Never Kiss a Rake (40 page)

And he hadn’t the faintest idea who could be behind it all.

When Russell had first come to him, accusing him of falsifying shipments and tampering with the books the only thing that had kept him from decking the blustering old man was his age. The trail of larceny apparently led straight to his door, and he was never sure whether he’d convinced Russell of his innocence or not.

The hell with it. It was Russell’s problem, not his, and he was damned if he was going to be accused like a common thief. He’d thought differently when Russell turned up dead two days later, supposedly on the run with his ill-gotten gains. Kilmartyn could have believed it, if those ill-gotten gains hadn’t managed to disappear along the way. The whole thing was too convenient.

He’d been an idiot. It had taken him long enough to guess who his little in-house spy actually was, when he should have known right off. Should have offered to help her, not gotten her shot and then seduced her. She’d be safe in his house; she had to be.

He didn’t know if he could wait much longer. Uniformed officers had been coming in and out at regular intervals, asking him if he wanted anything, polite and unhelpful, and by the time the shadows were growing longer he started watching them a bit more closely, waiting till someone his approximate size and build appeared. It was a long wait. He was taller than average, and while he was built along spare lines he had a fair amount of muscle. He couldn’t just grab any spindleshanks who happened to walk in.

By the time a suitable offering arrived he’d been ready to throw a chair through the window just to get out of there. The uniformed officer backed in, kicking the door shut, carrying another inevitable tray of tea and biscuits. Kilmartyn had to piss like a racehorse. If he ever got out of here he was never touching a drop of tea again.

“Sorry for the delay, your lordship,” his sacrificial offering said in a genial cockney accent as he set the tray on the desk, conveniently turning his back on Kilmartyn. “It shouldn’t be too much longer. Detective Inspector Pierson is conferring with his superiors, and he—”

The police officer dropped like a stone beneath Kilmartyn’s blow. He moved fast, dragging him out of sight of the window and stripping off his
jacket and trousers. He didn’t dare waste the time in re-dressing him—it wouldn’t do any good, and he needed to get home. They would come after him again, and they’d view this as another sign of guilt, and he didn’t give a rat’s arse. He needed to get home.

The hat was a little large, but he tilted it on the back of his head, and backed out of the door while carrying on an imaginary conversation with the trussed-up man in the faded red combinations.

“You just enjoy your tea, yer lordship,” he said, using a strong cockney accent. “They’ll come ter get you before long.” And keeping his head down, he walked straight out of the main office at Scotland Yard, with no one giving him a second glance.

It was growing dark, and a storm was brewing. Bryony surveyed the darkening sky, felt the wind pull at her loosely coiled hair, tugging at it. She was walking barefoot through the streets of London, arm in arm with the man who was going to kill her. She could feel the muzzle of the little gun against her ribs, and she had no doubt he’d do just as he promised and shoot her in full view of the public. He had every certainty that he could simply run away before anyone realized what had happened, and whether he could or not didn’t matter. What mattered was his belief in his invincibility.

The house on Curzon Street looked even more derelict than it had the one time she’d driven by it. The houses on either side had suffered significant damage, and they were abandoned as well—there was no chance of anyone hearing her if she had a chance to scream for help.

She could only hope her Hansel and Gretel–like trail of blood might lead Adrian to them. The blood dripping down her arm had stopped, but there’d been a broken jar at the side of the road, and she’d deliberately stepped on it with her bare foot, not changing her expression as she felt it slice into her. It was her only chance. Unless, of course, Brown wasn’t lying, and Adrian was part and parcel of the whole thing.

“Hurry up, dear,” Mr. Brown said in fond accents. “I do believe we’re due for a storm.”

She sped up, forcing herself to walk normally despite the bloody footprints she was leaving. She didn’t want anything to call her kidnapper’s attention to them—he’d drag her onto the grass to hide any bloody trail.

It was already too late. He was pulling her down the narrow passageway between houses, and the smell of burned wood and damp assailed her nostrils. People had died in this fire. Three servants in their household, and a child in one of the adjoining households. This man had already killed many times over. Nothing would keep him from doing it again.

“Don’t you have a conscience?” she said in a lower, bitter voice.

He glanced at her, delight in his strangely pale eyes. “Are you about to give me a lecture about my evil ways, Miss Russell? Oh, please do. It will be a waste of time, but it might enliven things. Why do you ask?”

“Four people died in this fire. A fire I presume you started.”

“I did indeed. Well, not me personally—you can really hire someone to do just about anything in London if you have the money. And your father’s money paid for the arsonist—an amusing piece of irony, don’t you think? And do I lament the loss of life? Why should I? People die every day. I didn’t know them—to pretend sorrow would be hypocritical.”

“And God knows one should never stoop to hypocrisy,” she muttered.

“You really are entertaining,” he marveled. “Here I am, about to kill you, and you’re being positively confrontational. No wonder Kilmartyn was so fond of you. He didn’t want me to kill you, you know. He thought he might keep you around for a few weeks longer. I know it will make you feel better to know that he found you quite enjoyable. But in the end he agreed with me that you were… shall we say… de trop?”

“I don’t believe you.” She looked up at the back of the house. It seemed like only a frame of the place, though the last time she’d been here the front staircase had remained, leading upward into the ruins. The back looked only slightly more sturdy—the framework reached the full four stories, though the windows and doors were wide open to the elements.

“Of course you don’t, my dear. And I’m perfectly happy to have you die with your illusions intact. We do have a problem though. This place is littered with broken glass, and I don’t want you cutting your feet to ribbons on the way in.”

“We’re going in?” she said, startled. “I thought you’d simply strangle me in the back garden and have done with it. I do understand that a gun might be too loud, though considering how deserted this particular area of the square is, you might very well get away with it.”

“Of course we’re going in. I have no interest in hauling your body around—do you have the slightest idea how much a dead body weighs? It’s quite extraordinary; even someone as light as Cecily’s scrawny little French maid seemed to weigh twice as much once I’d stabbed her. By the time I finished moving the bodies from Kilmartyn’s house I was so prostrate with exhaustion that I couldn’t move.”

“You have all my sympathy. Why do you care whether I cut my feet or not? If I’m about to die I wouldn’t think you’d be that concerned for my comfort.”

“Oh, it’s not your comfort, my dear. It’s the fact that you might leave tracks.” He peered upward, into the rapidly darkening sky. “However, it does look like rain, and a good London soaking will wash any telltale blood away. Come along.” He dragged her forward.

It could have been worse, she told herself, trying not to weep. If she wasn’t going to cry over dying she certainly shouldn’t cry from her feet being cut. She needed to get things in perspective.

The charred wood crunched beneath her bloody feet as he pulled her inside, and she shook herself free from his tight, smothering grip. He laughed softly. “Why, it appears you aren’t fond of my touch, Miss Russell. I’ll have to take that into account.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m planning to take my time with you. You’ve caused me no end of aggravation, and I promised myself a little treat when it came time to finish with you. And if I can perform with a foul cunt like Cecily then I can certainly perform with you. Particularly since Kilmartyn has already broken you to the bridle, so to speak.”

She almost screamed then, but he moved the gun front and center. “I wouldn’t if I were you. You never know whether some miracle might happen and you might be saved. Why throw away your life before it’s absolutely certain?”

“To avoid a lot of pain and degradation?” she said caustically, knowing she wasn’t going to do it.

“Oh, I’d shoot you in a spot that was extremely painful, I do promise you that. And just because you’re dead doesn’t mean I can’t degrade your body. I told you, there’s nothing that can keep me from performing if I have a good enough reason. And I must confess that hurting you is a very good reason indeed. Start climbing. We’ll take the servants’ staircase—you should be used to that by now. I’m not certain how it’ll hold up, but we can consider it an adventure.”

She had no choice—she started up the narrow, winding staircase ahead of him, the only light coming in from above, where the roof had already collapsed.

The first drops of rain splattered down on them, and she heard Brown curse behind her. By the time they reached the first-floor landing her feet were becoming numb—she should count that as a blessing. The doors and most of the walls were gone, and she could recognize the blistered outlines of the wallpaper her mother had chosen, before he jabbed her with the gun once more, and she continued upward, higher and higher.

There were more walls on the second floor, and part of the floor remained. “Keep climbing, my dear. I have just the place for us. Out of this wretched rain, where we can be quite cozy, you and I.”

She kept climbing. The stairs felt spongy beneath her feet, and the entire staircase seemed to sway as they climbed steadily upward. Was it going to hold up long enough, or would it collapse beneath them? If she was going to die she wanted him dead too.

Maybe she could kick back when he wasn’t expecting it, sending him tumbling down the stairs? But then, where would she go? He was blocking the only way out, and he was the one with the gun.

“I do have a little treat for you,” he said in a merry voice, sounding slightly breathless as they neared what remained of the top floor. Clearly
he hadn’t been in service or he would have built up more stamina, she thought sourly, thinking of those endless trips up and down Adrian’s stairs. “Just to provide the coup de grâce to the day.”

“And what exactly is that?”

She’d just reached the top floor, when she saw the shadow beneath what was left of the eaves. A shadow that moved out into the storm-infused light, a tall, lean form that was instantly recognizable, despite the incongruous policeman’s jacket he wore.

“Is that you, Kilmartyn?” Mr. Brown called out, as she froze, blocking him. “I thought young Jem would be able to lead you here. He didn’t want to, if that’s any consolation.”

“It’s not,” Adrian snarled from across the darkness. “Who the fuck are you?”

“You don’t have to play the game anymore. She knows the truth, don’t you, my dear? Now don’t keep the man waiting. I’m sure he’d love a kiss good-bye.” He put his hand in the middle of her back and shoved her, and she went sprawling on what was left of the attic floor.

“No!” Adrian shouted, moving toward her, but then he stopped, holding motionless, as the floor beneath her shifted and creaked.

“I’m afraid the floor might not be strong enough for you over here, Kilmartyn.” Mr. Brown hadn’t emerged into the light, his voice eerie and disembodied. “That’s why I sent you that way. You won’t be able to reach her. I didn’t want you to change your mind.”

“Change my mind? What are you talking about?” Adrian’s voice sounded almost unnaturally calm.

“Tsk-tsk. You don’t have to pretend anymore. She knows you’re working with me. Don’t become tiresomely sentimental, old boy. We’ve planned this for too long to let a little bit of crumpet interfere.”

She heard the words with numb dread. It couldn’t be possible. She had gotten to her knees, looking at Adrian from across the gaping chasm of the missing floor. He looked the same, beautiful, cynical, though in the shadows his eyes were dark and unreadable.

“Tell me you don’t believe him, Bryony,” Adrian said. “But of course you do. Your face says it all. You think I’m a thief and a murderer who fucks
his victims before he sends them to their death. You’d believe your unseen friend before you’d believe me.”

“Why should I believe you?” she cried out, knowing Brown was behind her, the gun trained on her. She could feel the floor shifting beneath her, creaking dangerously.
At least this way it would be fast,
she thought miserably, and she might take Brown with her.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” he said, his voice cool and emotionless. “But you’re going to—”

There was a sudden terrific creaking noise behind her, and Brown’s high-pitched laugh was eerie. “I do believe we’re running out of time. I had hoped for more heartwarming theatrics, but I’m afraid this place isn’t going to be standing for very much longer. If you won’t shoot her, Kilmartyn, then I will.”