“I told you I want this house, so I’ve arranged for you to make a new will. It’s waiting with a solicitor in his office at Number 31, Horseferry Road. Mr. Atkins—don’t bother to ask him for help. He won’t oblige. Once you’ve signed the will he’s drawn up for you, he and his clerk will witness it, then give you a token to signify that all has been done as I wish.
“If you want Michael to live, you must bring that token back here to me before,” Muriel paused, then said, “nine-thirty.”
He wanted to make sure Caro realized that Muriel would never let him live, but the black tide was steadily dragging him under.
But Muriel had thought of that, too. “You don’t need to worry I won’t let Michael live if you do as I say—I only want what rightfully should be mine, and when all is said and done, once you’re dead, he won’t be any threat to me—he’ll bury you and Breckenridge and let me go, because if he doesn’t he’ll hurt and damage any number of others. Brunswick and his family, George and my brothers, their families—if Michael exposes me, the victims of Camden’s legacy will only grow.”
Memory flickered; they had a chance, a faint one, yet all he could do was with all his heart will Caro onto the right path. She touched his cheek; he sensed her rise. Then the black wave breached his guard, poured over and through him and dragged him down.
22
Caro stood, her mind racing. She was used to emergencies but not of this sort. She swallowed, glanced at the clock—she had less than an hour to return with the token. “Very well.” She didn’t have time to argue, and from the light in Muriel’s eyes, the expression on her face, there’d be no point. “Number 31, Horseferry Road. Mr. Atkins.”
“That’s right.” Muriel waved to the door with the second pistol. She dropped the one she’d used; she’d been carrying its twin in her other hand, as Caro had suspected. “Off you go.”
Casting one last glance at the men slumped at her feet, she said a silent prayer and went.
“Hurry back!” Muriel called after her, then laughed.
Suppressing a shiver, Caro flew out of the front door. Dragging it shut, she looked up and down the street. Where was a hackney when one needed one?
She clattered down the steps. Should she run for Piccadilly, where hackneys were plentiful, or head in the direction she wanted to go? She paused on the pavement, then turned north and started running for Grosvenor Square.
She’d passed three houses when an unmarked black carriage slowed alongside.
A small wiry man opened the door and leaned out. “Mrs. Sutcliffe? Sligo, ma’am—I’m in the employ of His Grace of St. Ives.”
Caro stopped, stared, then leapt for the carriage. “Thank God! Take me to your master immediately!”
“Indeed, ma’am. Jeffers—home as fast as you can.”
On the way, Sligo explained that Michael had asked him to keep watch; Caro gave thanks and prayed all the harder. They rattled into Grosvenor Square minutes later—just as Devil and Honoria, dressed for the evening, were descending their front steps.
Caro all but fell from the carriage. Devil caught her. Steadied her.
She poured out her desperate tale.
Honoria knew Muriel; she paled. “Good God!”
Devil looked at Honoria. “Send word to Gabriel and Lucifer to meet us at the south end of Half Moon Street.”
“Immediately.” Honoria met Caro’s gaze, squeezed her hand. “Take care.” Turning, she hurried back up the steps.
Devil lifted Caro back into the carriage, called to the coachman, “Horseferry Road, Number Thirty-one. Fast as you can.” He leapt in, acknowledged Sligo’s nod. Sitting beside Caro, he took her hand. “Now tell me exactly what Muriel said about this will.”
They returned to the south end of Half Moon Street less than thirty minutes later. The ride back and forth had been wild, the incident in the solicitor’s office managed with ruthless dispatch.
At Devil’s suggestion, she’d played the witless female; it hadn’t been hard. Supported by Sligo, she’d entered the solicitor’s office; Devil had hung back in the shadows outside the office window. A greasy individual with an equally greasy clerk, the solicitor had had her new will ready and waiting. She’d signed; the clerk and Sligo had witnessed it, then the solicitor, rubbing his hands in unctuous delight, had handed her the “token”—a jay’s feather.
With it clutched in her hand, she’d turned to the window. Devil had entered in a swirl of dark drama and black evening cape, twitched the will from the stunned solicitor’s fingers, and ripped it to shreds.
They’d been back in the carriage, she with the feather clutched in her hand, within a minute.
She peered out of the carriage window; the light was fast fading, the sky turning purple and deep blue. Still on Piccadilly, the carriage slowed before the corner. Devil opened the door and leaned out; two large shadows detached themselves from a nearby wall and approached.
In hushed tones, they conferred. All three were against her delivering Muriel’s feather. “There has to be a better way,” Gabriel insisted.
At Devil’s request, she described the scene in the drawing room. Lucifer shook his head. “Too risky to just walk in. We need to make sure she’s still in that room.”