The Widow Vanishes (4 page)

"Is this going to be a problem?" Todd lifted his brows. "If so, I'll send Jenkins. He doesn't balk at following orders."

Will's shoulders bunched. Jenkins was one of Todd's guards, a sadistic bastard who dragged his victims in bloodied and beaten for his own enjoyment. He was known to commit even worse violations against the females he apprehended. If the sick bounder got a hold of Bella—

No matter what she'd done, she didn't deserve Jenkins' brand of punishment.

"I've got it," Will bit out. Better that he find Bella than Jenkins or someone else. Once he had her, he'd figure out the rest. Then he realized that he didn't even know basic details about her.
Damn and blast
. "What's her full name?"

"Annabel Foster. I want her back before word gets out. Can't be made to look weak—especially not to my enemies. If that bastard Harding gets wind of this ..." Todd scowled, and a note of unmistakable warning entered his voice. "Nothing's more important than a man's reputation, and I'm entrusting mine to you."

Beneath the compliment was an undeniable threat.

"I said I've got it. When have I failed you?" Will said evenly.

Todd gave him a considering stare. "You haven't—which is why the job is yours. After this, I expect you to take up my offer to work for me."

The last thing Will wanted was to be bound to Todd. Now, however, was not the time to argue. "Anything else you can tell me about her?" he said. "Where she might be headed?"

"How the hell am I supposed to know?" Todd said irritably. If there was anything a cutthroat hated, it was not getting his due. "Before she came here, she tried to pay her debt by working for some seamstress named Johnson on Penny Road. Didn't last long there." Todd sneered. "Conniving bitch probably stole from her old employer too. You'd best be quick about finding her—she's done the flit before."

Right. Will's jaw clenched as he considered Bella's pattern of thieving and fleeing: three instances already—and those were only the times he knew about. By all rights, he should let her reap what she'd sown.

But, hell and damnation, he ... couldn't.

Not with the scent and taste of her still lingering upon his senses. He recalled the swirling shadows, the glimmer of vulnerability in her amethyst eyes. What had made her run and steal from him?

Torn between apprehension and anger, Will headed off, wondering what the hell he was getting himself into.

*****

Annabel strolled along Piccadilly, her senses on full alert. At half-past nine in the morning, the thoroughfare was already packed with people and conveyances. The clatter of wheels against cobblestone and the cries of hawkers filled the air. She kept her eye on the stagecoach stop: her ride to Bath was due to arrive in half an hour.

She'd spent most of what she'd taken from McLeod on the fare, and even so she would be travelling on the outside, crammed into the most economical section of the coach and exposed to the sweltering summer elements. After she'd purchased her ticket, a woman with a pair of whining offspring and a pile of baggage—including a crate of freshly slaughtered hares—had bought a similar fare.

Annabel didn't care how bumpy or uncomfortable the journey might be as long as she reached her destination: freedom.

She kept her head down as she circled the station, impatient for the coach to arrive. She didn't know if her disappearance had been discovered yet, and she didn't want to linger here any longer than necessary. At least she had an adequate disguise. After escaping The Underworld, she'd gone to the first street barrow she'd spotted. She'd bartered McLeod's fine linen shirt for a gown that might have been rescued from a rag bin; at least the snaggle-toothed mort had thrown in a ragged chemise and corset. Miracle of miracles, the woman had rustled up a blond wig and bonnet as well. The last items had cost extra, but Annabel had gladly paid.

She had just enough money left for food and lodgings during the journey to Bath. She'd chosen the location at random: 'twas the first coach leaving and the farthest she could afford to travel. She didn't know what she would do upon arrival, but she'd worry about that later. The task of the moment was to get away from Todd as quickly as possible.

A street urchin darted in her path, and her hand clamped instinctively over the coin purse in her skirt pocket. The dirt-smeared boy gave her an incorrigible wink, and with a "Top o' the mornin' to ye, miss" scampered off to pluck less suspecting pigeons. In better circumstances, Annabel would have spared him a coin—but she had her own survival to contend with. 'Twas a vicious dog-eat-dog world, and she had no one to depend on but herself.

For an instant, the image flashed in her mind's eye: the rippling muscles of McLeod's broad back in the mirror, his finely carved arse flexing as he drove inside her. The ragged lilt of his deep voice warming her ear:
Let me in deeper, lass. Let me have you.

Why had he said such intimate things to a whore? And why had she responded—opening herself to him, wrapping her legs around his hips so that he could ride her harder, deeper? Emotion burned in her throat as she recalled how
safe
she'd felt beneath the sheltering strength of his body, the consuming heat of his kiss …

She shook away the foolishness.
'Twas a night's madness. But at least it gave me back something: me.

How could one night of lovemaking renew her courage and determination, her will to survive? How could it replenish the hope that her marriage had depleted? What had been so special about the Scot? She didn't have the answers to those questions—but at least she knew again who she was.

A large black stagecoach rumbled down the street, dust rising from the hooves of the sturdy team of bays. Her ride. Excitement humming through her veins, Annabel crossed to the opposite side of the street and hurried toward the boarding place where the conveyance had pulled to a stop. Passengers began to disembark, and John Coachman barked out orders to the porters to unload the mountain of luggage strapped to the roof.

Given that the horses still had to be changed, Annabel knew she'd be waiting for at least another half-hour. She joined the line of voyagers anyway—and froze when a large, looming figure appeared at the end of the sidewalk. She ducked her head quickly, the breath rushing from her lungs.

Dear God. McLeod. Had he spotted her?

Panic pumped through her, every instinct screaming at her to bolt. She forced herself to remain where she was.
He might not have seen me. I'm wearing a wig, a bonnet. Keep calm—think.

She risked a glance in McLeod's direction. He remained where he was, a dozen paces away. His hand shielded his eyes as he scanned the coach station. Was he looking for her because she'd taken his wallet—or was he here on Todd's orders, ready to drag her back to The Underworld?

Either way spelled disaster, and she couldn't let him find her. She averted her gaze, her profile shielded by the brim of the bonnet. Pulse hammering, she sped through her choices.

Try to somehow brazen this out and get onboard the carriage—or run?

McLeod was talking to one of the porters now, asking about her no doubt. Annabel edged from the waiting line, using the crowd to put a barrier between her and McLeod. If she could get to the other side of the carriage, she would be out of his field of vision …

His head suddenly snapped up, and his gaze locked on hers.

Recognition flashed across his features.

Picking up her skirts, Annabel ran. Footsteps pounded behind her as she charged into the busy street. Shouts pelted her as she dashed across the path of an oncoming carriage, narrowly missing the wheels only to collide with a fruit monger. His box of apples toppled to the ground, scattered like billiard balls. The man swore and tried to grab her, but she dodged him, darting madly through the throng.

She swung a quick glance behind. McLeod was closing in on her, his large strides eating up the distance between them. At any moment, he would be upon her.

Desperate times demanded equal measures. Shoving her hand in the pocket of her skirt, she yanked out the bag of money.

She shouted, "Who wants some coin?" and tossed the contents high into the air behind her.

The crowd moved as one. Street urchins flooded the street, scrabbling to get their hands on the silver as adults competed with them. Lungs straining, Annabel continued to run, sparing quick glances over her shoulder. She glimpsed McLeod trapped behind the wall of the mob, trying to fight his way through.

Up ahead, the opening to an alleyway beckoned, and moments later, she ducked into its haven of twisting passages. She ran as if her life depended on it, taking turns at random and never looking back.

SIX

By nightfall, Will was ready to strangle someone—specifically Bella—and his moral code about protecting women be damned.

He—who'd chased down all manner of wastrels, cutthroats, and gentlemen—was being confounded by a damned
wench.
All day, she'd managed to elude him in the warren of London's alleyways and crooked streets. Like a hunted fox, she ran with heedless desperation, and her ingenuity astonished him.

Despite his grim mood, his mouth gave a reluctant twitch. Her stunt back at the coaching station had been bluidy inspired. That handful of shillings had bought her temporary escape.

But it would cost her. He guessed she'd thrown all that she had into the crowd, which meant she was now without money. She couldn't run forever.

What made him successful as a scout was his ability to adopt his fugitive's point of view. He'd been spot on about the stagecoach station, for instance: faced with Bella's dilemma, he'd have headed straight to the nearest means of escape as well. But now that that route was blocked and she was without blunt, where would she go?

After several hours of futile searching, Will had given up on looking for a needle in a haystack. He'd gone back to his townhouse, where he was greeted by his curmudgeonly but good-hearted housekeeper, Mrs. Ramsbottom. After being subjected to her usual lecture about the need to keep her informed of his comings and goings, he'd taken a bath and eaten a quick luncheon.

Refreshed and clearheaded, he'd set out again.

Will's past dealings had taught him that humans were creatures of habit. More oft than not, he ended up apprehending his targets in places they were known to frequent. Familiarity bred a false sense of safety. According to Todd, Bella had last worked for a Mrs. Johnson on Penny Road.

Will made his way over to this last known address, arriving with the deepening dusk. Situated a few blocks away from Petticoat Lane, a bustling center of garment production, Penny Road proved to be a shabby, dead end corridor. The squat buildings with ill-kept exteriors suggested that low price rather than good quality was the main draw here.

It didn't take long to locate Mrs. Johnson's establishment. After a few inquiries, Will was directed to the smallest, dirtiest shop at the end of the road; he gleaned from the looks on the informants' faces that the Johnsons were not held in high regard. A faint glow emanated from the grimy front window. Finding the door locked, Will banged on the pitted wood. It would have been the work of a moment to knock the flimsy barrier down, but he didn't want to resort to violence unless necessary. He rapped louder.

Footsteps sounded. The door cracked open, and a long-nosed woman with a bony face peered out. "Shop's closed," she shrilled. "Come back tomorrow."

When she tried to slam the door in his face, Will jammed his foot in the opening. "I'm looking for someone, madam, and need your help." He dangled a coin purse. "I'll make it worth your while."

The old mort looked him up and down. Her greed outweighed her suspicion, and she widened the door, allowing him to pass. Will found himself in a room as unprepossessing as the outside, with a single, scarred counter and cheap women's undergarments haphazardly piled on the shelves behind.

"Ezra!" the woman trilled.

Thumping steps heralded the arrival of a short, bacon-fed man, who was as wide as his wife was thin. His closely spaced eyes honed in on Will, and his fat lips pursed.

"Eh? Who's the cove?" Ezra Johnson said to his wife.

"William McLeod, at your service." Will inclined his head. "I'm here to inquire about Annabel Foster."

With interest, he noted the divergent reactions: Mrs. Johnson's face sharpened with indignation whilst her husband's shifted with nervousness.

"Ungrateful tart," the proprietress said with a huff. "Hired 'er on, I did, in spite o' her trollopy looks. And 'ow did she repay me? By runnin' off like a thief in the night an' leavin' me short-'anded."

"What did she steal from you?" Will said.

Mrs. Johnson sniffed. "A working pair o' hands—ain't that enough? 'Aven't the faintest why the doxy ran. Paid 'er decent wages an' she didn't 'ave to earn it lyin' on 'er back."

Will caught Mr. Johnson's betraying movement—a held breath, a darting of those piggish eyes—and he had sudden, intuitive knowledge of what had prompted Annabel's departure. Rage coursed through him. He managed to keep it under rein, saying in steely tones, "And you, sir? Do you have any idea why one of your employees would leave so precipitously?"

"Course I don't. Why should I, eh?" Johnson sputtered.

"One o' the other girls might." Brows lifted, Mrs. Johnson held out a palm.

Will yielded a sovereign to her. "You'll get the rest when I get the information."

Eyes lit with avarice, she turned on her heel. Will followed, with Mr. Johnson closely behind. They went through a cramped corridor, up a flight of steps, arriving at a sweltering garret room choked with tallow smoke. Through stinging eyes, Will saw a dozen or so miserable creatures—some girls looked no more than thirteen years of age. Huddled around two sputtering candles, they sewed with mechanical precision, their needles flashing.

They jumped up at Mrs. Johnson's arrival.

"Good evening, ma'am," they chorused in unison.

"This gent is lookin' for Annabel Foster," the mort said without preamble. "Do any of you know 'er whereabouts?"