Queen (Regency Refuge 3) (18 page)

Christmas Eve, Early Morning

A whispered message to Red during a card game in a local tavern alerted them that something had happened to Owen. If not for the words delivered by a prostitute under the guise of soliciting Red's business, they wouldn't have known as quickly as they did. It was to their advantage that Red still had contacts in London, even after the absence of their years in America.

Isabel fought back the panic. They
did
know, and that meant they could do something about it.

At Red's insistence, they notified Tobias. He and his men were out in force, blending into every dark corner and ugly underbelly of the city as they sought clues. Every pub in London had some sort of government official in it at the moment, and the patrons were none the wiser.

Maggie had dressed for the night, too, but Isabel had insisted she stay home. Owen might be hurt when they found him, and Maggie was the best of them at nursing.

Red had agreed, but for different reasons.
"You can't come, Mags. You'd have to dress the part of a lightskirt to blend in where we're going, and it's too dangerous. There's a lot of evil on the streets tonight. I might not be able to protect you."

Isabel had never heard Red's nickname for Maggie before, and if the older woman's blush was any indication, neither had she. Tucking away the memory of the exchange, Isabel promised herself she'd take it out to examine more closely later. For now, her focus needed to be on finding Owen.

In character, Isabel made her way through the streets, her pace sluggish, giving her an opportunity to search every nook and cranny without drawing attention to herself. She investigated each alley. Nobody spared her a second glance in her current disguise. Searching, she made her way through dozens of streets and more alleys than she could count. Exhaustion pulled at her and slowed her already labored gait.

Then it happened.

She was in the back corner of a dank alley. The moon was clothed by the clouds, and the previously faint glow of light from the night sky had left unbidden. Darkness didn't bother Isabel, but strange noises in the darkness — now, those caught her attention. And this particular alley began echoing with such sounds.

The report of a gunshot echoed in the night, followed by running — someone small by the sound of it. Isabel tried to pinpoint where the shot had come from, but sound traveled in bizarre patterns at night, seemingly coming from everywhere at once. Before she could decide where the sound had likely come from, she heard a muffled grunt. The rubbish heap behind one of the buildings began moving like a thing alive. Isabel pulled herself into a dark corner and stared, not sure what she expected to happen next. Then a hand reached out from under the debris.

Friend or foe?

She had no way of knowing yet, so she kept her position.

Once the man disentangled himself from the detritus, he crouched low to the ground, his back to Isabel. His position was awkward, as though his balance was off kilter.
Or he's injured.
The man stared toward the mouth of the alley, clearly watching for something. Isabel couldn't be certain in the darkness, but it looked like Owen.

Isabel began moving toward him. She needed to stay in character until she was certain, and calling out to him might prove fatal. The sound of running feet had passed the mouth of the alley twice already.

Through the dark alley Isabel skulked. She tried to make enough noise to prompt the man to at least look her way to investigate. He was distracted, though, and she had to keep getting louder until he noticed. Then the man pivoted toward her. A knife glinted in his hand, and he raised his arm, ready to strike.

The breath caught in Isabel's throat.
Owen
. He was a bloody mess — figuratively and literally — but oh, he was beautiful.

She quickened her pace to reach him, but before she drew close enough to speak without her voice carrying through the night, a sound at the mouth of the alley drew her attention. Perhaps she'd made too much noise. Someone was coming to investigate.

Owen glanced at her, and in that brief moment, she saw the pain in his eyes. He was hurting in more ways than one. Then he moved away from her and pulled himself in tightly behind some rotting crates that would have made an undertaker's office smell like a garden.

"Did you hear that?"

"Someone's down there."

The voices drew closer, and Isabel began trudging through the alley toward them.

"Never mind. It's some old drunkard. Let's keep looking."

One of the men shoved her hard, and Isabel went down without a fight. She'd intended to fall whilst they assaulted her, hoping that doing so would hasten their departure. At the last minute, without warning, her foot slipped on some unseen piece of refuse in the dark night, and she lost control of her descent. Isabel went down involuntarily, her head snapping against something cold and hard.

That was a bad place for a rock to be…

Isabel lost the thought as pain detonated behind her eyes. She fought to keep in character, even as she felt her consciousness slipping away from her. One of the men kicked her, and still she remained silent, resisting the urge to voice her pain.

As soon as the ruffians left the alley and she knew Owen hadn't been discovered, she gave in to the encroaching fatigue and allowed the darkness to carry her away.

Owen waited until he knew the men had left. Then he limped his way to the alley's entrance and leaned over to check on the old man. He hadn't thought either blow overtly punishing, but the man didn't stir.

Please, Lord, don't let him be dead. I hid because I believed they wouldn't bother an old man.

Bitterness stirred in Owen's blood. He'd been a coward, and someone else had paid the penalty.

It didn't matter that Owen could not have fought off the men. Nor did he consider he'd made a sound tactical choice by hiding. Someone had suffered because of his actions, and the reality of it churned inside his stomach.

Owen studied the street to get his bearings. Thankfully he wasn't too far from the apothecary shop. Williamson would be able to help him. Three blocks. He needed to make it three blocks, then he'd have help. The old man was still breathing, and Owen took that as an indication his injuries wouldn't be beyond the apothecary's abilities.

Moving his leg a bit, Owen stretched his knee. The effects of the medication had been more temporary than he'd have liked. Either that, or his knee was damaged worse than he'd realized. He tested it with his weight, and the pain engulfed him, a burning inferno of jagged agony. Someone might as well have pumped boiling oil directly into his knee.

With no sound of returning footsteps out on the street, Owen pulled the old man up onto his shoulder and stood. Despite his bulky shape, the old man didn't weigh very much. Nonetheless, as Owen began the arduous task of walking the three blocks to the apothecary shop, he was grateful he'd thought to settle the man over his right shoulder so his good knee took the brunt of the weight.

Owen had thought to at least make it to the next alley before he needed to rest. That way he could conceal himself and the old man for a moment's rest before continuing on the journey. Unfortunately, between the bullet wound in his side and the pain in his knee, even such a short walk proved to be too much. He fought dizziness as he again contemplated his surroundings and realized he'd made it halfway to the next alley.

Three blocks. I can do this.

He was lying to himself, and he knew it. The local parish constables could be heard in the distance, perhaps responding to the gunshot. It would be nice if their presence forced the kidnappers to scurry back to their dank lair so Owen would have free passage to…

Owen bit back a yell as he went down hard. He might be able to deal with the pain, but he could do little if his left knee refused to support his weight.

The sound of someone approaching from behind had Owen reaching for the knife he'd pocketed in order to carry the old man. Before he could wrap his fingers around the weapon, a leather-clad hand settled snug over his mouth.

"Not a word, Owen. Give me your baggage."

Tobias' voice was the sweetest music he'd heard in hours, and in that moment Owen realized he did indeed trust his boss. Any suspicions he'd held had been put to rest. If he was honest with himself, he would admit trust had never been at issue. His own anger over his father's possible role in the Thorpes' death had always been at the root of his distrust.

Relieved the old man now had a better chance of survival, Owen gladly allowed the burden to be taken from his shoulder. Tobias hefted him as though he were light as air. Then he reached out and gave the younger man a hand up.

Their movement remained slow because of Owen's knee, but at least they were making progress again. "I've been on the street too long. They should have found me again by now."

Tobias grunted.

Focusing on the problem helped Owen control the pain. "What aren't you telling me?"

"We believed you were being held in the area. As soon as we heard the gunshot, I sent the parish constables in to round up every stray person they found on the streets in the hope someone would be able to tell us your location."

They passed the apothecary shop, and Owen spared a fleeting thought for where Tobias was taking them. Questioning his boss, however, was beyond him at the moment. The pain had grown more insistent until Owen had to give his full concentration to each step in an effort to keep his knee from buckling.

Tobias led them down an alley with no visible way out. Owen grimaced when Tobias made the sound of an owl's hoot. A putrid pile of debris — yet another indicator of the part of London they were in — moved away from the wall and showed them the short set of steps leading down to an open door. Tobias handed the old man down to someone before descending himself. Owen followed.

A woman motioned to a chair, and Owen sat. She gave him a bowl of fish stew and some bread. He ate, partly out of habit, and partly so no one would speak to him as he took in the scene that would be quaint were it not for the wounded beggar, his own gunshot wound and battered knee, and the dread that hovered just out of his reach.

As soon as Owen accepted the soup and bread, the woman swung around to face the pallet and began fussing over the old man, who now lay there. The man who had opened the door for them stood with Tobias. Their heads bent together as they spoke in hushed voices. Meanwhile, the old man's vile stench filled the room. Owen's stomach rebelled at the fragrant reminder that not everyone in London lived a life of privilege.

Now that the immediate threat to his life was over, Owen allowed himself to wonder who was involved in his kidnapping. He took in the room, spending no more time on one thing than on another. Yet his entire focus was on the redheaded man. He'd seen him before… but where? The hair was such a distinctive feature.

He continued to sort out the puzzle of the red-headed man as the fog of pain lifted. In Owen's experience, the best way to get answers was to ask questions — but not the ones people expected. He didn't ask where they were or who anyone was. Instead, he asked, "Why didn't we go to the apothecary's shop?"

Tobias frowned and glanced from the red-headed man to Owen. Reluctance showed itself in his slow movements and softly spoken words. "We need to talk."

****

Owen couldn't believe it. Williamson the apothecary was dead. Tortured and gutted.

Then the woman who had been fussing over the old man approached them.

Tobias nodded to her and said to Owen, "She's going to clean your wound and sew you up."

With determined hands, the woman pushed Owen forward in his seat and removed his jacket. As she shook it out, the light cast by the fireplace shone through the two holes. The bullet had indeed gone through, a small boon in light of everything else that had occurred.

"Is he going to survive?" Owen wanted to know about the old man, who still lay unconscious on the pallet.

The woman looked to the large man before she answered Owen. Something was communicated between the two, but he couldn't interpret the look. At last she turned her eyes back to Owen and nodded, but worry continued to pinch lines into the skin around her mouth.

"What aren't you telling me?" They were all hiding something from him, but Owen had identified the woman as his best prospect for answers.

"It's too bad you're not a drinking man, Owen, because you could use something for what I'm about to tell you." Resignation filled Tobias' voice.

Owen circled his head around to look at his boss. In doing so, his eyes skimmed over the red-headed man again, and everything fell into place. "You were on the
Âne Hurlants
."

The man offered a quiet, "Aye," as the woman readied her needle and thread.

Pain brought some people's minds into sharper focus. For Owen, it seemed to dull the edges of reality. He heard his own words slurring as he said, "And at the inn where I stayed in Bristol."

A single nod was the man's reply.

"What's your name?"

The woman next set a small wooden case on the table and opened it. Owen caught a glimpse of a saw, knives of different sizes, and a variety of elongated tools that appeared to have pincers at the end. She ran her hands along the tools as though trying to decide which to start with. Not the saw, he hoped.

As she continued to study the tools at her disposal, the man with the intimidating build answered with one word. "Red."

Owen's pain-sapped brain took time to process the information. Almost a minute passed before his head snapped up to stare hard. "If you're Red, then…" His eyes wandered to the bed. "He was too light. I should have paid better attention. He was too light for his size."

Owen tried to rise and go to the pallet, but the woman placed a single hand on his chest and easily pushed him back down.

"You're too small to push me around."

The woman clucked her tongue. "That might be true if I hadn't laced your fish stew with something to make you more manageable."

"Issssy…" Owen's tongue felt thick in his mouth, as if swollen.

"I'm Maggie, by the way." The woman, intent on the task at hand, tugged at the ragged flesh where the bullet had entered. "And she may be Issy to you, but she's my Queenie. She saved my life, you know. I was of no account, thrown out with the trash and left to rot. Queenie found me, nursed me back to health, and gave me a reason to go on living."

Owen concentrated on the words that didn't seem to match the sweetly feminine voice saying them.

"I won't allow her to make any other choice, plain and simple. She's going to be fine because I say so."

Maggie's logic made no sense, but Owen had lost the wherewithal to tell her so.

A hand on his shoulder drew his eyes. Tobias gave him a squeeze. "You need to get some sleep. Maggie and Red here will take care of you and Queen. I need to check on the search for your kidnappers. You didn't happen to get a look at any of them, did you?"

Owen tried to shake his head, but dizziness enveloped him. "Phineas." It took all his concentration to get the words out. "I don't know who they were, but they wanted Phineas."

Tobias nodded. "I know. One of Red's contacts gave up that much information while we were all out searching for you."

He wanted to ask if someone in Parliament could have been behind the attack, but the words wouldn't come.

Tobias' voice reached him through the fog. "If I know Phineas Kitteridge, he's already gone into hiding."

Owen began to fall forward in the chair. Had someone not reached out and grabbed him, he would have tumbled straight onto the floor. The sensation of being lifted was the last thing he felt before sleep overcame him and he began to dream.

In Owen's dream, he stood before the vicar. It was his wedding. Excitement built in him as he glanced over at the woman who was to become his wife. Isabel was not beside him, though. In her place stood the smelly old man dressed in beggar's garb.