“Three days, you say?” Brock said.
“Are ye deaf, man? That’s wot I said.”
Growling, Thorne turned on a booted heel. “We’ll go in through the garden. I smell a Burley rat. Several of them, in fact.”
They wound their way through the narrow alley that backed up to the lodging. Thorne counted three homes down, and with the help of a stout tree limb, he elevated himself over the wrought-iron fence. Tall grass softened his landing, and Brock was beside him seconds later.
A mutual hush fell; the quiet was ominous. A horrified vision flooded him. One in which he stumbled over Lorelei’s brother’s broken and bloodied body. And his own clumsy rambling explanations, unable to comfort her. He shook away the picture, but it did nothing to the trepidation prickling his skin.
Two steep stairs and they were standing atop the stoop. Thorne twisted the knob. Locked. With his gloved fist, he punched out a corner of the window and found the latch. He pulled back his hand and shook away the glass remnants.
“Christ. The stench.” Rotten food mingled with rotten flesh. Thorne jerked a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his nose and mouth. “Watch where you step. You take the lower level. I’ll head upstairs.”
With a sharp nod, Brock disappeared.
On stealthy steps, Thorne made his way to the upper floor. The first chamber was Harlowe’s bedchamber, and it was in complete disarray. Someone had shredded the feather mattress. Stuffing littered every conceivable surface.
No body, thank God.
A few feathers stirred as he made his way into the visiting parlor. Same story. Overturned tumblers scattered on and around the settee, books ripped from shelves and strewn across the room, padding on the furniture attacked with vengeance. The last room of the small flat was across a common space. Harlowe’s studio, the source of some of the strong offensive smell, one of chemicals. No painting within sight had been spared the jagged edge of a blade. Some jars filled with mysterious liquids had been upended, others broken, their contents puddled on the wood floor. Nothing appeared untouched. Every drawer in a tall chest had been pulled out. Paint in every conceivable color smeared the walls, the door, the drapes, the furniture.
He moved into the room, circling slowly. The violence and the stench of death, was shocking. His eyes burned. He stifled the urge to vomit, blinking hard. He moved to the large windows and glanced out. Had someone seen? No. The view looked out over the garden at the rear of the property.
He started to the door, anxious to escape, but something caught his eye. Behind the chest, he caught sight of the corner of a canvas. He rushed over and tugged it from its hidden alcove.
“Not so lucky, you wily bastards.” Holding his breath, he rolled it up.
“Kimpton!” Brock’s voice bellowed from below, the echo scraping his skin like glass. “I’ve found him.”
Thorne dashed for the stairs, taking them two at a time. God, what would he tell Lorelei?
“It’s not Harlowe. It’s his valet. His name escapes me.”
“Marcus,” Thorne said. “His name was Marcus.”
Five
L
orelei stepped down from the hired cab and pitched a coin to the driver just as she’d witnessed Bethie do the night before. “If you could wait for a moment, sir?” She watched him bite down on the shilling before it disappeared from sight.
He nodded.
She checked the street in both directions. The overcast sky was a relief, really, without a moon or twinkling stars. Just a dense and foggy night. A second later Ginny cleared the coach. Lorelei grabbed her hand, and they hurried to Miss Hollerfield’s door. She was almost certain her shiver had nothing to do with the chilly, damp night air. It would be pouring within another fifteen minutes, she’d wager.
The walk did nothing to alleviate the knots in Lorelei’s stomach. They were excruciating. They reached the porch where bare stems overhung from a grand basket of flowers from the floor above. Lorelei reached for the knocker and stopped. “The knocker. It’s gone,” she said.
“She can’t have left town, can she?” Ginny pulled her hand from Lorelei’s and spun in a circle.
Lorelei placed her ear against the door. “That’s odd. It sounds as if someone is in there.”
Ginny grabbed her arm. “We should leave.”
Lorelei tugged her arm away, stubborn resolve surging through her. “No. I came to say my piece, and I intend to say it.” She turned around and banged on the heavy door with her gloved hand, for all the good it did. The sound was muted. She placed her hand on the knob—
Ginny gasped. “Don’t—”
Before Lorelei could change her mind, she twisted and pushed. Well-oiled hinges were amazing. Despite hearing no creaks, her pulse clattered in her ears as if she heard horse hooves hitting the pavement in a dead run. What did she hope to accomplish with the notorious courtesan? Would the woman confront Lorelei and Ginny with a weapon? Lorelei steeled her spine. She had questions, blast it. With luck, she and Ginny could be in and out within a half hour, with no one other than Miss Hollerfield the wiser. Lorelei started forward, but her skirts caught. She glanced over her shoulder.
