On impulse Louisa whirled around and let herself out into the hall. She tiptoed downstairs and went into the study. Turning up a lamp, she unlocked a desk drawer and took out the small amount of money that she and Emma kept there for household incidentals. She stuffed the coins and some banknotes into an envelope. Picking up a pen, she jotted an address on the back of the envelope.
In the front hall she pulled on a cloak, opened the front door, and peered out.
The woman in the black cloak and veil was still there, standing in the shadows cast by a tree. She went very still when she saw Louisa walk out onto the front step and pause in the lamplight.
“Good evening,” Louisa said quietly.
The woman reacted as if she had been addressed by a ghost. She started violently, took a step back, turned, and began to walk quickly away.
“Wait, please.” Louisa hurried after her. “I am not going to summon a constable. I just wanted to give you some money and an address.”
Evidently concluding that she was not going to be left alone, the woman halted and turned around, a cornered creature at bay.
Louisa stopped a few steps away and held out the envelope.
“There is enough money in this to see you through the month if you are careful with it. There is an address on the back of the envelope. If you go there and ask for help, you will receive it with no questions asked. It is an establishment run by a woman whose only goal is to assist other women like you.”
“Other women like me?” The woman stiffened.
“Women who have been forced onto the streets.”
“How dare you imply that I am a common streetwalker? Who do you think you are?”
The words were low and charged with a seething fury. The voice was that of an educated woman who had been reared in respectable circles.
“I’m sorry,” Louisa said, chagrined. “I meant no offense.”
Without another word the woman walked off swiftly into the night, the folds of the black velvet cloak sweeping out around her ankles.
Louisa watched her until she disappeared. When the widow was gone, she went back into the town house, closed and locked the door.
She tossed the envelope onto the hall table and went up the stairs, the woman’s words ringing in her ears. Who do you think you are?
It was not that the widow had used the same words that Lord Gavin had employed that fateful night last year. The phrase was common enough, after all. Who do you think you are? People said it all the time. What sparked the chill down her spine was the rage that had vibrated in the woman’s voice. It was as though she hated me. But how can that be? I’m sure I have never met her before in my life.
23
Louisa Bryce had mistaken her for a street whore. Rage, hot as steam, scalded her senses. She longed to go back to Arden Square and kill the stupid woman, but gradually common sense prevailed. She began to breathe more deeply. The white-hot fury receded. She would deal with Louisa Bryce in her own good time.
She walked swiftly, making her way toward a street where she could find a carriage. Night always brought back memories.
The effects of the chloroform were wearing off, leaving her disoriented and slightly queasy. She was vaguely aware of a sense of motion. At first she did not comprehend. Then it dawned on her that she was being carried in a man’s arms. She lacked the strength to struggle. Perhaps it was for the best. Some murky instinct told her it would be safer to remain limp and lifeless.
Nevertheless, she could not resist opening her eyes partway. It did no good. She could not see anything. Her face was covered by a heavy cloth. A tarp, she decided. She was suddenly aware that the constricting canvas swathed her entire body. She could not move, even if she wanted to.
Despite the cloth covering her face, however, she could smell the dampness of fog and the river. Panic surged through her.
The man carrying her grunted with effort. She wanted to scream, but she could not summon her voice.
The next instant she was falling, plunging straight down. Striking the water was like striking a stone wall, the protection of the tarp notwithstanding.
She was aware of the deep, bone-chilling cold as she sank beneath the surface. The shroud in which she had been wrapped had evidently not been well secured. She felt the canvas drift free…
It was only much later that she realized why Elwin had not bound her hands and feet before throwing her off the bridge. He wanted everyone to believe that she had committed suicide. Such a charade would not have worked if her wrists and ankles were tied when she was pulled from the river.
Luck had been with her that night. Unbeknownst to Elwin, who had fled the scene as soon as he had rid himself of his victim, there had been a witness to his work. A lunatic who made his home in a rickety hovel on the edge of the river had watched the bulky bundle plunge into the water. Curious, he had rowed his boat out to see if anything of value could be salvaged.
She had managed to claw her way to the surface, grateful that in her youth she had learned how to swim. It was a rare skill among women. Even given that ability, she knew she likely would have drowned had she not been dressed in her nightgown. She had been asleep when he had come for her with the chloroform. If she had been wearing one of her fashionable gowns when she tumbled into the water the weight of her skirts and corset would have pulled her under.
The first thing she saw when she surfaced was the outline of a small rowboat. Someone stretched out an oar. She seized it with both hands.
The other bit of good fortune was the fact that her savior had been a madman who claimed to hear voices in his head. People avoided him, and he, in turn, rarely spoke to anyone. The result was that no one knew he had pulled her out of the river that night.
The lunatic, convinced that she was some sort of magical creature given into his keeping, had treated her with reverence. He had cared for her in secret until she had recovered from the ordeal. She had stayed with him for a few weeks, letting him provide her with food and shelter while she contemplated her future and made her plans.
To be safe she had taken care to poison the old fool with arsenic before she left his care. She could not afford to take chances, after all. There was too much at stake. Nothing could be allowed to destroy her grand scheme of vengeance…
She pulled her thoughts away from the past. There was an empty hansom in the street. She got into it and gave the driver her address. Ladies who cared about their reputations took care not to be seen in hansoms; the vehicles were fast and the women who rode in them were considered to be the same. In her widow’s gown and veil, however, she was anonymous. No one who had known her when she was Elwin Hastings’s wife would ever recognize her.
She sat back, gloved hands clenched fiercely together. How dare Louisa Bryce assume that she was a cheap street whore?
24
The hansom was parked in the shadows at the end of the dark street. Anthony sat in the cab. He had been watching the door of the gentlemen’s club for nearly an hour, waiting for Hastings to appear. It was three in the morning. The early rumors of Thurlow’s death would no doubt have begun to circulate by now. Gossip flowed first through the clubs. He wanted to see how Hastings reacted to the news.
Although he was here to keep an eye on his quarry, his thoughts were on Louisa. She had expected a transcendent experience. He’d blundered badly, and he had no one to blame but himself. On the other hand, she had deliberately misled him with her mysterious widow charade. Nevertheless, if he’d exercised even a modicum of control he would have realized that he was kissing an inexperienced woman.