Mistress by Amanda Quick
“Then he is not quite as intelligent as I had assumed.” Marcus frowned as Iphiginia opened the wax jack. “Well?”
“Red wax,” she said, disappointed. “But perhaps there is another wax jack about somewhere. And the seal must be here, too.”
But after twenty minutes of diligent searching, neither black wax nor the phoenix seal came to light.
“I do not understand it.” Iphiginia stood in the center of the room and tapped her toe in evident frustration. “They must be here.”
“Not necessarily.” Marcus was impatient to be gone. It was all very well to indulge one’s bride, he thought, but enough was enough. “He may keep them on his person or in a safe that we have not discovered. There are any number of places where one could conceal items as small as a wax jack and seal.”
“I know where he would keep such items.” Iphiginia’s eyes widened with excitement. “Dr. Hardstaff’s Museum of the Goddesses of Manly Vigor.”
Marcus groaned. “I really don’t believe that there is much point searching the museum. What if one of Dr. Hardstaff’s patients is receiving a treatment?”
“It is certainly worth a try.” Iphiginia turned down the lantern and started toward the window. “Don’t dawdle, Marcus. We do not have all night, you know.”
“Thank God.” Marcus glanced quickly around the shadowed room, making certain that they had not left any obvious sign of intrusion. “I would very much like to spend some portion of this night in bed.”
Iphiginia scooped up her cloak and skirts and put one leg over the windowsill. “Must you grumble? We have the rest of our lives to spend in bed.”
Marcus cheered at the notion. The rest of his life with Iphiginia….
The alley behind Number Nineteen Lamb Lane was as shadowed and empty that night as it had been the other evening. The stairs that led up to the back door squeaked and sighed beneath Marcus’s weight. He climbed them ahead of Iphiginia, treading warily.
For some reason he felt now a sense of unease that he had not been aware of earlier in the alley behind the Thurley Street lodgings.
Marcus reached the landing and tried the door. It opened easily, just as it had the other night. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stirred.
“Marcus?” Iphiginia paused on the step and looked up. “Is something wrong?”
“Stay here. I’ll go in first.” Marcus removed his coat and slung it over his shoulder. The night air came straight through the fine lawn of his shirt, but he paid no attention. He had a sudden wish to feel less encumbered. “Let me have the lantern.”
“But Marcus.”
“Wait here, Iphiginia. I mean it.”
To his infinite relief, she obeyed. Marcus lit the lantern and moved into the darkened hall.
The corridor was eerily silent. Apparently none of the Goddesses of Manly Vigor was giving a performance this evening. Marcus went down the hall to the chamber that contained the bed and the stage.
He opened the door cautiously.
The interior lay in deep shadow. The light from the lantern revealed the torn transparency curtain in front of the stage. It had not been repaired since Sands had ripped it from the ceiling hooks.
“Do you see anything?” Iphiginia asked softly from the doorway.
Marcus spun around. “Damn it, Iphiginia, I told you to wait outside.”
The scrape of a boot on the wooden floor of the hall sent a cold chill through him.
“Iphiginia, move.” Marcus put the lantern down and launched himself toward the door.
He was too late.
A man’s arm came out of the shadows from behind Iphiginia and caught her by the throat. Iphiginia gave a soft shriek that was cut off almost immediately.
“Not another step, Masters.” Herbert held Iphiginia in front of him as a shield as he moved into the chamber. The lantern light glinted on the barrel of the pistol in his hand. “Or I will shoot you.”
“Let her go, Hoyt.” Marcus came to a halt. He took a reluctant step back and stopped next to the lantern. “This has all gone far enough. It must end tonight.”
“I agree.” Herbert smiled bitterly. “But as I have written most of the other scenes of this play, I will write the ending. I fancy something melodramatic that will make an interesting tidbit for the ton. What do you think about having the notorious Lady Masters kill her husband when she discovers him at Dr. Hardstaff’s Museum on their wedding night?”
TWENTY-ONE
WHAT HAPPENS TO IPHIGINIA IN YOUR LITTLE PLAY?” MARcus asked.
“I regret that my good friend the former Mrs. Bright —or should I say Miss Bright, of Deepford in Devon— will suffer an unfortunate accident on the rear stairs. She will break her neck as she flees the scene of her crime of passion.”
“You will never get away with this,” Iphiginia vowed. She was clearly frightened, but still self-possessed. “You’ll hang, Mr. Hoyt. If not for this, then surely for the murder of Mrs. Wycherley.”
“You reasoned that out, did you?” Herbert smiled his jovial, ingratiating smile, but his eyes were as hard as glass. “Very clever, madam. I always did admire your intellect. So much so that I tried to keep you out of this, but you would not be warned off.”
“It was you who locked me in the sepulchral monument in Reeding Cemetery, was it not?” Iphiginia demanded.
“I thought a good scare might persuade you to mind your own business, but I was wrong.”
Marcus kept his coat hooked over his shoulder. “Why did you kill Mrs. Wycherley?”
“Ah, yes, Constance Wycherley,” Herbert said in a musing tone. “She was the one who began it all. Her little blackmail business operated quite innocuously for years. In exchange for a plump fee, she convinced any number of the governesses and companions she placed in certain households to give her interesting items of information concerning their employers.”
“And then she blackmailed those people?” Iphiginia asked.
“Yes. It was a rather brilliant scheme, but I saw at once that Mrs. Wycherley lacked the vision to make it fulfill its true potential. She kept her demands very modest and stuck to blackmailing only the lesser members of the ton. She was afraid to pursue the more powerful names on her list.”
“For fear that they would discover her identity and take action to stop her?” Marcus asked.
“Precisely. She didn’t care to take chances, you see. Very conservative type. But I insisted that we broaden the scope of the business. She was quite nervous about it.” Herbert shrugged.
“How did you convince her to take you on as an accomplice?” Iphiginia asked.
“I merely threatened to expose her. Actually, we worked together rather well for a while, although she became increasingly anxious. Unfortunately, after Iphiginia’s man of affairs called to make inquiries about a certain Miss Todd, she panicked and demanded we halt the scheme entirely. I was forced to kill her before she ruined everything.”
“And then you ransacked the place in order to make it appear that she had been murdered by one of her victims?” Iphiginia asked.
“Or a thief. I was not particularly worried about what conclusion was drawn. After all, no one could connect her death to me.”
“How did you learn of her blackmail scheme?” Iphiginia asked.
“My mother was a governess. She sold information to Mrs. Wycherley for years and in exchange the Wycherley Agency kept her employed in some of the best homes.” Herbert’s mouth twisted bitterly. “Until my mother was seduced by one of her employers, that is. A fine gentleman of the ton got her pregnant. She was turned off immediately, of course.”
“And Mrs. Wycherley refused to place her in any more posts after that,” Iphiginia whispered.
“How did you know?” Herbert’s voice, which had been almost jovial until that moment, suddenly rose in fury. His arm tightened around her throat. “Bloody hell, how did you know that?”
“It was merely a hypothesis,” Iphiginia whispered.
Marcus tensed. “You’
“Don’t move.” Herbert kept the gun pointed at Marcus. “You are correct, Iphiginia. Mrs. Wycherley wanted nothing to do with a governess who’d been so stupid as to get herself pregnant by one of her employers. My mother was forced to fend for herself.”
“You were the babe she carried, were you not?” Iphiginia asked with surprising gentleness.
“Yes. I was her bastard son. The son of a viscount, but a bastard, nonetheless. Mother had some money, thanks to the fees Mrs. Wycherley had paid her for information over the years. And she was clever. She set herself up as a widow in a small village in the north. No one ever learned the truth.”
“How did you learn it?” Marcus asked.
“Two years ago on her deathbed, my mother told me the entire tale. I came to London to find Constance Wycherley.”
“And your father?” Iphiginia asked very softly.
Once more Hoyt’s expression turned violent. “He was dead, damn his soul. He broke his neck in a phaeton accident five years ago. I never even got the chance—” Herbert stopped abruptly and took several deep breaths. “I went to the Wycherley Agency and introduced myself to the old bitch.”
“I see you’ve expanded your business empire from blackmail to fraud,” Marcus said.
“Yes.” Herbert indicated the premises of the museum with the nose of the pistol. “You would not believe how much money certain gentlemen of the ton will pay to regain their manly vigor, especially those who have not yet managed to produce an heir.”
“I suppose there is a certain irony in your choice of business enterprise,” Marcus said. “The illegitimate son of a titled gentleman engaged in defrauding other gentlemen.”
“They are always so bloody concerned about begetting their legitimate heirs, are they not?” Herbert asked. “Their bastards can rot, of course. It’s only the legitimate offspring who count.”
Iphiginia stirred in his grasp. “Mr. Hoyt, please listen to me.”
“Silence.” Herbert’s arms tightened ominously once more around her. “At one time I had hoped that you and I might become more than friends, my dear Iphiginia. We had so much in common. I wanted you to comprehend that, but you never did.”
“What on earth do you mean?” Iphiginia asked.
“You and I are two of a kind, m’dear. Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. I realized that from the first moment we met. You were so utterly outrageous. So clever. I knew I had to find out more about you. Your close friendship with Lady Guthrie was the clue, of course.”
“All you had to do was examine Mrs. Wycherley’s files to discover that she had two nieces, one named Iphiginia Bright and one named Amelia Farley,” Marcus said.
“Mrs. Wycherley kept excellent files,” Herbert said. “Once I realized that Iphiginia was her niece, I knew she was also a fraud. One thing led to another and soon I had it all sorted out.”
“What made you think we had a great deal in common?” Iphiginia demanded.
“It’s obvious, is it not? We had both carved out a place for ourselves in the highest levels of Society by virtue of our own cleverness and determination. We had deceived the Polite World, convinced it to accept us as one of its own. I thought that we were made for each other, m’dear. But you insisted on setting your sights on the Earl of Masters.”
“You thought she had entered Society in order to form a connection with me?” Marcus asked.
“I did not discover that she was trying to find her aunt’s blackmailer until the night she went to Reeding Cemetery. Until then, I thought it was you she was out to snag. I could not blame her for aiming high. Indeed, I admired her nerve. But I feared it would not end well.”
“You intended to be there when her grand schemes came to naught, is that it?” Marcus asked.
“Yes. Damn you. Who could have foreseen that the legendary Masters would abandon all of his rules to marry his mistress?”
“You tried to destroy our attachment the night you sent her here to discover me with Lady Sands, did you not?” Marcus kept his gaze on Iphiginia, willing her to ready herself.
“Everyone, including Lord Sands, I think, believed that you and Lady Sands had been conducting a quiet affair for years. I expected I could convince Iphiginia of that, also.”
“But why did you send Lord Sands here that night?” Iphiginia asked.
Marcus raised his brows. “Hoyt no doubt hoped that Sands would kill me when he found me with his wife.”
Herbert gave him an approving look. “Quite right. Sands is inordinately fond of his lady. My congratulations, sir. You really are as intelligent as everyone says.”
“Thank you.”
Marcus dropped his cloak over the lantern, plunging the room into darkness.
“Bastard,” Herbert yelled. “Do not move.” He shrieked in startled pain. “Damnation, you bit me, you little bitch.”
An audible scuffle ensued.
Marcus slipped to the right in hopes of avoiding a bullet. He went in low and fast toward his quarry. He could see nothing. He was forced to rely on sound to guide him.
Herbert’s pistol roared. The sparks from the explosion momentarily illuminated his face. His well-fed, normally pleasant countenance appeared demonic.
An instant later, Marcus slammed into him.
They both went down, rolling on the floor. The pistol fell with a crash. Marcus heard Iphiginia’s footsteps as she groped her way toward the covered lantern. He sincerely hoped she would reach it before his coat caught fire.
Herbert yelled and clawed at Marcus, his rage imbuing him with surprising strength. He thrashed free for an instant. Marcus heard him stagger to his feet.
Iphiginia got the coat off the lantern at that moment. Light flooded the chamber.
Marcus came up off the floor in one move. He used the sudden gift of visibility to aim a blow at Herbert’s midsection. Herbert sagged but did not go down. Instead, he reeled toward the lantern.
He kicked out savagely at the flaring lamp.
Glass shattered. Oil spilled. Flames leaped to follow the path of the fuel.
“My God,” Iphiginia shouted. “The bed.”
Out of the corner of his eyes Marcus saw her grab his coat and begin to beat at the flames.
“Get out, Iphiginia,” he shouted.
“If the flames reach the bed or those ceiling hangings, this whole building will become an inferno.”
Marcus knew that she was right. And if the building went up in flames, there was no telling how much damage might be done or how many lives might be lost. There were bound to be several families sleeping in the rooms above the many shops in Lamb Lane.
Herbert seized the opportunity created by the distraction. He lurched toward the door. Marcus instinctively went after him.
He reached the door and heard his quarry’s footsteps pound down the darkened hall. A second later the outer door opened. A weak shaft of light illuminated Herbert’s bulky figure.
Marcus ran the length of the hall. He reached the outside landing just as Herbert started down the shadowed steps.
“You’re not getting away, you little bastard.” Marcus grabbed the railing with one hand and reached out to snag Herbert by the collar.
“Goddamn you, Masters.” Hoyt swung out wildly to ward off Marcus’s arm.
The frantic motion caused the panicked man to lose his balance. He fell against the rail, spun around, and toppled backward down the steps.
Hoyt’s short, anguished scream was cut off abruptly when he hit the pavement below.
Marcus looked down at the unmoving body. There was just enough light to see that Hoyt’s neck was twisted at an unnatural angle. The man was dead.
“Marcus,” Iphiginia called. “Help me.”
Marcus whirled around and raced back down the hall. He ran into the chamber and saw that Iphiginia had nearly succeeded in dousing the flames. There was a single ribbon of fire left. It was eating its way across the carpet.
“Stand back.” Marcus grabbed the edge of
Iphiginia quickly smothered the rest with the coat. Darkness descended once more.
“Thank God. Marcus, are you all right?”
“Yes. Hoyt is dead. He fell down the steps.”
“Dear heaven.”
Marcus lit the wall sconce and surveyed the chamber. The fire had done surprisingly little damage. He looked at Iphiginia.
She met his eyes, his still-smoking coat clutched in her hands.
Marcus searched her soot-streaked face. “Did you get burned?”
“No.”
Marcus sniffed the stench of burned wool. He suddenly remembered something. “Let me see that.”
He snatched the coat from her hands and groped inside one of the pockets. His hand closed around his new, improved hydraulic reservoir pen. He winced when he felt the crumpled length of metal. It was hot. “Damn and blast.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing important. It appears I must return to my drawing table.”
It was nearly dawn before Marcus opened the door of the bedchamber that adjoined his own and walked into the room. A single candle burned beside the turned-back bed.
The bed itself was empty.
Iphiginia waited for him near the window. She turned when she heard him enter. She was dressed in a white, lace-trimmed nightgown of softest lawn. A ruffled nightcap was perched on her head. Her glorious smile of welcome made Marcus catch his breath.
“Iphiginia.” He could not think of anything else to say.
He opened his arms and she ran into them. He scooped her up, carried her to the bed, and fell with her into the clean, sweet-smelling sheets.
He felt whole and right inside, no longer a man made of smoothly oiled wheels and gears.
“I love you, Marcus.”
Marcus pulled her close and kissed her fiercely, passionately. He cradled her hip in his hand and took a taut, sweet nipple into his mouth. She was so perfect, he thought, awed. It was as though she had been made especially for him.
He had been waiting for her all these years, he realized.
“Hold me, Iphiginia. Don’t ever let me go.”
“Never.”