Chapter 14
14
* * *
T ownhouse of Caterina Valentia
No. 50 Leicester Square, London
Con listened to Caterina's usual running complaints about all the people who had bruised her delicate ego that evening. He listened, and he wondered. The delicate accent she'd long affected had brought him to his knees with desire the first time he'd met her. Now, the same accent seemed brassy and rubbed against his nerves. Why hadn't he noticed that before?
She must have picked up on his unusual ennui, because she flitted to the overstuffed chair he sat in, one of many expensive pieces he'd bought to furnish her townhouse. She perched on one of the arms and leaned precariously toward him, her breasts spilling out of a silk dressing gown that must have cost him hundreds of pounds. Her heavy floral scent nearly made him gag. Why had he never noticed before how overpowering the woman's scent was?
He knew why he was feeling the things he was. It was that damnable little thief. He caught himself worrying about how much Sally Big-un's had hurt her. His instructions had been to just lash her lightly, and then only a little bit. There was no way he wanted that creamy skin of Marianne's damaged in any way.
But for the love of Zeus, he'd had to do something . His brothers were ready to take her transgressions out of his hide. She was his responsibility now. The gravity of that thought hit him hard, like rocks tied up in a sock.
He stood suddenly, spilled his whisky, and announced he had to be somewhere else. Caterina was very good at turning on tears to get what she wanted, but this time she didn't bother. She seemed to know argument was futile.
"There's someone else, isn't there?"
"Um, not exactly, but, well, yes. Yes, there is."
"I'll expect the usual parting gift of jewelry of substantial value, per our agreement." She stated the obvious as if she were reading an article in The Times and left him standing alone in her parlor.
* * *
12 February, 1827
No.'s 25-27, Mercer Street
Edge of Seven Dials
Marianne observed her handiwork and felt a swell of pride. She'd be free soon, and there wasn't a damned thing that hulk of a Horseman Con Dyer could do. She nearly laughed at the idea of him wearing the key to her cell on a chain around his neck. She didn't belong to anyone, and no mere cell could hold her.
The guards outside her cell snored softly, enjoying a good night's sleep, courtesy of some sleeping powder in their wine. Lucinda brought the powders when she came to Con's tenement lair and demanded to see for herself that her mistress was alive and well. Mrs. Bonham never suspected that two helpless women could plan and execute an escape from the Horsemen's fabled "dungeon.
Once the guards had begun to nod off, she'd simply removed the hinges from her cell door. She'd carefully drawn them in her sketch book earlier that week. After that, it was merely a matter of visually unlocking the puzzle of how they could be dismantled. One of the guards had made the acquisition of a tool easy. He always carried a small dagger in his belt, which she easily relieved him of once he was asleep and oblivious.
Lucinda and Robbie waited two streets away from Con's tenement lair in her black, unmarked carriage. It was well past time to leave. She needed to be off and doing the one thing she loved: stealing from the arrogant, wealthy nobs of London and, um, re-purposing that largesse for the benefit of the poor.
She looked down at the sketches scattered across the cell floor that she was going to leave behind for Con so that he'd never forget her. There were the many studies of the man himself and sketches of the wolfhounds she'd surely miss. There was already an ache beneath her ribs when she looked at Lugh and Aengus. They were close outside the cell, and now, as if they sensed she was about to leave, they'd poked their noses through the bars. She patted each cold nose in turn. "You take care of him. You're the only ones who understand that impossible man."
She pushed aside a stack of drawings in the corner of the cell and smiled. There was a surprising likeness of Sally Big'uns, only Marianne had drawn the woman's beautiful, riveting eyes the way she was sure no one else had ever seen her. Sally had taken the best versions of all the sketches Marianne had done whilst the woman was supposed to have been beating her.
As she turned to leave, she stuffed her few belongings into a cloth bag. At the bottom of the bag, safely wrapped in her old gray sisters of the poor dress was the little green malachite box. She would liberate whatever was inside the mysterious box, and then perhaps she, her coachman, and her lady's maid could someday escape to the Continent and live a life of ease.
As for her, she was dressed in her favorite costume of all, Robin Hood of Sherwood Forest. She tucked her bow and a quiver of arrows beneath her free arm and slipped out into the night with her bag slung over her other shoulder. When the temptation to look back one last time overcame her, she turned and there was Mrs. Bonham, waving from a window on the top floor in the vicinity of the servants' quarters.
* * *
12 February, 1827
Streets of Seven Dials
All through the night, Con walked the streets of Covent Garden and then Seven Dials, blindly wandering, and then he realized suddenly how he was dressed, in full formal opera wear. Several street thieves had given him calculating glances, but had stopped abruptly when they'd seen his familiar face beneath the absurd top hat. No one attacked one of the Four Horsemen. At least not if they wanted to live to see morning.
A gold-handled cane and sweeping cape his valet had talked him into when he'd first begun venturing out to opera performances completed his absurd night-walking ensemble. Over the years, everyone had assumed his addiction to opera was due to having the fiery Valentia in his bed. Actually, the opera was how he'd met the high-maintenance diva in the first place.
Although he'd never admit the truth to his brothers, he'd become an aficionado of Mozart's light operas early on. It was hard to explain to others, but after dealing with all the violence and hatred of the rookeries as the leader of the Horsemen, forgetting who he was for a few hours had become like balm to his soul.
Forgetting who he was, though, could be dangerous, and that was exactly how he'd been affected when he'd been able to lose himself in Marianne's soft body for a few hours. Maybe he was turning into a doddering old man, perhaps...his unwise reverie was interrupted rudely. He'd just turned a corner and headed back toward Mercer Street when he found himself surrounded by a small army of men dressed in black and armed with coachmen's muskets. He didn't know whether to be flattered or annoyed. Apparently, they thought the clumsy firepower was necessary to bring one of the Horsemen to heel. In his experience, stocky muskets are too bulky in hand-to-hand combat, especially when dealing with bare-knuckles street fighters.
The small dagger he always wore tucked into the waistband of his pants was more than sufficient to take down one of the musket men. When the others cocked their remaining pistols, Con spread his arms wide. "Gentlemen, gentlemen, there's more than enough of me for all of you. Plus, you're on the turf of the Four Horsemen. It's only a matter of time before my brothers and their minions arrive. I don't think you're here to wage all-out war."
Con's speech didn't take any particular well of courage, because out of the corner of his eye he'd seen Dickie Jones sneak down an alley toward Fam's lair.
"No, we're not." A tall, broad-shouldered man emerged from the shadows and motioned for the others to stand down. "Thomas Oxley at your service."
Con knew immediately who he was but tried to keep his ire under control. "I believe you're looking for something you've lost...again."
The sudden spark in his eyes and the stiffening of his body gave him away. He knew what Con was referring to. "Arguing in the street doesn't become either one of us. Let's go to my club and have a whisky." He clapped Con on the back and kept walking, urging him on. The small army of men garbed in black brought up the rear.
They walked briskly over to the St. James area and ended up on an exclusive side street, St. Albans. Mister Oxley's private club looked like a private townhouse on the outside, but inside, the opulence of the furnishings projected precisely the kind of man Marianne's father was.
Con gave him an odd side look. "Do you always visit your club surrounded by an army?"
"Well, that depends."
"On what?"
"On how illiterate my audience turns out to be. Sometimes, a show of force saves lots of explanation."
They were ushered into a private side room with a small table and two chairs. Mister Oxley motioned for Con to sit across from him. Marianne's father did not engage in small talk or banter. He came directly to the point.
"I like the way your run your business, Dyer. How many people do you have in your organization?"
"That's an interesting question, Mister Oxley. Why do you ask?"
"I've looked for someone like you for years to take over my empire when I'm too old and don't care enough anymore to keep hold of the reins."
Con gave him a long look. "I'm not looking for a job. Taking care of the rookeries is all I can handle."
"You know Marianne has no interest in running the business, but she needs a strong hand on the reins as well. She's a restless soul. It takes a special kind of man to love a restless soul. I should know."
Con had no desire to know what Marianne's obnoxious father knew about restless souls.
He waved away Con's objections. "She's like her mother. I gave her everything, but what did she do? She left me for a man who owned a tea plantation in Assam, in India."
"I thought Marianne's mother died when she was a little girl." Con was beginning to take a distinct dislike to the direction of their conversation and Mister Oxley especially.
"Oh, no. That's what I told her. You know how children are. You have to tell them little fairytales to keep them in line every once in a while. Buy them ice creams and pretty things to keep them occupied."
Con stood and gave Mister Oxley a dismissive look. I don't lie to children, dogs, the people who work for me, and least of all, the woman I love."
"Sit down. We have more to discuss."
Con gave him a look that most mortals would have recognized as the last thing they might ever see in this world. "We're done here. I'm going back to check on your daughter and make sure she's all right."
Oxley waved a hand. "She's gone. There's not a lock made my girl can't break. You didn't think you could keep her for long, did you? You thought you were going to live happily ever after, but you don't know Marianne, you only think you do."
"I love her."
"She was already married. Did she tell you?"
"Yes, she said an older man forced her into a sham marriage. She was only sixteen. Where the hell were you?"
"I was, ah, in the midst of some delicate negotiations to add his copper mine to my company. I needed him to think he'd have everything someday."
Standing in the middle of an elite men's club in the exclusive St. James area and feeling like a fop in complete opera gear, Con did the only thing he could. He hauled back a fist and experienced the most enjoyable knockout of his life. Oxley's army crowded around, making threats, but when he looked up, there were Fam, Warrick, and Ban, courtesy of the best snoop in the rookeries, Dickie Jones. The best brothers in arms a man could have surrounded him, guards of their own behind them armed like Barbary pirates.
"Now what has she done?" Fam gave him a good-natured glower. "You're sure you don't want me to make her disappear?"
"No--." Con was emphatic. "You were right. I'm going to have to marry her and keep her surrounded by guards by my side. Forever."