The Pleasure Trap (31 page)

Ash left Reaper at Hill House with instructions to shoot to kill if Jason Ford showed his face, then he rode back to the fair at breakneck speed. The moon was up, but the hedgerows, shrubbery, and trees that flashed by him hardly registered. His mind was tortured with thoughts of Eve and how he’d practically invited Jason Ford to kill her. His one hope was Hawkins. That crusty old comrade-at-arms was no fool. He’d never take his eyes off Eve.

His sense of dread took a gargantuan leap when he rode up to the marquee where he’d left Eve. There was no sign of Eve or Ford, but Hawkins was there, hemmed about by a crush of people whom Constable Keble was holding at bay. Dr. Braine was there, too, trying to get Hawkins to cooperate while he examined a gash on his head, and Hawkins was doing his best to get away from those ministering hands. When he saw Ash, he tottered to his feet.

Ash dismounted, handed the reins to Leigh Fleming, who appeared to be numb with shock, and elbowed his way to his groom.

“I never took my eyes off her,” Hawkins cried out. “I was in that spinney over there.” He gestured to a clump of shrubbery. “Someone struck me from behind. I saw something silver flash, then my head exploded.”

The constable added, “We think he was clubbed by the butt of gun. He’s lucky that’s all that happened to him.”

“Yes,” said Ash. “A knife can be messy. A gun is too noisy. He’s not going to draw attention to himself if he can help it.” He looked at Keble. “Miss Dearing?”

“We’re making a search, but we haven’t found her yet.”

“But somebody must have seen something.”

“She was with Mr. Ford,” Keble said, “but we can’t find him, either.”

Fear gripped Ash’s throat and blood began to beat furiously at his temples. For a moment he felt dizzy and he swayed on his feet, but a blast of anger, savage in its intensity, cleared his brain. He had counted Jason Ford among his friends. He had recommended him as a trusty investigator to other friends. And Jason Ford had counted on his exemplary war record to gain him entry to Ash’s world. Ford knew him so well, knew he would go out of his way to assist a former comrade-in-arms, especially one who had been wounded in battle.

He, Ash Denison, had always considered himself a shrewd judge of character, and all the time he’d been a pawn in the other man’s game. All Ford had wanted was to discover Angelo’s identity and silence him before his own crimes came to light.

In Ash’s opinion, Lydia’s silence would not have saved her for long. As for Eve…

If that bastard had harmed one hair of Eve’s head, he’d crush him into oblivion!

To the constable, he said, “This is no time for long explanations. Tell your men that Jason Ford has abducted Miss Dearing. He is armed and dangerous.”

“What?” Keble looked closely at Ash’s face, finally nodded and said, “I’ll see to it.”

“And there’s a Greek folly around here somewhere and—”

“They’re local men.” Keble patted Ash’s arm. “They know where to look. Don’t you worry. We’ll find her.”

“Do you need a description of Ford?”

“Oh, no. I remember him well. He used to work for Special Branch.”

After the constable went off, Ash stood, lost in thought, mangling his leather gloves as though he wanted to strangle them. He didn’t know where to begin to look for Eve. Why didn’t she use her Claverley charisma to tell him? She’d done it once when she’d pulled him into her dream. She could do it again.

Why would she? he asked himself savagely. He had always acted the part of a doubting Thomas. Where was his skepticism now?

The thought that she might be lying dead in some godforsaken place was one he refused to accept. She would survive. She had more than her wits to help her. She had the charisma.

On that thought, he shouldered his way through the crush of people. “Miss Claverley?” he called out. “Miss Claverley?”

He found her eventually with Lady Sayers, sitting on the steps of the bandstand. She looked up at his approach, and the worry lines on her brow became less pronounced.

Before he could ask a question, she said, “I can’t tell you much, but I do know that she is all right.”

Lady Sayers looked dazed. “They say that someone knocked Hawkins out and now Eve is missing. What’s going on?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.” He looked another question at Miss Claverley.

She shook her head. “That’s all I can tell you. The rest is up to you.”

She was looking up at him with such trusting eyes that he felt like a fraud. He didn’t know where to begin to look for Eve.

Liza elbowed her way through the crush and put her hand on Ash’s arm. “I saw her,” she said. “She was with Jason. I think they were going to the Manor.”

Chapter Twenty-six

They moved with the caution of little voles who had caught the scent of a fox. Nell was truly a creature of the night. Her hearing was acute, and whenever she heard a twig snap, she steered them into cover. But Eve wasn’t without her own way of detecting their hunter. She was picking up clues as though he were drawing a map inside her head.

At one point, she clutched Nell’s arm. “He can see us!”

Her words were no louder than a soft sigh. They both listened. Then they heard him. He was moving ahead of them, trying to cut them off from the house. Caution became a luxury they could no longer afford. With Nell leading the way, they ran like deer, jumping over obstacles, tearing through patches of briars, ducking under branches, unheeding of the scratches and splinters that tore at their exposed skin.

When they burst out of the underbrush bordering the Manor’s great sweep of lawns, Nell was all for making a dash for it to the front door. Eve held her back. The lamps outside had been lit, and unless the porters opened the doors at once, they would become easy targets.

They were both breathing hard, but Eve was ready to collapse. She didn’t have Nell’s stamina. The little runaway from Bedlam had regained her strength. She was always on the move, roaming what had become her private domain at all hours of the night.

Nell brushed her fingers against Eve’s cheek to get her attention. “Come,” she mouthed.

Eve frowned and closed her good hand around Nell’s wrist, signaling her to wait. Now that they had stopped their panicked dash, the arm that was bleeding was making itself felt. She did her best to ignore it and held her head up, waiting, focusing, anticipating his next move.

“Not that way,” she whispered against Nell’s ear. “He’s waiting for us. We go this way.”

There was no argument from Nell. She seemed to trust Eve’s instincts implicitly. But Eve had more to go on than instinct. She had locked her mind on Ford’s and was reading him like an open book.

It was one thing to avoid their hunter, but Eve had no idea how they would get into the house. All the windows and doors were locked, unless the porters had overlooked the door to the coal cellar, and she couldn’t see that happening, not with Ash now in charge of things. Their only hope was to break one of the basement windows and enter that way.

Once again, Nell surprised her. She led Eve to the window that gave onto the laundry, the place where she and Nell had first met. The window was locked, but Nell gave the sneck a sharp tap with the heel of her hand and the window swung open. It was the first time Eve had heard the girl laugh—a sweet, low, melodic sound with a hint of mischief. Oddly enough, Nell’s laugh brought a lump to Eve’s throat. Nell went first and Eve climbed in after her.

It was warm in the laundry, and the coals from the boiler gave them some light. Now that they’d found a refuge, Eve was beginning to give in to fatigue and pain. She was trembling all over, and her muscles felt as though Anna’s donkeys had stomped all over her. But it was her arm that gave her the most trouble. She clamped it to her side, not only to stanch the bleeding but as though she could put out the fire that burned there.

Nell was looking at her with a question in her eyes. Eve said, “We’ll go and get Dexter. I want you to stay with him until I come and get you. I’m not leaving you, Nell. I’m going to look for one of the night porters, or maybe some of the servants have come back from the fair and they’ll help me. But you are not to come downstairs. I want you to stay in the attics until it’s safe to come out.” She breathed deeply. “And if anything happens to me, find Lord Denison and stay close to him.”

When she put her hand on Nell’s arm, she could feel the girl’s tremors. “Look.” She fumbled with her reticule and produced her pistol. “Take it,” she said, but Nell shied away and shook her head violently. Eve tried again. “It’s all that stands between us and that monster, and I don’t know if I can hit a mark with my left hand.”

“Dexter,” said Nell simply.

Eve closed her eyes. She was too tired to argue the point. “Dexter,” she said. “Fine. We’ll go together. Give me a moment first.” She discarded her reticule and held the pistol in her left hand.

Since they had entered the laundry, she had been too wrapped up in her own troubles to try to read Ford, but now she focused her thoughts and opened her mind to him.

And she was blinded by a torrent of frightening images. He was inside the house. The porters trusted him, and he’d sent them outside on a pretext. He knew where they were hiding and he was on the stairs coming to get them.

A moment before, she’d been as limp as a rag doll. Now she started to her feet, every nerve and bone in her body tensed for action. She gave Nell a push. “Get Dexter. He’s with Andy in the attics. I’ll be right behind you, but don’t look back.” Nell’s face was white with fear. There wasn’t time to reassure the girl. “Take the old staircase.” Eve stopped. Nell didn’t know the house beyond the basement. “I’ll show you. Go to the top floor. If you can’t find Andy’s room, call Dexter’s name. He’ll let you know where he is.”

Nell struggled to say the words. “You…come, too.”

Eve stared into her anxious eyes. “Oh, I will. But you’re more nimble than I am.”

They heard a sound and froze. He was trying to be stealthy, but a board had creaked on the servants’ stairs. That sound spurred Eve on. She gave Nell another push, and together they crept past the warren of kitchens, closets, and box rooms to the staircase on the west wing of the house.

“Keep going,” she urged.

She knew the exact moment he opened the door and entered the servants’ hall. So did Nell. The girl said nothing, but she quickened her pace. He heard them and came barreling through that long, long corridor, knocking over small tables and other obstacles in his path. His gammy leg didn’t seem to be slowing him down.

Fear bordering on panic had Eve and Nell scrambling up the stairs. Eve’s feet had never moved faster. Muscles she hadn’t known existed began to cramp in her legs. The pistol she clutched in her left hand got heavier by the second. She could hardly draw breath. If Nell hadn’t been there, she would have stopped and taken her chances against Ford. She had the gun, primed and ready, and she knew how to use it. But something else was at work in her. This lovely child–woman had never had a chance in life. If it was the last thing she did, Eve would give Nell that chance. He wasn’t going to snuff out her life as he’d done with so many other innocents.

She stopped Nell before she started on the last flight of stairs. A half-formed plan was taking shape inside her head. Gasping for breath, she got out, “This way,” and she opened the nearest door and pushed Nell into the main part of the house. Pointing, she said, “Take the main staircase and find Dexter. No, listen to me, Nell. It’s best if we split up. I have my gun. You’ll have Dexter. Andy will be there. Tell him to get the porters! Use sign language, anything, but get Andy to bring the porters to me. Dexter will be with you. He won’t let anyone take you away.”

They heard him on the stairs. He was close, very close, and there was no time to lose. “Go!” Eve’s voice was rough with strain.

With an agonized cry, Nell went haring up the stairs. Eve closed the staircase door with a snap. She wanted Ford to hear it. Slowly, carefully, she backed away. She knew exactly what she was doing. The picture gallery was only a few steps away, and it had been turned into a ballroom for Liza’s ball. It wasn’t the ballroom of her dream, but it was close enough to make little difference, if only she could trust her aunt’s advice. She was following the map Antonia had given her.

She didn’t feel brave or confident. Her whole body was trembling. She was committing herself to a leap of faith. If she was wrong…but that didn’t bear thinking about. At least she had saved Nell.

There was a lamp lit in the corridor, but it gave very little light. She was aware, but only barely, of an antiseptic smell. The thought faded almost as soon as it occurred to her. Her eyes were fixed on the door he would come through. She wasn’t trying to read him now. All her thoughts were focused on her dream.

She positioned herself beside the door to the picture gallery and kept her pistol hidden in the folds of her skirts. Whatever happened to her, she wasn’t going to allow this murderous devil to escape.

The staircase door opened slowly, stealthily. She allowed him one glimpse of her, then she slipped into the picture gallery. There were no lamps lit, but light from the corridor filtered in and the moonlight dappled the floorboards. She knew now what she had smelled in the corridors. There was fresh paint on the walls.

For her purposes, the door had to remain open, but she didn’t want to be locked in with him. She fumbled for the key, but her fingers were numb and wet with blood, and she couldn’t remove it.

She backed away from the door. A curious sense of detachment had fallen over her. The key didn’t matter. Here, it would end.

She turned and took in the long gallery at a glance—the furniture under Holland covers in the middle of the room, long windows at one end open to let the fumes of the paint escape, the bare floorboards.

Her eyes were drawn to the long windows. Not French doors leading onto the terrace, but long windows overlooking the lush gardens and the orchards beyond. She’d come to the final signpost.

She heard a step and turned to face him. She wasn’t panicked. It helped that the furniture in the middle of the room was between them. She wasn’t brave so much as resolved. She was her mother’s daughter and Antonia had prepared her for this desperate, ultimate moment.

He closed the door and locked it, then slowly advanced toward her. He was dragging his left foot. “You should have locked the door, Evie,” he said. “Not that it would have made a difference. I would have broken it down to get to you.” He glanced at the open window. “You’re not thinking of climbing down the scaffolding? My dear girl, you’re not a heroine in one of your books.”

She was silent, taking impressions. The pistol was in his pocket, the knife was up his sleeve. His wrist, where Nell had bitten it, was a score he was going to settle. He was right-handed and now his right hand was useless.

As he edged closer, she kept pace with him, keeping the stacked furniture between them. He didn’t know her pistol was hidden in the folds of her skirts. He thought she was defenseless and easily dealt with.

“I suppose,” he went on, “the little bitch from Bedlam is hiding in the closet. Oh, yes, I know who she is. It’s an open secret at the Manor that you ladies are harboring a fugitive. I won’t hurt her. I’ll simply send her back to Bedlam.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Don’t you remember me, Evie?”

On his lips, the familiar form of her name was an insult. Two could play at that game. She forced a laugh. “I wouldn’t show my face in Bedlam if I were you,
Bertie
. You’ll be mistaken for an inmate.”

That wiped the smile off his face. “So you do know who I am! I know I didn’t give myself away. Did you recognize me?”

She chose her words with care. She didn’t think he’d take kindly to knowing that she could read his mind, and she wanted to pick his brains clean so that she would know why he had killed all those years ago. She wanted to know what had happened to her mother.

“Not at first,” she said. “Well, you’re quite the gentleman now, aren’t you? But after I published my story about the quarry, I knew you would come after me.”

“I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t signed your name. Do you know, until that point, I believed that Lydia was the author of those stories? Your trouble, Evie, is that you couldn’t leave well enough alone. It made things very awkward for me.”

She adopted the same conversational tone as his. “Actually, I thought your father would come after me, until I learned that he died a long time ago.” She angled her head to the side. “When I think of it, though, you’re the image of your mother. I should have recognized you.” And that was sheer fabrication. She could hardly remember the family.

“My mother—” He had to drag air into his lungs. “My mother was a sniveling bitch.”

“Oh? What harm did she ever do you?”

His memory passed into her mind, and she could have wept with the pain of it. She no longer cared about caution. Her voice quivered with grief and anger. “Your father was drunk that night, wasn’t he? At the White Hart? He was drunk, and you decided to take his place and kill my father. Your mother tried to stop you, and when she couldn’t, she told Antonia. My mother went out after you, and you pushed my mother from the top of the quarry.”

He had stopped moving and was staring at her as though he’d seen a ghost. “How can you possibly know all this?”

She groped for a reasonable explanation and found none.

“Lydia!” he said, snarling the word. “Lydia told you! She and my mother always had their suspicions, but that was all—suspicions. You mustn’t believe all the gossip you hear.” He paused. “But in this case, I’ll let you into a little secret.
Mea culpa.
I did it.”

She could see it as though the memory belonged to her. “My mother told me it was an accident, but I knew it wasn’t true. You were up there, afraid to come down, and she was afraid that I would climb those stairs and try to find you. She tried to protect me.”

“I wish you had climbed those stairs,” he said viciously. “Then I would have thrown you off the top of the quarry, too.”

Grief made her heedless. “Poor Bertie,” she spoke as though she were addressing a little boy. “You were always the little runt whom everyone turned on, weren’t you?” She paused and flinched as pictures of his memories formed in her mind, but she went on relentlessly, “The maid who told you to use the back door? The footman who caught you stealing? And Harry, the boy who laughed when you fell off your horse? But you showed them, didn’t you, Bertie? No one gets on the wrong side of Bertie Messenger and goes unpunished.”

He gave her another obscenely boyish grin. “My, my. Lydia does have a busy tongue, doesn’t she? I’ll soon put a stop to that. Not that it matters. Those were accidents. The coroner said so.”