Tangled Webs (27 page)

“Hello?” she whispered.

“Who the hell is that?” She heard the slight slur in the man’s words, but she recognized Grae’s father. He stumbled, then swore.

“It’s Ari—Ana. It’s Ana.”

“Ah yes, my
guest
. Do you drink, Ana? I could damned well use another, and since you’re awake, we can toast the man that made this all possible.” She didn’t miss
the contempt in his voice. Or the anger.

There was a scratching sound, then a flare of light. The scent of sulfur made its way down the hall. In the circle of light, Arista could see him now. His hair stood up everywhere, as if
he’d run his fingers through it over and over again. He’d taken off his jacket, and his shirt was half untucked.

In the light, Arista clearly saw his pained features. He looked defeated. “No thank you,” she said.

He grunted as if he didn’t really believe her. “Blast it, I’ll drink enough for the both of us. Well, anyway…” He stumbled, and the candle tilted precariously to
the side.

Arista hurried down the hall and took it from him. “What would your wife say if you burned the house down around her?” She only meant to lighten the mood, but he covered his face
with his hands.

“She would probably wish I would perish with it.”

Arista awkwardly patted his arm. She had no idea how to comfort someone. Usually she ran away from drunken men. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

He jerked his head up and glared at her. “Did you have anything to do with this?”

Arista took a step back from the anger simmering in his eyes. Liquor and anger were never a good combination. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” That only seemed
to agitate him more.

He stumbled again and tried to focus on her face. Under the anger, she saw the raw agony. His eyes were full of it. “He is smuggling humans and he wants my ships to do it,” he choked
out. “The wickedest, most heinous—”

That made no sense. Wild wanted
what
? As repulsive as the man was, she didn’t figure him a slave trader. “I don’t understand.”

“I made a deal with a man,” he moaned. “Years ago, I agreed to use my ship to smuggle tea for him, in exchange for a choice India trading route. That’s what allowed my
fleet to grow so fast. I wanted to build something to leave for my son. The man had someone forge the bills of lading. For my risk in it, I was given better access routes. But now, that bastard
wants me to transport slaves for some godless nobleman. I won’t do it.”

With a strangled groan, he pushed past her and staggered to his office door. Once inside the room, Arista heard something crash to the floor. She held the candle tightly as she hurried inside.
He sat sprawled in the chair, holding a glass full of amber liquid. The sharp smell of brandy filled her lungs. On the floor at his feet lay the decanter, its fragments reflecting the candlelight.
A puddle spread closer to the thick Oriental rug.

“Should I get Wilson?” she asked.

He looked at her from over the rim of the glass. “No one can help me now. I made a deal with the devil, and he’s finally come to collect.” With that, he tipped the glass back
and downed the entire contents in one loud swallow. “I don’t know what to do.”

His eyes drifted closed and Arista waited. After several moments, she decided to leave him alone. Someone would find him in the morning and clean up the mess. There was very little time for her
to get to the docks and get on a ship.

Arista picked up the candlestick, afraid he might knock it over and start a fire, and took it to the massive desk. Her boots were silent on the thick rug. Papers were scattered all over his
desk. How did he find anything in that mess?

She held up the candle and leaned in closer when she noticed several maps laid out, with dotted lines extending from land mass to land mass. Each had a piece of parchment on top, and in tidy
writing, lists of goods beneath what must be the ship’s name.

Her pulse leapt when she saw Grae’s name at the top of one list, under the name
The Marguerite Heart.
She traced the letters of his name with her finger. Her gaze drifted over the
room, settling on the wall to the right. There were paintings hanging there, and when she moved the candle closer, she saw that they were portraits. Grae and Sophia as young children, posing with a
spotted dog at their feet. Mrs. Sinclair and Grae’s father, his hand on her shoulder as she sat in a red chair. Grae, older now, standing in front of a three-masted ship. She stopped at that
one. It was the same ship that she’d been on. The artist had managed to capture the seriousness of his expression, but also the sparkle of happiness in his eyes. Pride.

It was a look she knew well.

Arista set the candle down on the desk, careful to move a stack of papers well out of the flame’s reach, then crept back toward the door. She must have made a sound that woke Grae’s
father, for he opened his eyes and stared blindly at her. “No matter what he offers you, he still owns you in the end. He controls us all like marionettes.”

Arista froze. “What?”

His eyes became a little bit clearer and he tried to push himself upright in the chair. “His promises mean nothing. Be careful or he will suck you down to the depths of hell alongside
him.”

“Who are you talking about?” She already knew.

“The man who sent you here. The man who ruined all our lives. That bastard, Wild. I won’t do it—I won’t be party to humans being sold like cattle. Never…”
Before she could ask anything more, his eyes closed, and the back of his head hit the chair. Soft snores came from his half-open mouth. His hand fell to his side, and a piece of crumpled paper fell
to the floor.

Arista stooped down to pick it up. Whatever had caused Grae’s father to drink himself into darkness, she was sure it was written on that paper.

No. This could not be. But the dual R’s imprinted in the red wax seal told her otherwise. She tried to take a step, but her legs would not support her. The knots in her stomach grew until
it hurt to take a breath. The secret that Wild had given Raffer, the money exchanged—half of which was sitting in her traveling bag right that second—had been used to blackmail
Grae’s father into transporting slaves.

Innocent men, women, and children, kidnapped from Africa and sold into slavery. Nothing sickened her more than the trade that made some of England’s wickedest men some of its richest.
She’d played a part in this.

Tears burned her eyes and she crumpled the paper in her fist. Grae would never forgive her if he found out. No,
when
he did. Because he would. Her dreams shattered and fell around her
feet. There would be no leaving London with Grae now.

How quickly could she arrange passage on another ship? Wild knew what she was doing. There was no more time. Her carefully thought-out plan was ruined.

Mr. Sinclair groaned in his sleep.

He was a good man, and she believed that he would deny Raffer what he wanted no matter the threat. If Raffer exposed Mr. Sinclair’s previous smuggling activities, Grae’s father would
end up in Newgate with his livelihood taken away. With no ships, no trade routes, the family would have nothing. Grae would have no future.

She could not let that vile man destroy this good family. Even if she had to face the wrath of Wild, she had to save them. There were a dozen more secrets she might be able to offer to Wild in
exchange for his help stopping Raffer. He was greedy. He’d see the value in that.

And she owed it to the family for treating her so well. For accepting her without question. She owed it to Grae. Because he’d showed her that she was worth something after all.

Soft snores still came from Grae’s father. Maybe he couldn’t fight Wild or Raffer, but someone could. She had no explanation for why determination burned so hotly in her chest, but
there was one thing she knew for certain. “I promise I won’t let this happen,” she whispered to the unconscious man.

Arista hurried back to her room and tucked the bag into the wardrobe. She wrote a quick note for Becky, telling her where the chest of money was hidden. If she didn’t return, she had to be
sure that her friend was taken care of. She took the remaining letters and started to bundle them when one caught her eye. Lord Huntington. He’d blackmailed his way into a title that granted
him a seat in Parliament. She could offer him a trade—give him back his secret, if he would spearhead an investigation into Raffer’s business. It might be enough to stop Raffer.

She tucked Huntington’s letter into a separate pocket from the rest. He’d been at the ball earlier. If she hurried, she might make it back in time to catch him.

To make him an offer he could not refuse.

F
inding Lord Huntington proved easier than she expected.

He was positioned at the buffet table, stuffing his face with anything he could reach. The ridiculous jester vest seemed even tighter than it had been only a few weeks ago. Arista made her way
to his side, swallowing back revulsion at being so close to the man again.

“Lord Huntington,” she said near his ear. He smelled of sweat and sickly sweet cologne. He glanced at her, but there was no recognition in his eyes. She had grabbed her gypsy mask
before leaving the Sinclair house, but still had on her traveling dress. It must have made an odd combination.

“Who’s asking?” he mumbled as crumbs fell from his lips.

“I believe I have something that used to belong to you.” Arista waved his letter in front of his face before tucking it back into her pocket.

Huntington narrowed his eyes. “You have some nerve, girl. There are men from the Watch all over the place, and you think you can just show up and demand—what, more money?”
Hatred glittered from his eyes. Arista moved away from the table, toward a quiet alcove. Huntington followed, scowling at her the whole time.

“I’m offering you an exchange. Your help, for the return of your information.”

“What kind of help?” Clearly he did not trust her at her word.

“If you can start an investigation into Lord Raffer’s activities concerning slave trading, I will give you your secret back and we will be done. You won’t have to worry that
I’ll ask for anything else again.”

Huntington licked his lips and eyed the pocket where she’d put the letter. “Never again?”

“You will never see me again—I can assure you.”

A calculating look came over his face and he leaned closer. “I think I can help you get what you want. Stay here while I find a colleague of mine who might be interested in what you have
to say. If I can get his cooperation, we have a deal.”

“Twenty minutes. No more than that,” she said.

Lord Huntington hurried away and Arista fought back the feeling of unease. Wild might be here, but he would not know her in this disguise. She had to remain vigilant. Alert. Being careful not to
draw attention to herself, she started making her way around the room, keeping to the darkened edges.

When thirty minutes had passed, Arista sighed in frustration. She would have to negotiate with Wild after all. It had been a long shot at best, to hope that Huntington would be agreeable to a
trade. The man hated her and made no secret of that fact. Now she would have to go to Covent Garden and confront Wild.

Just before she stepped outside to leave, a young servant tapped her shoulder. “This is for you, miss.” He handed her a folded note, then faded into the crowd.

Arista smiled in relief. She’d been wrong about Huntington. Now she could return to the Sinclairs’ with assurance that the blackmail would not take place. She could finally tell Grae
the truth about her part in all of it.

There were no guests outside. It was only just past midnight, and everyone was still too busy dancing. In the main circle of the garden, a huge stone fountain stood sentry. Water gurgled softly
in the still night. Light spilled out from the open doors and illuminated the front of the stone basin, while deep shadows stretched out behind it.

She was close enough to the fountain to see that no one was waiting there. Huntington had lied. Then something caught her attention—a movement just past the enormous fountain, in the
shadows there—and she moved toward it.

She reached for her knife, in case Huntington thought to trick her, but it wasn’t there. Had she left it back at the Sinclairs’ house when she’d changed? Had she become so
accustomed to being normal that she’d really forgotten to wear her knife? Maybe the threat of it would be enough to keep Lord Huntington in line, if need be. The fountain was only a few steps
away now.