’ve previously been this afternoon to Scotland Yard.” Her chin wobbled, but she visibly composed herself.

“Why is that?” Dorian asked evenly.

“And what does it have to do with Millicent LeCour?” Argent demanded.

Farah cast him a sharp look, but Mena didn’t even flinch. The viscountess was no shrinking violet, but a woman used to a harsh tone.

“As you all might know from the papers, my brother-in-law, Lord Thurston, was horrifically murdered,” Mena began.

No one said a word, nor did they look at each other. What Mena St. Vincent knew of the circumstances of Lord Thurston’s death was still undetermined.

“I am often the companion to Lady Katherine, his wife, as she is my husband’s sister. She’s not a kind woman, you see, but we have had a sort of bond with which we can commiserate.” Placing a trembling hand over her mouth, Mena swallowed and took a few gulps of air before continuing.

Christopher leaned forward, curling his hands into fists so as not to shake the point from the distraught woman.

“We’ve both been married for some years now and have been so far unable to produce an heir for our husbands. You see, I’ve never been able to … conceive. And Katherine, she’s lost every child she’s conceived either in the womb or moments after birth.” Mena blinked up at Farah. “I think it’s driven her quite mad.”

“Why do you say that?” Christopher prodded.

“After Lord Thurston passed, she left for one of their country estates in Essex. I didn’t hear a word from her for a month, which worried me because I didn’t think that the death of her husband would leave her very troubled. It was no secret that theirs was not a happy match. So, I followed her to Essex to check on her, and there, at Fenwick Hall, I uncovered her secret.”

Mena now had both of Farah’s hands clenched in her own. “Upon my arrival, I found her out of mourning garb raising five orphan boys. I was surprised at first, of course, but I initially thought that maybe her husband’s death had softened her, and that she was trying to do some good in this world. The longer I remained there, it became apparent that the boys were traumatized, that they were being held against their will.”

“Christ, Blackwell, do you know what this means?” Christopher turned to Dorian who was already shaking his head in amazement.

“Those boys Morley was looking for, Thurston took them and his wife
knew
about it.” Blackwell brought a thoughtful hand to his chin.

Mena nodded, her eyes filling again. “I’m afraid it’s
much
worse than you think.”

Christopher watched her alertly, puzzle pieces clicking into place. “What do you mean?”

“She was like I’d never
seen
her before. I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t witnessed it with my own eyes, if she hadn’t confessed everything to me. As if she were proud. As if she’d done nothing wrong.” Tears had begun to roll down her cheeks and drip from her chin, but Mena couldn’t seem to let go of Farah’s hands long enough to reach for the handkerchief in her lap. “She made those poor boys compete with each other. She kept telling them she’d pick one of them to be the heir to the Thurston title and fortune, and that she’d get rid of the rest.”

A mute sense of horror filled the room. Even Christopher felt it.

“Until about five years ago, Lord Thurston was a notorious reprobate. These children, these boys, they were all his … illegitimate sons by his numerous mistresses.” Mena sent all of them a searching look. “Don’t you see, Lord and Lady Northwalk, Mr. Argent, she
killed
their mothers. Not with her own hands, but she hired it done and
took
those poor children into her depraved captivity.”

Christopher remembered back to the day he’d lifted the gate key from Lady Thurston’s pocket. Fenwick’s guts had already been spilled by the time he’d arrived. Had Katherine Fenwick already known what Dorshaw was doing to her husband when she strolled so blithely down the sunny streets of St. James’s?

“Did Lady Thurston order the murder of her husband, as well?” he asked bluntly.

Mena paused, her gaze dropping to her lap. “A cruel and unfaithful husband sometimes seems an impossible thing to bear, Mr. Argent,” she said quietly, indicating what he’d already suspected. That her wounds were inflicted by her own husband, Gordon St. Vincent. “If Lord Thurston was her only victim, I might not have come here—” Her voice broke. “But those children. They were so frightened. I pretended to be in agreement with her and came straight back to London a week past. I would have gone to the police sooner but I was—detained by my husband.” She touched the side of her healing nose gingerly.

“So you’ve told Chief Inspector Morley this, Lady Benchley?” Dorian asked carefully.

She nodded, more tears sliding from her chin into her lap. “The St. Vincents … they’re going to find out that it was I who told. There will be—consequences. But I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to those boys. Not if I could stop it.”

“You’re so very brave, Mena.” Farah rubbed her back consolingly. “That was so well done of you. And we will of course help you in any way we can.”

“Forgive me, Lady Benchley.” Blackwell leaned toward her. “But if Scotland Yard is handling this, it’s still unclear as to why you’ve brought the affair to us.”

“The chief inspector sent me here with explicit instructions to tell you everything I confessed to him. He sent men to Essex after the missing boys. Katherine told me that they yet remain unharmed.” Mena blinked up at Argent and Blackwell, the uncommon shade of her eyes intensified by her tears. “She told me this
in person,
because she’s returned this very morning to London.”

A stab of warning brought Christopher to his feet.

“She said she has one more boy to obtain. One she thought had escaped her. The one Thurston had chosen, himself, for his heir.” Mena continued on a trembling breath. “I’m afraid that means she has one more of Fenwick’s mistresses to kill.”

“Millie.”
Argent almost launched himself over the table at her. Why had she wasted so much time telling the entire infernal story when the most important part was that Millie could be in danger?

“I wasn’t certain if it was Miss LeCour and her son or not. Though after Sir Morley told me to come here I began to suspect—”

“Where is Lady Thurston now?” he demanded.

Mena flinched. “S-she was at our home with my husband when I sneaked away. I hired a carriage to Scotland Yard and then here, but that was more than an hour past.”

“I have to get to the theater.” Though he flew out of the house, Christopher’s feet felt like lead weights. He couldn’t get there fast enough. Bellowing for a horse, he had to keep reminding himself that he couldn’t bloody well run all the way to Bow Street and get there in time.

Once reins appeared in his hand, he leaped astride and kicked the animal into a run.

He didn’t know which assassin Lady Thurston would have hired now that Dorshaw was dead, but he would drain every last drop of blood from the man’s body. Then he’d go to work on the bitch, herself.

“Hold on, Millie.” He breathed into the bitter night wind. “I’m coming for you.”

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY

It took an incomprehensible amount of time to prepare for death.

Millie sighed as she opened her costume dress and allowed two stagehands to strap skeins of warm crimson-dyed syrup to her corset, and made a vow that the next role she accepted, her character would
live
to see the end of the play.

It struck her in that moment behind the heavy black curtains off stage left how cohesive life could be sometimes, even if it was in the worst possible way. In her tenure as an actress, she’d portrayed the jilted lover, the temptress, and, of course, the tragic heroine. But this brilliant production had her acting all three parts. A woman who seduced a man, fell in love with him, and then was broken by him. Art imitating life, apparently.

She barely had to act. In fact, all she had to do was open her bleeding heart onstage for all of London whilst delivering Thomas Bancroft’s lines. She could already tell the night was a rousing success. She’d never felt this kind of energy from the audience before. Though the play was a bit melodramatic, it had just the right amount of sex, violence, and pathos for everyone to enjoy.

And now, thanks to Christopher Argent, she had a reference for the emotion evoked in each act.

Closing her dress and buttoning it, she tilted her head down so the makeup artist could check her hair, and pursed her lips so her rouge could be touched up. Lord, it was hotter than usual. She blotted her forehead and hairline with a handkerchief.