Chapter 28

C hapter 28

My pistol fired with a blinding flash and a deafening roar. The man’s fist caught me almost at the same moment, striking me hard across the jaw. I dropped, barely catching myself on the splintering dock as my pistol skittered over the edge and into the river below. My vision filled with bright lights, swirling through the sky above me, and my head flared with an intense, throbbing pain. I cried out, ears ringing.

The man who’d attacked me staggered to the side, one hand grasping his arm, cursing loudly. “She shot me!” he shouted.

“Quiet,” Allett hissed, leaping onto the dock. He pulled his pistol free, pointing it at me. “Don’t move, Miss Travers.”

I couldn’t have even if I wished to. My limbs felt like jelly, my thoughts scattered.

Allett quickly examined the man’s arm. “A graze. We’ll wrap it on the boat.”

“We’ll wrap it now,” the stranger growled.

“Any second, these docks could be swarming with Runners,” Allett insisted. “We have to go. Now, tie her up, and keep her quiet.”

My wits came back to me as rough arms hauled me to my feet. For the briefest of moments, I prepared to act. I could spin away, break his hold, and knee him sharply between the legs. He would drop like a load of rocks. Then I would run back up the dock and escape. Allett had his pistol, but I doubted he was anything close to a crack shot. I could get away, I was certain.

But . . .

If I ran, I would leave Elizabeth. And I could not—would not—abandon her to these men.

So I formed a new plan.

My assailant pulled my arms in front of me none too gently, and I felt the scratch of rope around my wrists. My eyes managed to focus on the man above me, short and barrel-chested, with a stubbled jaw and mangy hair. And even though my thoughts still whirled chaotically, instinct kicked in. How many times had Jack warned me about such a situation?

I fisted my hands, pressing my knuckles together, and pulled them toward my chest. The smallest of movements, but I knew they could make a world of difference.

When he finished tying the knot, the stranger hoisted me up. My legs wobbled beneath me.

“This wasn’t part of the deal,” he hissed at Allett. “You didn’t tell me we’d be snatching women. I’m no kidnapper.”

“Neither am I,” Allett replied. “But if we are pursued, we need something to bargain with, Barlow. We’ll let them go once we’re safely away.”

“So they can run and report me to the magistrates?” Barlow looked incensed. “I’ve a life here. I can’t just up and scurry off like you.”

Allett threw up his hands. “Then lie low until the search dies down.” His voice had gone a bit wild, his plan coming apart at the seams.

Barlow muttered obscenities under his breath and shoved me forward. I stumbled down into the wherry, my knees hitting the rough wood. “Stay there,” he ordered, his voice irritated. “Say nothing.”

I did as he said, crawling to Elizabeth, the boat rocking beneath me. Her bound hands came to clutch mine, eyes frightened, the gag a white slash across her face.

“It’s all right,” I whispered. “It will be all right.”

Barlow found a bandage in a small chest, and Allett quickly tied off his wound. I cursed my luck that my shot had missed anything more vital—Barlow seemed barely hampered by the bullet’s graze. The two men prepared to cast off. I watched them, determined to stay alert despite the insistent ache in my jaw from where Barlow had struck me. To my surprise, Allett seemed strangely competent in his tasks. He tied off lines and adjusted the sails as quickly as any sailor I’d ever seen. I hadn’t imagined he had any experience in such a trade. He was a painter, after all.

When I thought neither was watching, I glanced down at my bound hands. I pulled against the rope and—just as I’d hoped—there was the tiniest of gaps between my hands. I breathed a sigh of relief. Now I simply had to work the rope until my bindings were loose enough to slip off. I began wiggling my wrists, rotating them back and forth.

Elizabeth noticed what I was doing, and her mouth parted in surprise. I shook my head, and she immediately tore her eyes away, looking in the opposite direction. Barlow moved behind us, readying his oars. Allett, however, finished tying off his line and sat on the forward bench, against which he’d leaned the wrapped frame of The Woman in Red . I paused my work on the ropes and watched as he slowly began unwrapping the painting. I expected glee to cross his face. He held a fortune in his hands, and no small one. But instead, when he unwrapped the final layer of paper, his eyes filled with tears. Anguish twisted his features, and his hands clutched the frame until they turned white.

And then something became abundantly clear to me. This painting was more than just a fortune to him.

“Why did you do this?” I asked him, my voice low. “What is that painting to you?”

He looked in my direction, eyes still glistening. He said nothing for a long moment before returning his gaze to the painting. One hand released the frame to hover over the woman’s face, as if he wished to trace a finger over her haunting features.

“I cannot begin to explain.” He spoke with a rasp in his throat. “There are no words.”

“There are always words,” I shot back. “When you threaten the future and safety of my dearest friend, there must be a reason.”

His eyes flashed toward Elizabeth. “Your friend is a spoiled lady of the ton who ruined her future all on her own. Privilege should not make one immune to consequences.”

Elizabeth’s face crumpled, and I knew she still felt the weight of her choices and the responsibility toward her daughter. I wanted to tear the gag from her mouth, allow her to defend herself.

“That is quite ironic for you to say,” I retorted, “considering you are on the run from the law even as we speak.”

“I told you,” he said through gritted teeth. “I am no thief. This painting does not belong to Reginald Harwood. It belongs to the artist.”

I furrowed my brow. “Romano? But he is dead.”

“No, not Romano.” He wrapped his hands possessively around the ornate gold frame. “The true artist.”

My thoughts connected like a bolt of lightning. “You,” I said in disbelief. “ You painted The Woman in Red ?”

Allett set his jaw. “I never gave permission for it to be sold. It is mine and always has been.”

I had a dozen more questions, but Barlow called impatiently from the stern. “We’re ready.”

I tried not to panic at his words. Once we cast off, my options would be limited. I’d only ever swam in still, shallow water. This was the Thames, wide and swift, black as freshly brewed coffee. If I were desperate enough, could I swim it?

Elizabeth moved closer to my side, and I abandoned that plan immediately. I knew Elizabeth could not swim. Tears streaked down her cheeks, her eyes red and puffy, and the gag cut against the corners of her mouth.

“Remove her gag, please,” I begged Allett. “It is hurting her. She won’t scream, I promise.”

He pressed his lips together, then moved to us, the boat rocking beneath his motions. He untied the gag and yanked it free. Elizabeth gasped, coughing a little.

“Not a sound from either of you,” he muttered, “or you’ll both get one.”

I did not entirely believe him. It was becoming clearer and clearer that Allett was no hardened criminal. He only wanted to escape. Elizabeth and I were but a means to an end.

Allett untied the mooring lines and pushed us from the dock. Barlow began to row, sending the wherry slipping silently through the lapping waves. Allett returned to his bench—and the painting.

Now was my chance to learn more. What strange hold did the painting have over Allett?

“If you painted The Woman in Red ,” I said, “then why did Romano claim it?”

Allett did not look at me. I almost thought he would not answer, but then he spoke.

“Romano was jealous of me,” he said bitterly. “I was just a sailor with a love of painting when I went to Florence to study under him.”

That explained his comfort on the boat, his working knowledge of sailing. Besides that, Higgs and Barlow both clearly worked the docks. Was that how Allett had found them?

Allett went on. “It did not take Romano long to realize my talent, and he did everything he could to keep me from realizing it too. He claimed my paintings as his own and sold them for ten times what he paid me for them, insisting it was his name that garnered the price, not the painting itself. I was glad. Grateful, even. He gave me a place in the world, money in my pocket.”

“What happened?” Elizabeth asked, her voice weak.

“Isabella,” he whispered, his gaze returning to the woman in the portrait. “She was engaged to Romano, a forced arrangement.” Allett’s words were distant, like he was trapped in memories I could not see. “When we met, it was love from the start. She was beautiful, intelligent, kind. But for some reason, she chose me. She loved me.

“She allowed me to paint her, and I poured myself into every stroke. It was my finest work. When Romano discovered the painting, I thought he would be angry that I had painted his betrothed. But he did not care. He did not love her. He only knew it would fetch an enormous price and wanted to sell it. I refused. He grew angry with me, and Isabella was frightened for my safety. We decided to run away together. But there was a storm. Isabella tried to find me, even in the rain and wind. She went too close to the cliffs, and—”

Allett’s voice broke. My insides twisted. How could I feel sympathy for this man who had blackmailed Elizabeth and now held us both hostage?

“Romano insisted I was to blame, that I’d lured her from the safety of her home to marry her for her fortune.” He shook his head. “Lies. We both knew it. But who were the authorities to believe? A respected artist, a native of Florence? Or me, a traveling Englishman with no money and no connections?”

I said nothing, only listened. Elizabeth also watched him, brow pulled into a deep furrow. I could not imagine what she thought about him. The man had been painting her portrait for weeks, a rather intimate affair. I could not imagine the betrayal she must feel.

“I fled,” Allett said. “I returned to England, changed my name, and started my career anew. I promised myself I would become so great an artist that no one would remember Romano. But I could not escape him. His work— my work—gained new fame after Isabella died. He claimed they’d been in love, knowing the price he could fetch for such a story. And it worked. The Woman in Red became his most famous work.”

His voice grew so sharp, I wondered that he could speak at all. “My painting of the woman I loved became his legacy. A legacy that has passed through half a dozen owners in the last two decades, each more corrupt and greedy than the last. Just as Romano was.”

I did not know why he was telling me this. Perhaps he’d never told anyone this story and wanted someone to know, to understand. There was the slightest unsteadiness in his voice, his movements, that put me on edge. He was not fully in control, no matter that he tried to seem so.

“That is why you stole it,” I said quietly. “You do not think anyone deserves the painting.”

“Certainly not.” Allett’s eyes narrowed upon Elizabeth. “Least of all a family like the Harwoods. Wretched and selfish and full of their own importance.”

“You do not know my family at all,” Elizabeth said, the fierceness in her voice surprising even me. “How dare you judge us.”

He snorted. “I judge you as you deserve.”

“And what of your actions?” she challenged. “Should you not be judged as well? Did you not hire a criminal to attack my father?”

“I did what I had to,” he said tightly. “I needed to frighten you into helping me steal the painting. I planned to send you a token, something that Higgs had stolen, along with a threat against your father, the robbery being proof that I would follow through. But when I read your letter and learned about your indiscretion , I knew I’d found a better bargaining chip.”

My mind raced, trying to put together the pieces still disconnected from the rest. “You knew the park was a trap. How?”

Allett waved that off. “I had my note delivered earlier as a test. I watched the house, and once I followed Miss Harwood’s maid to Bow Street, I knew the Runners were involved. I never planned to go to the park.”

“Because you knew the real painting remained at Harwood House.”

“Yes,” he said. “The Harwoods would never let it out of their sight. And it was time for me to reclaim it.”

But he was wrong. Sir Reginald and Lady Harwood had intended for me to take The Woman in Red . If I’d listened to them, would Allett have taken Elizabeth? Would we be in the midst of this fiasco?

“And will it be worth it?” I asked. “Hurting an innocent family? Sacrificing everything for a painting?”

Allett gazed again at The Woman in Red on the bench beside him. “Yes,” he said. “It is worth it.”

If I’d learned anything over the years, it was that love could be both a blessing and a curse. It was obvious to me what his love had turned out to be.

“And to think I admired you,” I whispered. “I wanted to be like you.”

He gazed toward the far shore, holding himself steady against the rocking of the boat. “It is a pity.”

“What is?” I took the chance to work on my bindings again. I worked my wrists together, and I had to push down a leap of excitement when I felt the rope stretch, the gap between my hands growing with every movement.

“That I shall not get to see your own talent bloom,” he said, and I almost thought him sincere. “I am not like Romano. I do not feel threatened by rising talent. I truly wished to help you.”

I set my jaw. “Then, I shall thank the heavens you chose lawlessness and extortion before I was duped into apprenticing with you.”

He chuckled, the sound of it making the hair on my neck stand on end. “Believe what you will, Miss Travers. Believe what you will.”

He continued to look away, and I set myself even more fervently at my task of twisting my ropes. Then, suddenly, one of my wrists slipped loose. Elizabeth saw, her breath catching. I pressed my knees to my chest, hiding the fact that my bonds were barely draped around my arms. I was free. But what good was my freedom now, trapped on this boat in the middle of the Thames, with Elizabeth unable to swim?

“Allett,” Barlow snapped from behind us. “The sail.”

We’d moved to the middle of the river, our path clear and a stiff wind at our backs. Allett pulled an oil-skin bag from his valise and carefully tucked the painting inside. He leaned it gently against the bench before he moved to the mast, steadying himself as he worked to release the sail. Barlow stowed his oars and sat near the tiller, ready to steer.

They were distracted. Now was my chance. But what could I do? Even if I convinced myself that I might escape and go for help, I sincerely doubted my ability to swim the distance to shore, especially in my dress and boots and cloak. But could I trust Allett’s word that he would release us after he escaped? Perhaps, but I certainly did not trust Barlow. He did not want us turning him in to Bow Street.

No, I could not depend on any goodwill from our captors. I had to act.

My eyes landed on the painting. The oil skin had fallen slightly, and The Woman in Red stared at me, her eyes tortured. And I knew what to do.

I gathered my legs beneath me, slowly, quietly. Elizabeth watched, alarm in her eyes, though she dared not speak. I waited, eyeing the sail. Not yet. Not yet.

The sail unfurled. Allett caught the corner and turned to secure it, his back to me.

Now .

I shot forward, scrambling over benches, stumbling as the wherry lurched.

“Halt!” Allett shouted behind me. He’d seen me.

But he was too late. I snatched up The Woman in Red , its protective bag falling free, then grasped one of the taut lines of rope reaching toward the mast. I hauled myself up onto the forwardmost bench.

“Stop,” I ordered, holding the painting with one hand over the black waters of the Thames. “Stop, or I will drop it.”

Allett stumbled to a halt, staring at me in disbelief. “Please,” he whispered. “Please, no.”

“Why should I show you any mercy?” I asked, my words biting. “You have none for those around you, though you are as imperfect as they. I have no sympathy for you.”

And yet I did. Small though it was, the pain in Allett’s eyes when he stared at his beloved Isabella was enough to slip through the smallest cracks in my heart.

“I’ll do anything,” he said, sounding as if his throat were lined with broken glass. “Please, do not harm her.”

As if the woman still lived and breathed. As if she were not simply captured in oil and canvas.

“Take us to shore,” I demanded. “Release both of us.”

Allett twisted to face the stern. “Barlow!” It was a wild, desperate sound.

I glanced toward the barrel-chested man sitting at the tiller.

He glared at us in disgusted disbelief. “Don’t be daft,” he growled. “We can’t take them ashore. They know who you are, who I am. I’m not giving up my life for a blasted painting .”

“Now,” I said firmly. “Now, or I drop it.”

Barlow kept a tight grip on the tiller. “Drop it if you like.”

“No!” Allett stood frozen on the middle of the deck, his eyes moving between me and Barlow. Then he shifted, as if he’d realized something. In the next moment, his pistol was in his hands—but not pointed at me. He did not dare put Isabella at risk. No, he pointed at Barlow.

“Steer toward shore,” he spat out. “Now!”

Barlow slammed one fist against the wherry’s hull. “This is insanity.”

“Then, I will do it.” Allett moved forward. “Do not test me. Step aside, or I will shoot.”

Barlow cursed under his breath even as he released the tiller. Allett pointed with the barrel of his pistol, and Barlow climbed toward the bow of the boat, nearer to me.

“Neither of you move,” Allett ordered. He kept the pistol pointed in our direction as he jerked the tiller. The boat slowly shifted, turning toward the northern bank of the river where a few lonely docks waited.

“Who goes there?”

The shout flew across the water, coming from behind. We all froze, stunned.

“This is the river police,” the same voice called. “Declare yourself, and prepare to be boarded.”

I clung to my rope, still holding the painting over the water, but I managed to peer back the way we’d come. A boat followed us, perhaps a hundred feet away, its oars flashing in the moonlight as two men propelled it forward. Another boat was directly behind the first, with more men.

But my eyes were locked on that first boat, on the man who leaned over the bow, a lantern lighting his familiar face. My heart leaped.

“Nathaniel,” I shouted, my voice breaking. “Nathaniel, I’m here! And Elizabeth!”

The boat rocked beneath him as he surged upward. “Verity!” Relief and desperation tangled in his voice. “Are you all right?”

I opened my mouth to respond, but Allett swung the pistol to aim at me, his eyes wide with fear. “Quiet,” he shouted.

I did not think he would shoot, not while I still held his beloved painting over the water. But there was a frenzy in his eyes that made my voice die in my throat.

“Straighten us out,” Barlow hissed at Allett. “The wind is in our favor. We can outrun them.”

The police boat drew nearer and, with it, the lantern light. I could tell the moment Nathaniel saw my precarious position as I perched on the edge of the wherry. His mouth dropped.

“We are coming aboard,” a man in the boat behind Nathaniel’s yelled. “Drop your weapons.”

Allett did not move, panic filling every inch of his face. Would he set the pistol down and go peacefully? Or would he die rather than let anyone else take the painting of his long-lost love?

I need not have wondered.

“I’ll not be hanged for your sake,” Barlow shouted at Allett.

Then he barreled at me , his eyes filled with hate.

My mind slowed. What was he doing? It connected a moment later—he wanted to be rid of me, of the painting, so he could convince Allett to escape. I made to leap back down into the safety of the wherry, but he was too fast. He shoved me with all his strength. The back of my knees hit the railing.

And I went tumbling into the black.