“I’ll work from the top floor down,” Marcus said.
“We will meet in the kitchens.”
Marcus looked at him. “What are we going to do if we don’t find her?”
“I do not intend to come out empty-handed,” Anthony said evenly. “At the very least I will bring Madam Phoenix or Quinby with me. I suspect that either one of them can tell me the truth.”
Marcus raised his bushy brows. “Provided he or she will talk to you.”
Anthony flexed the fingers of his left hand. “One of them will talk.”
Marcus scrutinized him for a moment and then exhaled deeply. “Very well. I am ready to do my part whenever you give the word.”
“Now,” Anthony said.
Marcus reached into the back of the cart and rummaged around under the tarp. He withdrew a basket that contained four bottles bearing the labels of a very expensive brandy. Without another word, he started toward the tradesmen’s entrance of the brothel.
Anthony watched the door open. A harried-looking woman appeared.
“I’ve got the brandy Madam Phoenix ordered for her special guests tonight,” Marcus said, doing a rather good job of assuming a working-class accent.
The woman frowned. “No one told me anything about a brandy delivery.”
Marcus shrugged. “If ye don’t want the brandy, it’s none of my affair. My employer said he’d bill Madam Phoenix for these bottles at the end of the month. Maybe she won’t even notice that she paid for brandy she never received.”
The woman hesitated and then widened the door. “Very well. Take the brandy into the reception room. Beth will likely know what to do with it.” Marcus disappeared inside the house.
Anthony looked at his watch. He did not have long to wait for the first signs of smoke to come, drifting from a partially open window on the top floor. Screams and shouts of alarm went up almost immediately.
“Fire.” The cry came from somewhere inside the brothel.
Although the smoke was difficult to make out in the darkness, Anthony knew that it would soon fill the hallways inside the house, creating panic.
A short time later people began pouring out of the kitchen door into the alley, cooks and their apron-draped assistants appearing first. They were followed by three maids in skimpy uniforms. They all milled about, talking loudly and gazing up at the plumes of smoke now billowing from the top-floor windows.
“Someone should send for the fire brigade,” the cook declared.
“Madam Phoenix won’t want her guests embarrassed,” a buxom maid said urgently. “There are some very important gentlemen inside.”
“I doubt if she wants the house to burn down around her ears either,” someone snapped.
“I’m sure she’ll be out herself soon enough,” the maid said. “We should let her decide what to do.”
Smoke appeared at another window. More screams echoed in the night.
Anthony went toward the tradesmen’s entrance. No one looked at him or questioned him when he entered the building.
Roberta Woods had drawn a rough floor plan of the establishment based on a description given by a woman known only as Daisy. He had studied it earlier, trying to think the way a kidnapper would think.
The most obvious place to conceal a prisoner was the ancient basement. According to the young woman who had recently left her position in the brothel, Madam Phoenix had forbidden the staff to go down into the basement unless specifically ordered to do so.
He went along a hall, searching for the door that opened onto the basement stairs. A familiar-looking, middle-aged man rushed past him, red-faced and nervous. His open shirt and unknotted tie flapping wildly. Anthony ducked his head and angled his face toward the wall, but there was no need to be concerned that the Earl of Pembray would recognize him. Pembray was clearly intent only on escape.
From what Anthony had heard about the formidable Lady Pembray, that seemed wise. That grand dame would be extremely displeased if a mention of her husband’s name in conjunction with a fire in a notorious brothel appeared in the papers.
Two more partially clad men and three women in filmy, near-transparent gowns fled past Anthony. None of them paid him any attention.
He found the door to the basement precisely where Daisy had indicated. It was locked, as she had warned. He took out his set of lock picks and went to work.
47
Faint, muffled shouts of alarm brought Louisa to her feet. She went to the door of the cell and gripped the iron bars. Boots sounded on the stone stairs.
Quinby, wearing his overcoat, came out of the darkness of the stairwell. In the flaring lantern light she could see that his features were set in grim, determined lines.
He had a large, old-fashioned iron key ring in one hand. In his other hand he gripped a revolver.
“What is it?” she asked. “What’s happening?”
“A fire has broken out somewhere upstairs. We can’t risk having the fire brigade find your body here. There would be too many questions. You’re coming with me. You’re going into the river now instead of later.”
He shoved the key into the lock of the cell and twisted. The ancient door opened reluctantly, grating and grinding on its hinges.
A glimmer of anticipation sparked to life within Louisa. A fire meant chaos and confusion. Perhaps she would have an opportunity to attract attention or even escape.
The door swung open. Quinby shoved the gun into the pocket of his coat and reached into the cell. His hand closed around Louisa’s upper arm.
“Hurry,” he ordered, yanking her arm. “There is no time to waste.”
“I trust you do not expect me to run in this gown,” she said. “It is quite impossible. Everyone knows that if you force a woman to move too quickly, her legs become tangled in her skirts.”
“If you go down I will drag you,” he vowed. “The choice is yours. Do not even think of screaming. No one will hear you.”
So much for her puny threat. The only thing she could do was go with him and wait for an opportunity. She reached down, caught fistfuls of her skirts in both hands and lifted them up to her knees.
Quinby’s hand tightened painfully around her arm. He jerked her forward. Her spirits plummeted when she realized he intended to take her out through the door in the wall of the outer chamber, not up the staircase. Her intuition told her that was probably not a good thing.
Quinby yanked her across the outer chamber and shoved one of the iron keys into the old lock that secured the door. The door opened slowly, revealing a stone tunnel. Louisa heard small, skittering sounds. Rats, she thought. A stomach-churning stench wafted out of the darkness.
“Surely you do not intend to go in there without the lantern,” she said.
Quinby paused, torn. He uttered a foul oath and tossed the heavy key ring down onto the floor. Maintaining his grip on Louisa’s arm, he went back to the table to collect the lantern. He was reaching for it when Anthony’s voice rang out from the stairwell.
“Release her, Quinby.”
Quinby reacted immediately. He wrapped an arm around Louisa’s throat and simultaneously whirled to confront Anthony.
Louisa’s back was pressed tightly against Quinby’s chest. He was using her as a human shield. She realized that he had taken out his revolver. The barrel of the gun was not pointed at Anthony. It was aimed at her temple.
She looked at Anthony. He stood at the entrance of the stairwell garbed in heavy boots and rough clothing. He, too, held a gun.
“Stay back,” Quinby gritted, “or I’ll put a bullet through her head. I swear, I will.”
“Let her go, Quinby, and I will not stop you from leaving through that tunnel,” Anthony said quietly.
“She comes with me,” Quinby said. “Drop the gun now or she’s a dead woman.”
“You don’t need her,” Anthony said, moving toward the wooden table. “Whatever you were involved in here is finished. You’re free to go.”