Beyond A Wicked Kiss (52 page)

"The colonel has been expressly forbidden to exhaust himself," West said. "And I am the unfortunate fellow who must enforce his physician's edict. You will excuse us, won't you?" Without giving Blackwood opportunity to mount an argument or permitting his well-wishers to have another word, West grasped the back of the wheeled chair and pushed it resolutely into the hall.

"You have some destination in mind, I collect," the colonel said dryly. "If not, there is a library one can find by this route. The third door, I believe, then through the gallery."

The library was not deserted, as West had hoped. Several guests were idly chatting near the fireplace, another had climbed on a footstool and was examining titles from the room's uppermost shelves. A young man and his pretty companion shared the settee, their fingertips touching. They broke this light contact a shade guiltily when West wheeled the colonel into the room.

West expected that he would be the one to order them out, but it was Blackwood who explained that he required a few moments of privacy. They were immediately amenable to vacating the library.

"I had no idea what you would tell them," the colonel said when he was alone with West. "But I suspect you would have them believe I am hammering on death's door." He paused, waiting for West to come around to the other side of his chair. The tumbler of whiskey in his hand prevented him from smooth navigation. "You have seen the others have all gone, then. That accounts for your precipitous actions. It is not well done of you, West. I depend upon your caution and good sense not to call attention to yourself in the manner you just did."

In other circumstances, West would have acknowledged the colonel's dressing-down with a respectful nod, whether or not he thought the rebuke was deserved. It was a sign of the considerable agitation he was still suppressing that he did not do so now. "None of them was supposed to leave until I returned. That was the plan we agreed upon."

"And like a decent frock coat, it required some alteration," Blackwood said calmly. "East was unable to delay the departure of either of the gentlemen. Lest you think he made a poor attempt, I will tell you that Lady Sophia also tried to occupy their interest. It was clear to us that they were most determined to leave. Since you had not yet arrived, precautions had to be taken. Eastlyn and Lady Sophia left at the same time to divert suspicion. North took up Sir Alex's trail, and South followed Herndon."

West felt the pressure in his chest ease slightly. It was a small enough change in their plans. "What do you make of Herndon and Cotton leaving before the guest of honor? They spoke to you this evening, didn't they?"

"Paid their respects. Thanked me." He shrugged. "The Singapore settlement will add substantially to their coffers. They were, naturally, grateful."

"No mention of the bishops?"

"None."

West knew it was unlikely that they would do so. It presented Herndon and Cotton with a conundrum. The settlement was achieved because five of their fellow bishops were bested, yet they were made even more wealthy by that defeat. "They do not suspect you know they are members of the Society?"

The colonel shook his head. "There is no reason that they should." He sipped his drink and enjoyed the liquid heat rolling down his throat. "I think it's probable they noted your absence from the reception."

West nodded. His thinking had been turning in that same direction. "It would explain their desire to leave." He permitted himself a slight, mocking grin. "I don't think they trust me."

"I imagine you're right. Tell me, what did your foray yield? You learned something that will be useful, I hope."

"Only proof that they share Beckwith's interest in the erotic arts. Nothing that hints at Miss Petty's whereabouts. Herndon's collection is more varied than the others, but he has been assembling his works over a long period of time. If there is a theme, it is not sexual, or rather it is not only sexual. These men desire to subjugate women. They have made it a ritual, I think, a sadistic rite of passage that they play out again and again as the whim strikes them."

"With Miss Weaver's Academy as their secret garden," the colonel said. He did indeed feel far older than his years. "Forgive me. I should not admit it, perhaps, but I would rather you and I were plotting Napoleon's demise again. There was honor there, at least. These bishops have none. Taking little girls from the workhouses, seeing that they're nurtured, educated, and then removing them for their own pleasures..." Blackwood knocked back what remained of his drink. "I take it you will not want to settle this in a public manner."

"No. Too many innocents would be hurt. Any public accounting will have grave consequences for the young women."

"You cannot call all the governors out."

"No, although it is tempting." West raked his hair with his fingertips. "I must find Jane Petty first," he reminded Blackwood. "Then I can demand their resignations. It is an imperfect solution, I know, and not nearly as satisfying as relieving them of their ballocks, but it is what is left to me if Ria and the school are not to be touched by scandal."

"You will wait to hear from Northam and South?" the colonel asked.

West nodded faintly. "I am not as hopeful that either Herndon or Cotton will lead them to Jane. If they left because they were aware I was gone, then it is likely they merely returned to their homes."

"You left everything in order?"

"I did." They would never know with certainty that he was there—until he told them.

"The meeting in two days' time..." The colonel paused, adjusting his spectacles. "They mean to spring a trap, you know."

"I know."

"I don't like it."

West grinned. "I am gratified to hear it."

"Daniel into the lion's den," the colonel muttered. He regarded West with a keen eye. "And do not flatter yourself that the lion will not make a meal of you. God is not necessarily on your side."

"Then it is a good thing that you are."

Blackwood grunted softly. "Push me back to the ballroom. I can assure you that my absence has been duly noted, and there are upwards of half a dozen men planning what they will say over my grave."

West chuckled. "Perhaps I
did
exaggerate the state of your health."

Setting his empty tumbler between his knees, the colonel began to turn his chair for West to take it up. "You will have to collect Miss Ashby before you leave," he said, "unless you want me to deliver her to Oxford Street."

"Pardon?" West grasped the colonel's chair and pulled it sharply around. "What do you mean, that I should collect Miss Ashby? Isn't she with North and Elizabeth?"

"Steady, West. She is all of a piece, or at least she is making herself so." Blackwood saw he was making things worse with his explanation, not improving them. West's jaw was rigid with the control he was exerting; a muscle ticked in his cheek. "She went for refreshment." He held up his tumbler. "You know yourself that it was a squeeze to get there. She bumped into Lady Powell in the hall and spilled my whiskey on her dress. Lady Powell says it was a generous pour and that Miss Ashby retired to the salon to repair the damage as best she could. She is waiting for you there. Under the circumstances, I did not think she would want to accompany North and Elizabeth, but would rather return directly to your residence."

"You have this from Lady Powell?"

"Yes. When she delivered my drink."

"Where is the salon?"

"I couldn't say."

West kept his frustration in check, but only just. He pushed the colonel back to the ballroom, made certain he was comfortable, and found a footman to show him the salon. Not wanting to create a stir, West knocked softly, and then called Ria's name. When there was no response, he tried the door. He stepped aside to allow the footman to try.

"It appears to be locked, Your Grace. I will find the first butler. He will have the key."

West hunkered down and peered at the lock. "Do not trouble yourself. Stand here so I am not disturbed. Something has been jammed inside."

Contrary to what the rest of the Compass Club thought, West did not always carry a knife in his boot. On occasion, he carried it in the sleeve of his frock coat. To the footman who was watching over his shoulder, the blade appeared as if snatched from the air. West ignored the man's startled murmur and applied himself to picking the lock. Only a few seconds passed before he had the offending piece dangling from the tip of his knife.

"Why, it's an earbob," the footman said. "What do you make of that?"

West knew precisely what to make of it. He'd glimpsed one just like it earlier—and only one. He glanced down the hallway to the cupboard under the stairs. Pocketing the gold-and-ivory earring, but not his blade, West dismissed the footman. As soon as the servant had turned his back, he slipped inside the salon.

His heart slammed hard against his chest. Preparing himself to discover that it was empty was not the same as finding it so. He looked around quickly and saw there was no exit from the room except the door he had come through and those leading to the outside. If Ria had truly been here—and the glass of sherry that he found made him suspect she had been—then she could have only left by the French doors.

He tried to imagine what cause she would have to do that. Nothing occurred to him except that he was perhaps squandering valuable time. There was little to be gained by puzzling it out when he possessed such scant information.

West fingered the earring in his pocket as he went in search of the owner. Lady Powell had a great deal to answer for.

* * *

Ria awoke in bed. Her first thought was that it was not her own. She wondered if it was everyone's natural inclination to orient themselves to their surroundings first, and then wonder how they had come to be there second. It was far easier for her to answer the latter question. She had a clear memory of being sick all over Mr. Jonathan Beckwith, as well as being thrown to the floor of the carriage afterward. The governor had made certain she knew he was fastidious about his person. There was nowhere for her to go that she could avoid the sharp jabs of his satin pumps. The defense of a hedgehog was all that was left to her.

She stretched gingerly, feeling the ache in her shoulder, hip, and back, and knowing it could be much worse. The taste in her mouth made her want to wretch again. Drawing her legs up to her chest and rolling onto her side, Ria fought the urge.

The first she knew she was not alone in the room was when a cool glass of water was pressed at a somewhat awkward angle to her lips.

"Drink this, Miss Ashby."

Ria did not grasp the glass; rather, she reached for the hands that held it. The tears that blurred her vision were of no importance because the voice was precisely as she remembered it. "Jane," she whispered. "Dear, sweet Jane."

Chapter 15

At Jane's insistence, Ria drank. When the glass was removed, she pushed herself upright and caught Jane's arm as the girl started to rise. "No, don't go. I've been so worried. I need to—"

Jane gently pulled away from Ria's light grasp and stood. "It's all right, Miss Ashby. I'm only going to light a candle so you can see for yourself that I'm all of a piece." She set the glass on the washstand, picked up a candlestick, and used the embers in the fireplace to light the wick. When she returned to the bed, she carried the candle so its light bathed her face, but once she was at Ria's side, she held it out to make her own inspection.

"Did he hit you, miss?" she asked. "Your lip's swollen."

Ria touched her fingers to her mouth. Her lower lip was indeed tender. "I don't remember being hit." She used the tip of her tongue to trace the line and tasted a hint of blood. The memory of Beckwith's mouth on hers was suddenly clear enough to make her blanch. "He kissed me."

Jane merely nodded then pointed to Ria's shoulder. "He didn't put his mouth on you there."

Glancing down, Ria examined the curve of her bare shoulder. The skin was already faintly discolored in preparation of what would be a livid bruise. What bothered her more than this evidence of injury was the realization that she was no longer wearing her gown, or even her own chemise. The shift she had on was of so fine a batiste as to be virtually transparent.

"Where are my clothes?" Ria asked.

"Gone."

"Gone? I don't understand. Did you take them?"