Georgiana reached out and patted her hand. “Clarice and I refused to remain at home while Anthony’s future wife was in peril. In this family we stand together.”

Anthony’s future wife. Appalled, Louisa stared at her. “I fear there has been some terrible misunderstanding.”

“I’m sure that’s not the case,” Clarice said, relentlessly cheerful. “Now, we will go straight home and relax with a glass of brandy while we wait for Anthony.”

48

The door at the end of the hall was closed. All the rest had been flung open by the fleeing staff and clients. Anthony paused on the landing. He had intended to go straight to the top floor where Madam Phoenix’s private quarters were located, but the closed door caught his attention.

He went down the hall and stopped. Gripping his revolver, he stood to one side and tried the knob. It turned easily in his hand. He pushed the door open with the toe of his boot, keeping himself out of the line of fire just in case. No shots rang out from inside the room. Instead there was a frantic rustling sound, followed by an urgent moan.

He looked into the room. The walls were covered in black velvet. A glass-fronted case containing a variety of whips and unusual devices stood in the corner.

Elwin Hastings lay face up on a bed covered in black silk, his wrists and ankles shackled to the bedposts. He was naked. There was a gag in his mouth. When he saw Anthony relief replaced the fear in his eyes. He moaned again.

Anthony walked to the bed and untied the gag.

Elwin sputtered furiously. “Stalbridge. Didn’t recognize you in those clothes. What the devil are you—? Never mind. I thought she was coming back to murder me. Untie me. Hurry, man. I heard the shouts. The house is on fire.”

“The house is not on fire,” Anthony said.

“Either way, I’ve got to get out of here. You don’t understand. She intends to kill me.” He paused, finally noticing the revolver in Anthony’s hand. “What’s that for?”

“I met up with your first wife and her lover a short time ago. Things became somewhat complicated.”

Elwin’s eyes widened. “You saw Victoria?”

“Yes. The police will be here soon. There’s a Mr. Fowler from Scotland Yard who will want to talk to you. You remember Fowler, don’t you? He was the man who investigated the suicides of both your wife and Fiona Risby. I understand you were not helpful the last time he tried to interview you.”

Elwin’s eyes widened. “See here, I don’t know what you’re talking about, Stalbridge, but you have to help me.”

“Why should I do that?”

“Bloody hell, man, how can you ask me such a thing? We’re both gentlemen. Gentlemen have an obligation to protect each other.”

“Oddly enough I feel no such obligation toward you, Hastings. My sole responsibility in this matter is to obtain justice for the murder of Fiona Risby, and that is what I intend to do.”

“You’re mad if you think you can prove that I killed her.”

Anthony reached into the pocket of his rough jacket and withdrew the black velvet pouch. He opened the pouch and let the Risby necklace spill across his palm. The stones sparked with fire in the light of the wall sconce.

Elwin’s mouth sagged in shock. “So I was right. You were the thief.”

“Let’s just say I retrieved it for safekeeping. I have been waiting for the right moment for it to be discovered. Tonight is a good time, I think.”

He dropped the necklace back into the pouch and drew the gold cord taut.

“What are you doing?” Elwin shrieked.

Anthony did not answer. He walked across the room to where Elwin’s black evening coat hung from a wall hook and dropped the necklace into the pocket.

“That won’t work, you bastard,” Elwin shrieked. “I’ll tell the police you put it there. It will be the word of one gentleman against another. They won’t investigate further.”

Anthony smiled. “Fortunately we will also have the verdict of the sensation press. Consider how this will look in the newspapers and penny dreadfuls. Your supposedly deceased wife is the operator of one of the most notorious brothels in London, and you were discovered naked on the premises. In addition, you have a financial interest in this house of ill repute.”

“Shut your damn mouth.”

“I think we can anticipate that when the police arrive, the first Mrs. Hastings will be only too pleased to accuse you of attempting to murder her last year. Add to that the discovery of a dead woman’s necklace in your possession and I think we can safely conclude that the weight of public opinion will be on the side of justice.”

“Son of a bitch. You can’t do this.”

“Even if the police do not charge you with murder, you are a ruined man, Hastings. At the very least you will be forced to retire to the country. No club will have you. No hostess in the Polite World will send you an invitation. And now that you’re a proven bigamist, your new bride will be free to leave you. I’m told her grandfather is an excellent businessman who took steps to protect his granddaughter’s financial interests before the marriage. When Lilly departs, she will take her inheritance with her.”

“How dare you threaten me?” Elwin’s features contorted. “You should be dead. Do you hear me? You should have died the night I followed you home from your club and very nearly put a bullet in you. If it hadn’t been for the fog and that trick you played with your coat—”

Harold Fowler appeared in the doorway, a constable behind him.

“Mr. Crawford, make a note of Mr. Hastings’s comments concerning his attempt to murder Mr. Stalbridge,” Fowler said.

“Yes, sir.” The constable took a pad and pencil out of his pocket.

Anthony looked at Fowler. “I see you got my message.”

“Yes. We waited until we saw your father depart the premises with a young woman concealed in a cloak, as you suggested.”

Elwin stared at Fowler, desperation in his eyes. “I can explain everything.”

“There will be plenty of time for explanations, sir.” Fowler looked at Anthony. “I will want to speak with you, also.”

“Of course.” Anthony inclined his head. “I am at your disposal, Detective. You might also be interested in talking to the late Victoria Hastings. The last time I saw her she was unconscious in the basement. With luck she will still be there.”

Fowler’s bushy brows jumped. “I see. This affair sounds a bit tangled.”

“No,” Anthony said. “It is really very simple. You were right, Detective. When it comes to murder, there are only a small number of motives. Greed, revenge, the need to conceal a secret, and madness. In this case, there seems to have been something of all four.”

49

Two days later Louisa sat at her desk reading the report in the Flying Intelligencer. As usual, Mr. Spraggett had chosen a headline designed to capture attention from a wide assortment of readers. Several headlines, actually. Spraggett was never one to use a single sensational headline when two or three would suffice.