“I told you, he’s my confederate. He gets to live out his life mourning his missing wife, who will be seen in Paris and Vienna once I make the proper arrangements, and he’ll enjoy his share of your father’s money. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You want the man you love to be happy.”
She looked at him, calmly, steadily. “I’ll see you in hell.”
“Ah, but you’ll be there first, my dear. Move.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THEY WEREN’T GOING to let him go. Kilmartyn paced the luxurious office he’d been shepherded to, a nod to his title and position, but there was a guard outside and no easy escape in sight. Every now and then another of Scotland Yard’s detectives came in to talk to him, to ask him the same damned questions, but as far as he could tell they had not one new scrap of evidence. Someone was feeding them accusations, but there didn’t seem to be a thing to back them up.
It was growing later—if he could judge by the color of the sky it was getting close to early evening, which meant he’d been gone for at least six hours. Six hours in this stuffy office, being offered tea and biscuits, with the most deferential of inquiries, but no one was letting him out. Which meant Bryony was home alone.
There was nothing to worry about. The servants were there—Collins was so awash with guilt he would protect her with his own life, and he could count on Mrs. Harkins to scare off any but the most hardened villain. But whoever he was, he’d killed two women and had tried to kill a third, which didn’t argue for a gentle soul.
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.
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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?”