Night Storm (11 page)

“Keep a mental note of who she speaks to and who she goes near—even if she doesn’t talk to the person. Even though Mrs. Balcourt insists her maid can’t be the one filching items from her home, I’ve ruled everyone else out. It has to be her.”

“I’ll keep a close eye on her.”

“Not too close. And watch your back. Whoever she’s in league with could be taking extra precautions to make sure she’s not being followed.”

A swift smile glanced over the boy’s features. “I didn’t get my nickname for nothing.”

Adair’s voice hardened. “The absolute surest way to get yourself killed is to think yourself invincible. You wouldn’t be thinking that, would you, Trig?”

“No, sir,” the boy said quickly. “I’ll be careful. I swear it.”

“Be gone with you, then. If your gut tells you something’s not right, hightail yourself back here.”

Trig nodded. “Do you need some help down the stairs?”

“No, thank you. I’ve been making short trips down to the second-floor landing. It’s uncomfortable but manageable.”

“I’ll ask Mr. Gardner to wait for you at the bottom of the stairs.”

“Why?”

“To stop you from cartwheeling into any guests. One misstep and you’ll be rolling down those stairs like a runaway carriage wheel.”

Adair took a threatening step forward, and Trig darted away, laughing all the way down the corridor. “Damn impudent pup. Why the hell do I put up with him?” Same reason Trig suffered him. They were all each other had.

He paused on the landing leading to the lobby to catch his breath and wipe his damp brow, then continued until he found Jules at the opposite end of the room, checking for dust on the long mantel above the cavernous fireplace.

“Well,” Jules said upon his approach, “it’s good to see you finally emerge from your cave.”

“It’s only been three days.” Three very long days of inactivity.

“Four, counting today,” Jules corrected. “I take it you’re now fit enough to rule the world?”

“A small country, perhaps.” Adair sent him a warning look. “You can’t count today—it’s still early.” He pulled the list from his coat pocket. “I’m interested in the reverend’s thoughts on these men.”

“He’s in Bath right now.” Jules glanced at the list before stuffing it in his pocket. “Should be back in a few days.”

Suffering from a severe case of gout, the reverend made frequent excursions to the famed city to submerge himself in the warm, foul-smelling waters.

“What’s the significance of the list?”

“I spoke to each of them about the stolen manuscript prior to my thrashing.”

“Telling—and risky.”

“Not if my attackers didn’t expect me to survive. All the same, my men have been watching everyone on the list and have noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Vaughn’s going to expand our search to my other cases. But I’d still like to hear what your cousin has to say.”

“A wise decision on both accounts.”

“Did you just give me a compliment?”

Jules swiveled back to the mantel, tsking. “The maids have obviously not dusted here in the last several days.”

Smiling, Adair set his hat on his head. “I’m off to see a new client.”

“If it involves an old book, refuse the job.”

Outside the Mirador Hotel, Adair waved down a hackney to take him to the Augusta. It didn’t take long for his idle thoughts to veer toward Charley. Had she thought of him at all since stitching him up? Did she yearn for his kiss at odd times of the day? Did she awake in the middle of the night, seething with desire?

Somehow he doubted it. Adair squeezed the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes tight to block out the images of Charley writhing on his bed, naked, chest heaving, legs spreading.

“
Dammit
, Adair. Do yourself a favor and forget her.” Even as he said the words, he knew his heart could not follow its own advice.

When he arrived at the Augusta, a stocky young man with wavy brown hair greeted him at the door. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Cameron Adair,” he said, handing over his card. “Mr. Riordan sent for me.”

Without looking at the card, the young man opened the door wider. “This way, sir.”

He stepped inside, removing his hat. “And you are?” Anywhere he visited, Adair always made it a point to get to know the staff. They were the best source of information.

“Peter.”

“What do you do here?”

“A little bit of everything.”

Keeping a brisk pace that tested Adair’s endurance, the wavy-haired guide led him to the second floor of the building. The silence surprised Adair.

“Where is everyone?”

“Tonight’s the final showing of
The Spinster
. I don’t expect the actors to arrive until later this afternoon. Mr. Riordan normally celebrates the end of a play with a midnight buffet and dancing. Though I’m not sure it will be appropriate this time.”

“Why not?”

Realizing he’d said too much, Peter ducked his head and increased the pace. Before long, they came to a bloodred metal-studded wooden door. He knocked three times, and a thin-faced gentleman sporting a monocle over one of his close-set eyes immediately opened it.

“Mr. Adair?” he inquired of Peter, who nodded before disappearing.

Waving a hand in a wide arc, he said, “Please come in, Mr. Adair.”

Adair eyed the private reception area, taking in its austere yet elegant furnishings. The twenty-foot-high ceiling gave the small room an illusion of airiness and grandeur. Two ornate high-backed chairs flanked a long cushioned bench. The large looking glass opposite the door added to the impression of spaciousness.

“May I take your hat, sir?”

“Thank you, no.” Adair adjusted his hat beneath his right elbow. He’d learned long ago to keep his belongings close at hand.

The man gestured toward a narrow, dimly lit corridor. “Follow me, if you will, sir.”

Adair limped after him. Though the man’s coat was of fine quality, the material hung from his narrow shoulders, making him appear overburdened and frail. But he knew appearances were often deceiving. Considering the gentleman’s confident tone and direct look, Adair suspected there was nothing frail about this man.

“Are you Mr. Riordan’s clerk?”

“I’m whatever he needs me to be, Mr. Adair.”

The corridor seemed to go on forever, the distance broken only by a pair of doors halfway down. Out of habit, Adair pressed his left arm against his side until he felt the solid, reassuring handle of his blade. Given his injured right shoulder, he hoped he would not be forced to use the weapon.

“Why do I feel like I’m being led into the bowels of hell, Mr.—?”

“I assure you, our destination is anything but.” The clerk deftly ignored Adair’s prompt for a name.

They came to the end of the passage, and his escort paused to knock on yet another bloodred door. He waited for the rumble of a masculine voice before twisting the handle and pushing the door open. Golden light spilled into the narrow corridor.

Over the years, Adair’s work had taken him from some of the most opulent homes in London to the most desolate slums of the city. He had held gold so pure that it could be scarred by a careless fingernail, and gemstones large enough to cover a man’s palm. But nothing he’d witnessed so far compared to the lavishness of the manager’s office.

Priceless paintings covered every inch of one wall and rich, jewel-toned drapes warmed every corner. Behind the gleaming mahogany desk, the spines of hundreds of books stood at attention, greeting awestruck visitors. Glass display cases hung on the adjacent wall at various intervals, carrying ancient scrolls written in an indecipherable script and what looked like playbills from long, long ago.

Blake Riordan’s office was nothing less than a museum of priceless antiquities. Antiquities to be enjoyed by one man.

Adair’s gaze finally settled on the imposing figure sitting behind a desk large enough to fit two people. The manager smiled, no doubt used to first-time visitors gawking at his collections.

Rising, Riordan strode forward, extending a hand. “Mr. Adair. I’m Blake Riordan, manager of the Augusta. Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

“Of course,” Adair said with a nod. “How may I help you?”

“Can I offer you something to drink?”

“No, thank you.”

The manager shared a look with his clerk. “The usual for me, Willis.”

“Very well, sir.” Rather than exit the way they’d come, Willis slipped behind a sapphire drape protecting one corner of the chamber.

The door behind Adair closed with a soft click. He whirled around to find a large bull of a man standing before the exit, arms crossed, features fixed into uncompromising lines.

Adair stepped back until he had both men in his line of sight.

“Be easy, Mr. Adair,” Riordan said. “Marian’s orders are to keep people out, not you in.”

Marian?

“Perhaps
Marian
would be more comfortable in the corridor, then.”

Riordan considered his request a moment before nodding to his bodyguard. The bulwark’s top lip curled into a snarl as he unfolded his massive arms and left the room.

Adair said, “An unusual precaution in an empty theater.”

“I’m not fond of surprises. Marian ensures I am not bothered by any.”

Riordan indicated a set of chairs near the ornate fireplace. “Shall we make ourselves more comfortable?”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to stand.”

Riordan claimed one of the chairs. “You don’t trust easily, do you, Mr. Adair?”

“No,” Adair said with his customary frankness. He had learned a long time ago to keep a certain distance until he had a man’s—or woman’s—measure.

The sapphire drape rustled, signaling Willis’s return. A squat glass filled with a generous amount of amber liquid sat in the middle of the small silver tray he carried. He transferred the brimming tumbler to a side table near his employer’s chair.

“Thank you, Willis.”

“Anything else, sir?”

“Not at the moment.”

Willis disappeared once again, leaving a strained silence in his wake.

“Why am I here, Mr. Riordan?”

The skin around the theater manager’s mouth tightened. “What do you know of Lord or Lady Winthrop?”

He searched his mind. “From what I can recall, the lady likes her charities, and his lordship enjoys his cards.”

Riordan nodded. “Lady Winthrop has been a grand patroness of the Augusta for a number of years. Not only has she donated a good sum of money to the theater, she’s attended every production, without fail.”

Adair said nothing. He waited for the inevitable connecting dot.

The manager steepled his fingers, drumming the soft pads together. “This morning, after a set of auditions for a new play, we found the baroness’s slain body left inside one of our entrance passages.”

“Slain, how?”

“Five stab wounds to the stomach and a slash to her face.”

“What was stolen?”

“No one knows for sure. When we found her, she wore no jewelry, and her reticule contained only a few coins. Her husband is convinced a footpad followed her into the passageway and divested her of her valuables. I’m hoping the baroness’s lady’s maid can tell us what she was wearing.”

“Where did you find her reticule?”

“Still strapped around her wrist.”

“It would be unusual for a common footpad to kill his victim. Incapacitate, yes. Kill? Only if he feared for his life. And I have my doubts whether the baroness was capable of doing physical harm.”

“People act outside expectations all the time.”

“True. But, for argument’s sake, let’s say this thief had murderous tendencies. No one of his ilk would be idiot enough to take the time to empty her reticule after murdering the victim. Her assailant would have taken the item with him and discarded it elsewhere. Not to mention the fact that committing theft
and
murder on the doorstep of a theater seems highly unusual.”

Riordan leaned back in his overstuffed leather chair, considering Adair. “I agree. This appears to be too brutal a killing for a random theft.”

“Why do I get the feeling you never believed the baroness was killed for her valuables?”

“It seemed the logical conclusion.”

“Then, I repeat. Why am I here?”

“I would like you to look into the murder.”

Adair raised a brow. “You’ve been misinformed, Riordan. I locate stolen goods and return them to their rightful owners. Murdered peers are Bow Street’s business.” Over the last year, he
had
accepted commissions to track down difficult-to-locate individuals. But these always came to him by word of mouth.

“The Bow Street who was sent over was inexperienced with an investigation of this caliber.”

“Then Winthrop should have requested another Runner.”

“Winthrop already has his mind made up and is content with his assessment. I, on the other hand, want to track down the bastard who not only killed a peer, but a patroness of the Augusta.”

“Then I wish you well, sir.” Adair nodded. “Be careful of whom you select. Bow Street won’t like others trampling on their turf, no matter how inexperienced their Runner.”

“I’m willing to pay handsomely for your trouble.”

In the midst of pivoting toward the exit, Adair paused, curling his fingers until he felt the bite of his nails. Since becoming a thief-taker, he had ruthlessly committed himself to accepting any lucrative case, whether or not he was keen on it. His drive to build his wealth had taken precedence over his conscience, always and without hesitation.

But after the Harrison case a few weeks ago, he had begun to question his priorities. “The amount of your blunt does not change the fact that I’m a thief-taker, not one of Bow Street’s investigators.”

“What about Nicholas Bellwood?”

The muscles at the base of Adair’s skull coiled. Only a few people existed that Adair would call friend—someone he would trust with his life. Nick Bellwood had been among that small number. Thirteen months ago, a dockhand found had Nick’s corpse bobbing in the Thames.

Seeing his friend’s often smiling face bloated and discolored from too many days in the water, and the mutilation done to the lower part of his body, had catapulted Adair into a mission of vengeance. It had taken him three weeks to hunt down the jealous merchant, whose wife preferred Nick’s company to his.