Chapter Twenty-Three
In the days since Jamie had kissed Alice again, he’d called at her house twice. Both times her butler had said she was from home, and he couldn’t tell if that was the truth or not, as the man’s expression gave nothing away.
He’d then sent three notes stating he needed to speak with her. She’d ignored them. She’d also not attended any society events.
Two things gnawed at Jamie. The first was fear that Alice was out there somewhere in the dark, searching through the most dangerous corners of London in her relentless search for clues about Jackson.
The second was harder to name, a dull ache lodged beneath his ribs.
He told himself it was simply because he hadn’t seen her lately, which was absurd.
They’d never spent enough time together for her absence to hurt this much.
Yet it did. The truth was simple: Lady Alice Smythe had come to matter to him more than he cared to admit.
And for now, that was enough. Whatever the future brought, he’d face it after Jackson was found.
Right now, he had to ensure Alice was safe.
Jamie then did something he had absolutely no right to do. He’d paid a man to watch her movements. She’d maim him if she found out, but it was the only way he could be sure she wasn’t doing anything rash.
God’s blood, what has become of me?
“I fear you’re not concentrating, my lord.”
“I fear you are correct and at this rate, you will be trouncing me soundly, Fletcher.”
Jamie had found out from his butler, Radley, who knew through one of the maids, Ginny, that Fletcher, his footman, was in fact an excellent chess player. As Jamie loved chess, he’d instantly challenged the man to a game. That was two years ago, and they’d been playing often since.
“Well then, if I may say, checkmate, my lord.”
“If it wouldn’t be very wrong of me, Radley, I’d terminate your employment effective immediately.” Jamie sighed. “Forgive me. It seems I was preoccupied this evening. I promise to be more alert next time.”
“I shall look forward to it, my lord.” His footman rose and put the pieces back in their box before leaving.
It wasn’t late, but late enough that he should be heading out the door to a social engagement, but Jamie found little excitement in the prospect. He wanted Alice, and he wanted to find Jackson. Both were consuming him.
When Radley reappeared, he was still exactly where he’d been, staring at the chessboard.
“A Mr. Jonas has arrived, my lord, and wishes to speak with you, Lord Stafford.”
Jamie was out of his chair so fast he tripped, but managed to right himself. He was then running out the door, past his butler. Taking the stairs two at a time, he arrived at the front door in seconds.
Mr. Jonas had once been a Bow Street Runner and now worked privately for anyone who needed him.
He wore beige and gray, and to Jamie’s mind was in perfect employment, as everything about the man except for a spectacular moustache was bland.
He stood just inside the door, hat in hand, looking around the walls to where Jamie’s austere ancestors hung, casting disapproving glances down on Jamie.
“Good evening, my lord,” Mr. Jonas said, bowing.
“Good evening. What news do you have for me, Mr. Jonas?”
“I was watching Lady Alice Smythe’s house as you directed, and thirty minutes ago she left it alone. If I may be bold, she appeared secretive. I followed, and she climbed into a hackney. I was able to hear the address she told the driver.”
“How did she appear secretive?” Jamie asked instead of giving voice to the anger Mr. Jonas’s words created.
“Dark cloak pulled over her head almost covering half her face. Constantly looking about her to see if anyone was watching. Also, she didn’t call for her carriage but slipped out alone and then walked until she could hail a hackney.
A lady of her rank—if you’ll forgive me for saying—shouldn’t be out alone and definitely not in a hackney. ”
I’m going to roar at her for an hour until she has a good grasp on not walking into a dangerous situation.
“I thought about following her, my lord, out of concern, but thought you would want to know with some expediency what she was about,” the man said in a calm manner that Jamie was sure settled his clients. It did not settle him one bit.
“What address did she give the driver?” The words came out cold and hard.
“Well Yard, off Marylebone Lane, St Marylebone,” Mr. Jonas said.
Not the worst street in London, Jamie thought, but still, she should not be out alone. Where was her hulking footman?
“Many thanks for this information, Mr. Jonas.” Pulling some notes out of his inside pocket, he handed them to the man.
“Do you wish me to call your carriage, my lord?”
“No thank you, Radley, I shall take a hackney,” Jamie said, already heading up the stairs.
Once he was dressed and armed with weapons and more money, Jamie headed out the door and hoped he reached Alice before more trouble befell her.
He ran to the end of the street and then down the next to a busier road and hailed a hackney. After giving the driver the address, he climbed inside.
Hands fisted on his knees with his jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth, he ran through several different scenarios that could be happening to Alice.
None of them made him any calmer. He had always prided himself on being a man of order and restraint, but Alice had reduced him to a raging fool who had hired a man to spy on her.
Now he was rolling through London to chase after her.
Opening the hatch above his head, Jamie said, “I will pay you double if you pick up your pace, sir. It is of the utmost importance I reach my destination with expediency.”
“Right you are!” the man replied.
Seconds later, Jamie felt the vehicle increase its speed.
“You’d better be safe when I reach you, Alice,” he muttered.
The hackney jolted to a halt long minutes later. Jamie stepped down and paid the driver. He then took a deep breath of damp air. Marylebone was not the rookeries, but neither was it Mayfair. Shadows pooled in the narrow lanes, and the smell of coal smoke was thick.
Jamie reassured himself of the weight of his pistol before moving silently down Well Yard. A little cul-de-sac, hemmed in by crooked brick houses that leaned toward one another, it had no light except what the moon offered, or lights from the small windows of the buildings flanking it.
A burst of noise came from an open door as Jamie passed it. Where are you, Alice, and why are you here?
Well Yard, off Marylebone Lane, was a narrow, ill-lit close. A thin ribbon of fog crawling low on the ground curled around Jamie’s boots as he walked.
Three tall buildings, with little ones wedged between, lay ahead of him. Number 22 stood at the far end, the last on the right, its brickwork dark with soot. A narrow iron external staircase ran up one side. Jamie slowed as he approached and turned up the collar of his coat against the wind.
He then made himself walk the length of the lane once more, boots silent on the stone, to see if he could locate Alice.
He turned into the shadows behind the buildings, checking the narrow passage that ran between Number 22 and its neighbor.
His eyes strained against the gloom as he searched for movement, or the familiar outline of a woman he could not forget. Alice.
There was no sign of her.
Returning to the front, he took the staircase up.
At the first landing, Jamie paused. The numbers on the doors lining the corridor were faintly visible where the moonlight pooled. Seventeen. The next, nineteen. Too low. He’d have to go higher.
He stepped back toward the railing and tilted his head. The upper floors loomed above, the staircase zigzagging into darkness. A flicker of movement caught his eye at the next level. Someone was looking down at him.
For one suspended moment, he could make out the faintest silhouette. A woman, maybe? Before he could call out, they vanished, the figure swallowed by shadow. Then came the sound of running feet. Light, and quick.
“Alice?” His voice came rougher than he intended.
No answer.
Jamie took the stairs up two at a time. The iron rattled beneath him and the cold air burned his lungs. At the second floor, the first door bore the number 20. He strode along the corridor—21, 22—and kept going to the end where another set of stairs descended at the back.
“Damn it,” he muttered.
He could hear her now, or whoever it was, the fading echo of footsteps below. She’d taken the back way. Without thinking, Jamie jumped the last few steps and landed hard, his boots splashing through a shallow puddle.
The passage opened into the cul-de-sac at the far side of the yard. Moonlight silvered the rooftops, but the street itself lay in shadow. Stopping at the mouth of the alley, he searched left and right, heart pounding. Nothing moved except a scrap of newspaper caught in the wind.
Then, voices.
Male and growing louder. Three of them, maybe more, coming from the left. Jamie pressed himself into the shadows. If Alice were still here, she’d have done the same. He prayed she had.
The men turned the corner. One carried a lantern that threw a greasy circle of light across the walls. Jamie caught their faces as they passed, and his breath froze.
Kenneth Jackson.
The shock of recognition punched through him like a fist. Before reason could stop him, Jamie stepped out into the light.