Wicked, My Love (24 page)

Again, the other passengers snickered.

“How did you figure out who I was?” she asked.

“A regrettable acquaintance named Mr. Anthony Powers informed me.”

She sucked in her breath. Her panicked train of thought suddenly switched rails. Randall was correct all along: Harding had a direct link to Powers. The railroad baron was the maestro of this adagio in ruin. “Do—do you know where I might find this
Mr. Powers?”

“All in good time, my starling,” the railroad b
aron said.

She put her nose a mere inch from his, until she could see his dark eyes from under the brim of his hat. “No, I want answers right now,” she demanded. “This instant.
This
is the good time. My life has been sinking through the nine circles of hell for a week. I've got to save my bank, and Mr. Powers… He…” She paused. She didn't know how to play this new game. What cards should she show and which ones should she keep to her chest?

“Let me guess, that rascal Powers sold you fraudulent stock and then ran away with the money, and now you're taking the blame. So you're panicking because you fear a run on your bank. And, if I may be so bold as to suggest, you may not be making the best decisions.”

The memory of her quivering legs wrapped around Randall's thighs blew up in her brain, as well as when he bound her in the silk ribbons and gave her a proper wiggle; and then there was that strange position in which she hung from the canopy frame. “Y-yes,” s
he admitted.

Harding laughed, a lazy, relaxed sound. She slid across the carriage, wrapped her arms about her, a
nd debated.

A few minutes before, she would have contemplated leaping blindly from the carriage. But now he had someone she needed. Today was Friday. The bank had closed several hours ago, hopefully before the news broke. Tomorrow the bank was closed. If she found Powers, she would have two days to perform a miracle—try to recoup what money she could from the man and then give him over to the police in order to clear hers and Randall's names.

“You're being too emotional,” Harding said. “Allow me to think for you, my ravishing dear. I have a business plan for you to consider that might solve all your little problems.”

Across the carriage, the men snickered yet again. For God's sake, could they just all-out laugh or chuckle? The snickers chafed her nerves.

“But for now, have a grape, my lark,” Harding said. “Boys, reach into the basket and get out the grapes.”

Seconds later, Isabella felt a cold, tiny grape being pressed against her mouth. She parted her lips, chewed, and swallowed.

***

A bundle of force-fed grapes later, the carriage veered and stopped. The door creaked open, and she could hear the shuffling of feet and feel the sway of the carriage as the men disembarked.

“Come, my swan.” Harding clasped her hand. She wanted to slap him, perhaps give his finger a good bite, but she had to play along until she knew the particulars about Powers. “Randall,” she whispered like a prayer and allowed Harding to help her down.

“Here we are.” He slid his hands to her waist and turned her around. “If you look about the scaffolding covering the home, you can make out my architectural insanity.”

All she could discern were large orbs of lamplight and smudgy black lines amid something deep red. “I can't see anything. Please tell me about Powers.”

“In my early career, I spent a great deal of time in China,” the railroad baron continued as if she hadn't spoken. “I've modeled it after the great Oriental homes and pagodas I saw there, but added some English flavor with the stone walls and turrets.”

“Oh” was all Isabella could manage. There were times when being nearly blind had its advantages.

“When I was in China with my opium business, I missed the dreary, damp England of my childhood,” he explained. “When I moved back to dreary, damp England, I missed the exotic, limitless beauty of the China of my early manhood. But I'm beginning to find England as warm and inviting as the look in yo
ur eyes.”

“I'm not looking at you warm and invitingly. In fact, I'm not sure I'm looking at you at all.”

Harding broke into laughter, the long, exaggerated kind. “Beauty, brains, the ability to spin hay into gold, and wit. My God, woman, you are lethal. Allow me to escort you inside.”

“I prefer to stay out here. Please tell me where I may find Mr. Powers.”

“Well, you just might find him in my home.”

“I'm not going into your home. But I would be delighted to discuss any business arrangement
out here.”

“Boys, go inside,” Harding said in a low, authoritative voice. Feet crunched on pavers and a heavy door opened and closed. “Miss St. Vincent, you have my word as a gentleman that no harm will come to you. I ask simply that you listen to my offer. And if you decide not to take it, you can walk away.” He drew a finger down her cheek. “But I think we have an extraordinary opportunity here, business a
nd otherwise.”

Just what did “otherwise” encompass? That's what concerned her. “Is—is Powers inside?”

“Yes.”

“And I can walk away at any time?”
Provided
I
can
find
the
door.

“I gave you my word as a gentleman.”

He bumped his arm against hers. She slowly wound her fingers around his elbow. A terrible, sinking sensation filled her gut, the kind that usually occurred when making a dreadful mistake. At this point, though, every move was a mistake

And if Randall were taken by the police, the only way she could quickly free him was by giving them one of the true villains—Mr. Powers.

She crossed a threshold, the humid night giving way to a dry, airy space, which smelled of wood, sawdust, and paint. “Now, let me be your eyes.” Harding slowly slipped off one of her gloves, and then the other. He guided her bare fingers along the door. “Carved in the wood are the house gods Qin Shubao and Yuchi Jingde. They are fierce warriors from the Tang dynasty who guard the house
from evil.”

They
aren't doing such a great job,
Isabella thought, since the evil twins Harding and Powers were wandering about the corridors.

“How lovely,” she muttered, retracting her hand. “Now may I see Mr. Powers? And I would like my gloves back.”

He didn't give them to her. “You are too impatient. Watch your step as I lead you into the great hall. We are still working on the mosaic on the floor. Ah, here we are. You can hear my voice echo. Miss St. Vincent intoxicates me!” She jumped. His words echoed around her, as if he had called across a mountain range. “Before you is a grand hall as one would expect in a great English castle of yore, with exposed beams and huge fireplaces. But instead of tapestries, I have installed silk—”

“I'm sorry,” she cut in, too anxious to be polite. “I'm not one for architecture, even when I'm not desperately trying to save my bank. If you could take me to Mr. Powers without the tour.”

Another one of his expansive belly laughs. “Come, my nightingale, up the stairs to where I do business. Hold on to me. Not all the balustrades have arrived from Hong Kong. So, tell me what amuses you if not architecture, Isabella—I hope you don't mind my calling you by your name—”

“Not as much as I minded being kidnapped.”

“—and I shall produce it. Surely, you have passions outside of trading or banking?”

Lord
Randall
is
my
passion,
she wanted to answer.
Can
you
produce
him
immediately?
She said a hasty silent prayer that he had escaped the police and was safe. “All I do, every day, is think about stocks, interest rates, and investments. A very dull existence.” That is, until the viscount had taken her into his arms and given her a glimpse of a new, wondrous world in a single night. She wished she were back in his sheltering arms, and that the last twelve hours hadn't happened.

From an open balcony, also scarily missing balustrades, the railroad baron led her down a corridor. The air was tinged with the acrid scent of tarnish and metal. Silver glimmered from the walls. “These are ancient Chinese weapons,” he said. “Mostly Fu and Ji—ornate weapons of the Imperial guards. Follow me into this chamber, and I shall show you a rather interesting curiosity.”

He drew her into a room—a blur of red, wood, and more metal. Releasing her, he pulled something from the wall. “This was fired at me during the opium war—an ancient and amazing crossbow of sorts, capable of rapidly firing ten arrows in a matter of seconds.” He held it so close to her face that she could see the taut bow.

“W-what happened to the man who fired it?”

“We were at war, Isabella,” he replied darkly. “Oh, but you are shivering. Have I made you nervous?”

She began backing toward the general vicinity of the door. “I—I would like to see Mr. Powers t
his instant.”

“Come now, you are too impatient.” In a quick move, he slipped behind her. His hands rested on her shoulders. His hot breath tickled her neck. “Let me take this cloak off you, my robin.”

“I prefer to keep it on.”

“I prefer that you don't.” He whisked it off in a graceful motion. “Very nice,” he said, his chin hovering over her shoulder, his eyes gazing down her bodice. “Now come make yourself comfortable.”

He led her to a strange piece of furniture, a long, flat, red pad resting on a carved frame. “Is this a Chinese sofa?” she asked as he reclined beside her. He was so close that she could just make out the disconcerting smile on his lean face.

“A bed from the early years of the Qing dynasty,” he replied.

“A b—” She leaped up and rushed toward something silver—and hopefully deadly—gleaming on the wall. She ripped it from its moorings, cutting her finger in the process. “I don't care if it was built the first year in…in whatever the first dynasty was—”

“Xia.”

“—I want to see Powers now, or I'm exercising my right to walk away.”

She saw the motion of him rising to his feet. His lean body, shiny bronzed head, and hot eyes came into focus as he planted himself just inches from her. “Ah, that is a highly decorative Fu from the guards of the Imperial palace,” he said, running his finger down the blade. “More ornamental than useful.”

Nonetheless, she shook her useless, decorative Fu threateningly. “You spoke about a business deal.”

“I just adore negotiating at knifepoint. Let me speak in terms we both understand. In return for Powers and my help in saving your bank, I'm putting futures on your mind and your body with a call for three months from now.” He leaned down and kissed the blade, letting his lips linger. “I think we will both profit.”

“M-my body? Mr. Harding, you have confused me for someone else. I'm not the courtesan I said I was last night. I'm not exotic or graceful or elegant. Maybe the excitement of the moment has blinded you to my true appearance and nature. I truly am a boring, homely old spinster. No one has asked me for a single dance at the spring assembly in the last three years. So if you would be so kind as to produce Mr. Powers.”

“I disagree. I think you are an untapped resource, a virgin land, so to say, and I have the delight of discovering you.”

“I have actually been discovered.”
Four
times
last
night.
She stepped back, keeping her adorned Fu
in position.

“Many men may walk across the land—”

“What! J-just one.”

“—never suspecting the diamond mine beneath. Do you know my talent? It's the same as yours. I see opportunity that no one has before, and, like you, I aggressively chase it until it is mine. I turn it into profit. You are my new opportunity, my new opium, my new railroad.”

She paused to assimilate the information, slowly spinning the Fu as she thought. “So, let me see if I understand. I get to be your…your…concubine, your diamond mine to excavate, your opium, and in exchange, I avoid the poorhouse. Is that your offer?”

He laughed. “Now those aren't very good terms, are they?” She heard him pace away. “Here's my plan. We turn Powers over to the police, I repay some of the stock he stole, and I become a visible partner and investor in your bank to help reestablish any confidence that may have been lost. I'll have my boys at
The
Examiner
write an article making you the heroine of the story. You know that everyone loves a good story, and all perceived sins will be forgiven. In fact, you may have more business and can give up this silly Wollstonecraft Society.” He scoffed and shook his head. “Women investors with their penny stocks.”

“All this for three months in your Qing d
ynasty bed?”

“Oh, my sweet canary, I want more than your body.” He strode closer. “I want your succulent, unwomanly mind. We can make intellectual love for three months as business partners—three months to prove how well I can treat you, pamper you, and seduce you with stocks, companies, options, consuls, mortgages, and other lucrative foreign investments on which you can work your magic.” He stopped before her. He was so tall, she found herself staring at the shape of his black cravat. “Care to play, or are the stakes too high for you?”

She swallowed, loosening her grip on her Fu. Harding had the international resources she never possessed. He moved in global markets. But why was he giving it away so easily? “Why do you need my so-called magic? Are you overextended?”

“I'm certainly not on the brink of financial ruin the way you are. There's just a temporary imposition caused by your bank partner, Lord Randall. He embarrassed me, causing a few of my less-than-loyal investors to back out. You know I cannot allow that to happen. I—”

“You must project confidence in the market,”
she finished.

“Exactly. You see, we are brilliant together.” He slipped behind her, his dark, sweet scent wafting around her. “At the end of the three months, we total up what we've made and decide either to sell high or low or…” He kissed her neck. She sucked in her breath. She had to admit his touch wasn't unpleasant, but it wasn't Randall. It wasn't sweet enough to melt her heart or soft enough to reach her soul. But she could never keep the viscount. He didn't belong to her. She had just been lucky enough to know him for one devastating, life-altering night.

“Or?” she prompted Harding to finish his thought.

“I hit that sweet multiplier just right and buy in. I double my investment in you. Marriage, family if the numbers are right.” He grasped the handle of the ornamental ax, his large hands—so like her papa's—covering hers. He withdrew the weapon from her grasp. “I keep your body and mind; you keep your bank. You honor your father's legacy while making even more money.” He stepped back. Cold air chilled her neck. “Or you can walk away right now. I won't stop you.”

Her throat burned. She began to pace, thinking of all those desperate women who had placed their paltry but vital savings in her bank. They depended on her. How far was she willing to go for them, to save her father's bank? She had never been the daughter he wanted, but she had managed to keep the bank. It was all she had left. If it went away, she wouldn't know who she was. She wouldn't be anything. And if she saved it, she might protect Randall's political career.

Randall.

Tears filled the corners of her eyes. She quickly wiped them away before they had a chance to swell.
He
was
never
yours. If you truly love him, you will let him go and save his reputation.

“My stunning kingfisher, your silence destroys me,” he said. “I must use other means to persuade you.” He drew her close, his lips descending on hers.

She pressed her palm against his chest.

“If—if I am to agree to this…this intimate investment, there is something more I want.”

“Tell me.”

Tears began to form in her eyes again.
Be
strong
, she reminded herself and blinked them away. “Lo
rd Ran
dall.”

***

Randall slipped through Harding's open back gate. The gaslight about the mews shone on the stableboys who were unhitching the carriage and discussing which London actresses were the most beautiful as influenced by breast size. Randall edged into the darkness along the brick wall. His heart pounded, and his jaw hurt from grinding his teeth together. If that miscreant Harding touched Isabella, Randall would tear off every limb, eyeball, and tiny testicle on the
man's body.

But he had to find him first, before he could dismantle him.

Harding's architectural nightmare was lost in the shadows of scaffolding running along the walls and up to the pagoda-like turrets, above which the massive moon rested.

Light spilled in rectangles from the ground- and second-floor windows. He snuck around a small kitchen garden, ready to climb up the scaffolding and smash his way in, when he almost toppled a maid. She was holding a mop and coming out the kitchen door.

“Good heavens, you nearly frightened me out of me poor wits,” she cried. Her pretty features relaxed as she studied him in the low light. “Oh, my, you're a handsome fella,” she purred.

A dim idea—a flicker of a desperate hunch—lit in his distraught mind.

“Am I now, my pretty little bit?” he said. “I'm Mr. Randy Powers, Anthony Powers's dear cousin. What times we had as boys.”

She giggled. “I wager you were quite naughty.”

Oh, yes!
He flashed a smile, hoping to hell it was seductive and boyish, not as panicked and murderous as he felt. “Tell me, dearie, do you like to play the Who's Papa's Naughty Pussycat game?”

“Meow,” she said, and giggled again.

“Aye, everyone likes a wicked game of naughty pussy.” He winked. “You see, it's a bit of a family game. Me papa played it with me mama and then came me. We Powerses are pranksters. Aye, in fact, I have got a fine prank I want to play on ol' Tony tonight. He ain't seen me in a while and I wants to surprise 'im. Can you be a sweet luv, and show me the servant stairs?”

***

A minute later, Randall opened the back stairs door onto the second-story corridor. He gripped the maid's mop and a meat fork he had lifted from a kitchen table as he passed. He cursed his lack of a gun, all the while formulating graphic, barbaric uses for that meat fork.

Then, when he peered down the hall, hundreds of shining, exotic swords and axes flickered in the sconce lights. At that moment, any doubts Randall had about the existence of God were silenced.

“Oh, hell yes,” he whispered, exchanging his mop and fork for a fearsome ax and a strange two-bladed sword, just perfect for making a bloody, unrecognizable mess of Harding…when he found him.

If
he found him.

He edged down the corridor, weapons poised. Then he heard Isabella's voice. “If—if I am to agree to this…this intimate investment, there is something more I want.” He paused, his ax ready to break through the wooden door.

“Tell me,” Harding said. Randall raised his axe and then stopped.

“Lord Randall.” Her voice was tight and high. “I know you are trying to destroy his career with the election happening in a few months. He's a good, honorable politician. He helps the poor and powerless. You must leave him alone. You or your cronies mustn't criticize him for your own political gain. You can take these terms, or I will walk away.”