The Last Wicked Scoundrel (4 page)

His musings were interrupted by a knock at his door. He thought nothing of it as he was accustomed to visitors at all hours of the night. The arrival of illness and injuries were not dictated by the ticking of a clock. With haste, he set aside his tumbler, got up, and marched to the door. Opening it, he stared at his visitor. “Winnie?”

“I need to talk to you straightaway.”

A pelisse was draped over her shoulders. Her hair was braided. If not for the trepidation in her features, he might have been distracted by thoughts of unraveling the strands. “Yes, of course, come in.”

As she stepped through the portal, he caught a glimpse of her carriage in the street. The fog was beginning to roll in. All seemed quiet, but then considering the hour he hadn’t expected anything else. Closing the door, he led her into the parlor. “Please sit down.”

She took a chair near the fire. Kneeling in front of her, he took her hands. He could feel the tiny tremors cascading through her. “My God, you’re like ice.”

“I didn’t know where else to come.” She lifted tear filled eyes to him. “I believe I’m going mad.”

“Why ever would you think that?”

Pulling her hands free of his, she reached into her reticule, removed something, then slowly unfurled her fingers to reveal a necklace of sapphires. “I found it beneath my pillow.”

“You’re going to tell me everything, but first we have to stop your trembling.”

Straightening, he went to a table set against a wall and poured whiskey into a glass. He wished he had something a bit more elegant for her, but as he rarely had visitors other than those seeking he come with them posthaste, he didn’t bother with having an assortment of liquor on hand. Whiskey served his needs and when people were upset and in want of something more than his words, it usually served theirs.

He had invited her to come here for an examination because he had an examination room here, and he’d thought she’d be more comfortable talking candidly away from her residence. It harbored far too many bad memories.

He crossed back over and handed her the glass. With a grateful nod, she took his offering and sipped. He suspected she was too upset to fully take notice of the fire going down, but hopefully it would serve to warm her.

Taking the chair opposite hers, he studied her for a moment. She was pale, far too pale, although he could see a hint of color returning to her cheeks. He understood now why her hair was braided. Having found the item beneath her pillow, she had no doubt retired for the night. He fought not to distract himself with images of her in the bed.

“Now tell me about the necklace,” he urged quietly.

“I told you about it in the garden, how it wasn’t in the safe. As I was settling into bed, I slipped my hand beneath the pillow. I discovered it there. Why would anyone put it there?”

Leaning forward, elbows on thighs, he worked to think things through. He wasn’t nearly as good with this deciphering motives business as Swindler. He was better at determining the cause of fevers, illnesses, and injuries. “Perhaps someone had taken it from the safe, heard you coming, and slipped it under the pillow to retrieve later.”

“A servant? Why would they begin stealing from me now?”

“Gambling debts, perhaps. Maybe they fell in with a rough lot on their day off.”

“I’m afraid I did it.” She rubbed her brow. “As I mentioned in the garden, I’ve experienced some bouts of forgetfulness. I’ve been misplacing a lot of things lately. A book on the table beside my bed. I use a ribbon to mark my place. Sometimes when I open the book to the ribbon, it’s either at a place I’ve read before or a place pages away from where I finished. My perfume atomizer. I keep it on my dressing table. But once I found it on the windowsill.”

“Easily explained. A servant not taking care as she’s cleaning.”

She shook her head vigorously. “Sometimes when I wake up at night, I smell my husband. He had a penchant for eating caraway seeds incessantly. He always smelled of them. I’ve forbidden the servants from having them in the residence. But the odor is sometimes there in different places. I also sleep with a lamp burning, but sometimes I will awaken to absolute darkness, the flame extinguished, the caraway scent more vivid as though I’ve had a visitor.”

She folded her hands so tightly around the glass he could see the whites of her knuckles. It was not to be tolerated. He shot out of the chair, knelt before her, took the glass, and once again wrapped his hands around hers. “Fragrances linger, particularly in cloth. I have a handkerchief that belonged to my father. I can still smell him in it.”

“I considered that, but Dr. Graves—”

“Please call me Bill.”

“It’s too harsh. I prefer William.”

“William it is.” He preferred it as well, but his friends had always called him Bill and on the streets it was a stronger name, one that bespoke confidence. He skimmed his thumbs over her knuckles. “I’m sure there is a simple explanation for everything.”

“Yes, quite. As I said I’m going mad.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

“Then perhaps his ghost is haunting me, because I could swear that I have seen him.”

Every muscle and fiber of his being stood at attention. “Where?”

“Once at the far end of the garden. At twilight. It was difficult to see very clearly, because the shadows were moving in. He was there and then he wasn’t. Another time in the park. Although I can’t be absolutely sure as he was so far away, but the resemblance at a distance was uncanny. In truth, though, it wasn’t so much the sight of him as it was the sense of him watching me. I could always feel when Avendale watched me, because he did it with such intensity as though he expected me to make a mistake or behave badly, and he wanted to be able to pounce immediately in order to correct me.”

He lifted his hand to her cheek and slowly stroked the soft skin. “My mother was an unkind woman who beat me religiously. When she passed, for years, I thought I saw her in the streets. I still think I see her from time to time—especially those nights when I’m exhausted and my guard is down. When we are traumatized by those whom we love, it’s often difficult to believe they are actually gone. But your husband is gone. He can’t hurt you, Winnie.”

She nodded. “I know, and you could not have spoken truer words. It is frightfully difficult to believe sometimes that he is truly gone—which brings me back to the possibility that perhaps I am going mad. Because I sense his presence when I know I shouldn’t.”

“Winnie, you need to dispense with this notion that you’re going mad. You survived a horrendous ordeal that most would find difficult if not impossible to overcome. The remnants of it, not the ghost of your husband, are haunting you. But you will survive this. You need to ensure you get plenty of rest and that you have things to occupy your time and your mind so you aren’t becoming lost in the past.”

As she smiled, the guilt ricocheted through him. “Like the hospital,” she said.

“Yes. We’ll get together to discuss it in a couple of days. But now it’s late and you should get some much-needed rest.”

She laid her hand against his cheek. “Thank you so much. You always make me feel better.”

Holding her hand in place, he turned his head slightly and pressed a kiss to her palm. “It’s my pleasure. I’ll see you home.”

“It’s not necessary. I’ve already disturbed you enough.”

“You never disturb me.”

He banked the fire and grabbed his jacket before escorting her out to the waiting carriage. After assisting her inside, he sat beside her, placed his arm around her shoulders, and drew her in against his side. Everything within him screamed that it wasn’t appropriate. But then it was the time of night for inappropriate things. He placed his lips on the top of her head, took what joy he could from her nearness.

“I feel like such a ninny,” she said after a while. “I don’t know why I reacted as I did. I’m sure there is a logical explanation for everything.”

“You’re not a ninny. Sometimes we just need to talk with someone about the things bothering us. We can blow them out of proportion if we are our only counsel.”

“You’re always so kind.”

No, not always. He suspected her husband would describe him as the devil.

The carriage came to a halt. He alighted then handed her down. “I would like to take a stroll through your residence just to assure you that there are no monsters lurking in the corners.”

“I feel like a child.”

“You’re not. Oftentimes, we need assurances.”

She gave him a sweet smile. “All right then.”

She unlocked the door. As they went in, he found some relief in the fact that she had locked the door before she left. But it might be worth it to have the locks changed. He’d mention it later. He didn’t want to alarm her any more than she was already alarmed.

Leaving her in the foyer, he walked briskly through rooms that in no way reminded him of her. While no longer here, her husband’s presence was overbearing in dark, sturdy furniture, dark walls, thick draperies. He took an extra moment in a small room that he had no doubt served not only as her sitting room, but her sanctuary. A delicate secretary stood against a wall, fragile animal figurines adorned small tables. The fabric covering the chairs and sofa were pale yellow and green, as though she’d been striving to bring sunshine into her life. Above the fireplace was a painting of a young girl with a basket of flowers. The eyes were innocent, but he would have recognized them anywhere. They belonged to Winnie.

But he found nothing suspicious among the shadows in any of the rooms.

He gave her a reassuring nod when he met back up with her in the foyer. “All seems to be in order down here,” he assured her.

He escorted her up the stairs. While she waited outside her bedchamber door, he examined her room, making note of the tiniest of details: the blue flowers on the wall paper, the rumpled bed linens, the copy of
Oliver Twist
on the bedside table. Her exotic jasmine fragrance permeating the room. A gilded-framed painting of a small boy plucking flowers. Behind it, he was certain he would find her safe where she thought her most precious jewels would be secure.

He stepped back into the hallway. “All seems to be in order. I’m just going to dash through the other rooms.”

He made short work of the task, taking care not to awaken her son. As a boy, working for Feagan, he had learned how to break into homes and assess the inside quickly to find the treasurers. Some skills one never forgot.

As he returned to her side, she blushed. “No ghosts?” she asked.

“None that I could detect.”

“Truth be told, I didn’t truly expect you to find anything. It’s all so odd, isn’t it?”

“I’m sure there’s an explanation. We’ll figure it out easily enough. Meanwhile, try to get some sleep and send word if you need me—for anything.”

“I truly appreciate your kindness and assistance. I’ve instructed my driver to return you to your residence.”

“Thank you.” Cradling her face with one hand, he leaned in and kissed her, just a brief taste to sustain him for what he had to do next. “Sweet dreams, Winnie.”

Leaving her there, he hurried down the stairs before bad judgment overtook him and he found himself putting her to bed—and ensuring he joined her there to rumple those bed linens a bit more. He was loath to leave her, but he knew no good would come of his staying.

Once outside, he called up to the driver, “Carry on. I’ll be walking.”

He waited until the carriage disappeared up the drive on its way to the carriage house. Then he took a quick turn about the gardens. Nothing amiss. No one hiding in the shadows. He tried to take some comfort from that.

But he found there was none to be had.

An hour later he was standing by the fireplace within the Earl of Claybourne’s library. Claybourne and his wife were nestled on a couch together. Frannie Mabry, the Duchess of Greystone, sat in a wingback chair near the one in which Jack Dodger lounged. James Swindler had taken a seat at the outer edge of the circle.

“It’s half past three in the morning. What the devil is going on?” Claybourne asked.

“We may have a problem,” Graves told him.

“What the deuce would that be?”

“The Duke of Avendale. I fear he may have risen from the dead.”

S
ilence greeted his pronouncement, which didn’t surprise him in the least. They’d all played a role in Avendale’s “death.” Graves had provided the charred remains of a corpse, identified as the duke only because it wore the duke’s rings.

“Are you quite certain that he was sent to the penal colony in New Zealand?” Graves asked.

“I saw him dragged onto the prison hulk myself,” Claybourne said. He was the one who had captured Avendale, broken his jaw so he couldn’t speak, and delivered him into Swindler’s keeping. “Catherine was with me. She can attest to it.”

Beside him, his wife looked as though she might be ill. She had conveyed the news to her dear friend that her husband had perished in a fire at Heatherwood. “We stayed until the ship left port.”

“Is it possible that he found a way to escape and return here?” Graves asked.

“Anything’s possible,” Swindler said. Working for Scotland Yard, he had access to the gaols and prisons. He had found a fourteen-year-old lad sentenced to transportation to a prison colony. He substituted Avendale for the boy.

“His sentence was for life, on the far side of the world,” Frannie pointed out. As a child, she’d been fascinated with letters and numbers, endlessly copying them until she could create any style, which made her an excellent forger. She had altered the documents so the description of the person sentenced more closely resembled Avendale. “How would he have managed to find his way back here?”

“He’s a bloody duke,” Jack reminded them. He had provided employment and a safe haven for the boy they had liberated when they tossed Avendale into the gaol as his replacement. “Once he healed enough to speak coherently, he could offer a fortune to someone willing to help him. As I was not here when you all made the decision to go forward with this swindle, I can’t attest to how well thought out it might have been.”