Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
“A dangerous one,” Dex growled. His fists clenched at his side. The memory was unfurling quickly in his mind’s eye: the hard gaze, the gaudy affectations, and the undulating marabou of Madame D’Oiseaux, neé Flanagan. “Let’s hope she flew back to her coop. For her sake. And mine.”
Out of the Rose & Crown, and back onto Odysseus.
Driving his horse as fast as he dared on the crowded street.
Ana, trapped in the talons of that monster.
Ana, without an ounce of artifice in her entire being, caught up in the machinations of that imposter, with her faux French and feathered finery.
He hoped he was wrong, but he feared he was right.
La Maison de Mme D’Oiseaux, gaudy as ever, was singularly empty and quiet. No muscle at the door to greet him, no impediment to slow him down as he stormed through the salon. The place looked in a sorry state, dirty and neglected, the garish trappings finally failing to conceal its ugly innards.
“Where is your mistress?” he bellowed at the handful of women peeping out of alcoves and hallways at the noisy intruder.
They skittered away from him fearfully as he approached.
He tore open door after door, calling for the Madame.
A belligerent customer, pulling trousers over his hips, hurried out of one room to protest, caught sight of his glowering face and beat an expeditious retreat.
“She ain’t here,” a small voice volunteered from behind. He wheeled around, fear and rage making his scars a livid red. The owner of the voice, cowering a bit, examined his face and nodded with recognition. “Not many are these days. You’re the duke as helped Daisy and t’ others escape, ain’t you?”
“I am,” he said, biting down on the insides of his cheeks to keep from yelling. “Where is the Madame?”
“We’re not supposed to say, Your Grace. Could get in real trouble.” She screwed up her face in a grimace of indecision.
“I promise no harm will come to you,” he got out through gritted teeth. “I swear to God I will shut this place down and find good stations for all of you—just tell me, where is the Madame?”
She pursed her lips. “I’m not sure, to be honest. She rode off with Burt and Figgleston, told us to keep the house running and not to talk to any strangers that came looking for her. That’s all.”
“Did she say anything else? Anything at all. Please think carefully.”
The poor girl searched her own recollection for a long minute, far too long for Dex to be at all optimistic about the outcome, before emerging triumphantly with a memory in hand.
“I did hear Burt say something about visiting ‘the sister’! His sister, maybe? Or Figgleston’s? Or—a nun? D’you suppose they went t’ church?” She trailed off in confusion.
Dex had a momentary feverish vision, a phalanx of sisters in dark habits surrounding Ana, carrying her aloft and away from him. But his logical brain was still working and had already made the necessary leap to the truth.
“You’ve been very helpful. Thank you.” He gave her a coin. “Please don’t worry about the Madame. I will take care of you. And her, as well.”
To his horse again. Galloping around carriages on the street, causing people crossing the streets to spring backward or throw themselves forward, anything to stay out of this madman’s way.
One thought in his mind: Ana was in danger.
This was beyond the simple kidnapping he’d at first assumed it to be.
It wasn’t just money at stake. Maggie Flanagan was no ordinary criminal, spotting an opportunity for some quick coin in the form of a ransom.
Not she. Maggie was made of hatred. And she had a reason to hate him, to want to hurt him.
Hurting Ana would accomplish this. Thoroughly.
It didn’t matter how many ill-used girls he aided, how many families of the fallen he helped. His own salvation lay in the well-being of a small, stubborn, sweet woman named Ana. And he’d put her in danger.
Running up the steep front stairs of Miss Flanagan’s boarding house, his thoughts chasing each other around like howling wolves circling a campfire.
The dilapidated rowhouse standing tall in front of him, the windows lifeless and forbidding.
He raised his hand to the door, and in that moment, memories flooded him.
Lieutenant Crewe clutching at the lapel of his uniform. Promise me you’ll find Analise . . . protect her . . .
Ana’s bright face, the first time he’d seen her, opening this same door.
The oval of her face again, on their wedding day, turned up toward him, her green eyes full of challenge.
The sweetness of her body under his, her musical sighs and moans.
He’d been letting a legion of dead men stand between himself and living. Nothing could erase the past, but she—she wanted to help him build a new future. He was the luckiest man in the world. He would revel in this gift she was offering. He would cherish her until his dying day.
As long as he could save her from harm first.
He tried the door. Locked. He braced himself against the low railing of the porch and kicked with all his strength. Once, twice.
On the third kick, the lower half of the doorframe splintered inward.
He was in.
The house was dark. Quiet. If anyone were here, the demise of the doorframe would have alerted them to his presence, but there was no answering din, nobody rushing to meet him. He moved quickly through the rooms in the front of the main floor. Nothing.
And then he heard it. A muffled cry, footsteps scuffling at a distance. Not from the ground floor or the basement floor below, but farther away, overhead. He ran back to the foyer and took the stairs three at a time.
The third floor was one long hallway stretching from front to back, with rooms opening off to either side.
He paused. What was his strategy? Think quickly.
Opening each door one by one would give whoever was behind them ample time to plan an ambush, to hide.
He made himself go still, slowed his breathing. Concentrated on the stillness. Listen.
There it was again, a muted murmur, even higher up. The garret. Its door ajar, the glow of lamplight spilling down the narrow stairs and casting deep shadows on either side of the landing.
He crept forward, thankful for the carpet, however ugly and worn it was.
Up the creaking stairs, hand out to grasp the doorknob, eyes adjusting to the shift in light.
The door swung wide at his touch. Without thinking, he crossed its threshold and moved into the room, drawn inexorably toward the evil sight framed within.
There, by the window, stood Maggie Flanagan, in a violet robe over a blazingly orange silk dress, lamplight glittering in her dark eyes, slim white hand holding a knife to the throat of his very own redheaded hellion of an Ana.