The Midnight Man. Charlotte MedeЧитать онлайн книгу.
though anyone would notice in this milieu.”
“My driver is waiting. He will be alarmed and alert the authorities.”
“There is no driver. You mentioned earlier that you would call a hansom. And secondly, the last thing you need is to alert the authorities. As you well know.”
Without releasing her, he drew her cloak around her body. His hands on her shoulders and at her neck were heavy with intent.
She looked up at him with a fury in her eyes. “Did Sissinghurst send you?”
“We’ll talk more about this later,” he murmured into her ear, “and here comes Madame Congais. I suggest we act like lovers. It will assure a smooth exit.”
Before she could protest, Helena was hauled up against Ramsay’s chest, his total physicality suddenly more frightening than any of Sissinghurst’s threats. She lowered her eyelashes in self-defense just in time to see Madame Congais, in full sail, sweep over to them.
“Leaving so early, Monsieur Ramsay?” Her French accent was as artificial as the reddish glint in her hair. A shrewd businesswoman, she worked hard to ensure the ultimate in discretion and service for a clientele that ranged from the House of Lords to wealthy city merchants. She waved theatrically, gesturing to the wide staircase leading to the second floor of the house. “I could have your favorite suite prepared, of course. Was it not to your liking last time?”
Helena stiffened against Ramsay’s chest, pretending not to hear the strength of his heartbeat or the fact that he was a regular at Madame Congais’s establishment. He pulled her even closer for the woman’s benefit.
“Everything was superb as always, Francine. We are simply ready to take our sport elsewhere this evening.”
The words rumbled low in his chest, his body brushing against her breasts, forcing her to hold her breath. She jerked spasmodically, but Ramsay propelled her back toward the door and whispered against her lips, smiling as if he were telling a lover’s secrets. “I’m your best chance, Lady Hartford. If you’re as intelligent as I think you are, you’ll take the opportunity just handed to you.”
He lowered his head, his lips hot and possessive on the vulnerable side of her neck, and yet she sensed that he watched the room.
Her voice was acid sharp, pushing him away because her body couldn’t. “You’re a fool if you think that I’d leave here with you,” she hissed, refusing to wrap her arms around him. In response, he pulled her hips more tightly toward his and she swallowed a gasp of outrage. “You’re the one taking advantage of this opportunity!”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Lady Hartford.”
Over Ramsay’s shoulder, Helena saw Madame Congais’s majordomo open the door. Damp night air swept into the corridor.
Four men. Their eyes immediately fixed upon her.
The short one, on the top stoop, held a pair of manacles, dully glittering in the sputtering gaslight of Regent Street. Before she could struggle against the arms that imprisoned her, she heard the words—words that echoed from her nightmares.
“Lady Helena Hartford.” Her breathing stopped, but she wasn’t going to scream. She bit down on her lower lip, tasting blood, as she stared at the shackles and then up into the stony face of the constable.
“On the orders of the Bishop of London, you are hereby charged with immoral insanity.”
Panic knocked the last of the air out of her lungs, and her legs nearly buckled beneath her. The constable’s lips moved, the summons a dagger in her back. “To be immediately transported and committed to Bethlem Royal Hospital.”
The room spun and she heard prison doors clanging shut, the shuddering sound of cold metal defining her fate as clearly as a knife at her throat. Ramsay’s hard arms tightened around her along with the realization that he was the one wielding the knife that was going to end her life.
He was delivering her to the gates of hell, to a future of misery, degradation, and hopelessness.
To Bedlam.
Chapter 2
“Is it done?”
The Bishop of Sissinghurst placed a meaty hand on the head of the child kneeling in front of him. Smiling benignly, he helped the small boy to his feet before giving him his blessing and a sticky treacle. His love for children was as genuine as the ruby-encrusted crucifix dangling from his cassock. Each Sunday afternoon, select children from the local poorhouse in Shoreditch visited the Bishop of London’s manse in the shadow of the great Cathedral of St. Paul.
The towheaded boy, his face gleaming from a washcloth scrubbing earlier that day, scampered from the room, clutching his sweet. A broad smile wreathed Sissinghurst’s face, outlined in the sunshine pouring from the stained-glass window. He sat down heavily in an overstuffed wing chair. “Well, Deacon Mosley,” he repeated, “once again—is it done?”
The younger man, with the delicate features of a cherub, nodded crisply, clasping and unclasping his hands in front of him with an eagerness that grated like a choir singing out of tune.
“My lord Bishop, I’m pleased to report that we have been successful.”
The bishop arched his brows, deliberately misunderstanding. “We have been, have we? You know I dislike hubris in a man purporting to do the work of God.”
Mosley’s fine features tightened. “I shall take my punishment willingly, my lord Bishop.”
Sissinghurst smiled thinly. “I’m sure you will, Mosley, I’m sure you will. Simply remember, I can always find more willing acolytes if the spirit—and flesh—is unwilling.” The bishop gestured to the elaborate rosewood table. “A glass of port if you please, Deacon.”
Relieved to be given a task he could dutifully perform, Mosley carefully measured the drink into a glass, aware that the bishop was abstemious in most of his habits, including his taking of wine and spirits. One serving a day was all he allowed himself, although meals, of course, were the exception. A large man, Sissinghurst satisfied himself at the table with a prodigious and frightening appetite.
“I’m waiting for an answer, Deacon Mosley.” The tone was similar to the one that bounced off the cupola of the cathedral each Sunday morning.
Mosley carefully placed the glass on a side table next to the bishop before answering.
“I did have several gentlemen follow Lady Hartford to determine her whereabouts,” he stated, keeping his voice suitably calm, although secretly his spirit rejoiced in hunting down culpable prey, particularly when performing the will of God.
“And?” The bishop took a careful draught of his port.
“I don’t expect you to recognize the name of the establishment where we found her—Lady Congais’s.”
“What about it?”
Mosley cleared his throat. “An opium den, my lord Bishop. And worse.”
Sissinghurst flushed red, the alcohol and triumph reaching his head simultaneously. He savored the information, like a mouthful of his favorite trifle, for a moment. “How absolutely wonderful, Deacon. An opium den. Another filthy abomination to add to a lengthening list of sins. And you alerted the authorities, of course.”
“I did, Your Grace.”
“Well done, well done, indeed.”
The silence in the room was marred only by the ticking of the clock. A gift from his late uncle, the Duke of Hartford, the oak-veneered piece with its gilt bronze mounts dominated the room.
“She’s on her way, then, I presume?”
“You presume correctly, my lord.”
Sissinghurst rose heavily from his chair, pursing his lips, and began pacing. As a corpulent man, he moved heavily