Page 1 of Beneath the Devil’s Mask (The Hidden Hearts Collection #4)

“Nine of the clock and a foggy night.”

The ancient charley’s voice rang out with cheerful assurance. The only other sound disrupting the stillness was a carriage rattling by, its team of horses clopping along the rain-wet cobblestones.

The old watchman stepped with confidence along Clarion Way, the street so serene it might have been no more than an architect’s sketch of fashionable London.

At the head of the square stood the Countess Sumner’s brick mansion, the oldest house in the district.

It loomed like an imposing matriarch over the row of recently built townhouses.

With their gleaming colonnades and brass door knockers, the modern structures appeared almost smug in their prosperity, candleshine spilling through the windows into the murky street below.

Most of the occupants had likely dined by now and were in the process of attiring themselves for the evening.

Soon the street would become a hive of noise and activity, doors opening and closing, coaches coming and going, gentlemen and ladies dressed in their silks whisking away to some round of entertainment a rout, a ball, or the theatre.

But for now, the old watchman paused to savor the quiet.

Obadiah set down his lantern upon the pavement, flexing his gnarled fingers.

Only a few hours more and he could go home to his mutton and pint of porter.

He would be mighty glad of it, too. He was more tired than usual this evening, feeling his years, he supposed.

It was unseasonably warm for an early April evening, the sudden shift in temperature causing mists to rise from the pavement. The far end of the square was all but lost in fog, the faint glow of the gas lamps providing little illumination.

The damp settled into Obadiah’s bones, aggravating his rheumatism, but other than that, he scarce minded the haze blanketing the street like a gauzy coverlet. Far better fog than rain.

There were some as might think it made his task of patrolling the streets more dangerous.

But whatever happened amiss on Clarion Way?

Perhaps there was the occasional attempt at housebreaking or bout of fisticuffs between a footman and some pert delivery boy.

But for the most part the square remained as orderly and dignified as the facades of the houses.

Obadiah had little to do but call out the passing of the hours and the state of the weather, his watchman’s rattle for summoning aid mostly unused.

Now it would be a far different tale tonight in Bethnal Green or that tumbledown area behind Westminster.

The fog would bring out the pickpockets, the thieves, and the footpads in droves.

Obadiah did not envy his fellow charleys who patrolled those areas, especially poor old Adam Nash working the streets of Cheapside.

They’d been having a spot of trouble there of late with one notorious cutpurse, known only as the Hook.

More daring and swift of foot than the rest, no one had ever gotten a proper look at the villain, other than to note he had only one hand, the other sleeve ending in a wicked bit of curving steel.

The rascal grew bolder every day. Most recently, he’d robbed a plump baronet bare yards from the houses of Parliament.

When that gentleman had objected to parting with his purse, the Hook had spiked his victim’s shoulder like a butcher cleaving into a fat haunch of mutton.

Obadiah shuddered at the mere thought of it.

Picking up his lantern, he shuffled along again, feeling fortunate to be far removed from the vicinity of the Hook and other such-like murderous fiends.

His most hazardous duty lay in checking the locks and windows of Number 32.

The house hadn’t been let this season and might offer a great temptation to some knowledgeable cracksman.

By the time Obadiah had completed his circuit around the dark, silent house, the traffic on the street had picked up some. Gentlemen who had chosen to dine at their clubs returned home to change their attire.

Obadiah watched as a hackney cab set down Nicholas Drummond, a congenial young gentleman with an arresting smile.

Mr. Drummond wore a coat with several shoulder capes and a high-crowned beaver hat perched upon waves of tawny hair.

He often called in the square to visit his married sister, or his cousin who lived several doors down.

After paying off the cabbie, Drummond strode away whistling a tuneless song. Upon spying Obadiah, he nodded by way of friendly greeting.

“Evening, Obadiah.”

Obadiah swiftly doffed his own soft-brimmed cap. “Good evening, sir.”

“How goes it tonight?”

“All’s quiet, sir. Naught to complain of but the damp.”

”Indeed, the fog does seem to be getting worse. Well, have a care for yourself, Obadiah.”

With another wave, Drummond sprinted up the steps and was admitted into his sister’s house.

The exchange had been brief, but Obadiah felt as warmed by it as if he’d taken a nip of rum.

A real kindly gentleman was Mr. Drummond.

There weren’t many like him. Few of the Quality would take any heed of a lowly watchman, let alone bid one to take care of oneself.

Certainly not Mr. Drummond’s cousin, the marquis of Mandell, who lived at the farthest end of the street.

Very high in the instep was the marquis.

His lordship took no more notice of Obadiah than he did the gatepost. But perhaps that was just as well.

Obadiah trembled at the thought of Mandell’s gaze turning his way.

Awfully hard intent eyes had the marquis of Mandell.

Obadiah supposed it was not his place to be studying the ways and characteristics of the Quality on his street, but the tedium of his job often left him little else to do. He trudged down the length of the pavement, going so far as the next square, then turned to come back again.

It was nearly quarter till ten and Mr. Drummond had been correct.

The fog did seem to be getting worse. When the door to Number 17 opened, Obadiah was far enough away that he could scarce make out the figures of two gentlemen stepping down into the mist. But he did not need to. He knew full well who lived there.

Mr. Albert Glossop was the bane of the old charley’s existence.

Unlike Master Nick, Mr. Glossop displayed no kindness or polished manners.

A high-spirited youth, he and his cronies derived some of their chief amusement from tormenting the watch, especially when Mr. Glossop had had a touch too much brandy, which was not infrequent.

Obadiah had lost count of the number of dead cats that had been flung in his path, buckets of slops tossed on his head, hot coals shoved down his back.

With vivid recollection of such past encounters, Obadiah hung back, waiting until he was sure the two men coming out of Number 17 had gone well on their way.

By the time they reached the pavement, he was certain one of them was indeed Mr. Glossop.

There was no mistaking that familiar peacock blue redingote or the jaunty tilt of his chapeau bras.

The gentleman with him was obscured by a dark cloak and a wide, floppy-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes.

It was a plumed hat like Obadiah had once seen in an old painting of one of those cavalier fellows.

Lord, who would wear a thing like that nowadays?

But Mr. Glossop had been entertaining some foreigners of late and it was well known how queer those Frenchies could be.

The gentlemen summoned neither carriage nor a hackney, but walked off down the street.

When the stranger turned, Obadiah thought he caught a flash of something like the silver head of a walking stick.

He gave it little consideration, feeling only too relieved to have escaped the notice of Mr. Glossop and his companion.

Only after the two men vanished into the mist did Obadiah resume his rounds. The fog-bound silence of the street began to seem a little oppressive and he would be glad when Clarion Way clattered with its usual nighttime activity.

Obadiah consulted his timepiece and started to sing out, “Ten of the clock and—”

His words were cut off by a cry that chilled his blood. It was like nothing human, an animal howling in pain. Obadiah whipped around, trying to still the pounding of his heart. What in the name of God had that been? Perhaps someone’s dog crunched under the wheels of a carriage?

But Obadiah saw no coach, no sign of a dog or beast of any kind. There was nothing—only the relentless mist.

Then a voice rang out. “Help! Sweet Jesus! Someone please help me!”

Obadiah froze, making no move to dash to the rescue. That had sounded too much like Mr. Glossop. Likely this was only another of Master Bertie’s tricks, Obadiah told himself. He was not about to go rushing forward simply to fall prey to a nasty bit of Glossop’s humor.

But there came another shriek too convincing to be faked.

Sweat beaded on Obadiah’s brow despite the chill night air.

Every instinct he possessed told him to flee in the opposite direction.

But he forced himself to go forward, his lantern held high in his trembling hand.

He had not taken many steps when a shadow rose from the pavement before him, melting out of the mist, a figure garbed all in black.

“You there! What are you about? Halt!” Obadiah attempted to shout, but his voice came in wheezing gasps.

The hooded phantom paid him no heed. In a swirl of dark cloak, the man vaulted over a wrought iron fence and vanished behind the marquis of Mandell’s house.

Obadiah fancied he heard a demonic laugh.

The Hook was the first thought that popped into the watchman’s panicked brain, but he babbled, reassuring himself, “No, no! Not here on Clarion Way.”

Perhaps he should seek to pursue the apparition. The marquis would not take kindly to a caped specter creeping about beneath his windows and laughing. But Obadiah convinced himself that it was more his duty to see who had been calling for help.

There was no evidence of any other living soul, but something had been left abandoned on the pavement, like a bundle of clothes. As Obadiah crept closer and the haze parted, he saw that it was the form of a man, crumpled upon the paving stones. A man wearing a peacock blue coat.

“Nay, Mr. Glossop,” Obadiah quavered, “Please don’t be playing any more jests upon me.”

He knew with desperate certainty that at any moment Bert Glossop was going to leap up, startling him out of his wits with a bloodcurdling cry or a box to his ear. Indeed, he prayed Master Bert would do just that, do anything but lie there, so still.

Standing over Glossop, Obadiah raised his lantern. He had to make himself glance down at the young man. Bert Glossop stared back at him, glassy eyed, his mouth hanging open.

It made him look rather stupid. It made him look dead.

Obadiah’s knees buckled beneath him, but he managed to kneel.

He had some vague notion he ought to check for a pulse.

But when he got up enough nerve to touch the man, Obadiah’s hand came away sticky with blood oozing from a hole torn in Glossop’s throat.

Numb with shock, scarce knowing what he did, Obadiah tried to wipe his fingers off on the front of Glossop’s coat, but another pool of crimson splashed over the folds of peacock blue.

A moan escaped Obadiah. He staggered back. His stomach heaving, he was violently ill. But even with his scrawny frame wracked by spasms, he groped for the handle of his watchman’s rattle.

Obadiah sounded it harder than he ever had in his life.